"You must go with him, girl; stop working yourself into a fever; stop it, I say," interposes Graspum, peremptorily. "The waggon! the waggon! the waggon! to carry me away, away;—never, never to return and see my mother?" she exclaims, as well nigh in convulsions she shrieks, when Blowers grasps her in his arms (Graspum saying, be gentle, Blowers), drags her to the door, and by force thrusts her into the waggon, stifling her cries as on the road they drive quickly away. As the last faint wail dies away, and the vehicle bearing its victim disappears in the distance, we think how sweet is liberty, how prone to injustice is man, how crushing of right are democracy's base practices.
"Does seem kind of hard; but it's a righteous good sale. Shouldn't wonder if she played the same game on him she did with t'other two fools. Get her back then, and sell her over again. Well! come now; there's no great loss without-some-small-gain!" says Graspum, as, standing his prominent figure in the door of his man pen, he watches the woman pass out of sight, thrusts his hands deep into his breeches pockets, and commences humming an air for his own special amusement.
THE reader will remember that we left Nicholas seeking his way to Mr. Grabguy's workshop, situated in the outskirts of the city. And we must here inform him that considerable change in the social position of the younger Grabguy family has taken place since we left them, which is some years ago. The elder Grabguy, who, it will be remembered, was very distinguished as his Worship the Mayor of the City (that also was some years ago), has departed this life, leaving the present principal of the Grabguy family a large portion of his estate, which, being mostly of "nigger property," requires some little transforming before it can be made to suit his more extended business arrangements. This material addition to the already well- reputed estate of Mr. Grabguy warrants his admittance into very respectable, and, some say, rather distinguished society. Indeed, it is more than whispered, that when the question of admitting Mr. and Mrs. Grabguy to the membership of a very select circle, the saintly cognomen of which is as indefinable as its system of selecting members, or the angles presented by the nasal organs of a few ladies when anything short of the very first families are proposed, there were seven very fashionable ladies for, and only three against. The greatest antagonist the Grabguys have to getting into the embrace of this very select circle is Mrs. Chief Justice Pimpkins, a matronly body of some fifty summers, who declares there can be no judge in the world so clever as her own dear Pimpkins, and that society was becoming so vulgar and coarse, and so many low people-whose English was as hopefully bad as could be, and who never spoke when they didn't impugn her risible nerves-were intruding themselves upon its polished sanctity, that she felt more and more every day the necessity of withdrawing entirely from it, and enjoying her own exclusively distinguished self. In the case of Grabguy's admittance to the St. Cecilia, my Lady Pimpkins-she is commonly called Lady Chief Justice Pimpkins-had two most formidable black balls; the first because Mrs. Grabguy's father was a bread-baker, and the second that the present Grabguy could not be considered a gentleman while he continued in mechanical business. Another serious objection Mrs. Pimpkins would merely suggest as a preventive;—such people were ill suited to mix with titled and other distinguished society! But, Grabguy, to make up for the vexatious rejection, has got to be an alderman, which is a step upward in the scale of his father's attained distinction. There is nothing more natural, then, than that Grabguy should seek his way up in the world, with the best means at his hands; it is a worthy trait of human nature, and is as natural to the slave. In this instance-when master and slave are both incited to a noble purpose-Grabguy is a wealthy alderman, and Nicholas-the whiter of the two-his abject slave. The master, a man of meagre mind, and exceedingly avaricious, would make himself distinguished in society; the slave, a mercurial being of impassioned temper, whose mind is quickened by a sense of the injustice that robs him of his rights, seeks only freedom and what may follow in its order.
Let us again introduce the reader to Nicholas, as his manly figure, marked with impressive features, stands before us, in Grabguy's workshop. Tall, and finely formed, he has grown to manhood, retaining all the quick fiery impulses of his race. Those black eyes wandering irresistibly, that curl of contempt that sits upon his lip, that stare of revenge that scowls beneath those heavy eyebrows, and that hate of wrong that ever and anon pervades the whole, tell how burns in his heart the elements of a will that would brave death for its rights-that would bear unmoved the oppressor's lash-that would embrace death rather than yield to perfidy. He tells us-"I came here, sold-so they said-by God's will. Well. I thought to myself, isn't this strange, that a curious God-they tell me he loves everybody-should sell me? It all seemed like a misty waste to me. I remembered home-I learned to read, myself-I remembered mother, I loved her, but she left me, and I have never seen her since. I loved her, dear mother! I did love her; but they said she was gone far away, and I musn't mind if I never see'd her again. It seemed hard and strange, but I had to put up with it, for they said I never had a father, and my mother had no right to me" (his piercing black eyes glare, as fervently he says, mother!). "I thought, at last, it was true, for everybody had a right to call me nigger,—a blasted white nigger, a nigger as wouldn't be worth nothing. And then they used to kick me, and cuff me, and lash me; and if nigger was nigger I was worse than a nigger, because every black nigger was laughing at me, and telling me what a fool of a white nigger I was;—that white niggers was nobody, could be nobody, and was never intended for nobody, as nobody knew where white niggers come from. But I didn't believe all this; it warn't sensible. Something said-Nicholas! you're just as good as anybody: learn to read, write, and