Here and there the great purple swallows boldly cleft the air, or, poised on wing by the entrance of their gourd-sh.e.l.l dwellings, uttered their cheerful "tweet--tweet--tweet;" while the fragrant odour of the China-trees and magnolias scented the atmosphere to a long distance around.
When nearer still, I could distinguish the hum of human voices--of men, women, and children--in that peculiar tone which characterises the voice of the African. I fancied the little community as I had before seen it--the men and women engaged in various occupations--some resting from their labour, (for it was now after field hours,) seated in front of their tent-like cabins, under the shade-tree, or standing in little groups gaily chatting with each other--some by the door mending their fishing-nets and tackle, by which they intended to capture the great "cat" and "buffalo fish" of the bayous--some "chopping" firewood at the common "wood-pile," which half-grown urchins were "toating," to the cabins, so that "aunty" might prepare the evening-meal.
I was musing on the patriarchal character of such a picture, half-inclined towards the "one-man power"--if not in the shape of a slaveholder, yet something after the style of Rapp and his "social economists."
"What a saving of state machinery," soliloquised I, "in this patriarchal form! How charmingly simple! and yet how complete and efficient!"
Just so, but I had overlooked one thing, and that was the imperfectness of human nature--the possibility--the probability--nay, the almost certainty, that the _patriarch_ will pa.s.s into the _tyrant_.
Hark! a voice louder than common! It is a cry!
Of cheerful import? No--on the contrary, it sounds like the utterance of some one in pain. It is a cry of agony! The murmur of other voices, too, heard at short intervals, carries to my ear that deep portentous sound which accompanies some unnatural occurrence.
Again I hear the cry of agony--deeper and louder than before! It comes from the direction of the negro quarter. What is causing it?
I gave the spur to my horse, and galloped in the direction of the cabins.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.
THE DEVIL"S DOUCHE.
In a few seconds I entered the wide avenue between the cabins, and drawing bridle, sat glancing around me.
My patriarchal dreams vanished at the sight that met my eyes. Before me was a scene of tyranny, of torture--a scene from the tragedy of slave-life!
At the upper end of the quarter, and on one side of the overseer"s house, was an enclosure. It was the enclosure of the sugar-mill--a large building which stood a little further back. Inside the fence was a tall pump, rising full ten feet in height, with the spout near its top. The purpose of this pump was to yield a stream of water, which was conducted to the sugar-house by means of a slender trough, that served as an aqueduct.
A platform was raised a few feet above the ground, so as to enable the person working the pump to reach its handle.
To this spot my attention was directed by seeing that the negroes of the quarter were grouped around it, while the women and children, clinging along the fence, had their eyes bent in the same direction.
The faces of all--men, women, and children--wore an ominous and gloomy expression; and the att.i.tudes in which they stood betokened terror and alarm. Murmurs I could hear--now and then e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns--and sobs that bespoke sympathy with some one who suffered. I saw scowling brows, as if knit by thoughts of vengeance. But these last were few--the more general expression was one of terror and submission.
It was not difficult to tell that the cry I had heard proceeded from the neighbourhood of the pump, and a glance unfolded the cause. Some poor slave was undergoing punishment!
A group of negroes hid the unfortunate from my view, but over their heads I could see the slave Gabriel, his body naked to the breech, mounted upon the platform and working the pump with all his might.
This Gabriel was a Bambarra negro, of huge size and strength, branded on both shoulders with the _fleur-de-lis_. He was a man of fierce aspect, and, as I had heard, of fierce and brutal habit--feared not only by the other negroes, but by the whites with whom he came in contact. It was not he that was undergoing punishment. On the contrary, he was the instrument of torture.
And torture it was--I knew the punishment well.
The trough or aqueduct had been removed; and the victim was placed at the bottom of the pump, directly under the spout. He was fast bound in a species of stocks; and in such a position that he could not move his head, which _received the continuous jet in the very centre of the crown_!
Torture? No doubt, you are incredulous? You fancy there can be no great torture in that. A simple shock--a shower-bath--nothing more!
You are right. For the first half-minute or so it is but a shock, a shower-bath, but then--
Believe me when I declare to you--that a stream of molten lead--an axe continually crashing through the skull--would not be more painful than the falling of this cold-water jet! It is torture beyond endurance-- agony indescribable. Well may it be called the "devil"s douche."
Again the agonised cry came from the pump, almost curdling my blood.
As I have said, I could not see the sufferer at first. A row of bodies was interposed between him and me. The negroes, however, seeing me ride up, eagerly opened their ranks and fell back a pace, as if desiring I should be a witness to what was going forward. They all knew me, and all had some impression that I _sympathised_ with their unfortunate race.
