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- Herausgeber: Strelbytskyy Multimedia Publishing
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
A Romance Illustrative of Negro Life North and South is the first major novel by Pauline Hopkins, first published in 1900. Contending Forces focuses on African American families in post-Civil War American society.
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Seitenzahl: 423
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Pauline Elizabeth Hopkins
Contending Forces
A Romance Illustrative of Negro Life North and South is the first major novel by Pauline Hopkins, first published in 1900. Contending Forces focuses on African American families in post-Civil War American society.
To the
friends of humanity everywhere
I offer this humble tribute
written by
one of a proscribed race.
“The civility of no race can be perfect whilst another race is degraded.”
— EMERSON
PREFACE
In giving this little romance expression in print, I am not actuated by a desire for notoriety or for profit, but to do all that I can in a humble way to raise the stigma of degradation from my race.
While I make no apology for my somewhat abrupt and daring venture within the wide field of romantic literature, I ask the kind indulgence of the generous public for the many crudities which I know appear in the work, and their approval of whatever may impress them as being of value to the Negro race and to the world at large.
The colored race has historians, lecturers, ministers, poets, judges, and lawyers — men of brilliant intellects who have arrested the favorable attention of this busy, energetic nation. But, after all, it is the simple, homely tale, unassumingly told, which cements the bond of brotherhood among all classes and all complexions.
Fiction is of great value to any people as a preserver of manners and customs — religious, political, and social. It is a record of growth and development from generation to generation. No one will do this for us; we must ourselves develop the men and women who will faithfully portray the inmost thoughts and feelings of the Negro with all the fire and romance which lie dormant in our history, and, as yet, unrecognized by writers of the Anglo-Saxon race.
The incidents portrayed in the early chapters of the book actually occurred. Ample proof of this may be found in the archives of the courthouse at New Bern, North Carolina, and at the national seat of government, Washington, DC.
In these days of mob violence, when lynch law is raising its head like a venomous monster, more particularly in the southern portion of the great American republic, the retrospective mind will dwell upon the history of the past, seeking there a solution of these monstrous outbreaks under a government founded upon the greatest and brightest of principles for the elevation of mankind. While we ponder the philosophy of cause and effect, the world is horrified by a fresh outbreak, and the shocked mind wonders that in this — the brightest epoch of the Christian era—such things are.
Mob-law is nothing new. Southern sentiment has not been changed; the old ideas close in analogy to the spirit of the buccaneers, who formed in many instances the first settlers of the Southland, still prevail, and break forth clothed in new forms to force the whole republic to an acceptance of its principles.
“Rule or ruin” is the motto which is committing the most beautiful portion of our glorious country to a cruel revival of piratical methods; and, finally, to the introduction of anarchy. Is this not so? Let us compare the happenings of one hundred — two hundred years ago, with those of today. The difference between then and now, if any there be, is so slight as to be scarcely worth mentioning. The atrocity of the acts committed one hundred years ago are duplicated today, when slavery is supposed no longer to exist.
I have tried to tell an impartial story, leaving it to the reader to draw conclusions. I have tried to portray our hard struggles here in the North to obtain a respectable living and a partial education. I have presented both sides of the dark picture — lynching and concubinage — truthfully and without vituperation, pleading for that justice of heart and mind for my people which the Anglo-Saxon in America never withholds from suffering humanity.
In Chapter 13 I have used for the address of the Hon. Herbert Clapp the statements and accusations made against the Negro by ex-Governor Northen of Georgia, in his memorable address before the Congregational Club at Tremont Temple, Boston, Massachusetts, May 22, 1899. In Chapter 15 I have made Will Smith’s argument in answer to the Hon. Herbert Clapp a combination of the best points made by well-known public speakers in the United States — white and black — in defense of the Negro. I feel my own deficiencies too strongly to attempt original composition on this subject at this crisis in the history of the Negro in the United States. I have introduced enough of the exquisitely droll humor peculiar to the Negro (a work like this would not be complete without it) to give a bright touch to an otherwise gruesome subject.
The Author
1
A RETROSPECT OF THE PAST
We wait beneath the furnace-blast
The pangs of transformation;
Not painlessly doth God recast
And mould anew the nation.
Hot burns the fire
Where wrongs expire;
Nor spares the hand
That from the land
Uproots the ancient evil.
— J. G. WHITTIER
In the early part of the year 1800 the agitation of the inhabitants of Great Britain over the increasing horrors of the slave trade carried on in the West Indian possessions of the Empire was about reaching a climax. Every day the terrible things done to slaves were becoming public talk, until the best English humanitarians, searching for light upon the subject, became sick at heart over the discoveries that they made and were led to declare the principle: “The air of England is too pure for any slave to breathe.”
To go back a little way in the romantic history of the emancipation of the slaves in the islands will not take much time, and will, I hope, be as instructive as interesting. Tales of the abuses of the slaves, with all the sickening details, had reached the Quaker community as early as 1783, and that tender-hearted people looked about themselves to see what steps they could take to ameliorate the condition of the Negroes in the West Indies, and to discourage the continuation of the trade along the African coast.
Thomas Clarkson, a student at Cambridge, was drawn into writing a prize essay on the subject, and became so interested that he allied himself with the Quakers and investigated the subject for himself, thereby confirming his own belief, “that Providence had never made that to be wise that was immoral; and that the slave trade was as impolitic as it was unjust.”
