LET us again beg the indulgence of the reader, while we go back to the night when Marston was found dead in his cell, and when that old negro, whose eventful history we shall here close, sat by his bed-side, unconscious that the spirit of master had winged its way to another world. Bob, faithful unto death, remained his lone watcher. Disguising his ownership, he has toiled from day to day that the fruits thereof might relieve master's necessities; and he had shared them with the flowing goodness of a simple heart. In a malarious cell, how happy was he to make his bed on the cold plank beside his master's cot, where he might watch over his declining spirit. Kindness was his by nature,—no cruel law could rob his heart of its treasure: he would follow master to the grave, and lavish it upon the soil that covered him.
Having accompanied Franconia to the Rosebrook Villa, he will return to the prison and join Harry, alone watching over the dead. The city clock strikes the hour of eleven as he leaves the outer gate, and turns into the broad road leading to the city. The scene before him is vamped in still darkness; a murky light now and then sheds its glimmers across the broad road; and as he hurries onward, contemplating the sad spectacle presented in the prison, happy incidents of old plantation life mingle their associations with his thoughts. He muses to himself, and then, as if bewildered, commences humming his favourite tune-"There's a place for old mas'r yet, when all 'um dead and gone!" His soul is free from suspicion: he fears not the savage guardsman's coming; the pure kindliness of his heart is his shield. How often has he scanned this same scene,—paced this same road on his master's errands! How death has changed the circumstances of this his nightly errand! Far away to the east, on his left, the broad landscape seems black and ominous; before him, the sleeping city spreads its panorama, broken and sombre, beneath heavy clouds; the fretted towers on the massive prison frown dimly through the mist to the right, from which a low marshy expanse dwindles into the dark horizon. And ever and anon the forked lightning courses its way through the heavens, now tinging the sombre scene with mellow light, then closing it in deeper darkness.
Onward the old man wends his way. If he be shut out from the prison, he will find shelter at Jane's cabin near by, from whence he may reach the cell early next morning. Presently the dull tramp of horses breaks upon his ear,—the sound sharpening as they advance. Through the dimming haze he sees two mounted guardsmen advancing: the murmuring sound of their conversation floats onward through the air,—their side arms rattle ominously. Now their white cross belts are disclosed; their stalwart figures loom out. Nearer and nearer they approach: as the old man, trembling with fear, remembers he is without a pass, a gruff voice cries out, "Stop there!"
"A prowling nigger!" rejoins another, in a voice scarcely less hoarse. The old man halts in the light of a lamp, as the right-hand guard rides up, and demands his pass.
"Whose nigger are you?" again demands the first voice. "Your pass, or come with us!"
The old man has no pass; he will go to his master, dead in the county prison!
Guardsmen will hear neither falsehoods nor pleading. He doesn't know "whose nigger he is! he is a runaway without home or master," says the left-hand guardsman, as he draws his baton from beneath his coat, and with savage grimace makes a threatening gesture. Again he poises it over the old man's head, as he, with hand uplifted, supplicates mercy. "Nobody's nigger, and without a pass!" he grumbles out, still motioning his baton.
"He says his master is in gaol; that's enough! Stop, now, no more such nonsense!" rejoins the other, as the old man is about to explain. "Not another word." He is good prey, made and provided by the sovereign law of the state. Placing him between their horses, they conduct him in silence forward to the guard-house. He is a harmless captive, in a world where democracy with babbling tongue boasts of equal justice. "A prowler!" exclaims one of the guards- men, as, dismounting in front of the massive building, with frowning facade of stone, they disappear, leading the old man within its great doors, as the glaring gas-light reflects upon his withered features.
"Found prowling on the neck, sir!" says the right-hand guardsman, addressing himself to the captain, a portly-looking man in a military suit, who, with affected importance, casts a look of suspicion at the old man. "Have seen you before, I think?" he enquires.
"Reckon so, mas'r; but neber in dis place," replies Bob, in half-subdued accents.
You are nobody's nigger, give a false account of yourself, and have no home, I hear," interrupts the captain, at the same time ordering a clerkly-looking individual who sits at a desk near an iron railing enclosing a tribune, to make the entry in his book.
"Your name?" demands the clerk.
"Bob!"
"Without owner, or home?"
"My master's cell was my home."
