CHAPTER XLI.HOPES AND FEARS.
“In the same brook none ever bathed him twice:To the same life none ever twice awoke.”Young.
“In the same brook none ever bathed him twice:To the same life none ever twice awoke.”Young.
“In the same brook none ever bathed him twice:To the same life none ever twice awoke.”Young.
“In the same brook none ever bathed him twice:
To the same life none ever twice awoke.”
Young.
Three days after his interview with the “remarkable man,” Ratcliff was at Montgomery, Ala. There he telegraphed to Semmes, and received these words in reply: “All safe. On your arrival, go first to my office for directions.” Ratcliff obeyed, and found a letter telling him not to go home, but to meet Semmes immediately at the house to which the latter had transferred the white slave. Half an hour did not elapse before lawyer and client sat in the curtained drawing-room of this house, discussing their affairs.
“I cannot believe,” said Ratcliff, “that Josephine intended to have the girl escape. She was the first to plan this marriage.”
“I did not act on light grounds of suspicion,” replied Semmes. “I had myself overheard remarks which convinced me that Madame was playing a double game. Either she or some one else has put it into the girl’s head that she is not lawfully a slave, but the kidnapped child of respectable parents.”
As he spoke these words Semmes looked narrowly at Ratcliff, who blenched as if at an unexpected thrust. Following up his advantage, Semmes continued: “And, by the way, there is one awkward circumstance which, if known, might make trouble. I see by examining the notary’s books, that, in the record of your proprietorship, you speak of the child as aquadroon. Now plainly she has no sign of African blood in her veins.”
Ratcliff gnawed his lips a moment, and then remarked: “The fact that the record speaks of the child as a quadroon does not amount to much. She may have been born of a quadroon mother, and may have been tanned while an infantso as to appear herself like a quadroon; and subsequently her skin may have turned fair. All that will be of little account. Half of the white slaves in the city would not be suspected of having African blood in their veins, but for the record. Who would think of disputing my claim to a slave,—one, too, that had been held by me for some fifteen years?”
Well might Ratcliff ask the question. It is true that the laws of Louisiana had some ameliorated features that seemed to throw a sort of protection round the slave; and one of these was the law preventing the separation of young children from their mothers under the hammer; and making ownership in slaves transferable, not by a mere bill of sale, like a bale of goods, but by deed formally recorded by a notary. But it is none the less true that such are the necessities of slavery that the law was often a dead letter. There was always large room for evasion and injustice; and the man who should look too curiously into transactions, involving simply the rights of the slave, would be pretty sure to have his usefulness cut short by being denounced as an Abolitionist.
The ignominious expulsion of Mr. Hoar who went to South Carolina, not to look after the rights of slaves, but of colored freemen, was a standing warning against any philanthropy that had in view the enforcement or testing of laws friendly to the blacks.
“I should not be surprised,” remarked Semmes, “if this young woman either has, or believes she has, some proofs invalidating your claim to hold her as a chattel.”
“Bah! I’ve no fear of that. Who, in the name of all the fairies, does the little woman imagine she is?”
“She cherishes the notion that she is the daughter of that same Henry Berwick who was lost in the Pontiac. Should that be so, the house you live in is hers. That would be odd, wouldn’t it? You seem surprised. Is there any probability in the tale?”
“None whatever!” exclaimed Ratcliff, affecting to laugh, but evidently preoccupied in mind, and intent on following out some vague reminiscence.
He remembered that the infant he had bought as a slave and taken into his barouche wore a chemise on which wereinitial letters marked in silk. He was struck at the time by the fineness of the work and of the fabric. He now tried to recall those initial letters. By their mnemonic association with a certain word, he had fixed them in his mind. He strove to recall that word. Suddenly he started up. The word had come back to him. It wascab. The initials were C. A. B. Semmes detected his emotion, and drew his own inferences accordingly.
“By the way,” said he, “having a little leisure last night, I looked back through an old file of the Bee newspaper, and there hit upon a letter from the pen of a passenger, written a few days after the explosion of the Pontiac.”
“Indeed! One would think, judging from the trouble you take about it, you attached some degree of credence to this fanciful story.”
“No. ’T is quite incredible. But a lawyer, you know, ought to be prepared on all points, however trivial, affecting his client’s interests.”
“Did you find anything to repay you for your search?”
“I will read you a passage from the letter; which letter, by the way, bears the initials A. L., undoubtedly, as I infer from the context, those of Arthur Laborie, whose authority no one in New Orleans will question. Here is the passage. The letter is in French. I will translate as I read:—
“‘Among the mortally wounded was a Mr. Berwick of New York, a gentleman of large wealth. They had pointed him out to me the day before, as, with a wife and infant child, the latter in the arms of a nurse, a colored woman, he stood on the hurricane-deck. The wife was killed, probably by the inhalation of steam. I saw and identified the body. The child, they said, was drowned; if so, the body was not recovered. A colored boy reported, that the day after the accident he had seen a white child and a mulatto woman, probably from the wreck, in the care of two white men; that the men told him the woman was crazy, and that the child belonged to a friend of theirs who had been drowned. I give this report, in the hope it may reach the eyes of some friend of the Berwicks, though it did not seem to make much impression on the officials who conducted the investigation. Probably they had good reason for dismissing the testimony; for Mr. Berwick died in the full belief that his wife and child had already passed away.’”
“‘Among the mortally wounded was a Mr. Berwick of New York, a gentleman of large wealth. They had pointed him out to me the day before, as, with a wife and infant child, the latter in the arms of a nurse, a colored woman, he stood on the hurricane-deck. The wife was killed, probably by the inhalation of steam. I saw and identified the body. The child, they said, was drowned; if so, the body was not recovered. A colored boy reported, that the day after the accident he had seen a white child and a mulatto woman, probably from the wreck, in the care of two white men; that the men told him the woman was crazy, and that the child belonged to a friend of theirs who had been drowned. I give this report, in the hope it may reach the eyes of some friend of the Berwicks, though it did not seem to make much impression on the officials who conducted the investigation. Probably they had good reason for dismissing the testimony; for Mr. Berwick died in the full belief that his wife and child had already passed away.’”
“I don’t see anything in all that,” said Ratcliff, impatiently.
“Perhaps not,” replied Semmes; “but an interested lawyer would see a good deal to set him thinking and inquiring. The letter, having been published in French, may not have met the eyes of any one to whom the information would have been suggestive.”
“Really, Semmes, you seem to be trying to make out a case.”
“The force of habit. ’T is second nature for a lawyer to revolve such questions. Many big cases are built on narrower foundations.”
“Psha! The incident might do very well in a romance, but ’t is not one of a kind known to actual life.”
“Pardon me. Incidents resembling it are not infrequent. There was the famous Burrows case, where a child stolen by Indians was recovered and identified in time to prevent the diversion of a large property. There was the case of Aubert, where a quadroon concubine managed to substitute her own child in the place of the legitimate heir. Indeed, I could mention quite a number of cases, not at all dissimilar, and some of them having much more of the quality of romance.”
