"In a short time, Bob, you shall be free to go where you please, on the plantation or off it. But remember, Bob, you are old-you have grown grey in faithfulness,--the good southerner is the true friend of the negro! I mean he is the true friend of the negro, because he has a.s.sociated with him from childhood, a.s.similated with his feelings, made his nature a study. He welcomes him without reserve, approaches him without that sensitiveness and prejudice which the northerner too often manifests towards him. You shall be free, Bob!
you shall be free!-free to go where you please; but you must remain among southerners, southerners are your friends."
"Yes, mas"r, "im all just so good, if t"warn"t dat I so old. Free n.i.g.g.e.r, when "e old, don"t gwane to get along much. Old Bob tink on dat mighty much, he do dat! Lef Bob free win "e young, den "e get tru" de world like Buckra, only lef "im de chance what Buckra hab.
Freedom ain"t wof much ven old Bob worn out, mas"r; and Buckra what sell n.i.g.g.e.r,--what make "e trade on him, run "im off sartin. He sell old n.i.g.g.e.r what got five dollar wof" a work in "e old bones. Mas"r set "um free, bad Buckra catch "um, old Bob get used up afo" he know nofin," quaintly replied the old man, seeming to have an instinctive knowledge of the "n.i.g.g.e.r trade," but with so much attachment for his master that he could not be induced to accept his freedom.
"It"s not the leaving me, Bob; you may be taken from me. You are worth but little, "tis true, and yet you may be sold from me to a bad master. If the slave-dealers run you off, you can let me know, and I will prosecute them," returned Marston.
"Ah! mas"r; dat"s just whar de blunt is-in de unsartainty! How I gwane to let mas"r know, when mas"r no larn n.i.g.g.e.r to read," he quickly responded. There is something in his simple remark that Marston has never before condescended to contemplate,--something the simple nature of the negro has just disclosed; it lies deeply rooted at the foundation of all the wrongs of slavery. Education would be valuable to the negro, especially in his old age; it would soften his impulses rather than impair his attachment, unless the master be a tyrant fearing the results of his own oppression. Marston, a good master, had deprived the old man of the means of protecting himself against the avarice of those who would s.n.a.t.c.h him from freedom, and while his flesh and blood contained dollars and cents, sell him into slavery. Freedom, under the best circ.u.mstances, could do him little good in his old age; and yet, a knowledge of the wrong rankled deep in Marston"s feelings: he could relieve it only by giving Daddy Bob and Harry their freedom if they would accept it.
Relinquishing Daddy"s hand, he commanded him to go and bring him Annette and Nicholas. "Bring them," he says, "without the knowledge of their mothers." Bob withdrew, hastened to the cabins in the yard to fulfil the mission. Poor things, thought Marston; they are mine, how can I disown them? Ah, there"s the point to conquer-I cannot! It is like the mad torrents of h.e.l.l, stretched out before me to consume my very soul, to bid me defiance. Misfortune is truly a great purifier, a great regenerator of our moral being; but how can I make the wrong right?-how can I live to hope for something beyond the caprice of this alluring world? My frailties have stamped their future with shame.
Thus he mused as the children came scampering into the room.
Annette, her flaxen curls dangling about her neck, looking as tidy and bright as the skill of Clotilda could make her, runs to Marston, throws herself on his knee, fondles about his bosom, kisses his hand again and again. She loves him,--she knows no other father. Nicholas, more shy, moves slowly behind a chair, his fingers in his mouth the while. Looking through its rounds wistfully, he shakes his head enviously, moves the chair backwards and forwards, and is too bashful to approach Annette"s position.
Marston has taken Annette in his arms, he caresses her; she twirls her tiny fingers through his whiskers, as if to play with him in the toying recognition of a father. He is deeply immersed in thought, smooths her hair, walks to the gla.s.s with her in his arms, holds her before it as if to detect his own features in the countenance of the child. Resuming his seat, he sets her on one knee, calls Nicholas to him, takes him on the other, and fondles them with an air of kindness it had never before been their good fortune to receive at his hands. He looked upon them again, and again caressed them, parted their hair with his fingers. And as Annette would open her eyes and gaze in his, with an air of sweetest acknowledgment, his thoughts seemed contending with something fearful. He was in trouble; he saw the enemy brooding over the future; he heaved a sigh, a convulsive motion followed, a tear stealing down his cheek told the tale of his reflections.