"That won't do, my man!" interrupts the portly-looking captain. "Mr. Clerk" (directing himself to that functionary) "you must enter him-nobody's nigger, without home or master." And as such he is entered upon that high record of a sovereign state-the guard-house calendar. If this record were carried before the just tribunal of heaven, how foul of crime, injustice, and wrong, would its pages be found! The faithful old man has laboured under an assumed ownership. His badge, procured for him through the intercession of Franconia, shows him as the property of Mr. Henry Frazer. That gentleman is many hundred miles away: the old man, ignorant of the barbarous intricacy of the law, feels it to his sorrow. The production of the badge, and the statement, though asserting that Miss Franconia is his friend, show a discrepancy. His statement has no truth for guardsmen; his poor frame is yet worth something, but his oath has no value in law: hence he must march into a cold cell, and there remain till morning.
Before that high functionary, the mayor-whose judgments the Russian Czar might blush to acknowledge or affirm,—he is arraigned at ten o'clock on the following morning. He has plenty of accusers,—no one to plead the justice of his case. A plain story he would tell, did the law and his honour grant the boon. The fatal badge shows him the property of Mr. Henry Frazer: Mr. Henry Frazer is nowhere to be found, and the statement that master was in prison tends to increase the suspicions against him. Against this increasing force of proof, the old man begs his honour will send to the prison, where master will be found,—dead! In his love of clemency that functionary yields to the request. There looks something harmless about the old negro, something that warms his honour's legal coldness. An officer is despatched, and soon returns with a description that corresponds with the old man's. "He waited on Marston, made Marston's cell his home; but, your honour-and I have the assurance of the gaoler-he was not Marston's nigger; all that man's niggers were sold for the benefit of his creditors." So says the official, returning to his august master with cringing servility. His honour, in the fulness of his wisdom, and with every regard for legal straightforwardness (his honour searched into the profoundest depths of the "nigger statutes" while learning the tailoring trade, which he now pursues with great success), is now doubly satisfied that the negro before him is a vagabond-perhaps, and he is more than half inclined to believe he is, the very marauder who has been committing so many depredations about the city. With a profound admonition, wisdom glowing from his very countenance the while, he orders him twenty-nine paddles on his bare posteriors,—is sorry the law does not give him power to extend the number. And with compliments for the lucky fellows who have thus timely relieved the public of such a dangerous outlaw, his honour orders him to be taken away to that prison-house where even-handed democracy has erected a place for torturing the souls of men who love liberty.
He will get the stripes-large, democratic stripes,—generously laid on. How much more he will get remains for a proud state, in its sovereign littleness, to provide. His honour, feeling his duties toward the state discharged, and his precautionary measures for the protection of the people fully exemplified in this awful judgment, orders one of the officers to summon Mr. Ford Fosdick, a distinguished gentleman of the state's own, who, he is quite sure, will not neglect her more important interests. Bob has no interests in this world, nor doth he murmur that he hath not eaten bread for fourteen hours. Kindliness yet lingers in his withered face as he goes forth, yields submission to a state's lnjustice, and bares his back before he eats.
"Return him after administering the dressing," says his honour, directing his remarks to the official about to lead his victim away. That functionary, half turning, replies with a polite bow.
The reader, we feel assured, will excuse a description of this unsavoury dressing, beautifully administered on behalf of a republican state that makes it a means of crushing out the love of liberty. Bob has received his dressing and returned; but he has no tears to shed for democrats who thus degrade him.
Mr. Ford Fosdick, a gentleman of the learned profession, very straight of person, and most bland of manners, is what may be called escheator in ordinary to the state. Keeping a sharp eye on her interests, he has anticipated the commands of his august master, presents his polite person very unexpectedly in his honour's court-room. Fosdick, in addition to an excellent reputation for being the very best gentleman "nigger grabber" the state ever had, is well thought of in fashionable circles, having fought two duels of the most desperate character. He is of middle stature, with a face finely oval, and to which are added features of much softness, altogether giving him more the appearance of a well-ordained divine, than the medium of those high functions by which the state's "grab-all" of homeless negroes distinguishes himself. If the state tolerated an ignominy, Ford Fosdick—between whom there exists a mutual partnership—found in it an apology for the part he played; for—let no man blush when we tell it—the sum total for which friendless, homeless, and ownerless negroes sold for in the market was equally divided between them. Generous as was this copartnership, there were few well-disposed persons independent enough to sanction it; while here and there an outspoken voice said it was paying a premium for edging Fosdick's already sharp appetite for apprehending the wretched, who—God save the state's honour!—having no means of protecting themselves, would be sold for the sovereign interests of his own pocket, instead of the peace of the dear people, of which the state was ever jealous. Mr. Fosdick is present,—thanks his honour the mayor: he thinks he has seen the negro before; that he is a prowler not a doubt can exist. Quite indifferent as to his own interests, he says the city is literally beset with such vermin: in his own mind, however, he has not a doubt but that something handsome will be realised from the sale of the old fellow. There is now a most fearful case in the city,—a negro belonging to Mr. Grabguy has become mad with disobedience: they have chained him to the floor, but he sets everything at defiance, threatens the lives of all who come near him,—says he will die or be free. Against this there is little hope for old Bob; his crooked story will not suit the high considerations of these amiable worthies of state: he must be siezed and dragged to the workhouse, there to await the result. It is a profitable morning's work for Mr. Ford Fosdick, who makes a large note in his ledger, and will soon carry out a very acceptable item on behalf of his dear self. So, while Bob eats his corn-grits in a cell, and his heart beats high with purity, Mr. Ford Fosdick revels in luxury he thinks not ill-gotten.