“Damn it, Semmes, what are you driving at? Do you want to take a chance in that lottery?”
“Have I ever deserted a client? We must not shrink—we lawyers—from looking a case square in the face.”
“Nonsense! The art hownotto see is that which the prudent lawyer is most solicitous to learn. It is not by looking a case square in the face, but by looking only athisside of it, that he wins.”
“On the contrary, the man of nerve looks boldly at the danger, and fends off accordingly. Should you marry this young lady, it may be a very pleasant thing to know that she’s the true heir to a million.”
“Curse me, but I didn’t think of that!” cried Ratcliff, rubbing his hands, and then patting the lawyer on the shoulder. “Go on with your investigations, Semmes! Hunt up more information about the Pontiac. Go and see Laborie. Question Ripper, the auctioneer. I left him in Montgomery, but he will be at the St. Charles to-morrow. Find out who Quattles was;and who the Colonel was who acted as Quattles’s friend, but whose name I forget. ’T is barely possible theremayhave been some little irregularities practised; and if so, so much the better for me! What fat pickings for you, Semmes, if we could make it out that this little girl is the rightful heir! All this New Orleans property can be saved from Confederate confiscation. And then, as soon as the war is ended, we can go and establish her rights in New York.”
Semmes took a pinch of snuff, and replied: “You remember Mrs. Glass’s well-worn receipt for cooking a hare: ‘First, catch your hare.’ So I say, first make sure that the young girl will sayyesto your proposition.”
“What! do you entertain a doubt? A slave? One I could send to the auction-block to-morrow? Do you imagine she will decline an alliance with Carberry Ratcliff? Look you, Semmes! I’ve set my heart on this marriage more than I ever did on any other scheme in my whole life. The chance—for ’t is only a remote chance—that she is of gentle blood,-well-born, the rightful heir to a million,—this enhances the prize, and gives new piquancy to an acquisition already sufficiently tempting to my eyes. There must be no such word asfailin this business, Mr. Lawyer. You must help me to bring it to a prosperous conclusion instantly.”
“No: do not sayinstantly. Beware being precipitate. Remember what the poet says,—‘A woman’sNois but a crooked path unto a woman’sYes.’ Do not mind a first rebuff. Do not play the master. Be distant and respectful. Attempt no liberties. You will only shock and exasperate. By a gentle, insinuating course, you may win.”
“Maywin? Imustwin, Semmes! There must be noifabout it.”
“I want to see you win, Ratcliff; but show her you assume there’s noifin the case, and you repel and alienate her.”
“I don’t know that. Most women like a man the better for being truly, as well as nominally, the lord and master. The more imperious he is, the more readily and tenaciously they cling to him. I don’t believe in letting a woman suppose that she can seize the reins when she pleases.”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, then replied: “Thetyrant is hated by every person of sense, whether man or woman. I grant you there are many women who haven’t much sense. But this little lady of yours is the last in the world on whom you can safely try the experiment of compulsion. Take my word for it, the true course is to let her suppose she is free to act. You must rule her by not seeming to rule.”
“Well, let me see the girl, and I can judge better then as to the fit policy. I’ve encountered women before in my day. You don’t speak to a novice in woman-taming. I never met but one yet who ventured to hold out against me,—and she got the worst of it, I reckon.” And a grim smile passed over Ratcliff’s face as he thought of Estelle.
“You will find the young lady in the room corresponding with this, on the third story,” said the lawyer. “The door is locked, but the key is on the outside. Please consider that my supervision ends here. I leave the servants in the house subject to your command. The Sister Agatha in immediate attendance is a pious fool, who believes her charge is insane. She will obey you implicitly. Sam will attend to the marketing. My own affairs now claim my attention. I’ve suffered largely from their neglect during your absence. Be careful not to be seen coming in or going out of this house. I have used extreme precautions, and have thus far baffled those who would help the young woman to escape.”
“I shall not be less vigilant,” replied Ratcliff. “I accept the keys and the responsibility. Good by. I go to let the young woman know that her master has returned.”
Ratcliff seized his hat and passed out of the room up-stairs as fast as his somewhat pursy habit of body would allow.
“There goes a man who puts his hat on the head of a fool,” muttered the old lawyer. “Confound him! If he weren’t so deep in my books, I would leave him to his own destruction, and join the enemy. I’m not sure this wouldn’t be the best policy as it is.”
Thus venting his anger in soliloquy Mr. Semmes quitted the house, and walked in meditative mood to his office.
Ratcliff paused at the uppermost stair on the third story. From the room came the sound of a piano-forte, with a vocalaccompaniment. Clara was singing “While Thee I seek, protecting Power,”—a hymn which, though written by Helen Maria Williams when she thought herself a deist, is used by thousands of Christian congregations to interpret their highest mood of devout trust and pious resignation. As the clear, out-swelling notes fell on Ratcliff’s ears, he drew back as if a flaming sword had been waved menacingly before his face.
He walked down into the room below and waited till the music was over; then he boldly proceeded up-stairs again, knocked at the door, unlocked it, and entered. Clara looked round from turning the leaves of a music-book, rose, and bent upon her visitor a penetrating glance as if she would fathom the full depth of his intents. Ratcliff advanced and put out his hand. She did not take it, but courtesied and motioned him to a seat.
She was dressed in a flowing gauze-like robe of azure over white, appropriate to the warmth of the season. Her hair was combed back from her forehead and temples, showing the full symmetry of her head. Her lips, of a delicate coral, parted just enough to show the white perfection of her teeth. Rarely had she looked so dangerously beautiful. Ratcliff was swift to notice all these points.
Assuming that a compliment on her personal appearance could never come amiss to a woman, young or old, he said: “Upon my word, you are growing more beautiful every day, Miss Murray. I had thought there was no room for improvement. I find my mistake.”
Ratcliff looked narrowly to see if there were any expression of pleasure on her face, but it did not relax from its impenetrability.
“Will you not be seated?” he asked.
She sat down, and he followed her example. There was silence for a moment. The master felt almost embarrassed before the young girl he had so long regarded as a slave. Something like a genuine emotion began to stir in his heart as he said: “Miss Murray, you are well aware that I am the only person to whom you are entitled to look for protection and support. From an infant you have been under my charge, and I hope you will admit that I have not been ungenerous in providing for you.”
“One word, sir, at the outset, on that point,” interposed Clara. “All the expense you have been at for me shall be repaid and overpaid at once with interest. You are aware I have the means to reimburse you fully.”
“Excuse me, Miss Murray; without meaning to taunt you,—simply to set you right in your notions,—let me remark, that, being my slave, you can hold no property independent of me. All you have is legally mine.”
“How can that be, sir, when what I have is entirely out of your power; safely deposited in the vaults of Northern banks, where your claim not only is not recognized, but where you could not go to enforce it without being liable to be arrested as a traitor?”
