CHAPTER IV.
A few miles out from Kansas City, Missouri State, on a pleasant plain sloping off toward a murmuring stream, a branch of the mighty river, early in the spring of 1856, stood a rambling frame house two stories high, surrounded with piazzas, over which trailed grape-vines, clematis and Virginia creepers. The air was redolent with the scent of flowers nor needed the eye to seek far for them, for the whole front of the dwelling, and even the adjoining range of wooden stables, were rendered picturesque by rich masses of roses and honeysuckle that covered them, and the high, strong fence that enclosed four acres of cleared ground, at the end of which the buildings stood. Mingled with the scent of the roses was the fragrance of the majestic magnolia whose buds and blossoms nodded at one from every nook and unexpected quarter.
This was “Magnolia Farm,” the home of Colonel Titus. He was an Englishman by birth and education who had invested his small fortune in a plantation and many slaves in the great Southwest; he also traded in horses, selling, training, doctoring, taking care of horses, or, indeed, making money by any means that came in his way (or out of it, for the matter of that); all was grist that came to his mill. In time his enterprising spirit met with its reward and he became a leading man in all affairs pertaining to the interest of the section. The death of his wife, whom he tenderly loved, soon after the birth of their only child, had left him solitary. This affliction tendered, therefore, to deepen his interest in politics, and he eventually became one of the most bitter partisans on the side of slavery, contrary to the principles of most of his nationality. In his pro-slavery utterances he outdid the most rabid native-born Southerners. In 1854 his famous speech at St. Joseph, Missouri, at the beginning of the trouble in Kansas, had occasioned the wildest enthusiasm at the South, and the greatest consternation at the North.
“I tell you to mark every scoundrel among you who is the least tainted with abolitionism, or pro-slavery, and exterminate them. Neither giving nor taking quarter from the d——d rascals. To those who have qualms of conscience as to violating laws, state or national, I say, the time has come when such impositions must be disregarded, as your rights and property are in danger. I advise you, one and all, to enter every election district in Kansas, in defiance of Reeder and his myrmidons, and vote at the point of the bowie-knife and revolver. Neither take nor give quarter as the cause demands it. It is enough that the slave-holding interest wills it, from which there is no appeal.”
With the memory of recent happenings in the beautiful Southland, against the Negro voter, engraved upon our hearts, these words have a too familiar sound. No, there is very little advancement in that section since 1854, viewed in the light of Gov. Davis’ recent action. The South would be as great as were her fathers “if like a crab she could go backward.” Reversion is the only god worshipped by the South.
Bill Thomson, whose reputation for pure, unadulterated ‘cussedness’ was notorious in this semi-barbarous section, was his overseer and most intimate friend. Thomson’s wife was the Colonel’s housekeeper, and, with the owner’s invalid daughter, these four persons made up the ‘family’ of the ‘big house.’
The summer sun hung evenly over the great fields of cotton; the rambling house cast no shadow, but the broad piazza at the back afforded ample shade from the mid-day rays, sheltered as it was by great pines; within their reach, too, lay the quarters. The porch overlooked the blooming fields where a thousand acres stretched to the very edge of the muddy Missouri. This porch, with its deep, cool shadows, commanded a view of the working force, and made it a favorite resting place for the Colonel and his daughter Lillian. The crippled girl found complete happiness seated in her rolling chair gazing out upon the dusky toilers who tilled the broad acres of foaming cotton.
His daughter’s affliction was a great cross to the Colonel. His thoughts were bitter when he saw other young girls swinging along the highway revelling in youthful strength that seemed to mock the helplessness of his own sweet girl.
“Why had this affliction been sent upon her?” he asked himself. If he had sinned why should punishment be sent upon the innocent and helpless? He rebelled against the text wherein it is taught that evil deeds shall be visited upon the progeny of the doer unto the third and fourth generations.
Far off in lovely England, ancestral halls might yet await her coming, if, perchance, Destiny should leave him in Fortune’s lap. There was a letter lying snugly in his pocket, from a firm in London, that promised much, if——
It was near the noon siesta, and the Colonel sat on the piazza smoking his pipe and waiting the time to blow the horn for dinner. His daughter sat there, too, with an open book on her lap, and a dreamy look in her deep blue eyes that would wander from the printed page to the beautiful scene before her.
The sound of sharp words in a high-pitched voice and answering sobs broke in upon the quiet scene.