Due notice, in accordance with the statutes, is given to all persons whomsoever may claim a piece of property answering the description of Daddy Bob, as herein set forth. Weeks pass, but no one comes to claim Bob. In the eyes of an ignoble law he is a cast out, homeless upon the world; and as such must be sold. He is put up at the man-shambles, and, by order of Mr. Ford Fosdick, sold to Mr. Cordes Kemp for the sum of two hundred and fifty dollars, one half of which sum is the state's own, the other Mr. Ford Fosdick's. Mr. Cordes Kemp had seen Bob working about the wharf, and learned that the old man was of more value than his outward appearance indicated, inasmuch as he was a good carpenter; which we have not before informed the reader. But Bob had never been accustomed to a cruel master: such Cordes Kemp was to the fullest extent of the term. A few months passed, and Bob became heartily sick of his new master, who gave him little to eat, and had nearly ended his life with labour and the lash. Finding he could no longer stand such treatment, he fled to the swamp; and for two years did he make his home among the morasses and hillocks, now making his bed by the trunk of a fallen tree, then seeking shelter in a temporary camp built with the axe he carried away with him. At times he was forced to make food of roots, nuts, and such wild fruit as the woods afforded; and as the ravens found food, so the outcast man did not suffer while an all-wise Providence watched over him. And then he found a kind friend in old Jerushe-Aunt Jerushe, as she was commonly called, who lived on a plantation a few miles from his hiding-place, and met him at night, and shared her coarse meal with him. Jerushe's heart was full of kindness; she would have given him more, but for the want thereof. Full two years did even-handed democracy drive the old man homeless to seek a shelter among the poisonous reptiles of the morass. Mr. Cordes Kemp must regain his property, and to that generous end he puts forth the following extremely southern proclamation, which may be found in all respectable morning journals, on posters hung at the "Rough and Ready," at "Your House," and at "Our House":—
"SEVENTY-FIVE (75) DOLLARS REWARD is offered for the delivery of my old negro carpenter man named BOB, in gaol in Charleston, within a month from this date. The said BOB is a complete carpenter, about sixty-five years of age, has a fine, full, good-natured face, knock-kneed, bald-headed, and ran away about two years ago: he is thought to be harboured in Charleston or James' Island. He was bought of Mr. Ford Fosdick, on behalf of the state. June 28,— CORDES KEMP."
Mr. Cordes Kemp, sorely grieved at the loss of so venerable and valuable a piece of property,—and which he bought of the state, for the rights of which he is a great champion,—will give the above sum in hard cash to the clever fellow who will secure it within a prison, so he may get it. If this cannot be done, he will declare him an outlaw, offer a premium for the old man's head, and, with the bleeding trophy, demand the premium paid by the state. However, seventy-five dollars is no mean offer for so old a negro, and as the said negro cannot be a fast runner, the difficulty of catching him will not be very great, while the sport will be much more exciting. Romescos and Dan Bengal keep a sharp look-out for all such little chances of making money; and as their dogs are considered the very best and savagest in the country, they feel certain they will be able to deliver the article over to Mr. Kemp in a very few days.
A few days after the appearance of Mr. Cordes Kemp's proclamation, these two worthies may be seen riding along the Camden Road, a sandy level, with little to indicate its tortuous course save a beaten and irregular path through a forest of stately pines. Their reddish-coloured home-spun clothes, set loosely, and their large, felt hats, slouching over their bearded faces, give their figures a brigand-like appearance which excites apprehension. They are heavily armed with rifles, revolvers, and bowie-knives; and as their horses move along at a quick walk, the riders may be heard keeping up an animated discussion on matters of state policy. The state and its policy is a matter of deep interest to slave-dealer and slave-hunter; none discuss them with more pertinacity. And as every great measure is supposed to have some bearing, directly or indirectly, on the right of one class to enslave the other, a never-ceasing political jar is kept up by these worthies, and too often finds its way into the public acts of men who should be far removed above their selfishness.