A dark, savage expression flitted over Ratcliff’s face as he thought of the turn which his wife, aided by Winslow, had served him; but he checked the ire which was rising to his lips, and replied: “Let me beg you not to cherish an unprofitable delusion, my dear Miss Murray. When this war terminates, as it inevitably will, in the triumph of the South, one of the conditions of peace which we shall impose on the North will be, that all claims resulting out of slavery, either through the abduction of slaves or the transfer of property held as theirs, shall be settled by the fullest indemnification to masters. In that event your little property, which Mr. Winslow thinks he has hid safely away beyond my recovery, will be surely reached and returned to me, the lawful owner.”
“Well, sir,” replied Clara, forcing a calmness at which she herself was surprised, “supposing, what I do not regard as probable, that the South will have its own way in this war, and that my title to all property will be set aside as superseded by yours, let me inform you that I have a friend who will come to my aid, and make you the fullest compensation for all the expense you have been at on my account.”
“Indeed! Is there any objection to my knowing to what friend you allude?”
“None at all, sir. Madame Volney is that friend.”
“Well, we will not discuss that point now,” said Ratcliff, smiling incredulously as he thought how speedily a few blandishments from him would overcome any resolution which thelady referred to might form. “My plans for you, Miss Murray, are all honorable, and such as neither you nor the world can regard as other than generous. Consider what I might do if I were so disposed! I could put you up at auction to-morrow and sell you to some brute of a fellow who would degrade and misuse you. Instead of that, what do I propose? First let me speak a few words of myself. I am, it is true, considerably your senior, but not old, and not ill-looking, if I may believe my glass. My property, already large, will be enormous the moment the war is over. I have bought within the last six months, at prices almost nominal, over a thousand slaves, whose value will be increased twenty-fold with the return of peace. My position in the new Confederacy will be among the foremost. Already President Davis has assured me that whatever I may ask in the way of a new foreign mission I can have. Thus the lady who may link her fate with mine will be a welcome guest at all the courts of Europe. If she is beautiful, her beauty will be admired by princes, kings, and emperors. If she is intellectual, all the wits and great men of London and Paris will be ambitious to make her acquaintance. Now what do you think I propose for you?”
“Let me not disguise my knowledge,” replied Clara, looking him in the face till he dropped his eyelids. “You propose that I should be your wife.”
“Ah! Josephine has told you, then, has she? And what did you say to it?”
“I said I could never sayyesto such a proposition from a man who claimed me as a slave.”
“But what if I forego my claim, and give you free papers?”
“Try it,” said Clara, sternly.
“Can you then give me any encouragement?”
The idea was so hideous to her, and so strong her disinclination to deceive, or to allow him to deceive himself, that she could not restrain the outburst of a hearty and emphatic “No!”
Ratcliff’s eyes swam a moment with their old glitter that meant mischief; but the recollection of his lawyer’s warning restored him to good humor. He resolved to bear with her waywardness at that first interview, and to let her saynoas much as she pleased.
“You saynonow, but by and by you will sayyes,” he replied.
Clara had risen and was pacing the floor. Suddenly she stopped and said: “My desire is to disabuse you wholly of any expectation, even the most remote, that I can ever change my mind on this point. Under no conceivable circumstances could I depart from my determination.”
“Tell me one thing,” replied Ratcliff. “Do you speak thus because your affections are pre-engaged?”
“I do not,” said Clara; “and for that reason I can make my refusal all the more final and irrevocable; for it is not biased by passion. I beg you seriously to dismiss all expectation of ever being able to change my purpose; and I propose you should receive for my release such a sum as may be a complete compensation for what you have expended on me.”
Ratcliff had it in his heart to reply, “Slave! do your master’s bidding”; but he discreetly curbed his choler, and said, “Can you give me any good reason for your refusal?”
“Yes,” answered Clara, “the best of reasons: one which no gentleman would wish to contend against: my inclinations will not let me accept your proposal.”
“Inclinations may change,” suggested Ratcliff.
“In this case mine can only grow more and more adverse,” replied Clara.
Ratcliff found it difficult to restrain himself from assuming the tone that chimes so well with the snap of the plantation scourge; and so he resolved to withdraw from the field for the present. He rose and said: “As we grow better acquainted, my dear, I am persuaded your feelings will change. I have no wish to force your affections. That would be unchivalrous towards one I propose to place in the relation of awife.”
He laid a significant emphasis on this last word,wife; and Clara started as at some hideous object in her path. Was there, then, another relation in which he might seek to place her, if she persisted in her course? And then she recollected Estelle; and the flush of an angry disgust mounted to her brow. But she made no reply; and Ratcliff, with his hateful gaze devouring her beauties to the last, passed out of the room.
On the whole he felicitated himself on the interview. Hethought he had kept his temper remarkably well, and had not allowed this privileged beauty to irritate him beyond the prudent point. He believed she could not resist so much suavity and generosity on his part. She had confessed she was heart-free: surely that was in his favor. It was rather provoking to have a slave put on such airs; but then, by Jove, she was worth enduring a little humiliation for. Possibly, too, it might be high blood that told in her. Possibly she might be that last scion of the Berwick stock which an untoward fate had swept far from all signs of parentage.
These considerations, while they disposed Ratcliff to leniency in judging of her waywardness, did but aggravate the importunity of his desires for the proposed alliance. Although hitherto his tastes had led him to admire the coarser types of feminine beauty, there was that in the very difference of Clara from all other women with whom he had been intimate, which gave novelty and freshness and an absorbing fascination to his present pursuit. The possession of her now was the prime necessity of his nature. That prize hung uppermost. Even Confederate victories were secondary. Politics were forgotten. He did not ask to see the newspapers; he did not seek to go abroad to confer with his political associates, and tell them all that he had seen and heard at Richmond. Semmes’s caution in regard to the danger of his being tracked had something to do with keeping him in the house; but apart from this motive, the mere wish to be under the same roof with Clara, till he had secured her his beyond all hazard, would have been sufficient to keep him within doors.
Ratcliff went down into the dining-room. The table was set for one. He thought it time to inquire into the arrangements of the household. He rang the bell, and it was answered by a slim, delicate looking mulatto man, having on the white apron of a waiter.
“What’s your name, and whose boy are you?” asked Ratcliff.
“My name is Sam, sir, and I belong to lawyer Semmes,” replied the man, smoothing the table-cloth, and removing a pitcher from the sideboard.
“What directions did he leave for you?”
“He told me to stay and wait upon you, sir, just as I had upon him, till you saw fit to dismiss me.”
“What other servants are there in the house?”
“One colored woman, sir, and one, a negro; Manda the cook, and Agnes the chambermaid.”
“Any other persons?”
“Only the young woman that’s crazy, and the Sister of Charity that attends her. They are on the third floor.”
Ratcliff looked sharply at the mulatto, but could detect in his face no sign that he mistrusted the story of the insane woman.
“Send up the chambermaid,” said Ratcliff.
“Yes, sir. When will you have your dinner, sir?”
“In half an hour. Have you any wines in the house?”
