Our World Or the Slaveholder's Daughter Part 19

Romescos rejoins, shrugging his shoulders, rubbing his little hawk's eyes, and looking seriously indifferent. Romescos gives wonderful evidence of his "first best cunning propensities;" and here he fancies he has p.r.o.nounced an opinion that will be taken as profound.

He affects heedlessness of everything, is quite disinterested, and, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, a.s.sumes an air of dignity that would not unbecome my Lord Chief Justice.

"Let us see them two bits of disputed property,--where are they?"

inquires Graspum, turning half round, and addressing himself to the gaoler.

"In the close cells," is the quick reply,--"through the narrow vault, up the stone pa.s.sage, and on the right, in the arched cell."

The gaoler-good, honest-hearted man-leads the way, through a chilly vault, up the narrow pa.s.sage, to the left wing of the building. The air is pestiferous; warm and diseased, it fans us as we approach.

The gaoler puts his face to the grating, and in a guttural voice, says, "You're wanted, young uns." They understand the summons; they come forward as if released from torture to enjoy the pure air of heaven. Confinement, dreary and damp, has worn deep into their systems.

Annette speaks feebly, looks pale and sickly. Her flaxen curls still dangle prettily upon her shoulders. She expected her mother; that mother has not come. The picture seems strange; she looks childishly and vacantly round,--at the dealers, at Graspum, at the sheriff, at the familiar faces of the old plantation people. She recognizes Harry, and would fain leap into his arms. Nicholas, less moved by what is going on around him, hangs reluctantly behind, holding by the skirt of Annette's frock. He has lost that vivacity and pertness so characteristic on the plantation. Happy picture of freedom's love! Happy picture of immortalised injustice! Happy picture of everything that is unhappy! How modest is the boast that we live to be free; and that in our virtuous freedom a child's mother has been sold for losing her mind: a faithful divine, strong with love for his fellow divines, is to be sold for his faith; the child-the daughter of the democrat-they say, will be sold from her democratic father. The death-stinging enemy Washington and Jefferson sought to slaughter-to lay ever dead at their feet, has risen to life again.

Annette's mother has fled to escape its poison. We must pause! we must not discourse thus in our day, when the sordid web of trade is being drawn over the land by King Cotton.

The children, like all such doubtful stock, are considered very fancy, very choice of their kind. It must be dressed in style to suit nice eyes at the shambles.

"Well! ye'r right interesting looking," says the sheriff--Messrs.

Graspum and Co. look upon them with great concern, now and then interrupting with some observations upon their pedigree,--taking them by the arms, and again rumpling their hair by rubbing his hands over their heads. "Fix it up, trim; we must put them up along with the rest to-day. It 'll make Marston--I pity the poor fellow--show his hand on the question of their freedom. Mr. sheriff, being sufficiently secured against harm, is quite indifferent about the latent phases of the suit. He remarks, with great legal logic--we mean legal slave logic--that Marston must object to the sale when the children are on the stand. It is very pretty kind a' property, very like Marston--will be as handsome as pictures when they grow up," he says, ordering it put back to be got ready.

"Why didn't my mother come?" the child whimpers, dewy tears decorating her eyes. "Why won't she come back and take me to the plantation again? I want her to come back; I've waited so long." As she turns to follow the gaoler--Nicholas still holds her by the skirt of her frock--her flaxen curls again wave to and fro upon her shoulders, adding beauty to her childlike simplicity. "You'll grow to be something, one of these days, won't ye, little dear?" says the gaoler, taking her by the hand. She replies in those silent and touching arguments of the soul; she raises her soft blue eyes, and heaven fills them with tears, which she lifts her tiny hands to wipe away.

Nicholas tremblingly-he cannot understand the strange movement-follows them through the vault; he looks up submissively, and with instinctive sympathy commences a loud blubbering. "You're going to be sold, little uns! but, don't roar about it; there's no use in that," says the gaoler, inclining to sympathy.

Nicholas does'nt comprehend it; he looks up to Annette, plaintively, and, forgetting his own tears, says, in a whisper, "Don't cry, Annette; they 'll let us go and see mother, and mother will be so kind to us-."