The horse on which Romescos rides, a sprightly dark-bay, seeming to have an instinctive knowledge of his master's pursuit, pricks his ears erect, and keeps his head turning from one side to the other, as if watching the approach of some object in the forest. A few paces ahead are seven fierce hounds, now scenting about the ground, then scampering through the trees, and again, quickly obeying the call, return to the horses. Not a bark is heard, not a growl escapes them! Nothing could be under more explicit subjection-not even those northern dogs who pollute their own free soil by making it a forest, where the souls of men are humbled, and where, willing allies of the sport, they desecrate that holy sentence, "Our Pilgrim Fathers!"
Presently the lean figure of a man is seen advancing from a thicket in the distance. Rifle in hand he advances a few paces, leans against the trunk of a pine tree, relieves his shoulders of a well-filled haversack, and supports his arms on the stock of his weapon, the muzzle of which he sets in the ground. He will wait the horsemen's coming. With lightning quickness the hounds start suddenly, prick up their ears, make a bound forward. "Hold there!" exclaims Romescos, at the same time directing Bengal's attention to the figure far away to the right. His horse shies, an imprecation quickly follows; the dogs as suddenly obey the word, and crouch back to await another signal.
"Nothing, I reckon!" returns Bengal, coolly, as the figure in the distance is seen with smoking fusee lighting a cigar.
Romescos thinks he is a gentleman returning from hunting in the big swamp, to the north. He has a kind of presentiment, nevertheless, that some lucky prize will turn up before sunset.
"Well, strangers, what luck to day?" enquires the hunter, as they run up their horses. At the same time he gracefully raises a delicate hand, relieves his mouth of the cigar, twists a well- trimmed mustache, and lifts his hunting-cap from off his head, disclosing a finely-chiselled face.
"Not a shy!" replies Romescos, taking a cigar from his side pocket, and motioning his hand: the hunter politely extends his habanna, with which he communicates a light to his own. It is well nigh noon-day, and at the hunter's invitation do they dismount, seat themselves at the foot of the tree, and regale with bread, cheese, and brandy, he draws from his haversack.
"Thought ye'd got game in that," remarks Bengal, measuredly. Ho has scoured the woods, but found little game of the kind he hunts. "Our game is of a different species: you, I take it, hunt niggers, I'm in search of birds."
"Would have no objection to a stray deer or two!" is the reply, as he passes his horn and flask to Romescos, who helps himself to a dose of the liquid, which, he says, smacking his lips, is not bad to take.
"Especially when yer on a hunting excursion!" rejoins Bengal.
"Now," says the gentleman hunter, quietly resuming his cigar, "as you do not hunt my game, nor I yours, I think I can give you a scent that may prove profitable."
"Where away?" interrupts Bengal. Romescos respects the stranger-he has dignity concealed beneath his hunting garb, which the quick eye recognised as it flashed upon him. He gives Bengal a significant wink, the meaning of which he instinctively understands-"Don't be rude,—he belongs to one of the first families!"
The stranger lays his left hand on Romescos' arm, and with the fore finger of his right hand pointing to the south-west, says, "My plantation is nine miles in that direction. I left it this morning, early. In crossing an inlet of the Pedee, I discovered white smoke, far ahead, curling upward through the trees, and expanding itself in the clear blue atmosphere. Feeling sure it indicated the haunt of runaways, I approached it stealthily, and had almost unconsciously come upon a negro, who, suddenly springing from his hiding-place, ran to the water's edge, plunged in, and swam to a little island a few yards in the stream. It did not become me to pursue him, so I passed on heedlessly, lest he might have companions, who would set upon me, and make me an easy prey to their revengeful feelings." As each word fell from the stranger's lips, Romescos and his companion became irresistibly excited.
Again repeating the directions, which the stranger did with great precision, they drank a parting social glass: the mounted huntsmen thanked the pedestrian for his valuable information, gave him a warm shake of the hand, and, as he arranged his haversack, rode off at full gallop in the direction indicated. The dogs, cunning brutes, trained to the state's brutality, mutely kept in advance. "In luck yet!" exclaims Bengal, as they rode onward, in high glee, anticipating the valuable game about to fall into their hands.
"Ho! dogs-and back!" shrieked Romescos, at the top of his shrill voice, his sandy hair hanging in tufts over his little reddened face, now glowing with excitement. Instantly the dogs started off through the thicket, and after making a circle of about a mile, returned with heads up, and eyes fiercely flashing. Trailing in a semicircle ahead they seemed eager for another command.