“Yes, sir; Sherry, Madeira, Port, Burgundy, Hock, Champagne.”
“Put on Port and Champagne.”
Sam’s departure was followed by the chamber-maid’s appearance.
“Are my rooms all ready, Agnes?”
“Yes, massa. Front room, second story, all ready. Sheets fresh and aired. Floor swept dis mornin’. All clean an’ sweet, massa.”
There was something in the forward and assured air of this negro woman that was satisfactory to Ratcliff. Some little coquetries of dress suggested that she had a weakness through which she might be won to be his unquestioning ally in any designs he might adopt. He threw out a compliment on her good looks, and this time he found his compliment was not thrown away. He gave her money, telling her to buy a new dress with it, and promised her a silk shawl if she would be a good girl. To all of which she replied with simpers of delight.
“Now, Agnes,” said he, “tell me what you think of the little crazy lady up-stairs?”
“I’se of ’pinion, sar, dat gal am no more crazy nor I’m crazy.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, for I intend to make her my wife; and want you to help me all you can in bringing it about.”
“Shouldn’t tink massa would need no help, wid all his money. Wheugh! What’s de matter? Am she offish?”
“A little obstinate, that’s all. But she’ll come round in good time. Only you stand by me close, Agnes, and you shall have a hundred dollars the day I’m married.”
“I nebber ’fuse a good offer, massa. You may count on dis chile, sure!”
“Now go and send up dinner,” said Ratcliff, confident he had secured one confederate who would not stick at trifles.
The dinner was brought up hot and carefully served.
“Curse me but this does credit to old Semmes,” soliloquized Ratcliff, as course after course came on. “The wines, too, are not to be impeached. I wonder if his Burgundy is equal to his Champagne.”
Ratcliff pressed his foot on the brass mushroom under the table and rang the bell.
“A bottle of Burgundy, Sam.”
The mulatto brought on a bottle, and drew the cork gently and skilfully, so as not to shake the precious contents.
“Ah! this will do,” said Ratcliff; “it must be of the famous vintage of eighteen hundred and—confound the date! Sam, you sly nigger, try a glass of this.”
“Thank you, sir, I never drink.”
“Nigger, you lie! Hand me that goblet.”
Sam did as he was bid. Ratcliff filled the glass with the dark ruby liquid, and said, “Now toss it off, you rascal. Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”
Sam meekly obeyed, and put down the emptied goblet. Ratcliff skirmished feebly among the bottles a few minutes longer, then rose, and made his way unsteadily to the sofa.
“Sam, you solemn nigger, what’s o’clock?” said he.
“The clock is just striking ten, sir.”
“Possible? Have I been three—hiccup—hours at the table? Sam, see me up-stairs and put me to bed.”
Half an hour afterwards Ratcliff lay in the heavy, stertorous slumber which wine, more than fatigue, had engendered.
He was habitually a late sleeper. It wanted but a few minutes to eleven o’clock the next morning when Sam started to answer his bell. Ratcliff called for soda-water. Sam hadtaken the precaution to put a couple of bottles under his arm, foreseeing that it would be needed.
It took a full hour for Ratcliff to accomplish the duties of his toilet. Then he went down to breakfast. And still the one thought that pursued him was how best to extort compliance from that beautiful maiden up-stairs.
A brilliant idea occurred to him. He would go and exert his powers of fascination. Without importunately urging his suit, he would deal out his treasure of small-talk: he would read poetry to her; he would try all the most approved means of making love.
Again he knocked at her door. It was opened by Sister Agatha, who at a sign from him withdrew into the adjoining room. Clara was busy with her needle.
“Have you any objection to playing a tune for me?” he asked, with the timid air of a Corydon.
Clara seated herself at the piano and began playing Beethoven’s Sonatas, commencing with the first. Ratcliff was horribly bored. After he had listened for what seemed to him an intolerable period, he interrupted the performance by saying, “All that is very fine, but I fear it is fatiguing to you.”
“Not at all. I can go through the whole book without fatigue.”
“Don’t think of it! What have you here? ‘Willis’s Poems.’ Are you fond of poetry, Miss Murray?”
“Iamfond of poetry; but my name is not Murray.”
“Indeed! What may it then be?”
“My name is Berwick. I am no slave, though kidnapped and sold as such while an infant. You bought me. But you would not lend yourself to a fraud, would you? I must be free. You shall be paid with interest for all your outlays in my behalf. Is not that fair?”
“I am too much interested in your welfare, my dear young lady, to consent to giving you up. You will find it impossible to prove this fanciful story which some unfriendly person has put into your head. Even if it were true, you could never recover your rights. But it is all chimerical. Don’t indulge so illusory a hope. What I offer, on the other hand, is substantial, solid, certain. As my wife you would be lifted at once to a position second to that of no lady in the land.”
Clara inadvertently gave way to a shudder of dislike. Ratcliff noticed it, and rising, drew nearer to her and asked, “Have I ever given you any cause for aversion?”
“Yes,” she replied, starting up from the music-chair,—“the cause which the master must always give the slave.”
“But if I were to remove that objection, could you not like me?”
“Impossible!”
“Have I ever done anything to prevent it?”
“Yes, much.”
“Surely not toward you; and if not toward you, toward whom?”
“Toward Estelle!” said Clara, roused to an intrepid scorn, which carried her beyond the bounds at once of prudence and of fear.
Had Ratcliff seen Estelle rise bodily before him, he could not have been struck more to the heart with an emotion partaking at once of awe and of rage. The habitually florid hue of his cheeks faded to a pale purple. He swung his arms awkwardly, as if at a loss what to do with them. He paced the floor wildly, and finally gasping forth, “Young woman, you shall—you shall repent this,” left the room.
He did not make his appearance in Clara’s parlor again that day. It was already late in the afternoon. Dinner was nearly ready. The consideration that such serious excitement would be bad for his appetite gradually calmed him down; and by the time he was called to the table he had thrown off the effects of the shock which a single word had given him. The dinner was a repetition of that of the day before, varied by the production of new dishes and wines. Sam was evidently doing his best as a caterer. Again Ratcliff sat late, and again Sam saw him safe up-stairs and helped him to undress. And again the slave-lord slept late into the hours of the forenoon.
After breakfast on the third day of his return he paced the back piazza for some two hours, smoking cigars. He had no thought but for the one scheme before him. To be baffled in that was to lose all. Public affairs sank into insignificance. Sam handed him a newspaper, but without glancing at it he threw it over the balustrade into the area. “She’s but a waywardgirl, after all! I must be patient with her,” thought he, one moment. And the next his mood varied, and he muttered to himself: “A slave! Damnation! To be treated so by a slave,—one I could force to drudge instead of letting her play the lady!”
Suddenly he went up-stairs and paid her a third visit. His manner and speech were abrupt.