"Now, Daddy;" he speaks, directing himself to old Bob, who stands at the door surprised at Marston"s singular movements, "you are my confidant, what do you think the world-I mean the people about the district, about the city-would say if they knew these were mine? You know, Bob,--you must tell me straight out, do they look like me?-have they features like mine?" he inquires with rapid utterance.
"Mas"r, Bob don" like to say all he feels," meekly muttered the old man.
"There is the spot on which we lay the most unholy blot; and yet, it recoils upon us when we least think. Unfortunate wretches bear them unto us; yet we dare not make them our own; we blast their lives for selfish ends, yield them to others, shield ourselves by a misnomer called right! We sell the most interesting beings for a price,--beings that should be nearest and dearest to our hearts."
The old slave"s eyes glistened with excitement; he looked on astonished, as if some extraordinary scene had surprised him. As his agitation subsided, he continued, "Mas"r, I bin watch "im dis long time. Reckon how n.o.body wouldn"t take "em fo"h n.o.body else"s-fo"h true! Dar ain"t no spozin" bout "em, "e so right smart twarn"t no use to guise "em: da"h just like old Boss. Mas"r, n.i.g.g.e.r watch dem tings mighty close; more close den Buckra, cos" Buckra tink "e all right when n.i.g.g.e.r tink "e all wrong."
Marston is not quite content with this: he must needs put another question to the old man. "You are sure there can be no mistaking them for mine?" he rejoins, fixing his eyes upon the children with an almost death-like stare, as Daddy leads them out of the room. The door closes after them, he paces the room for a time, seats himself in his chair again, and is soon absorbed in contemplation. "I must do something for them-I must s.n.a.t.c.h them from the jaws of danger.
They are full of interest-they are mine; there is not a drop of negro blood in their veins, and yet the world asks who are their mothers, what is their history? Ah! yes; in that history lies the canker that has eaten out the living springs of many lives. It is that which cuts deepest. Had I known myself, done what I might have done before it was too late, kindness would have its rewards; but I am fettered, and the more I move the worse for them. Custom has laid the foundation of wrong, the law protects it, and a free government tolerates a law that shields iniquities blackening earth." In this train of thought his mind wandered. He would send the children into a free state, there to be educated; that they may live in the enjoyment of those rights with which nature had blest them. The obstacles of the law again stared him in the face; the wrong by which they were first enslaved, now forgotten, had brought its climax.
Suddenly arousing from his reverie, he started to his feet, and walking across the floor, exclaimed in an audible voice, "I will surmount all difficulties,--I will recognise them as my children; I will send them where they may become ornaments of society, instead of living in shame and licentiousness. This is my resolve, and I will carry it out, or die!"
CHAPTER VIII.
A CLOUD OF MISFORTUNE HANGS OVER THE PLANTATION.
THE doc.u.ment Marston signed for Lorenzo-to release him from the difficulties into which he had been drawn by Graspum-guaranteed the holder against all loss. This, in the absence of Lorenzo, and under such stranger circ.u.mstances, implied an amount which might be increased according to the will of the man into whose hands he had so unfortunately fallen.
Nearly twelve months had now elapsed since the disclosure of the crime. Maxwell, our young Englishman, had spent the time among the neighbouring plantations; and failing to enlist more than friendly considerations from Franconia, resolved to return to Bermuda and join his family. He had, however, taken a deep interest in Clotilda and Annette,--had gone to their apartment un.o.bserved, and in secret interviews listened to Clotilda"s tale of trouble. Its recital enlisted his sympathies; and being of an ardent and impressible temper, he determined to carry out a design for her relief. He realised her silent suffering,--saw how her degraded condition wrangled with her n.o.ble feelings,--how the true character of a woman loathed at being the slave of one who claimed her as his property.