cypher, and you'll be something yet. And this something-I couldn't tell what it was, nor could I describe it-seemed irresistible in its power to carry me to be that somebody it prompted in my feelings. I was white, and when I looked at myself I knew I wasn't a nigger; and feeling that everybody could be somebody, I began to look forward to the time when I should rise above the burden of misfortune that seemed bearing me down into the earth. And then, Franconia, like a sister, used to come to me, and say so many kind things to me that I felt relieved, and resolved to go forward. Then I lost sight of Franconia, and saw nobody I knew but Annette; and she seemed so pretty, and loved me so affectionately. How long it seems since I have seen her! She dressed me so nicely, and parted my hair, and kissed me so kindly; and said good-by, when I left her, so in regret, I never can forget it. And it was then they said I was sold. Mr. Graspum said he owned me, and owning me was equal to doing what he pleased with me. Then I went home to Mr. Grabguy's; and they said Mr. Grabguy owned me just as he owned his great big dog they called a democratic bull-dog, the foreman said he paid a democratic ten-dollar gold piece for. They used to say the only difference between me and the dog was, that the dog could go where he pleased without being lashed, and I couldn't. And the dog always got enough to eat, and seemed a great favourite with everybody, whereas I got only more kicks than cucumbers, didn't seem liked by anybody, and if I got enough to eat I had nobody to thank but good old Margery, the cook, who was kind to me now and then, and used to say-"I like you, Nicholas!" And that used to make me feel so happy! Old Margery was coal-black; but I didn't care for that,—the knowledge of somebody loving you is enough to light up the happy of life, and make the heart feel contented. In this manner my thoughts went here and there and everywhere; and the truth is, I had so many thoughts, that I got completely bewildered in thinking how I was to better myself, and be like other folks. Mr. Grabguy seemed kind to me at first,—said he would make a great mechanic of me, and give me a chance to buy myself. I didn't know what this "buy myself" meant, at first. But I soon found out-he tells us he must speak with caution-that I must pay so many hundred dollars afore I could be like other folks. The kindness Mr. Grabguy at first exhibited for me didn't last long; he soon began to kick me, and cuff me, and swear at me. And it 'pear'd to me as if I never could please anybody, and so my feelings got so embittered I didn't know what to do. I was put into the shop among the men, and one said Nigger, here! and another said, Nigger, get there!-and they all seemed not to be inclined to help me along. And then I would get in a passion: but that never made things better. The foreman now and then said a kind word to me; and whenever he did, it made my heart feel so good that I seemed a new being with brighter hopes. Well, Mr. Grabguy put me to turning the grindstone, first; and from turning the grindstone-the men used to throw water in my face when they ground their chisels, and their plane irons, and axes and adzes-I was learned to saw, and to plain boards, and then to mortice and frame, and make mouldings, and window-sashes, and door-frames. When I could do all these, master used to say I was bound to make a great workman, and, laughingly, would say I was the most valuable property he ever owned. About this time I began to find out how it was that the other white folks owned themselves and master owned me; but then, if I said anything about it, master might tie me up and lash me as he used to do; and so I remained quiet, but kept up a thinking. By and by I got perfect at the carpenter's trade, and I learned engineering; and when I had got engineering perfect, I took a fancy for making stucco work and images. And people said I learned wondrously fast, and was the best workman far or near. Seeing these things, people used to be coming to me, and talking to me about my value, and then end by wanting me to make them specimens of stucco. I seemed liked by everybody who came to see me, and good people had a kind word for me; but Mr. Grabguy was very strict, and wouldn't allow me to do anything without his permission. People said my work was perfect, and master said I was a perfect piece of property; and it used to pain deep into my heart when master spoke so. Well! I got to be a man, and when the foreman got drunk master used to put me in his place. And after a while I got to be foreman altogether: but I was a slave, they said, and men wouldn't follow my directions when master was away; they all acknowledged that I was a good workman, but said a nigger never should be allowed to direct and order white people. That made my very blood boil, as I grew older, because I was whiter than many of them. However, submit was the word; and I bore up and trusted to heaven for deliverance, hoping the day would come soon when its will would be carried out. With my knowledge of mechanics increased a love of learning, which almost amounted to a passion. They said it was against the law for a nigger to read; but I was raised so far above black niggers that I didn't mind what the law said: so I got 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and the Bible, and 'Young's Night Thoughts,' and from them I learned great truths: they gave me new hopes, refreshed my weary soul, and made me like a new-clothed being ready to soar above the injustice of this life. Oh, how I read them at night, and re-read them in the morning, and every time found something new in them, something that suited my case! Through the sentiments imbibed from them I saw freedom hanging out its light of love, fascinating me, and inciting me to make a death struggle to gain it.
"One day, as I was thinking of my hard fate, and how I did all the work and master got all the money for it-and how I had to live and how he lived, master came in-looking good-natured. He approached me, shook hands with me, said I was worth my weight in gold; and then asked me how I would like to be free. I told him I would jump for joy, would sing praises, and be glad all the day long.