“I wish to deal with you gently and generously,” said he; “and I beseech you not to compel me to resort to harshness. You are legally my slave, whatever fancies you may entertain as to your origin or as to a flaw in my title. You can prove nothing, or if you could, it would avail you nothing, against the power which I can exert in this community. I tell you I could this very day, in the mere exercise of my legal rights, consign you to the ownership of those who would look upon your delicate nurture, your assured manners, and your airs of a lady, merely as so many baits enhancing the wages of your infamy; who would subject you to gross companionship with the brutal and the merciless; who would scourge you into compliance with any base uses to which they might choose to put you. Fair-faced slaves are forced to such things every day. Instead of surrendering yourself to liabilities like these, you have it in your power to take the honorable position of my wife,—a position where you could dispense good to others while having every luxury that heart could covet for yourself. Now decide, and decide quickly; for I can no longer endure this torturing suspense in which you have kept me. Will you accede to my wishes, or will you not?”
“I will not!” said Clara, in a firm and steady tone.
“Then remember,” replied Ratcliff, “it is your own hands that have made the foul bed in which you prefer to lie.”
And with these terrible words he quitted the room.
Frightened at her own temerity, Clara at once sank upon her knees, and called with earnest supplication on the Supreme Father for protection. Blending with her own words those immortal formulas which the inspired David wrote down for the help and refreshing of devout souls throughout all time, she exclaimed: “Thou art my hiding-place and my shield: I hope in thy word. Seven times a day do I praise thee becauseof thy righteous judgments. Wonderfully hast thou led me heretofore: forsake me not in this extreme. Save now, I beseech thee, O Lord;send now prosperity! Let thine hand help me. Deliver my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling. Out of the depth I cry unto thee. O Lord, hear my voice, and be attentive unto my supplications.”
As she remained with head bent and arms crossed upon her bosom, motionless as some sculptured saint, she suddenly felt the touch of a hand on her head, and started up. It was Sister Agatha, who had come to bid her good by.
“But you’re not going to leave me!” cried Clara.
“Yes; I’ve been told to go.”
“By whom have you been told to go?”
“By the gentleman who now takes charge of you,—Mr. Ratcliff.”
“But he’s a bad man! Look at him, study him, and you’ll be convinced.”
“O no! he has given me fifty dollars to distribute among the poor. If you were in your senses, my child, you would not call him bad. He is your best earthly friend. You must heed all he says. Agnes will remain to wait on you.”
“Agnes? I’ve no faith in that girl. I fear she is corrupt; that money could tempt her to much that is wrong.”
“What fancies! Poor child! But this is one of the signs of your disease,—this disposition to see enemies in those around you. There! you must let me go. The Lord help and cure you! Farewell!”
Sister Agatha withdrew herself from Clara’s despairing grasp and eager pleadings, and, passing into the sleeping-room, opened the farther door which led into the billiard-room, of the door of which, communicating with the entry, she had the key.
For the moment Hope seemed to vanish from Clara’s heart with the departing form of the Sister; for, simple as she was, she was still a protection against outrage. No shame could come while Sister Agatha was present.
Suddenly the idea occurred to Clara that she had not tested all the possibilities of escape. She ran and tried the doors. They were all locked. We have seen that she had the range of a suite of three large rooms: a front room serving as aparlor and connected by a corridor, having closets and doors at either end, with the sleeping-room looking out on the garden in the rear. This sleeping-room, as you looked from the windows, communicated with the billiard-room on the left, and had one door, also on the left, communicating with the entry on which you came from the stairs. This door was locked on the outside. The parlor also communicated with this entry or hall by a door on the left, locked on the outside. The house was built very much after the style of most modern city houses, so that it is not difficult to form a clear idea of Clara’s position.
Finding the doors were secure against any effort of hers to force them, it occurred to her to throw into the street a letter containing an appeal for succor to the person who might pick it up. She hastily wrote a few lines describing her situation, the room where she was confined, the fraud by which she was held a slave, and giving the name of the street, the number of the house, &c. This she signedClara A. Berwick. Then rolling it up in a handkerchief with a paper-weight she threw it out of the window far into the street. Ah! It went beyond the opposite sidewalk, over the fence, and into the tall grass of the little ornamented park in front of the house!
She could have wept at the disappointment. Should she write another letter and try again? While she was considering the matter, she saw a well-dressed lady and gentleman promenading. She cried out “Help!” But before she could repeat the cry a hand was put upon her mouth, and the window was shut down.
“No, Missis, can’t ’low dat,” said the chuckling voice of Agnes.
Clara took the girl by the hand, made her sit down, and then, with all the persuasiveness she could summon, tried to reach her better nature, and induce her to aid in her escape. Failing in the effort to move the girl’s heart, Clara appealed to her acquisitiveness, promising a large reward in money for such help as she could give. But the girl had been pre-persuaded by Ratcliff that Clara’s promises were not to be relied upon; and so, disbelieving them utterly, she simply shook her head and simpered. How could Agnes, a slave, presume to disobey a great man like Massa Ratcliff? Besides, he meant the young missisno harm. He only wanted to make her his wife. Why should she be so obstinate about it? Agnes couldn’t see the sense of it.
During the rest of the day, Clara felt for the first time that her every movement was watched. If she went to the window, Agnes was by her side. If she took up a bodkin, Agnes seemed ready to spring upon her and snatch it from her hand.
Terrible reflections brought their gloom. Clara recalled the case of a slave-girl which she had heard only the day before her last walk with Esha. It was the case of a girl quite white belonging to a Madame Coutreil, residing just below the city. This girl, for attempting to run away, had been placed in a filthy dungeon, and a thick, heavy iron ring or yoke, surmounted by three prongs, fastened about her neck.[43]If amistresscould dosuch things, what barbarity might not amasterlike Ratcliff attempt?
And where was Ratcliff all this while?
Still keeping in the house, brooding on the one scheme on which he had set his heart. He smoked cigars, stretched himself on sofas, cursed the perversity of the sex, and theorized as to the efficacy of extreme measures in taming certain feminine tempers. Was not a woman, after all, something like a horse? Had he not seen Rarey tame the most furious mare by a simple process which did not involve beating or cruelty? The consideration was curious,—a matter for philosophy to ruminate.
Ratcliff dined late that day. It was almost dark enough for the gas to be lighted when he sat down to the table. The viands were the choicest of the season, but he hardly did them justice. All the best wines were on the sideboard. Sam filled three glasses with hock, champagne, and burgundy; but, to his surprise and secret disappointment, Ratcliff did not empty one of them. “Mr. Semmes used to praise this Rudesheimer very highly,” said Sam, insinuatingly. Ratcliff simply raised his hand imperiously with a gesture imposing silence. He sipped half a glass of the red wine, then drank a cup of coffee, then lit a cigar, and resumed his walk on the piazza.
It was now nine o’clock in the evening. Without taking off any of her clothes, Clara had lain down on the bed. Agnes sat sewing at a table near by. The room was brilliantly illuminated by two gas-burners. Light also came through the corridor from a burner in the parlor. Every few minutes the chambermaid would look round searchingly, as if to see whether the young “missis” were asleep. In order to learn what effect it would have, Clara shut her eyes and breathed asif lost in slumber. Agnes put down her work, moved stealthily to the bed, and gently felt around the maiden’s waist and bosom, as if to satisfy herself there was no weapon concealed about her person.