And this, too, without the hope of redeeming herself, except by some desperate effort. And, too, he saw but little difference between the blood of Franconia and the blood of Clotilda; the same outline of person was there,--her delicate countenance, finely moulded bust, smoothly converging shoulders. There was the same Grecian cast of face, the same soft, reflective eyes,--filling a smile with sweetness, and again with deep-felt sorrow. The same sensitive nature, ready to yield forth love and tenderness, or to press onward the more impa.s.sioned affections, was visible in both. And yet, what art had done for Franconia nature had replenished for Clotilda. But, the servile hand was upon her, she crouched beneath its grasp; it branded her life, and that of her child, with ignominy and death.
During these interviews he would watch her emotions as she looked upon her child; when she would clasp it to her bosom, weeping, until from the slightest emotion her feelings would become frantic with anguish.
"And you, my child, a mother"s hope when all other pleasures are gone! Are you some day to be torn from me, and, like myself, sent to writhe under the coa.r.s.e hand of a slave-dealer, to be stung with shame enforced while asking G.o.d"s forgiveness? Sometimes I think it cannot be so; I think it must all be a dream. But it is so, and we might as well submit, say as little of the hardship as possible, and think it"s all as they tell us-according to G.o.d"s will," she would say, pressing the child closer and closer to her bosom, the agitation of her feelings rising into convulsions as the tears coursed down her cheeks. Then she would roll her soft eyes upwards, her countenance filling with despair. The preservation of her child was pictured in the depth of her imploring look. For a time her emotions would recede into quiet,--she would smile placidly upon Annette, forget the realities that had just swept her mind into such a train of trouble.
One night, as Maxwell entered her apartment, he found her kneeling at her bed-side, supplicating in prayer. The word, "Oh, G.o.d; not me, but my child-guide her through the perils that are before her, and receive her into heaven at last," fell upon his ear. He paused, gazed upon her as if some angel spirit had touched the tenderest chord of his feelings-listened unmoved. A lovely woman, an affectionate mother, the offspring of a n.o.ble race,--herself forced by relentless injustice to become an instrument of licentiousness-stood before him in all that can make woman an ornament to her s.e.x. What to Ellen Juvarna seemed the happiness of her lot, was pain and remorse to Clotilda; and when she arose there was a nervousness, a shrinking in her manner, betokening apprehension. "It is not now; it is hereafter. And yet there is no glimmer of hope!" she whispers, as she seats herself in a chair, pulls the little curtain around the bed, and prepares to retire.
The scene so worked upon Maxwell"s feelings that he could withstand the effect no longer; he approached her, held out his hand, greeted her with a smile: "Clotilda, I am your friend," he whispers, "come, sit down and tell me what troubles you!"
"If what I say be told in confidence?" she replied, as if questioning his advance.
"You may trust me with any secret; I am ready to serve you, if it be with my life!"
Clasping her arms round her child, again she wept in silence. The moment was propitious--the summer sun had just set beneath dark foliage in the west, its refulgent curtains now fading into mellow tints; night was closing rapidly over the scene, the serene moon shone softly through the arbour into the little window at her bedside. Again she took him by the hand, invited him to sit down at her side, and, looking imploringly in his face, continued,--"If you are a friend, you can be a friend in confidence, in purpose. I am a slave! yes, a slave; there is much in the word, more than most men are disposed to a.n.a.lyse. It may seem simple to you, but follow it to its degraded depths-follow it to where it sows the seeds of sorrow, and there you will find it spreading poison and death, uprooting all that is good in nature. Worse than that, my child is a slave too. It is that which makes the wrong more cruel, that mantles the polished vice, that holds us in that fearful grasp by which we dare not seek our rights.
"My mother, ah! yes, my mother"-Clotilda shakes her head in sorrow.
"How strange that, by her misfortune, all, all, is misfortune for ever! from one generation to another, sinking each life down, down, down, into misery and woe. How oft she clasped my hand and whispered in my ear: "If we could but have our rights." And she, my mother,--as by that sacred name I called her-was fair; fairer than those who held her for a hideous purpose, made her existence loathsome to herself, who knew the right but forced the wrong. She once had rights, but was stripped of them; and once in slavery who can ask that right be done?"
"What rights have you beyond these?" he interrupted, suddenly.