"'Aint you contented where you are, Nicholas?' he enquired. I told him I didn't dislike him; but freedom was sweetest. 'Give me a chance of my freedom, master, and yet you may know me as a man,' says I, feeling that to be free was to be among the living; to be a slave was to be among the moving dead. To this he said, he always had liked me, was proud of me, had unbounded confidence in my directions over the men, and always felt safe when he went from home leaving things in my charge. 'In this view of the case, Nicholas,' he says, 'I have come to the conclusion,—and it's Mrs. Grabguy's conclusion, too,—to let you work evenings, on overtime, for yourself. You can earn a deal of money that way, if you please; just save it up, and let me keep it for you, and in consideration of your faithfulness I will set you free whenever you get a thousand dollars to put into my hands. Now that's generous-I want to do the straight thing, and so Mrs. Grabguy wants to do the straight thing; and what money you save you can put in Mrs. Grabguy's hands for safe keeping. She's a noble-minded woman, and 'll take good care of it.' This was to me like entering upon a new life of hope and joy. How my heart yearned for the coming day, when I should be free like other folks! I worked and struggled by night and day; and good Mr. Simons befriended me, and procured me many little orders, which I executed, and for which I got good pay. All my own earnings I put into Mrs. Grabguy's hands; and she told me she would keep it for me, safe, till I got enough to buy my freedom. My confidence in these assurances was undivided. I looked upon Mrs. Grabguy as a friend and mother; and good Mr. Simons, who was poor but honest, did many kind things to help me out. When I got one hundred dollars in missus' hands I jumped for joy; with it I seemed to have got over the first difficult step in the great mountain. Then missus said I must take Jerushe for my wife. I didn't like Jerushe at first—she was almost black; but missus said we were both slaves; hence, that could be no objection. As missus's order was equally as positive as master's, there was no alternative but to obey it, and Jerushe became my wife. We were lawfully married, and missus made a nice little party for us, and Jerushe loved me, and was kind to me, and her solicitude for my welfare soon made me repay her love. I pitied her condition, and she seemed to pity mine; and I soon forgot that she was black, and we lived happily together, and had two children, which missus said were hers. It was hard to reconcile this, and yet it was so, by law as well as social right. But then missus was kind to Jerushe, and let her buy her time at four dollars a week, which, having learned to make dresses, she could pay and have a small surplus to lay by every week. Jerushe knew I was struggling for freedom, and she would help me to buy that freedom, knowing that, if I was free, I would return her kindness, and struggle to make her free, and our children free.
"Years rolled on,—we had placed nearly five hundred dollars in missus's hands: but how vain were the hopes that had borne us through so many privations for the accumulation of this portion of our price of freedom! Master has sold my children,—yes, sold them! He will not tell me where nor to whom. Missus will neither see nor hear me; and master threatens to sell me to New Orleans if I resent his act. To what tribunal can I appeal for justice? Shut from the laws of my native land, what justice is there for the slave where injustice makes its law oppression? Master may sell me, but he cannot vanquish the spirit God has given me; never, never, will I yield to his nefarious designs. I have but one life to yield up a sacrifice for right-I care not to live for wrong!" Thus he speaks, as his frenzied soul burns with indignation. His soul's love was freedom; he asked but justice to achieve it. Sick at heart he has thrown up that zeal for his master's welfare which bore him onward, summoned his determination to resist to the last-to die rather than again confront the dreary waste of a slave's life. Grabguy has forfeited the amount deposited by Nicholas as part of the price of his freedom,—betrayed his confidence.
He tells us his simple story, as the workmen, with fear on their countenances, move heedlessly about the room. As he concludes, Grabguy, with sullen countenance, enters the great door at the end of the building; he is followed by three men in official garbs, two of whom bear manacles in their hands. Nicholas's dark eye flashes upon them, and with an instinctive knowledge of their errand, he seizes a broad axe, salutes them, and, defiantly, cautions their advance. Grabguy heeds not; and as the aggrieved man slowly retreats backward to protect himself with the wall, still keeping his eye set on Grabguy, two negroes make a sudden spring upon him from behind, fetter his arms as the officers rush forward, bind him hand and foot, and drag him to the door, regardless of his cries for mercy: they bind him to a dray, and drive through the streets to the slave pen of Graspum. We hear his pleading voice, as his ruffian captors, their prey secure, disappear among the busy crowd.
ABOUT twelve o'clock of a hazy night, in the month of November, and while Annette, in the hands of Mr. Pringle Blowers, with death-like tenacity refuses to yield to his vile purposes, a little taunt-rigged schooner may be seen stealing her way through the grey mist into Charleston inner harbour. Like a mysterious messenger, she advances noiselessly, gibes her half-dimmed sails, rounds to a short distance from an old fort that stands on a ridge of flats extending into the sea, drops her anchor, and furls her sails. We hear the rumble of the chain, and "aye, aye!" sound on the still air, like the murmur of voices in the clouds. A pause is followed by the sharp sound of voices echoing through the hollow mist; then she rides like a thing of life reposing on the polished water, her masts half obscured in mist, looming high above, like a spectre in gauze shroud. The sound dies away, and dimly we see the figure of a man pacing the deck from fore-shroud to taffrail. Now and then he stops at the wheel, casts sundry glances about the horizon, as if to catch a recognition of some point of land near by, and walks again. Now he places his body against the spokes, leans forward, and compares the "lay" of the land with points of compass. He will reach his hand into the binnacle, to note the compass with his finger, and wait its traversing motion. Apparently satisfied, he moves his slow way along again; now folding his arms, as if in deep study, then locking his hands behind him, and drooping his head. He paces and paces for an hour, retires below, and all is still.