"It does seem a pity to sell ye, young 'uns; ye'r such nice 'uns,--have so much interestin' in yer little skins!" interrupts the gaoler, suddenly. The man of keys could unfold a strange history of misery, suffering, and death, if fear of popular opinion, ill.u.s.trated in popular liberty, did not seal his lips. He admits the present to be

We are narrating a scene related to us by the very gaoler we here describe, and as nearly as possible in his own language. rather an uncommon case, says it makes a body feel kind a' unhinged about the heart, which heart, however rocky at times, will have its own way when little children are sorrowing. "And then, to know their parents! that's what tells deeper on a body's feeling,--it makes a body look into the hereafter." The man of keys and shackles would be a father, if the law did but let him. There is a monster power over him, a power he dreads-it is the power of unbending democracy, moved alone by fretful painstakers of their own freedom.

"Poor little things! ye 'r most white, yes!-suddenly changing-just as white as white need be. Property's property, though, all over the world. What's sanctioned by the const.i.tution, and protected by the spirit and wisdom of Congress, must be right, and maintained," the gaoler concludes. His heart is at war with his head; but the head has the power, and he must protect the rights of an unrighteous system. They have arrived at a flight of steps, up which they ascend, and are soon lost in its windings. They are going to be dressed for the market.

The sheriff is in the yard, awaiting the preparation of the property. Even he-iron-hearted, they say-gives them a look of generous solicitude, as they pa.s.s out. He really feels there is a point, no less in the scale of slave dealing, beyond which there is something so repugnant that h.e.l.l itself might frown upon it. "It's a phase too hard, touches a body's conscience," he says, not observing Romescos at his elbow.

"Conscience!" interrupts Romescos, his eyes flashing like meteors of red fire, "the article don't belong to the philosophy of our business. Establish conscience-let us, gentlemen, give way to our feelins, and trade in n.i.g.g.e.r property 'd be deader than Chatham's statue, what was pulled through our streets by the neck. The great obstacle, however, is only this-it is profitable in its way!"

Romescos cautiously attempts to shield this, but it will not do.

The gaoler, protruding his head from a second-story window, like a mop in a rain storm, enquires if it is requisite to dress the children in their very best shine. It is evident he merely views them as two bales of merchandise.

The sheriff, angrily, says, "Yes! I told you that already. Make them look as bright as two new pins." His honour has been contemplating how they will be mere pins in the market,--pins to bolt the doors of justice, pins to play men into Congress, pins to play men out of Congress, pins to play a President into the White House.

An old negress, one of the plantation nurses, is called into service. She commences the process of preparing them for market.

They are nicely washed, dressed in clean clothes; they shine out as bright and white as anybody's children. Their heads look so sleek, their hair is so nicely combed, so nicely parted, so nicely curled.

The old slave loves them,--she loved their father. Her skill has been lavished upon them,--they look as choice and interesting as the human property of any democratic gentleman can be expected to do. Let us be patriotic, let us be law-loving, patient law-abiding citizens, loving that law of our free country which puts them under the man-vender's hammer,--say our peace-abiding neighbours.

The gaoler has not been long in getting Annette and Nicholas ready.

He brings them forward, so neatly and prettily dressed: he places them among the "gang." But they are disputed property: hence all that ingenuity which the system engenders for the advancement of dealers is brought into use to defeat the attempt to a.s.sert their freedom. Romescos declares it no difficult matter to do this: he has the deadly weapon in his possession; he can work (shuffle) the debt into Graspum's hands, and he can supply the proof to convict. By this very desirable arrangement the thing may be made nicely profitable.

No sooner has Aunt Rachel seen the children in their neat and familiar attire, than her feelings bound with joy,--she cannot longer restrain them. She has watched Marston's moral delinquencies with suspicion; but she loves the children none the less. And with honest negro nature she runs to them, clasps them to her bosom, fondles them, and kisses them like a fond mother. The happy a.s.sociations of the past, contrasted with their present unhappy condition, unbind the fountain of her solicitude,--she pours it upon them, warm and fervent. "Gwine t' sell ye, too! Mas'r, poor old Mas'r, would'nt sell ye, no how! that he don't. But poor old Boss hab 'e trouble now, G.o.d bless 'em," she says, again pressing Annette to her bosom, nearer and nearer, with fondest, simplest, holiest affection.