"There is mystery in what you have said, in what I have seen; something I want to solve. The same ardent devotion, tenderness, affection,--the same touching chasteness, that characterises Franconia, a.s.similates in you. You are a slave, a menial-she is courted and caressed by persons of rank and station. Heavens! here is the curse confounding the flesh and blood of those in high places, making slaves of their own kinsmen, crushing out the spirit of life, rearing up those broken flowers whose heads droop with shame. And you want your freedom?"
"For my child first," she replied, quickly: "I rest my hopes of her in the future."
Maxwell hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating some plan for her escape, ran his fingers through his hair again and again, then rested his forehead in his hand, as the perspiration stood in heavy drops upon it. "My child!" There was something inexpressibly touching in the words of a mother ready to sacrifice her own happiness for the freedom of her child. And yet an awful responsibility hung over him; should he attempt to gain their freedom, and fail in carrying out the project, notwithstanding he was in a free country, the act might cost him his life. But there was the mother, her pride beaming forth in every action, a wounded spirit stung with the knowledge of being a slave, the remorse of her suffering soul-the vicissitudes of that sin thus forced upon her.
The temptation became irresistible.
"You are English!"-northerners and Englishmen know what liberty is.
Negroes at the South have a very high opinion of Northern cleverness in devising means of procuring their liberty. The Author here uses the language employed by a slave girl who frequently implored aid to devise some plan by which she would be enabled to make her escape.
Northerners could do great things for us, if they would but know us as we are, study our feelings, cast aside selfish motives, and sustain our rights!" Clotilda now commenced giving Maxwell a history of her mother,--which, however, we must reserve for another chapter.
"And my mother gave me this!" she said, drawing from her pocket a paper written over in Greek characters, but so defaced as to be almost unintelligible. "Some day you will find a friend who will secure your freedom through that," she would say. "But freedom-that which is such a boon to us-is so much feared by others that you must mark that friend cautiously, know him well, and be sure he will not betray the liberty you attempt to gain." And she handed him the defaced paper, telling him to put it in his pocket.
"And where is your mother?"
"There would be a store of balm in that, if I did but know. Her beauty doomed her to a creature life, which, when she had worn out, she was sold, as I may be, G.o.d knows how soon. Though far away from me, she is my mother still, in all that recollection can make her; her countenance seems like a wreath decorating our past a.s.sociations. Shrink not when I tell it, for few shrink at such things now,--I saw her chained; I didn"t think much of it then, for I was too young. And she took me in her arms and kissed me, the tears rolled down her cheeks; and she said-"Clotilda, Clotilda, farewell!
There is a world beyond this, a G.o.d who knows our hearts, who records our sorrows;" and her image impressed me with feelings I cannot banish. To look back upon it seems like a rough pilgrimage; and then when I think of seeing her again my mind gets lost in hopeless expectations"--
"You saw her chained?" interrupted Maxwell.
"Yes, even chained with strong irons. It need not surprise you.
Slavery is a crime; and they chain the innocent lest the wrong should break forth upon themselves." And she raised her hands to her face, shook her head, and laid Annette in the little bed at the foot of her own.
What is it that in chaining a woman, whether she be black as ebony or white as snow, degrades all the traits of the southerner"s character, which he would have the world think n.o.ble? It is fear!
The monster which the southerner sees by day, tolerates in his silence, protects as part and parcel of a legal trade, only clothes him with the disgrace that menials who make themselves mere fiends are guilty of, Maxwell thought to himself.
"I will set you free, if it cost my life!" he exclaimed.
"Hush, hush!" rejoined Clotilda: "remember those wretches on the plantation. They, through their ignorance, have learned to wield the tyranny of petty power; they look upon us with suspicious eyes. They know we are negroes (white negroes, who are despicable in their eyes), and feeling that we are more favoured, their envy is excited.
They, with the hope of gaining favour, are first to disclose a secret. Save my child first, and then save me"--
"I will save you first; rest a.s.sured, I will save you;" he responded, shaking her hand, bidding her good night. On returning to the mansion he found Marston seated at the table in the drawing-room, in a meditative mood. Good night, my friend!" he accosted him.