Early on the following morning, a man of middle stature, genteelly dressed, may be seen leaving the craft in a boat, which, rowed by two seamen, soon reaches a wharf, upon the landing slip of which he disembarks. He looks pale, and his countenance wears a placidness indicating a mind absorbed in reflection. With a carpet-bag in his right hand does he ascend the steps to the crown of the wharf, as the boat returns to the mysterious-looking craft. Standing on the capsill for a few minutes, his blue eyes wander over the scene, as if to detect some familiar object. The warehouses along the wharfs wear a dingy, neglected air; immense piles of cotton bales stand under slender sheds erected here and there along the line of buildings which form a curvature declining to the east and west. Again, open spaces are strewn with bales of cotton waiting its turn through the press (a large building near by, from which steam is issuing in successive puffings and roarings); from which compressed bales emerge out of the lower story, followed by a dozen half-naked negroes, who, half-bent, trundle it onward into piles, or on board ships. Far above these is spread out a semicircle of dwellings, having a gloomy and irregular appearance, devoid of that freshness and brightness which so distinguish every New England city. The bustle of the day is just commencing, and the half-mantled ships, lying unmoved at the wharfs, give out signs of activity. The new comer is about to move on up the wharf, when suddenly he is accosted by a negro, who, in ragged garb, touches his hat politely, and says, with a smile, "Yer sarvant, mas'r!"
"Your name, my boy?" returns the man, in a kind tone of voice. The negro, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his old sack coat, seems contemplating an answer. He has had several names, both surname and Christian; names are but of little value to a slave. "Pompe they once called me, but da' calls me Bill now," he answers, eyeing the stranger, suspiciously. "Pompe, Pompe! I've heard that name: how familiar it sounds!" the stranger says to himself.
"One mas'r call me Turtle Tom," rejoins the negro, scratching his head the while.
"Turtle Tom!" reiterates the stranger. "Had you no other name coupled with Pompe, when that was the name by which you were recognised?"
The negro will not wait his finishing the sentence. He says he had good old mas'r's name; but good old mas'r-"so dey tells"-dead and gone long time ago. "His name was Marston; and dat war dis child's name den, God bless 'um!" he answers the stranger.
"Marston, who lived on the banks of the Ashley?" again he enquires, as his face crimsons with excitement.
"Dat war my mas'r; and dem war good old times when I lived dar," returns the negro, significantly nodding his head.
"Then you are the first man I have met, the first I want to see," exclaimed the stranger, grasping the negro by the hand, and, much to his surprise, shaking it heartily.
"'Taint Lorenzo," returns the negro, contemplating the stranger with astonishment.
The stranger is not Lorenzo, but he has heard much of him. What happy recollections its familiar sound recalls: how it strengthens his hopes of success in his mission. The negro tells him he is a labourer on the wharf, and cannot leave to conduct him to an hotel; he will, however, direct the stranger to a comfortable abode in Church Street. It is quiet and unostentatious, but will serve his purpose. Placing a piece of money in the negro's hand, he assures him that he is his friend-has much need of his services-will pay him well for their employment. He has equally aroused the negro's curiosity; and, were it nothing more than satisfying that, he would be faithful to his promise to call the same night at seven o'clock. Precisely at that hour the negro will fulfil his engagement. The stranger wends his way to Church Street, and up a narrow alley, on the left hand side, finds comfortable apartments, as directed. Here he makes his toilet, and sallies out to reconnoitre the city. Meanwhile the little craft is entered at the custom-house as a fruiter, bound from New Providence to New York, and put in for a harbour. There is something suspicious about a fruiter putting in for a harbour at this season, and many curious glances are cast upon the little captain as he bows to the truth of his entry before the deputy collector.
The stranger has spent the day in viewing the city, and at nightfall, the negro, true to his engagement, presents his sable figure at his lodgings. A servant having shown him up stairs, he is ushered into his presence, where, seeming bewildered, he looks about inquiringly, as if doubting the object for which he has been summoned. Abjectly he holds his tattered cap in his hand, and tremblingly inquires what master wants with him.
"Have confidence, my good fellow," the stranger speaks, with a smile; "my mission is love and peace." He places a chair beside a small table in the centre of the room; bids the negro sit down, which he does with some hesitation. The room is small; it contains a table, bureau, washstand, bed, and four chairs, which, together with a few small prints hanging from the dingy walls, and a square piece of carpet in the centre of the room, constitute its furniture. "You know Marston's plantation-know it as it was when Marston resided thereon, do you?" enquires the stranger, seating himself beside the negro, who evidently is not used to this sort of familiarity.
"Know 'um well, dat I does," answers the negro, quickly, as if the question had recalled scenes of the past.
"And you know the people, too, I suppose?"
"Da'h people!" ejaculates the negro, with a rhapsody of enthusiasm; "reckon I does."
"Will you recount them."
The negro, commencing with old master, recounts the names of Miss Franconia, Clotilda, Ellen, Aunt Rachel, old Daddy Bob, and Harry.
"It is enough," says the stranger, "they are all familiar names."
"Did you know my good old master?" interrupts the negro, suddenly, as if detecting some familiar feature in the stranger's countenance.
"No," he replies, measuredly; "but his name has sounded in my ears a thousand times. Tell me where are the children, Annette and Nicholas? and where may I find Franconia?"
The negro shakes his head, and remains silent for a few minutes. At length he raises his hand, and in a half-whisper says, "Gone, gone, gone; sold and scattered, good mas'r. Habn't see dem child dis many a day: reckon da'h done gone down south." He hesitates suddenly, as if calling something to memory; and then, placing his left hand on the stranger's right arm, as he rubs his left across his forehead, stammers out-"Mas'r, mas'r, I reckon dis child do know somefin 'bout Miss Frankone. Anyhow, mas'r (ye knows I'se nigger do'h, and don't keep up 'quaintance a'ter mas'r sell um), can put ye straight 'bout Missus Rosebrook's house, and reckon how dat lady can put ye straight on Miss Frankone's where'bout." It is what the stranger wants. He has heard of Mrs. Rosebrook before; she will give him the information he seeks; so, turning again to the negro, he tells him that, for a few days at least, he shall require his presence at the same hour in the evening: tonight he must conduct him to Mrs. Rosebrook's sequestered villa.