Looking intently in the child's face, she laughs with the bounding joy of her soul; then she smooths its hair with her brawny black hands: they contrast strangely with the pure carnatic of the child's cheek.

"Lor! good Lor, Mas'r Buckra," aunt Rachel exclaims, "if eber de Lor' smote 'e vengence on yeh, 't'll be fo' sellin' de likes o'

dese. Old Mas'r tinks much on 'em, fo' true. Gwine t' sell dem what Mas'r be so fond on? Hard tellin' what Buckra don't sell win i'

makes money on him. Neber mind, children; de Lor' aint so unsartin as white man. He,--da'h good Mas'r yonder in the clouds,--save ye yet; he'll make white man gin ye back when de day o' judgment come." Aunt Rachel has an instinctive knowledge of the errors, accidents, and delays which have brought about this sad event,--she becomes absorbed in their cares, as she loses sight of her own trouble.

All ready for the market, they are chained together in pairs, men and women, as if the wrongs they bore had made them untrustworthy.

Romescos, ever employed in his favourite trade, is busily engaged chaining up-a.s.sorting the pairs! One by one they quietly submit to the proceeding, until he reaches Harry. That minister-of-the-gospel piece of property thinks,--that is, is foolish enough to think,--his n.i.g.g.e.r religion a sufficient guarantee against any inert propensity to run away. "Now, good master, save my hands from irons, and my heart from pain. Trust me, let me go unbound; my old Master trust me wid 'is life-"

"Halloo!" says Romescos, quickly interrupting, and beginning to bristle with rage; "preach about old Master here you'll get the tinglers, I reckon. Put 'em on-not a grunt-or you'll get thirty more-yes, a collar on yer neck." Holding a heavy stick over the poor victim's head, for several minutes with one hand, he rubs the other, clenched, several times across his nose. Graspum interposes by reminding the minister that it is for his interest to be very careful how he makes any reply to white gentlemen.

"Why, ma.s.sa, I'ze the minister on de plantation. My old master wouldn't sell-wouldn't do so wid me. Master knows I love G.o.d, am honest and peaceable. Why chain the honest? why chain the peaceable?

why chain the innocent? They need no fetters, no poisoning shackles.

The guilty only fear the hand of retribution," says Harry, a curl of contempt on his lip. He takes a step backwards as Romescos holds the heavy irons before him.

"You don't come n.i.g.g.e.r preacher over this ar' child; 't'ant what's crack'd up to be. I larns n.i.g.g.e.rs to preach different tunes. Don't spoil prime stock for such nonsense-"

"Master Sheriff will stand answerable for me," interrupts Harry, turning to that honourable functionary, and claiming his protection.

That gentleman says it is rather out of his line to interfere.

"Not a preacher trick, I say again-Romescos evinces signs of increasing temper-ya' black theologin. Preachers can't put on such dignity when they'r property." Preachers of colour must be doubly humbled: they must be humble before G.o.d, humbled before King Cotton, humbled before the king dealer, who will sell them for their dollars' worth. Harry must do the bidding of his king master; his monkey tricks won't shine with such a philosopher as Romescos. The man of bones, blood, and flesh, can tell him to sell a n.i.g.g.e.r preacher to his brother of the ministry, and make it very profitable. He a.s.sures Harry, while holding the shackles in his hands, that he may put on just as much of the preacher as he can get, when he gets to the shambles, and hears the fives and tens bidding on his black hide.

Harry must submit; he does it with pain and reluctance. He is chained to his wife-a favour suggested by the sheriff-with whom he can walk the streets of a free country,--but they must be bound in freedom's iron fellowship. The iron shackle clasps his wrist; the lock ticks as Romescos turns the key: it vibrates to his very heart.

With a sigh he says, "Ours is a life of sorrow, streaming its dark way along a dangerous path. It will ebb into the bright and beautiful of heaven; that heaven wherein we put our trust-where our hopes are strengthened. O! come the day when we shall be borne to the realms of joy-joy celestial! There no unholy shade of birth-unholy only to man-shall doom us; the colour of our skin will not there be our misfortune-"

"What!" quickly interrupts Romescos, "what's that?" The property minister, thus circ.u.mstanced, must not show belligerent feelings.