“There’s Mrs. Thomson scolding Tennie again,” observed Lillian. The words of that lady came to them distinctly from the hallway:
“What’s the matter with you to-day? You leave your work for the other girls. What are you moping about? Is it Luke?”
“Luke been conjured,” came in a stifled voice.
“By whom?”
Mrs. Thomson was a woman of considerable education and undoubted piety, but her patience was as short as pie-crust. At her question all Tennie’s wrath broke forth.
“Dat yaller huzzy, Clorinder; she conjured Luke till he gone plum wil’ over her. Ef eber I gits my han’s on her, she goin’ ’member me de longes’ day she lib.”
“Hush, I tell you! This stuff must end right here.”
“But, Mistis, dat nigger——”
“Hush your mouth! Don’t you ‘but’ me! Do you get the cowhide and follow me to the cellar, and I’ll whip you well for aggravating me as you have to-day. It seems as if I can never sit down to take a little comfort with the Lord, without your crossing me. The devil always puts you up to disturbing me, just when I’m trying to serve the Lord. I’ve no doubt I’ll miss going to heaven on your account. But I’ll whip you well before I leave this world, that I will. Get the cowhide and come with me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself to put me in such a passion. It’s a deal harder for me than it is for you. I have to exert myself and it puts me all in a fever; while you have only to stand and take it.”
The sounds died away, and once more quiet reigned. The Colonel resumed his train of thought, his brow contracted into a frown as he watched the rings of smoke curling up from the bowl of his pipe. He sighed. His daughter, watching him, echoed his sigh, because, she thought her father was changing. He was a tall, powerful man with dark hair and beard fast whitening. He had deep-set eyes that carried a shifting light; they had the trick, too, of not looking one squarely in the face.
“His hair is right gray,” she said to herself, sadly, “and he is beginning to stoop; he never stooped before. He’s studying, always studying about the mortgages and politics. Oh, dear, if I’d only been a boy! Maybe I could have helped him. But I’m only a girl and a cripple at that.” She changed the sigh into a smile, as women learn to do, and said aloud, “Here’s Winona with your julep.”
The girl bore a goblet on a waiter filled with the ruby liquid and a small forest of mint. The Colonel smiled, his annoyances forgotten for a moment; he lifted the glass gallantly, saying: “Your health, my daughter!”
As he sipped and drank, the girl laughed gleefully and proceeded to refill his pipe, he watching her the while with fond eyes. Winona watched the scene with bent brows. So, happy had she been with her dead father, not so long ago.
She had passed from childhood to womanhood in two years of captivity—a womanhood blessed with glorious beauty that lent a melancholy charm to her fairness when one remembered the future before such as she. She had been allowed at lessons with her young mistress and had wonderfully improved her privileges. The Colonel and Thomson encouraged her desire for music, too; “It’ll pay ten dollars for every one invested,” remarked the latter. It was now two years since the two friends had returned from a mysterious absence, bringing Winona and Judah with them. The time seemed centuries long to the helpless captives, reared in the perfect freedom of Nature’s woods and streams.
Winona was given Lillian for a maid, and under her gentle rule the horrible nightmare of captivity dragged itself away peacefully if not happily.
With Judah it was different; he was made assistant overseer, because of his intelligence and his enormous strength. As graceful as vigorous, he had developed into a lion of a man. But his nature seemed changed; he had lost his sunny disposition and buoyant spirits. He was a stern, silent man, who apparently, had never known boyhood. He was invaluable as a trainer of horses, and scrupulously attentive to his other work, but in performing these duties he had witnessed scenes that rivalled in cruelty the ferocity of the savage tribes among whom he had passed his boyhood, and had experienced such personal abuse that it had driven smiles forever from his face.
Thomson wore the physique of a typical Southerner. People learning his English ancestry were surprised and somewhat doubtful as they noted his sharp profile, thin lips, curved nose and hollow cheeks. His moustache and hair, coal black in color, increased the doubt.
As we have said, there was no greater scoundrel in Missouri than Bill Thomson. Men declared there was “a heap in him. Other bad ones were jes’ onery scamps; but Bill had a head on him.”
He it was who was organizing and drilling numbers of companies of men, in case the d——d Yankees proved unruly, to burn and loot the infant territory and carry it into the slave-holding lines by fire and fraud.
Into this man’s hands Judah was given body and soul.