The watch-tower bell of the guard-house sounds forth nine o'clock. The soldier-like sentinel, pacing with loaded musket, and armed with sharpest steel, cries out in hoarse accents, "All's well!" The bell is summoning all negroes to their habitations: our guide, Bill, informs the stranger that he must have a "pass" from a white man before he can venture into the street. "Mas'r may write 'um," he says, knowing that it matters but little from whom it comes, so long as the writer be a white man. The pass is written; the negro partakes of refreshment that has been prepared for him at the stranger's request, and they are wending their way through the city. They pass between rows of massive buildings, many of which have an antique appearance, and bear strong signs of neglect; but their unique style of architecture denotes the taste of the time in which they were erected. Some are distinguished by heavy stone colonnades, others by verandas of fret-work, with large gothic windows standing in bold outline. Gloomy-looking guard-houses, from which numerous armed men are issuing forth for the night's duty,—patrolling figures with white cross belts, and armed with batons, standing at corners of streets, or moving along with heavy tread on the uneven side-walk,—give the city an air of military importance. The love of freedom is dangerous in this democratic world; liberty is simply a privilege. Again the stranger and his guide (the negro) emerge into narrow lanes, and pass along between rows of small dwellings inhabited by negroes; but at every turn they encounter mounted soldiery, riding two abreast, heavily armed. "Democracy, boast not of thy privileges! tell no man thou governest with equal justice!" said the stranger to himself, as the gas-light shed its flickers upon this military array formed to suppress liberty.
They have reached the outskirts of the city, and are approaching a pretty villa, which the negro, who has been explaining the nature and duties of this formidable display of citizen soldiery, points to, as the peaceful home of the Rosebrook family. Brighter and brighter, as they approach, glares the bright light of a window in the north front. "I wish Mas'r Rosebrook owned me," says the negro, stopping at the garden gate, and viewing the pretty enclosure ere he opens it. "If ebery mas'r and missus war as kind as da'h is, dar wouldn't be no need o' dem guard-houses and dem guardmen wid dar savage steel," he continues, opening the gate gently, and motioning the stranger to walk in. Noiselessly he advances up the brick walk to the hall entrance, and rings the bell. A well-dressed negro man soon makes his appearance, receives him politely, as the guide retires, and ushers him into a sumptuously furnished parlour. The Rosebrook negroes quickly recognise a gentleman, and detecting it in the bearing of the stranger they treat him as such. Mrs. Rosebrook, followed by her husband, soon makes her appearance, saluting the stranger with her usual suavity. "I have come, madam," he says, "on a strange mission. With you I make no secret of it; should I be successful it will remove the grief and anxiety of one who has for years mourned the fate of her on whom all her affections seem to have centred. If you will but read this it will save the further recital of my mission." Thus saying, he drew a letter from his pocket, presented it, and watched her countenance as line by line she read it, and, with tears glistening in her eyes, passed it to her husband.
"I am, good sir, heartily glad your mission is thus laudable. Be at home, and while you are in the city let our home be yours. Franconia is here with us to-night; the child you search after is also with us, and it was but to-day we learned the cruelties to which she has been subjected during the last few years. Indeed, her fate had been kept concealed from us until a few weeks ago, and to-day, having escaped the brutal designs of a ruffian, she fled to us for protection, and is now concealed under our roof-"
"Yes, poor wretch-it is too true!" rejoins Rosebrook. "But something must be done as quickly as possible, for if Pringle Blowers regains her she will be subjected to tortures her frame is too delicate to bear up under. There must be no time lost, not a day!" he says, as Mrs. Rosebrook quickly leaves the room to convey the news to Franconia, who, with Annette, is in an adjoining apartment.
Like a hunted deer, Annette's fears were excited on hearing the stranger enter; Franconia is endeavoring to quiet them. The poor slave fears the ruffian's pursuit, trembles at each foot-fall upon the door-sill, and piteously turns to her old friend for protection. Blowers, maddened with disappointment, would rather sacrifice her to infamy than sell her for money to a good master. The price of a pretty slave is no object with this boasting democrat,—the gratification of his carnal desires soars supreme. Rosebrook knows this, as the abject woman does to her sorrow.
As Rosebrook and the stranger sit conversing upon the object of his mission, and the best way to effect it, this good woman returns leading by the arm a delicately-formed girl, whose blonde countenance is shadowed with an air of melancholy which rather adds to her charms than detracts from her beauty. The stranger's eye rests upon her,—quickly he recognises Clotilda's features, Clotilda's form, and gentleness; but she is fairer than Clotilda, has blue eyes, and almost golden hair. She hesitates as her eyes meet the stranger's. "Do not fear, my child," speaks Franconia, whose slender figure follows her into the room. Assured that the stranger is her friend, she is introduced to him, and modestly takes her seat on a chair by the window. The stranger's name is Maxwell, and on hearing it announced Franconia anticipated the pleasure of meeting with her old friend, through whose agency she effected Clotilda's escape. Advancing towards him with extended hand, she looks enquiringly in his face, saying, "Am I mistaken?" She shakes her head, doubtingly. "No! it is not my friend Maxwell," she continues.