Romescos simply, but very skilfully, draws his club; measures him an unamiable blow on the head, fells him to the ground. The poor wretch struggles a few moments, raises his manacled hands to his face as his wife falls weeping upon his shuddering body. She supplicates mercy at the hands of the ruffian-the ruffian torturer. "Quietly, mas'r; my man 'ill go wid me," says the woman, interposing her hand to prevent a second blow.

Harry opens his eyes imploringly, casts a look of pity upon the man standing over him. Romescos is in the att.i.tude of dealing him another blow. The wretch stays his hand. "Do with me as you please, master; you are over me. My hope will be my protector when your pleasure will have its reward."

A second thought has struck Romescos; the n.i.g.g.e.r isn't so bad, after all. "Well, reckon how n.o.body won't have no objection to ya'r thinking just as ya'v mind to; but ya' can't talk ya'r own way, nor ya' can't have ya'r own way with this child. A n.i.g.g.e.r what puts on parson airs-if it is a progressive age n.i.g.g.e.r-musn't put on fast notions to a white gentleman of my standing! If he does, we just take 'em out on him by the process of a small quant.i.ty of first- rate knockin down," says Romescos, amiably lending him a hand to get up. Graspum and the honourable sheriff are measuredly pacing up and down the yard, talking over affairs of state, and the singular purity of their own southern democracy-that democracy which will surely elect the next President. Stepping aside in one of his sallies, Graspum, in a half whisper, reminds Romescos that, now the n.i.g.g.e.r has shown symptoms of disobedience, he had better prove the safety of the shackles. "Right! right! all right!" the man of chains responds; he had forgot this very necessary piece of amus.e.m.e.nt. He places both hands upon the shackles; grasps them firmly; places his left foot against Harry's stomach; and then, uttering a fierce imprecation, makes his victim pull with might and main while he braces against him with full power. The victim, groaning under the pain, begs for mercy. Mercy was not made for him. Freedom and mercy, in this our land of greatness, have been betrayed.

Harry, made willing property, is now placed by the side of his wife, as four small children--the youngest not more than two years old--cling at the skirts of her gown. The children are scarcely old enough to chain; their strong affections for poor chained mother and father are quite enough to guarantee against their running away.

Romescos, in his ample kindness, will allow them to toddle their way to market. They are not dangerous property;--they have their feelings, and will go to market to be sold, without running away.

The gang is ready. The gaoler, nearly out of breath, congratulates himself upon the manner of dispatching business at his establishment. Romescos will put them through a few evolutions before marching in the street; so, placing himself at their right, and the gaoler at their left flank, they are made to march and counter-march several times round the yard. This done, the generous gaoler invites the gentlemen into his office: he has a good gla.s.s of whiskey waiting their superior tastes.

The ward gates are opened; the great gate is withdrawn; the property, linked in iron fellowship,--the gentlemen having taken their whiskey,--are all ready for the word, march! This significant admonition the sheriff gives, and the property sets off in solemn procession, like wanderers bound on a pilgrimage. Tramp, tramp, tramp, their footsteps fall in dull tones as they sally forth, in broken file, through the long aisles. Romescos is in high glee,--his feelings bound with exultation, he marches along, twirling a stick over his head. They are soon in the street, where he invites them to strike up a lively song--"Jim crack corn, and I don't care, fo'h Mas'r's gone away!" he shouts; and several strike up, the rest joining in the old plantation chorus--"Away! away! away! Mas'r's gone away." Thus, with jingling chorus and seemingly joyous hearts, they march down to the man-market. The two children, Annette and Nicholas, trail behind, in charge of the sheriff, whose better feelings seem to be troubling him very much. Every now and then, as they walk by his side, he casts a serious look at Annette, as if conscience, speaking in deep pulsations, said it wasn't just right to sell such an interesting little creature. Onward they marched, his head and heart warring the while. "There's something about it that does'nt seem to come just right in a fellow's feelins," keeps working itself in his mind, until at length he mutters the words. It is the natural will to do good, struggling against the privileges which a government gives ungovernable men to do wrong.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LET US FOLLOW POOR HUMAN NATURE TO THE MAN SHAMBLES.