This opening gave me a full view of the horrid spectacle, disclosing a group that made me start in the saddle. Under the torture was the victim--a man of sable hue. Close by him, a large mulatto woman and a young girl of the same complexion--mother and daughter--stood folded in each other"s arms, both weeping bitterly. I could hear their sobs and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns, even at the distance of a score of yards, and above the plashing sound of the falling water. I recognised at a glance who these were--they were the little Chloe and her mother!
Quick as lightning my eyes were directed towards the sufferer. The water, as it bounded from his crown, spread into a gla.s.sy sheet, that completely concealed his head, but the huge, fin-like, projecting ears told me who was the victim. It was Scipio!
Again his cry of agony pealed upon my ears, deep and prolonged, as though it issued from the innermost recesses of his soul!
I did not wait till that cry was ended. A fence of six rails separated me from the sufferer; but what of that? I did not hesitate a moment, but winding my horse round to give him the run, I headed him at the leap, and with a touch of the spur lifted him into the inclosure. I did not even stay to dismount, but galloping up to the platform, laid my whip across the naked shoulders of the Bambarra with all the force that lay in my arm. The astonished savage dropped the pump-handle as if it had been iron at a white heat; and leaping from the platform, ran off howling to his cabin!
Exclamations and loud murmurings of applause followed; but my horse, brought so suddenly to this exciting work, snorted and plunged, and it was some time before I could quiet him. While thus engaged, I observed that the exclamations were suddenly discontinued; and the murmurs of applause were succeeded by a dead, ominous silence! I could hear several of the negroes nearest me muttering some words of caution, as though meant for me; among others the cry of--
"De oberseer! de oberseer! Look out, ma.s.s"r! Dar he k.u.m!"
At that moment an abominable oath, uttered in a loud voice, reached my ears. I looked in the direction whence it came. As I antic.i.p.ated, it was the overseer.
He was just issuing from the back-door of his house, from a window of which he had been all the while a spectator of Scipio"s torture!
I had not come in contact with this person before; and I now saw approaching a man of fierce and brutal aspect, somewhat flashily dressed, and carrying in his hand a thick waggon-whip. I could see that his face was livid with rage, and that he was directing himself to attack me. I had no weapon but my riding-whip, and with this I prepared to receive his a.s.sault.
He came on at a run, all the while venting the most diabolical curses.
When he had got nearly up to my horse"s head, he stopped a moment, and thundered out--
"Who the h.e.l.l are you, meddling with my affairs? Who the d.a.m.n are--"
He suddenly paused in his speech, and stood staring in astonishment. I reciprocated that astonishment, for I had now recognised in the brutal overseer my antagonist of the boat! the hero of the bowie-knife! At the same instant he recognised me.
The pause which was the result of our mutual surprise, lasted but a moment.
"h.e.l.l and furies!" cried the ruffian, changing his former tone only into one more horribly furious--
"It"s _you_, is it? Whip be d.a.m.ned! I"ve something else for _you_."
And as he said this he drew a pistol from his coat, and hastily c.o.c.king it, aimed it at my breast.
I was still on horseback and in motion, else he would no doubt have delivered his fire at once; but my horse reared up at the gleam of the pistol, and his body was thus interposed between mine and its muzzle.
As I have said, I had no weapon but the whip. Fortunately it was a stout hunting-whip, with loaded b.u.t.t. I hastily turned it in my hand, and just as the hoofs of my horse came back to the earth, I drove the spur so deeply into his ribs that he sprang forward more than his own length. This placed me in the very spot I wanted to be--alongside my ruffian antagonist, who, taken aback by my sudden change of position, hesitated a moment before taking fresh aim. Before he could pull trigger, the b.u.t.t of my whip descended upon his skull, and doubled him up in the dust! His pistol went off as he fell, and the bullet ploughed up the ground between my horse"s hoofs, but fortunately hit no one. The weapon itself new out of his hand, and lay beside him where he had fallen.
It was a mere lucky hit--all owing to the spur being touched, and my horse having sprung forward in good time. Had I missed the blow, I should not likely have had a second chance. The pistol was double-barrelled, and on examination I found he carried another of a similar kind.
He was now lying as still as if asleep, and I began to fear I had killed him. This would have been a serious matter. Although perfectly justifiable in me to have done so, who was to show that? The evidence of those around me--the whole of them together--was not worth the a.s.severation of one white man; and under the circ.u.mstances not worth a straw. Indeed, considering what had immediately led to the rencontre, such testimony would have been more likely to _damage_ my case than otherwise! I felt myself in an awkward situation.
I now dismounted, and approached the prostrate form, around which the blacks were congregating. They made way for me.