"No!" rejoins the stranger; "he is my cousin: by his directions I have come here. I have brought a letter from his wife Clotilda, whose dear deliverer you were; and whose thoughts now daily recur to you, to your love and kindness to her, with undying brightness." "Ah!" interrupts Franconia, welcoming him with a fervent heart, "I knew Clotilda would never forget Annette; I knew she would remember me; I knew her ardent soul would give forth its measure of gratitude. Happy am I that you have come-though years have rolled by since I gave up all hopes of the joyous consummation-to relieve this sorrowing child," she says, running to Annette, and with tears of joy in her eyes, exclaiming, "My child! my child! you 'll yet be saved. The ruffian who tortured you to-day will torture you no more-no more!" And she kisses the sorrowing girl's cheek, as tears of sympathy gush into her eyes.
Rosebrook handed Franconia the letter, which she read as her face brightened with joy. "Good Clotilda! how happy she must be! How generous, how kind, how true dear Maxwell was to her; and they are living together so comfortably, and have such a nice family growing up; but she wants her slave child! A slave mother never forgets her slave offspring!" she exclaims, with enthusiastic delight, as she reads and re-reads the letter. Back she paces to Annette, lays her right arm gently over her shoulder, and pats her cheek with her left hand: "Annette will see her mother, yet. There is an all-protecting hand guiding us through every ill of life. Be of good cheer, my child; never despond while there is a hope left; bury the horrors of the past in the brighter prospect of the future." And leading her to the table she seats her by her side and reads the letter aloud, as with joy the forlorn girl's feelings bound forth. We need scarcely tell the reader that Clotilda's letter was read in listening silence, and ran thus:—"Nassau, New Providence, "October 24, 18-. "My Dear Franconia,
"My thoughts have never ceased to recur to you, nor to my dear Annette. You were a mother and a deliverer to me; I know-though I have not received a word in reply to any of my letters-you have been a mother to my child. As you know, I dare not write as much as I would, lest this letter fall into the hands of those whose interest it is to perpetuate our enslavement. I hope you are happy with a good husband, as I am. Years have rolled by since we parted, and many have been the scenes and changes through which I have passed, but they were all pleasant changes, each for brighter and happier prospects. I was married to him who, with you, effected my escape, a few weeks after landing at Harbour Island. Since then we have resided in Nassau, where my husband, who loves me dearly, pursues an extensive and lucrative business, and we both move in the best society of the place. We have a pretty family of three children, the oldest nine years old, and the youngest five. How my heart would leap with joy if I thought you would accept an invitation to come and see me, to spend a few weeks with me, and see yourself how comfortable and happy a slave may be! Perhaps I should not say happy, for I never can be truly happy without my Annette. Something haunts my mind whenever I recur to her,—which is every day. And then I have written so many letters to which no answers have been returned; but, a whispering angel, as if to console me, says, Franconia will be her mother, and you will yet see her.
"The gentleman who bears this letter is my husband's cousin. He has all my husband's generosity of character, and will seek you for the purpose of finding Annette, and bearing her safely to me. He has proffered his services, and sworn to carry out his object; and being on his way to New York for the purpose of entering into business with his uncle now in that city, will touch at Charleston, for the object herein stated. Further his object, my dear Franconia, and that heaven will reward the hand that in mercy helps the enslaved, "Is the prayer of your grateful "CLOTILDA MAXWELL."
"I knew mother would never forget me; I knew she would come back to me, would be kind to me, as she used to be, and save me from such cruelty as I have suffered. Several times have I resolved on putting an end to my unhappy existence, but as often did something say to me, 'live hoping-there is a better day coming.' God guides, governs, and raises up the weary soul," says Annette, in touching accents, as Franconia finished reading the letter.
While this conversation is progressing, and the plan of getting Annette out of the city being devised, a nice supper, at Mrs. Rosebrook's request, is being prepared in the adjoining room. To this the stranger is invited, and all sit down in a happy circle. Franconia seems invested with new life; Annette forgets for the time her troubles; Mrs. Rosebrook, who does the honours of the table, wishes every ill-used slave could find means of escaping into freedom; and Deacon Rosebrook says he will join heart and hand in getting the forlorn girl free from her base purchaser.
WE must leave to the reader's imagination much that transpired at the Rosebrook Villa during the night above mentioned, and ask him to accompany us on the following morning, when curious placards may be seen posted here and there at corners of streets and other conspicuous places about the city. Mr. Pringle Blowers has lost a beautiful female slave, whose fair hair, beautiful complexion, deep blue eyes, delicate features, and charming promise, is in large type and blackest printer's ink set forth most glowingly. Had Mr. Pringle Blowers been a poet instead of a chivalric rice-planter, he might have emblazoned his loss in sentimental rhyme. But Pringle Blowers says poets always make fools of themselves; and, although the south is a sweet and sunny land, he is happy indeed that it is troubled with none of the miscreants. He owned niggers innumerable; but they were only common stock, all of whom he could have lost without feeling any more than ordinary disappointment at the loss of their worth in money. For this one, however, he had a kind of undefined love, which moved his heart most indescribably. Disappointed in the gratification of his desires, he is mortified and maddened to desperation. Why should a slave he had invested so much money in, and felt so like making a lady of, and never would have thought of setting at field labour, run away? He only wanted her for the most aristocratic purpose the south can provide for a beautiful slave. Hence Mr. Pringle Blowers, through the medium of his knowledge of letters, puts forward his placard-a copy of which he inserts in all the most respectable morning journals-in which the fair outlines of his lost woman are simply set forth. He will give three hundred dollars for her apprehension, fifty dollars more for proof to convict any person of harbouring her, and an additional sum for lodging her in any gaol in the country. This large reward Mr. Pringle Blowers will pay in hard cash; and he has no doubt the offering will be quite enough to excite the hunting propensities of fashionable young gentlemen, as well as inveterate negro hunters. Beside this, negro hunting being rather a democratic sport than otherwise, Mr. Pringle Blowers reconciles his feelings with the fact of these sports being uncommonly successful.