"Better keep them back," mutters Bengal; and as Romescos gives the word,—"Come back!" they form a trail behind.
Now white fleecy clouds begin to obscure the sun; then it disappears in a murky haze, and is no longer their guide. After two hours' riding they find a wrong turn has led them far away from their course, and to avoid retracing their steps they make a short cut through the thicket. In another hour they have reached the bank of the stream they sought. Dogs, horses, and men, together drink of its limpid waters, and proceed onward. They have yet several miles of travel before reaching the spot designated by the strange hunter; and seeking their way along the bank is a slow and tedious process. The prize-that human outcast, who has no home where democracy rules,—is the all-absorbing object of their pursuit; money is the god of their hellish purpose.
It is near night-fall, when they, somewhat wearied of the day's ride, halt on a little slope that extends into the river, and from which a long view of its course above opens out. It seems a quiet, inviting spot, and so sequestered that Bengal suggests it be made a resting-place for the night.
"Not a whisper," says Romescos, who, having dismounted, is nervously watching some object in the distance. It is a pretty spot, clothed in softest verdure. How suddenly the quick eye of Romescos discovered the white smoke curling above the green foliage! "See! see!" he whispers again, motioning his hand behind, as Bengal stretches his neck, and looks eagerly in the same direction. "Close dogs-close!" he demands, and the dogs crouch back, and coil their sleek bodies at the horses' feet. There, little more than a mile ahead, the treacherous smoke curls lazily upward, spreading a white haze in the blue atmosphere. Daddy Bob has a rude camp there. A few branches serve for a covering, the bare moss is his bed; the fires of his heart would warm it, were nothing more at hand! Near by is the island on which he seeks refuge when the enemy approaches; and from this lone spot-his home for more than two years-has he sent forth many a fervent prayer, beseeching Almighty God to be his shield and his deliverer. It was but yesterday he saw Jerushe, who shared with him her corn-cakes, which, when she does not meet him at his accustomed spot, she places at the foot of a marked tree. Bob had added a few chips to his night fire, (his defence against tormenting mosquitoes), and made his moss bed. Having tamed an owl and a squirrel, they now make his rude camp their home, and share his crumbs. The squirrel nestles above his head, as the owl, moping about the camp entrance, suddenly hoots a warning and flutters its way into the thicket. Starting to his feet with surprise-the squirrel chirping at the sudden commotion-the tramp of horses breaks fearfully upon the old man's ear; bewildered he bounds from the camp. Two water oaks stand a few feet from its entrance, and through them he descries his pursuers bearing down upon him at full speed, the dogs making the very forest echo with their savage yelps. They are close upon him; the island is his only refuge! Suddenly he leaps to the bank, plunges into the stream, and with death-like struggles gains the opposite shore, where he climbs a cedar, as the dogs, eager with savage pursuit, follow in his wake, and are well nigh seizing his extremities ere they cleared their vicious spring. The two horsemen vault to the spot from whence the old man plunged into the water; and while the dogs make hideous ravings beneath the tree, they sit upon their horses, consulting, as the old man, from the tree top, looks piteously over the scene. Life has few charms for him; death would not be unwelcome.
The tedious journey, and disappointment at seeing the old man's resolution, has excited Romescos' ire. "He's an old rack-not worth much, but he doesn't seem like Kemp's old saw-horse," Romescos remarks to Bengal, as his hawk eye scans the old man perched among the cedar branches. They are not more than forty yards apart, and within speaking distance. Bengal, less excited, thinks it better to secure the old "coon" without letting the dogs taste of him.
"They'll only hold him with a firm grip, when he dismounts, and swim him safe back," grumblingly returns Romescos. "Now! old nig"-Romescos shouts at the top of his voice, directing himself to the old man-"just trot back here-come along!"
The old man shakes his head, and raises his hands, as if pleading for mercy.
"You won't, eh?" returns the angry man, raising his rifle in an attitude of preparation. Bengal reminds Romescos that his horse is not accustomed to firing from the saddle.
"I will larn him, then," is the reply.
"Mas'r," says Bob, putting out his hand and uncovering his bald head, "I can harm no white man. Let me live where 'um is, and die where 'um is."
"None o' that ar kind o' nigger talk;—just put it back here, or ye'll get a plug or two out o' this long Bill." (He points to his rifle.) "Ye'll come down out of that-by heavens you will!"