While the negro woman was thus engaged, there was a sound as if a key had dropped on the billiard-room floor, which was of oak and uncarpeted. Agnes stopped and listened as if puzzled. There was then a sound as if the outer door of the billiard-room communicating with the entry were unlocked and opened. Agnes went up to the mantel-piece and looked at the clock, and then listened again intently.
There was now a low knock from the billiard-room at the chamber-door, which was locked on the inside, and the key of which was left in while Agnes was present, but which she was accustomed to take out and leave on the billiard-room side when she quitted the apartments to go down-stairs.
Before unlocking the door on this occasion she asked in a whisper, “Who’s dar?”
The reply came, “Sam.”
“What’s de matter?”
“I want to speak with you a minute. Open the door.”
“Can’t do it, Sam. It’s agin orders.”
“Well, no matter. I only thought you’d like to tell me what sort of a shawl to get.”
“What?—what’s dat you say ’bout a shawl?”
“The Massa has given me ten dollars to buy a silk shawl for you. What color do you want?”
Clara heard every word of this little dialogue. It was followed by the chambermaid’s unlocking the door, taking out the key and entering the billiard-room. Clara started from the bed, and went and listened. The only words she could distinguish were, “I’ll jes run up-stairs an’ git a pattern fur yer.” Clara tried the door, but found it locked. She listened yet more intently. There was no further sound. She waited five minutes, then went back to the bed and sat down.
A sense of something incommunicable and mysterious weighed upon her brain and agitated her thoughts. It was as if she were enclosed by an atmosphere impenetrable to intelligences that were trying to reach her brain. For a week she had seenno newspaper. What had happened during that time? Great events were impending. What shape had they taken? The terror of the Vague and the Unknown dilated her eyes and thrilled her heart.
As she sat there breathless, she heard through the window, open at the top, the distant beat of music. The tune was distinguishable rather by the vibrations of the air than by audible notes. But it seemed to Clara as if a full band were playing the Star-Spangled Banner. What could it mean? Nothing. The tune was claimed both by Rebels and Loyalists.
Hark! It had changed. What was it now? Surely that must be the air of “Hail Columbia.” Never before, since the breaking out of the Rebellion, had she heard that tune. As the wind now and then capriciously favored the music, it came more distinct to her ears. There could be no mistake.
And now the motion of the sounds was brisk, rapid, and lively. Could it be? Yes! These rash serenaders, whoever they were, had actually ventured to play “Yankee Doodle.” Was it possible the authorities allowed such outrages on Rebel sensibilities?
And now the sounds ceased, but only for a moment. A slower, a grand and majestic strain, succeeded. It arrested her closest attention. What was it? What? She had heard it before, but where? When? What association, strange yet tender, did it have for her? Why did it thrill and rouse her as none of the other tunes had done? Suddenly she remembered it was that fearful “John Brown Hallelujah Chorus,” which Vance had played and sung for her the first evening of their acquaintance.
The music ceased; and she listened vainly for its renewal. All at once a harsh sound, that chilled her heart, and seemed to concentrate all her senses in one, smote on her ears. The key of the parlor door was slowly turned. There was a step, and it seemed to be the step of a man.
Clara started up and pressed both bands on her bosom, to keep down the flutterings of her heart, which beat till a sense of suffocation came over her.
The awe and suspense of that moment seemed to protract it into a whole hour of suffering. “God help me!” was all she could murmur. Her terror grew insupportable. The stepscame over the carpet,—they fell on the tessellated marble of the little closet-passage,—they drew near the half-open door which now alone intervened.
Then there was a knock on the wood-work. She wanted to say, “Who’s there?” but her tongue refused its office. The strength seemed ebbing from every limb. Horror at the thought of her helplessness came over her. Then a form—the form of a man—stood before her. She uttered one cry,—a simple “Oh!”—and sinking at his feet, put her arms about his knees and pressed against them her head.
There are times when a brief, hardly articulate utterance,—a simple intonation,—seems to carry in it whole volumes of meaning. That singleOh!—how much of heart-history it conveyed! In its expression of transition from mortal terror to entire trustfulness and delight, it was almost childlike. It spoke of unexpected relief,—of a joyful surprise,—of a gratitude without bounds,—of an awful sense of angelic guardianship,—of an inward faith vindicated and fulfilled against a tumultuous crowd of selfish external fears and misgivings.
The man whose appearance had called forth this intensified utterance wore the military cap and insignia of a Colonel in the United States service. His figure seemed made for endurance, though remarkable for neatness and symmetry. His face was that of one past the middle stage,—one to whom life had not been one unvaried holiday. The cheeks were bronzed; the eyes mobile and penetrating, the mouth singularly sweet and firm. Clara knew the face. It was that of Vance.
He lifted her flaccid form from the posture in which she had thrown herself,—lifted and supported it against his breast as if to give her the full assurance of safety and protection. She opened her eyes upon him as thus they stood,—eyes now beaming with reverential gratitude and transport. He looked at them closely.
“Yes,” said he, “there they are! the blue and the gray! Why did I not notice them before?”
“Ah!” she cried. “Here is my dream fulfilled. You have at last taken from them that letter which lay there.”
There was the sound of footsteps on the landing in the upper hall. Clara instinctively threw an arm over Vance’s shoulder.The key of the chamber-door was turned, and Ratcliff entered.
He had been pacing the piazza and smoking uncounted cigars. The distant music, which to Clara’s aroused senses had been so audible, had not been heard by him. He had not dreamed of any interruption of his plans. Was he not dealing with a slave in a house occupied by slaves? What possible service was there he could not claim of a slave? Were not slaves made every day to scourge slaves, even their own wives and children, till the backs of the sufferers were seamed and bloody? Besides, he had fortified the fidelity of one of them—of Agnes—by presents and by flatteries. Even the revolver he usually carried with him was laid aside in one of the drawers of his dressing-room as not likely to be wanted.
On entering the chamber, Ratcliff, before perceiving that there was an unexpected occupant, turned and relocked the door on the inside.
Was it some vision, the product of an incantation, that now rose before his eyes? For there stood the maiden on whose compliance he had so wreaked all the energy of his tyrannical will,—his own purchased slave and thrall,—creature bound to serve either his brute desires or his most menial exactions,—there she stood, in the attitude of entire trust and affection, folded in the arms of a man!
Instantly Ratcliff reflected that he was unarmed, and he turned and unlocked the door to rush down-stairs after his revolver. But Vance was too swift for him. Placing Clara in a chair, quick as the tiger-cat springs on his prey, he darted upon Ratcliff, and before the latter could pass out on to the landing, relocked the door and took the key. Then dragging him into the middle of the room, he held him by a terrible grip on the shoulders at arm’s length, face to face.