The reader will naturally conclude that the offer of this large reward produced some sensation in and about the city. People stopped along the streets, read the curious hand-bill, smiled, and made various remarks. Ladies, always curious to know what is prominent among the current events of the day, sent servants to ascertain what so attractive the posters contained. It was, indeed, a regular bit of self-enjoyed fun for them; for the ladies had all heard of Pringle Blowers, and that a female slave for whose capture he would give three hundred dollars had run away from him they were heartily glad to learn.
The day-police were equally happy to hear of the loss, and anxious to make the capture. In this position it was doubly necessary to be cautious in proceeding to effect the escape of the fair girl. If discovered in the act the stranger might be subjected to a series of inprisonments that would sacrifice his life. Again, he might be assassinated by some disguised hand; or, if an infuriated mob were let loose upon him, no police interference could save his life. As suspicion is ever on the point of giving out its dangerous caprices where a community live fearing one another, so the stranger became sensible of the shafts of suspicion that might at any moment be darted at him. Despatching his schooner on her voyage, he continued for several days walking about the city, as if indifferent to what was passing. He read the curious poster in which was offered the goodly reward for the apprehension of a lost slave, affected great coolness, and even ignorance of the mode by which such articles were recovered.
Fortunate was it for the stranger that he despatched the schooner without the prize he intended to carry off, for no sooner had she got under way and begun to move down the harbour, than she was boarded by four men, who, producing their authority, searched her from stem to stern. Such were their suspicions, that they would not be satisfied until they had opened a few boxes and bales that were stowed away in the hold. This done, the schooner was permitted to continue her voyage, and the stranger, unmolested, continues his walks about the city. A few days pass and the excitement has calmed down. Pringle Blowers, although chagrined at the loss of his valuable piece of woman property, resolves to wait the issue with patience and forbearance. If she, fool like, has made away with herself, he cannot bring her to life; if she be carried off by villainous kidnappers, they must eventually suffer the consequences. Her beauty will expose their plots. He will absorb his usual requirement of spirit, keep the nerve up, and never despond of regaining her while his reward of three hundred dollars stands before a money-loving public. He would rather have lost two dozen common niggers than this one he set so much by, intended to make so much of, and upon whom he had set his very heart, soul, and burning passions. But there is no profit in grief, no use in giving way to disappointment. Philosophers bear disappointments with fortitude; he must be a philosopher, keep a sharp look out and not despair.
How different is the scene presented at Rosebrook's Villa! There, Annette is seen, prepared to take her departure. Dressed in male attire, with frock coat and trousers setting so neatly, dress boots, white vest, and brightly arranged shirt-bosom, she is the type of perfection of a youthful southron. Franconia has expended her skill in completing the fair girl's toilet, when Mrs. Rosebrook places a pair of green spectacles over her eyes, bids her look in the glass, and tells her she will pass for a planter's son among a million.
"Nobody will know me, now," she answers, viewing herself in the mirror. Her neat setting suit, Panama hat, and green spectacles, give a peculiar air to her lithe figure. And though her emotions are well nigh ready to give forth tears, she cannot suppress a smile at the singular transformation of her person.
"It'll take sharper eyes than policemen's to discover the disguise," says Rosebrook, who, having ordered a carriage to the door, enters the room and takes her kindly by the hand. "Keep up a good heart; don't despond, my child, and the chances are that you'll be safe-you'll be in Wilmington to-morrow morning" he continues: then, turning to Franconia, who will accompany her to that place, he awaits her pleasure. "I am ready!" returns that generous woman, as, arrayed in her travelling dress, she takes Annette by the hand, and is about to proceed to the gate where the carriage waits. Mrs. Rosebrook must take one more fond parting. Laying her right arm over her shoulder, and pressing her to her bosom, she kisses and kisses her fair cheek, bids her remember that God alone is her protector, her guide to a happy future. In freedom may she live to freedom's God; in slavery, hope ever, and trust in his mercy! With this admonition, the excited girl, trembling, leaves the Villa, leaning on Franconia's arm. Bradshaw has the carriage at the door, piled with sundry boxes and portmanteaus, giving it the appearance of a gentleman's travelling equipage. He has orders to drive to the steam-boat landing, where the young invalid planter will embark for New York via Wilmington and the land route. Soon they have taken their seats, and with Rosebrook's good-natured face shining beside Bradshaw, on the front seat, they say their happy adieu! and bound over the road for the steamer.