"Wing him; don't shoot the fool!" suggests Bengal, as the old man, pleading with his pursuers, winds his body half round the tree. Tick! tick! went the cock of Romescos' rifle; he levelled it to his eye,—a sharp whistling report rung through the air, and the body of the old man, shot through the heart, lumbered to the earth, as a deadly shriek sounds high above the echoes over the distant landscape-"M'as'r in heaven take 'um and have mercy on 'um!" gurgles on the air: his body writhes convulsively-the devouring dogs spring savagely upon the ration-all is over with the old slave!
Instantly with the report of the rifle, Romescos' horse darts, vaults toward the oaks, halts suddenly, and, ere he has time to grasp the reins, throws him headlong against one of their trunks. An oath escapes his lips as from the saddle he lifted; not a word more did he lisp, but sank on the ground a corpse. His boon companion, forgetting the dogs in their banquet of flesh, quickly dismounts, seizes the body in his arms, the head hanging carelessly from the shoulders: a few quivering shrugs, and all is over. "Neck broken, and dead!" ejaculates the affrighted companion, resting the dead hunter's back against his left knee, and with his right hand across the breast, moving the head to and fro as if to make sure life has left.
"Poor Anthony,—it's a bad end; but the state should bury him with honours; he ware the best 'un at this kind o' business the state ever had," mutters Bengal, glancing revengefully toward the island, where his democratic dogs are busy in the work of destruction. Then he stretches the lifeless body on the ground, crosses those hands full of blood and treachery, draws a handkerchief from his pocket, spreads it over the ghastly face fast discolouring, as the riderless horse, as if by instinct, bounds back to the spot and suddenly halts over his dead master, where he frets the ground with his hoof, and, with nostrils extended, scents along the body. Having done this, as if in sorrow, he will rest on the ground beside him; slowly he lumbers his body down, his head and neck circled toward that of the lifeless ruffian on the ground.
The disconsolate hunter here leaves his useless companion, swims the stream, recalls the gory-mouthed dogs, looks with satisfaction on the body of the torn slave. "You're settled for," says Bengal, as with his right foot he kicks together the distended and torn limbs. "Not all loss, yet!" he adds, a glow of satisfaction infusing his face. With the ghastly head for proof, he will apply for, and perhaps obtain, the state's reward for the despatch of outlaws; and with the gory trophy he returns across the limpid stream to his hapless companion, who, having watched over during the night, he will convey into the city to-morrow morning. Over his body the very humorous Mr. Brien Moon will hold one of those ceremonies called inquests, for which, fourteen dollars and forty cents being paid into his own pocket, he will order the valueless flesh under the sod, handsomely treating with cigars and drinks those who honour him with their presence.
In the old man's camp, a hatchet, a few bits of corn-bread, (old Jerushe's gift), and two fresh caught fish, are found; they constituted his earthly store. But he was happy, for his heart's impulses beat high above the conflict of a State's wrongs. That spirit so pure has winged its way to another and better world, where, with that of the monster who wronged nature while making cruelty his pastime, it will appear before a just God, who sits in glory and judgeth justly.
THE reader will please remember that we left Nicholas, maddened to distraction at the perfidy of which Grabguy makes him the victim, chained to an iron ring in the centre of Graspum's slave pen. In addition to this very popular mode of subduing souls that love liberty, his wife and children are sold from him, the ekings of his toil, so carefully laid up as the boon of his freedom, are confiscated, and the wrong-doer now seeks to cover his character by proclaiming to a public without sympathy that no such convention existed, no such object entertained. Grabguy is a man of position, and lady Grabguy moves well in society no way vulgar; but the slave (the more honourable of the two) hath no voice-he is nothing in the democratic world. Of his origin he knows not; and yet the sting pierces deeper into his burning heart, as he feels that, would justice but listen to his tale, freedom had not been a stranger. No voice in law, no common right of commoners, no power to appeal to the judiciary of his own country, hath he. Overpowered, chained, his very soul tortured with the lash, he still proclaims his resolution-"death or justice!" He will no longer work for him who has stripped away his rights, and while affecting honesty, would crush him bleeding into the earth.
Grabguy will counsel an expedient wherewith further to conceal his perfidy; and to that end, with seeming honesty lady Grabguy would have her fashionable neighbours believe sincere, he will ship the oppressed man to New Orleans, there to be sold.-"Notwithstanding, he is an extremely valuable nigger," he says, affecting superlative indifference.