“Now look at me well,” said Vance. “You have seen me before. Do you recognize me now?”
Wild with a rage to which all other experiences of wrath were as a zephyr to a tornado, Ratcliff yet had the curiosity to look, and that look brought in a new emotion which made even his wrath subordinate. For the first time in more than twenty years he recognized the man who had once offended him atthe theatre,—who had once knocked him down on board a steamboat in the eyes of neighbors and vassals,—who had robbed him of one beautiful slave girl, and was now robbing him of another. Yes, it never once occurred to Ratcliff that he, a South Carolinian, a man born to command, was not the aggrieved and injured party!
Vance stood with a look like that of St. George spearing the dragon. The past, with all its horrors, surged up on his recollection. He thought of that day of Estelle’s abduction,—of the escape and recapture,—of that scene at the whipping-post,—of the celestial smile she bent on him through her agony,—of the scourging he himself underwent, the scars of which he yet bore,—of those dreadful hours when he clung to the loosened raft in the river,—of the death scene, the euthanasia of Estelle, of his own despair and madness.
And here, before him, within his grasp, was the author of all these barbarities and indignities! Here was the man who had ordered and superintended the scourging of one in whom all the goodness and grace that ever made womanhood lovely and adorable had met! Here was the haughty scoundrel who had thought to bind her in marriage with one of his own slaves! Here was the insolent ruffian! Here the dastard murderer! What punishment could be equal to his crimes? Death? His life so worthless for hers so precious beyond all reckoning? Oh! that would go but a small way toward paying the enormous debt!
Vance carried in a secret pocket a pistol, and wore a small sword at his side. This last weapon Ratcliff tried to grasp, but failed. Vance looked inquiringly about the room. Ratcliff felt his danger, and struggled with the energy of despair. Vance, with the easy knack of an adroit wrestler, threw him on the floor, then dragging him toward the closet, pulled from a nail a thick leather strap which hung there, having been detached from a trunk. Then hurling Ratcliff into the middle of the room, he collared him before he could rise, and brought down the blows, sharp, quick, vigorous, on face, back, shoulders, till a shriek of “murder” was wrung from the proud lips of the humbled adversary.
Suddenly, in the midst of these inflictions, Vance felt hisarm arrested by a firm grasp. He disengaged himself with a start that was feline in its instant evasiveness, turned, and before him stood Peek, interposing between him and the prostrate Ratcliff.
“Stand aside, Peek,” said Vance; “I have hardly begun yet. You are the last man to intercede for this wretch.”
“Not one more blow, Mr. Vance.”
“Stand aside, I say! Come not between me and my mortal foe. Have I not for long years looked forward to this hour? Have I not toiled for it, dreamed of it, hungered for it?”
“No, Mr. Vance, I’ll not think so poorly of you as to believe you’ve done any such thing. It was to right a great wrong that you have toiled,—not to wreak a poor revenge on flesh and blood.”
“No preaching, Peek! Stand out of the way! I’d sooner forego my hope of heaven than be balked now. Away!”
“Have I ever done that which entitles me to ask a favor of you, Mr. Vance?”
“Yes; for that reason I will requite the scars you yourself bear. The scourger shall be scourged.”
“Would you not doherbidding, could you hear it; and can you doubt that she would say, Forgive?”
Vance recoiled for a moment, then replied: “You have used the last appeal; but ’ will not serve.Mywrongs I can forgive.YoursI can forgive. Buthers, never! Once more I say, Stand aside!”
“Youshallnot give him another blow,” said Peek.
“Shall not?”
And before he could offer any resistance Peek had been thrown to the other side of the room so as to fall backward on his hands.
Then, in a moment, Vance seemed to regret the act. He jumped forward, helped the negro up, begged his pardon, saying: “Forgive me, my dear, dear Peek! Have your own way. Do with this man as you like. Haven’t you the right? Didn’t you once save my life? Are you hurt? Do you forgive me?” And the tears sprang to Vance’s eyes.
“No harm done, Mr. Vance! But you are quick as lightning.”
“Look at me, Peek. Let me see from your face that I’m forgiven.”
And Peek turned on him such an expression, at once tender and benignant, that Vance, seeing they understood each other, was reassured.
Clara had sat all this time intently watching every movement, but too weak from agitation to interfere, even if she had been so disposed.
Ratcliff, recovering from the confusion of brain produced by the rapid blows he had endured, looked to see to whom he had been indebted for help. In all the whims of Fate, could it be there was one like this in reserve? Yes! that negro was the same he, Ratcliff, had once caused to be scourged till three men were wearied out in the labor of lashing. The fellow’s back must be all furrowed and criss-crossed with the marks got from him, Ratcliff. Yet here was the nigger, coming to the succor of his old master! The instinct of servility was stronger in him even than revenge. Who would deny, after this, what he, Ratcliff, had often asserted, “Niggers will be niggers?”
And so, instead of recognizing a godlike generosity in the act, the slave-driver saw in it only the habit of a base spirit, and the wholesome effect, upon an inferior, of that imposing quality in his, Ratcliff’s, own nature and bearing, which showed he was of the master race, and justified all his assumptions.
Watching his opportunity Ratcliff crawled toward the billiard-room door, and, suddenly starting up, pulled it open, thinking to escape. To his dismay he encountered a large black dog of the bloodhound species, who growled and showed his teeth so viciously that Ratcliff sprang back. Following the dog appeared a young soldier, who, casting round his eyes, saw Clara, and darting to her side, seized and warmly pressed her extended hand. Overcome with amazement, Ratcliff reeled backward and sank into an arm-chair, for in the soldier he recognized Captain Onslow.
Voices were now heard on the stairs, and two men appeared. One of them was of a compact, well-built figure, and apparently about fifty years old. He was clad in a military dress, and hisaspect spoke courage and decision. The individual at his side, and who seemed to be paying court to him, was a tall, gaunt figure, in the coarse uniform of the prison. He carried his cap in his hand, showing that half of his head was entirely bald, while the other half was covered with a matted mass of reddish-gray hair.
This last man, as he mounted the stairs and stood on the landing, might have been heard to say: “Kunnle Blake, you’re a high-tone gemmleman, ef you air a Yankee. You see in me, Kunnle, a victim of the damdest ongratitood. These Noo-Orleenz ’ristocrats couldn’t huv treated a nigger or an abolitioner wuss nor they’ve treatedme. I told ’em I wuz Virginia-born; told ’em what I’d done fur thar damned Confed’racy; told ’em what a blasted good friend I’d been to the institootion; but—will you believe it?—they tuk me up on a low charge of ’propriatin’ to private use the money they giv me ter raise a company with;—they hahd me up afore a committee of close-fisted old fogies, an’ may I be shot ef they didn’t order me to be jugged, an’ half of my head to be shaved! An’ ’t was did. Damned ef it warnt! But I’ll be even with ’em, damn ’em! Ef I don’t, may I be kept ter work in a rice-swamp the rest of my days. I’ll let ’em see what it is to treat one of the Hyde blood in this ’ere way, as if he war a low-lived corn-cracker. I’ll let ’em see what thar rotten institootion’s wuth. Ef they kn afford ter make out of a born gemmleman a scarecrow like I am now, with my half-shaved scalp, jes fur ’propriatin’ a few of thar damned rags, well and good. They’ll hahv ter look round lively afore they kn find sich another friend as Delancey Hyde has been ter King Cotton,—damn him! They shall find Delancy Hyde kn unmake as well as make.”