It is now within fifteen minutes of the starting time. The wharf presents a bustling scene: carriages and coaches are arriving with eager-looking passengers, who, fearing they are a little behind time, stare about as if bewildered, scold heedless drivers, point out heir baggage to awkward porters who run to and fro with trunks and boxes on their heads, and then nervously seek the ticket-office, where they procure the piece of paper that insures them through to New York. Albeit, finding they have quite time enough on their hands, they escort their female voyagers on board, and loiter about in the way of every one else, enjoying that excitement in others which they have fortunately passed through. Here and there about the wharf, leaning their head carelessly over black piles, are sly-looking policemen, who scan every voyager with a searching eye. They are incog., but the initiated recognise them at a glance. The restless leer of that lynx eye discovers their object; anything, from a runaway nigger to a houseless debtor, is to them acceptable prey. Atween decks of the steamer, secured at the end of the wharf, another scene of bustle and confusion presents itself. A passenger is not quite sure his baggage is all on board, and must needs waste his breath in oaths at the dumb porter, who works at his utmost strength, under the direction of Mr. Mate, whose important figure is poised on the wharf. Another wants to "lay over" at Richmond, and is using most abusive language to a mulatto waiter, who has put his trunk on one side of the boat and carpet bag on the other. A third, a fussy old lady with two rosy-faced daughters she is, against her southern principles, taking to the north to be educated, is making a piteous lamentation over the remains of two bonnets-just from the hands of the milliner-hopelessly smashed in her bandbox. The careless porter set it on a pile of baggage, from where it tottled over under the feet of an astonished gentleman, who endeavours to soothe the good lady's feelings with courteous apologies. On the upper deck, heeding no one, but now and then affecting to read a newspaper, as passengers pace to and fro, is the stranger, seated on one of the side seats. The engineer moves his valve now and then, the cross-head ascends, the steam hisses below, the condenser rumbles, the steam from the funnel roars furiously forth, spreading its scalding vapour through the air. Again, the man, almost imperceptibly touches the iron rod with his finger, the magic monster again moves its piston downward, the wheels make a turn, the massive vessel surges upon her lines, as if eager to press forward on her course. Another gentle touch, and, obeying the summons, the motive power is still; the man subjects the monster with his little finger. He has stopped her near the centre, where, with a slight touch, he can turn back or forward. Again, he lifts a small key, and the steam, with a deafening roar, issues from the escape: he is venting his chest. Simultaneously the second bell sounds forth its clanking medley: two minutes more, and the snake-like craft will be buffeting the waves, on her daily errand. As passengers begin to muster on board, their friends clustering round the capsill of the wharf, obstructing the way, the sturdy figure of Mr. Pringle Blowers may be seen behind a spile near the capsill, his sharp, peering eyes scanning the ship from fore to aft. He is not sure she will get off by this route; common sense tells him that, but there exists a prompting something underneath common sense telling him it's money saved to keep a sharp look-out. And this he does merely to gratify that inert something, knowing at the same time that, having no money, no person will supply her, and she must be concealed in the swamps, where only "niggers" will relieve her necessities. At this moment Rosebrook's carriage may be seen driving to the ticket office at the head of the wharf, where Rosebrook, with great coolness, gets out, steps within the railing, and procures the tickets in his own name. Again taking his seat, the mate, who stands on the capsill of the wharf, now and then casting a glance up, cries out, "Another carriage coming!" Bradshaw cracks his whip, and the horses dash down the wharf, scatter the people who have gathered to see the boat off, as a dozen black porters, at the mate's command, rush round the carriage, seize the baggage, and hurry it on board. Rosebrook, fearing his friends will lose their passage, begs people to clear the gangway, and almost runs on board, his fugitive charge clinging to his arms. The captain stands at the gangway, and recognising the late comer, makes one of his blandest bows: he will send a steward to show them a good state-room. "Keep close till the boat leaves, and remember there is a world before you," Rosebrook says, shaking Annette by the hand, as she returns, "God bless good master!" They are safe in the state-room: he kisses Franconia's cheek, shuts the door, and, hurrying back, regains the wharf just as the last bell strikes, and the gangway is being carried on board.
"Not going along with us, eh?" ejaculates the captain, as, from the capsill, Rosebrook looks round to bid him good-by.
"Not to-day" (he returns, laconically). "Take good care of my friends; the young invalid from Lousiana in particular." Just then he catches the stranger's eye, and, with a significant motion of his fingers, says, "All safe!" With a nod of recognition the stranger makes his adieu; the fastenings are cast away, the faint tinkle of a bell is heard amid the roar of steam; the man at the valves touches the throttle bar; up mounts the piston rod-down it surges again; the revolving wheels rustle the water; the huge craft moves backward easy, and then ahead; a clanking noise denotes the connections are "hooked on," and onward she bounds over the sea. How leaps with joy that heart yearning for freedom, as the words "She's away!" gladden Annette's very soul! Her enraptured feelings gush forth in prayer to her deliverers; it is as a new spring of life, infusing its refreshing waters into desert sands. She seems a new being, with hope, joy, and happiness brightening the future for her. But, alas! how vain are hopes,—how uncertain the future!
Rosebrook watched the steaming craft as she crosses the bar, and dwindles out of sight. "Thou art safe, poor slave," he says to himself, as she passes from view behind the distant peak.
Something touches him on the shoulder as he returns to his carriage. "Ah! this you, Pringle Blowers?" he exclaims, turning round suddenly, as the full face of that important personage presented itself. "Been seeing some friends off to—?"
"No," replies Blowers, with seeming indifference. He is just shying round,—keeping an eye out for a smart kind of "a gal," lost last week.
"Quite a misfortune, that, Blowers! God bless me, I'm sorry," returns Rosebrook, dryly. Rosebrook invites him to get in and ride a short distance. Blowers has not the slightest objection; seats his square frame on the left side of the carriage. "Those were clever posters you put out for the apprehension of that girl, Blowers!"
"Took some genius, I reckon," interrupts Blowers, with broad laugh.
"They say she was very handsome, and, if it be true, I hope you may get her, Blowers," continues Rosebrook, naively.
The disappointed man shakes his head, touches the other on the arm, and says, "Nothing is more sure!"