"I'd rather sell him for a song than he should disturb the peace of the city thus." To New Orleans Mr. Grabguy sends his unsubdued property; but that the threatened sale is only a feint to more effectually dissolve the contract and forfeit the money paid as part of his freedom, he soon becomes fully sensible. Doubly incensed at such conduct the fire of his determination burns more fiercely; if no justice for him be made manifest on earth his spirit is consoled with the knowledge of a reward in heaven. Having tortured for months the unyielding man, Grabguy, with blandest professions of kindness, commands that the lacerated servant be brought back to his domicile. Here, with offers of kindness, and sundry pretexts of his sincerity, the master will pledge his honour to keep faith with his slave. The defrauded wretch knows but too well how little confidence he can place in such promises; to such promises does he turn a deaf ear. Grabguy, if serious, must give him back his wife, his children, and his hard earnings, in which the joyous hope of gaining freedom was centred: that hope had carried him through many trials. Sad is the dilemma in which Mr. Grabguy finds himself placed; simple justice to the man would have long since settled the question.
And now Nicholas is a second time sent to Graspum's pen, where living men are chained to rings of fierce iron for loving freedom and their country. For twenty-two days and nights is he chained to that floor where his soul had before been tortured. Threats of being returned to New Orleans again ring their leaden music in his ears; but they have no terrors for him; his indignant spirit has battled with torture and vanquished its smart—he will defend himself unto death rather than be made the object of a sham sale. A vessel for New Orleans waits in the harbour a fair wind for sailing. On board of her Mr. Grabguy will carry out his resolve; and to which end the reader will please accompany us to a small cell in Graspum's pen, about fourteen by sixteen feet, and seven in height—in the centre of which is chained to a ring that man, once so manly of figure, whose features are now worn down by sorrow or distorted by torture,—as three policemen enter to carry out the order of shipment. The heavy chain and shackle with which his left foot is secured yield to him a circuit of some four feet. As the officials advance his face brightens up with animation; his spirit resumes its fiery action, and with a flashing knife, no one knows by whom provided, he bids them advance no further.
"You must go to the whipping-post, my good fellow! I know it's kind of hard; but obey orders we must. Ye see, I've gin ye good advice, time and agin; but ye won't take it, and so ye must abide the consequences," says one of the officials, who advances before the others, and addresses himself to the chained man.
"I'll go to a whipping-post no more!" exclaims Nicholas, his angry spirit flashing in his face, as in an attitude of defence he presses his right hand into his bosom, and frowns defiantly upon the intruders.
"My name is Monsel, an officer! Not a word of disobedience," returns the officer, in a peremptory voice.
Another suggests that he had better be throated at once. But the chained victim of democracy's rule warns them against advancing another step. "Either must die if you advance. I have counselled death, and will lay my prostrate body on the cold floor rather than be taken from this cell to the whipping-post. It is far better to die defending my right, than to yield my life under the lash! I appeal to you, officers of the state, protectors of the peace, men who love their right as life's boons!" The men hesitate, whisper among themselves, seem at a loss as to what course to pursue. "You are setting the laws of the state at defiance, my good fellow!" rejoins Monsel.
"I care not for the law of the state! Its laws for me are founded in wrong, exercised with injustice!" Turning towards the door, Mr. Monsel despatches his fellow-officers for a reinforcement. That there will be a desperate struggle he has no doubt. The man's gestures show him fully armed; and he is stark mad. During the interim, Mr. Monsel will hold a parley with the boy. He finds, however, that a few smooth words will not subdue him. One of the officials has a rope in his hand, with which he would make a lasso, and, throwing it over his head, secure him an easy captive. Mr. Monsel will not hear of such a cowardly process. He is a wiry man, with stunted features, and has become enured to the perils of negro catching. Hand to hand he has had many an encounter with the brutes, and always came off victor; never did he fail to serve the interests of the state, nor to protect the property of his client. With a sort of bravado he makes another advance. The city esteems him for the valuable services he has rendered its safety; why should he shrink in this emergency?
Our southern readers, in a certain state, will readily recognise the scene we here describe. The chained man, drawing his shining steel from his bosom, says, "You take me not from here, alive." Mr. Monsel's face becomes pale, while Nicholas's flashes angry scowls; an irresistible nervousness seizes him,—for a moment he hesitates, turns half round to see if his companions stand firm. They are close behind, ready for the spring, like sharp-eyed catamounts; while around the door anxious visitors crowd their curious faces. The officers second in command file off to the right and left, draw their revolvers, and present them in the attitude of firing. "Use that knife, and you fall!" exclaims one, with a fearful imprecation. At the next moment he fires, as Monsel rushes upon the chained man, followed by half a dozen officials. An agonising shriek is heard, and Monsel, in guttural accents, mutters, "I am a murdered man-he has murdered me! Oh, my God,—he has murdered me!" Nicholas has plunged the knife into the fleshy part of Monsel's right arm; and while the bloody weapon, wrested from his hand, lies on the floor, an official drags the wounded man from his grasp. As some rise, others fall upon him like infuriated animals, and but for the timely presence of Grabguy and Graspum would have despatched him like a bullock chained to a stake. The presence of these important personages produces a cessation of hostilities; but the victim, disarmed, lies prostrate on the ground, a writhing and distorted body, tortured beyond his strength of endurance. A circle where the struggle ensued is wet with blood, in which Nicholas bathes his poor writhing body until it becomes one crimson mass.