To these wrathful words, Blake replied: “Perhaps you don’t remember me, Colonel Hyde.”
“Cuss me ef I do. Ef ever I seed you afore, ’ was so long ago that it’s clean gone out of my head.”
“Don’t you remember the policeman who made you give up the fugitive slave, Peek, that day in the lawyer’s office in New York?”
“I don’t remember nobody else!” exclaimed Hyde, jubilantat the thought of claiming one respectable man as an old acquaintance, and quite forgetting the fact that they had parted as foes. “Kunnle Blake, we must liquor together the fust chance we kn git. As for Peek, I don’t want to see a higher-toned gemmleman than Peek is, though heisblacker than my boot. Will you believe it, Kunnle? That ar nigger, findin’ as how I wuz out of money, arter Kunnle Vance had tuk me out of jail, what does he do but give me twenty dollars! In good greenbacks, too! None of your sham Confed’rate trash! Ef that ain’t bein’ a high-tone gemmleman, what is? He done it too in the most-er delicate manner,—off-hand, like a born prince.”
By this time the interlocutors had entered the billiard-room. After them came a colored man and a negro. One of these was Sam, the house-servant, the other Antoine, the owner of the dog. Immediately after them came Esha and Madame Josephine. They passed Ratcliff without noticing him, and went to Clara, and almost devoured her with their kisses.
No sooner had these two moved away in this terrible procession than an oldish lady, hanging coquettishly on the arm of a man somewhat younger than herself, of a rather red face, and highly dressed, entered the room, and, apparently too much absorbed in each other to notice Ratcliff, walked on until the lady, encountering Clara, rushed at her hysterically, and shrieking, “My own precious child!” fell into her arms in the most approved melodramatic style. This lady was Mrs. Gentry, who had recently retired from school-keeping with “something handsome,” which the Vigilance Committee had been trying to get hold of for Confederate wants, but which she had managed to withhold from their grasp, until that “blessed Butler” coming, relieved her fears, and secured her in her own. The gentleman attending her was Mr. Ripper, ex-auctioneer, who, in his mellow days, finding that Jordan was a hard road to travel, had concluded to sign the temperance pledge, reform, and take care of himself. With this view, what could he do better than find some staid, respectable woman, with “a little something of her own,” with whom he could join hands on the downhill of life? As luck would have it, he was introduced to Mrs. Gentry that very evening, and he was now paying his first devoirs.
After the appearance of this couple, steps heavy and slow were heard ascending the stairs into the billiard-room; and the next moment Mr. Winslow appeared, followed by Lawyer Semmes. And, bringing up the rear of the party, and presenting in himself a fitting climax to these stunning surprises, came a large and powerful negro in military rig, bearing a musket with bayonet fixed, and displaying a small United States flag. This man was Decazes, an escaped slave belonging to Ratcliff, and for whom he had offered a reward of five hundred dollars.
Ratcliff had half-risen from his chair, holding on to the arms with both hands for support. His countenance, laced by the leathern blows he had received, his left eye blue and swollen, every feature distorted with consternation, rage, and astonishment, he presented such a picture of baffled tyranny as photography alone could do justice to. Was it delirium,—was it some harrowing dream,—under which he was suffering? That flag! What did it mean?
“Semmes!” he exclaimed, “what has happened? Where do these Yankees come from?”
“Possible? Haven’t you heard the news?” returned the lawyer. “Farragut and Butler have possession of New Orleans. What have you been doing with yourself the last three days?”
“Butler?” exclaimed Ratcliff, astounded and incredulous,—“Picayune Butler?—the contemptible swell-head,—the pettifogging—”
Semmes walked away, as if choosing not to be implicated in any treasonable talk.
Suddenly recognizing Winslow, Ratcliff impotently shook his fists and darted at him an expression of malignant and vindictive hate.
Could it be? New Orleans in the hands of the Vandals,—the “miserable miscreants,”—the “hyenas,” as President Davis and Robert Toombs were wont to stigmatize the whole people of the North? Where was the great ram that was to work such wonders? Where were the Confederate gunboats? Were not Forts Jackson and St. Philip impregnable? Could not the Chalamette batteries sink any Yankee fleet that floated? Hadnot the fire-eaters,—the last-ditch men,—resolved that New Orleans should be laid in ashes before the detested flag, emblematic of Yankee rule, should wave from the public buildings? And here was a black rascal in uniform, flaunting that flag in the very face of one of the foremost of the chivalry! Let the universe slide after this! Let chaos return!
The company drifted in groups of two and three through the suite of rooms. Sam disappeared suddenly. The women were in the front room. Ratcliff, supposing that he was unnoticed, rose to escape. But Victor the hound, was on hand. He had been lying partly under the bed, with his muzzle out and resting on his fore paws, affecting to be asleep, but really watching the man whom his subtle instincts had told him was the game for which he was responsible; and now the beast darted up with an imperious bark, and Ratcliff, furious, but helpless, sank back on his seat.
Colonel Delancy Hyde approached, with the view of making himself agreeable.
“Squire Ratcliff,” said he, “you seem to be in a dam bad way. Kin I do anything fur yer? Any niggers you want kotched, Squire? Niggers is mighty onsartin property jes now, Squire. Gen’ral Butler swars he’ll have a black regiment all uniformed afore the Fourth of July comes round. Wouldn’t give much fer yer Red River gangs jes now, Squire! Reckon they’ll be findin’ thar way to Gen’ral Butler’s head-quarters, sure.”
Ratcliff cowered and groaned in spirit as he thought of the immense sums which, in his confidence in the success of the Rebellion, he had been investing in slaves. Unless he could run his gangs off to Texas, he would be ruined.
“Look at me, Squire,” continued the Colonel; “I’m Kunnle Delancy Hyde,—Virginia born, be Gawd; but, fur all that, I might jest as well been born in hell, fur any gratitude you cust ’ristocrats would show me. Yes, you’re one on ’em. Here I’ve been drudgin’ the last thirty years in the nigger-ketchin’ business, and see my reward,—a half-shaved scalp, an’ be damned to yer! But my time’s comin’. Now Kunnle Delancy Hyde tries a new tack. Instead of ketchin’ niggers, he’s goin’ to free ’em; and whar he kotched one he’ll free athousand. Lou’siana’s bound to be a free State. All Cotton-dom’s bound to be free. Uncle Sam shall have black regiments afore Sumter soon. Only the freedom of every nigger in the land kn wipe out the wrongs of Delancy Hyde,—kn avenge his half-shaved scalp!”