All attention is now directed to the wounded man, who, it is found, although he has bled freely of good red blood, is neither fatally nor seriously wounded. It is merely a flesh wound in the arm, such as young gentlemen of the south frequently inflict upon each other for the purpose of sustaining their character for bravery. But the oppressed slave has raised his hand against a white man,—he must pay the penalty with his life; he no longer can live to keep peaceful citizens in fear and trembling. Prostrate on the floor, the victors gather round him again, as Graspum stoops down and unlocks the shackle from his leg. "It's the Ingin, you see: the very devil wouldn't subdue it, and when once its revenge breaks out you might just as well try to govern a sweeping tornado," Graspum remarks, coolly, as he calls a negro attendant, and orders the body to be drawn from out the puddle of disfiguring gore. Languidly that poor bosom heaves, his eyes half close, and his motionless lips pale as death.
"Had I know'd it when I bargained for him, he would never have pested me in this way, never! But he looked so likely, and had such a quick insight of things,—Ingin's Ingin, though!" says Grabguy.
"The very look might have told you that, my dear fellow; I sold him to you with your eyes open, and, of course, expected you to be the judge," interrupts Graspum, his countenance assuming great commercial seriousness.
Mr. Grabguy politely says, he meant no insinuations. "Come, Nicholas! I told you this would be the end on't," he continues, stooping down and taking him by the shoulders, with an air of commiseration.
The bruised body, as if suddenly inspired with new life, raises itself half up, and with eyes opening, gazes vacantly at those around, at its own hands besmeared with gore; then, with a curl of contempt on his lip, at the shackle just released from his limb-"Ah, well, it's ended here; this is the last of me, no doubt," he murmurs, and makes another attempt to rise.
"Don't move from where you are!" commands an official, setting his hand firmly against his right shoulder, and pressing him back. He has got the infective crimson on his hands, chafes them one against the other, perpendicularly, as Nicholas looks at him doubtingly. "It's all over—I'll not harm you; take me to a slaughter-house if you will,—I care not," he says, still keeping his eye on the official.
Grabguy, somewhat moved at the sight, would confirm his harmlessness. "You'll give up now, won't you?" he enquires, and before Nicholas has time to answer, turns to the official, saying, "Yes, I know'd he would!"
The official bows his head significantly, but begs to inform Mr. Grabguy, that the negro, having violated the most sacred law of the state, is no longer under his care. He is a prisoner, and must, as the law directs, answer for the heinous crime just committed. Mr. Grabguy, if he please, may forward his demand to the state department, and by yielding all claim to his criminal property, receive its award-two hundred round dollars, or thereabouts.
"Stand back, gentlemen-stand back, I say!" commands the officer, as the crowd from the outside come pressing in, the news of the struggle having circulated through the city with lightning speed. Rumour, ever ready to spread its fears in a slave state, reported an insurrection, and many were they who armed themselves to the very teeth.
The officer, in answer to a question why he does not take the man away, says he has sent for means to secure him. He had scarcely given out the acceptable information, when an official, followed by a negro man, bearing cords over his right arm, makes his appearance. The oppressed man seems subdued, and as they make the first knot with the cord they wind about his neck, he says, sarcastically, "'Twouldn't be much to hang a slave! Now round my hands. Now, with a half hitch, take my legs!" thus mocking, as it were, while they twist the cords about his yielding limbs. Now they draw his head to his knees, and his hands to his feet, forming a curve of his disabled body. "How I bend to your strong ropes, your strong laws, and your still stronger wills! You make good slip-nooses, and better bows of human bodies," he says, mildly, shaking his head contemptuously. The official, with a brutal kick, reminds him that there will be no joking when he swings by the neck, which he certainly will, to the great delight of many.
"I welcome the reality,—by heaven I do, for only in heaven is there justice for me!" With these words falling from his lips, four negro men seize the body, bear it to the door: an excited crowd having assembled, place it upon a common dray, amid shouts and furious imprecations of "D—him, kill him at once!" Soon the dray rolls speedily away for the county prison, followed by the crowd, who utter a medley of yells and groans, as it disappears within the great gates, bearing its captive to a cell of torture.