After strenuous efforts by Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox, Parliament became interested and instituted an inquiry into the abuses of the slave trade. Finally, Mr. Wilberforce was drawn into the controversy, and for sixteen years waged an incessant warfare against the planters, meeting with defeat in his plans for ten consecutive years; but finally, in 1807, he was successful, and the slave trade was abolished.
These assailants of the slave trade had promised not to try to abolish slavery; but in a short time they learned that the trade was still carried on in ships sailing under the protection of false flags. Tales of the cruelties practiced upon the helpless chattels were continually reaching the ears of the British public, some of them such as to sicken the most cold-hearted and indifferent. For instance: causing a child to whip his mother until the blood ran; if a slave looked his master in the face, his limbs were broken; women in the first stages of their accouchement, upon refusing to work, were placed in the treadmill, where terrible things happened, too dreadful to relate.
Through the efforts of Granville Sharpe, the chairman of the London committee, Lord Stanley, minister of the colonies, introduced into the House of Commons his bill for emancipation.
Lord Stanley’s bill proposed gradual emancipation, and was the best thing those men of wisdom could devise. Earnestly devoted to their task, they sought to wipe from the fair escutcheon of the Empire the awful blot which was upon it. By the adoption of the bill Great Britain not only liberated a people from the cruelties of their masters, but at the same time took an important step forward in the onward march of progress, which the most enlightened nations are unconsciously forced to make by the great law of advancement; “for the civility of no race can be perfect whilst another race is degraded.”
In this bill of gradual emancipation certain conditions were proposed. All slaves were entitled to be known as apprenticed laborers, and to acquire thereby all the rights and privileges of freemen. “These conditions were that prædials should owe three-fourths of the profits of their labors to their masters for six years, and the non-prædials for four years. The other fourth of the apprentice’s time was to be his own, which he might sell to his master or to other persons; and at the end of the term of years fixed, he should be free.”
In the winter of 1790, when these important changes in the life of the Negro in the West Indies were pending, many planters were following the course of events with great anxiety. Many feared that in the end their slaves would be taken from them without recompense, and thereby render them and their families destitute. Among these planters was the family of Charles Montfort, of the island of Bermuda.
Bermuda’s fifteen square miles of area lays six hundred miles from the nearest American coast. Delightful is this land, formed from coral reefs, flat and fertile, which to the eye appears as but a pin point upon the ocean’s broad bosom, one of “a thousand islands in a tropic Sea.”
Once Bermuda was second only to Virginia in its importance as a British colony; once it held the carrying trade of the New World; once was known as the “Gibraltar of the Atlantic,” although its history has been that of a simple and peaceful people. Its importance to the mother country as a military and naval station has drawn the paternal bonds of interest closer as the years have flown by. Indeed, Great Britain has been kind to the colonists of this favored island from its infancy, sheltering and shielding them so carefully that the iron hand of the master has never shown beneath the velvet glove. So Bermuda has always been intensely British — intensely loyal. Today, at the beginning of the new century, Bermuda presents itself, outside of its importance as a military station for a great power, as a vast sanatorium for the benefit of invalids. A temperate climate, limpid rivers, the balmy fragrance and freshness of the air, no winter — nature changing only in the tints of its foliage — have contributed to its renown as a health-giving region; and thus Shakespeare’s magic island of Prospero and Miranda has become, indeed, to the traveler
The spot of earth uncurst,
To show how all things were created first.
Mr. Montfort was the owner of about seven hundred slaves. He was well known as an exporter of tobacco, sugar, coffee, onions, and other products so easily grown in that salubrious climate, from which he received large returns. He was neither a cruel man, nor an avaricious one; but like all men in commercial life, or traders doing business in their own productions, he lost sight of the individual right or wrong of the matter, or we might say with more truth, that he perverted right to be what was conducive to his own interests, and felt that by owning slaves he did no man a wrong, since it was the common practice of those all about him, and he had been accustomed to this peculiar institution all his life.
Indeed, slavery never reached its lowest depths in this beautiful island; but a desire for England’s honor and greatness had become a passion with the inhabitants, and restrained the planters from committing the ferocious acts of brutality so commonly practiced by the Spaniards. In many cases African blood had become diluted from amalgamation with the higher race, and many of these “colored” people became rich planters or business men (themselves owning slaves) through the favors heaped upon them by their white parents. This being the case, there might even have been a strain of African blood polluting the fair stream of Montfort’s vitality, or even his wife’s, which fact would not have caused him one instant’s uneasiness. Moreover, he was a good master, and felt that while he housed his slaves well, fed them with the best of food suited to their occupations and the climate, and did not cruelly beat them, they fared better with him than they would have with another, perhaps, or even if they held property themselves.
The speeches of Mr. Pitt, Mr. Burke, and others, together with the general trend of public sentiment as expressed through the medium of the British press, had now begun to make an impression upon some of the more humane of the planters on this island, and among them was Mr. Montfort. Uneasiness now took the place of his former security; thought would obtrude itself upon him, and in the quiet hours of the night this man fought out the battle which conscience waged within him, and right prevailed to the extent of his deciding that he would free his slaves, but in his own way. He determined to leave Bermuda, and after settling in some other land, he would gradually free his slaves without impoverishing himself; bestow on each one a piece of land, and finally, with easy conscience, he would retire to England, and there lead the happy life of an English gentleman of fortune.
With this end in view, being a man of affairs and well acquainted with the whole of the American continent, he naturally turned his eyes toward the United States, where the institution flourished, and the people had not yet actually awakened to the folly and wickedness exemplified in the enslavement of their fellow-beings. For reasons which were never known, he finally made choice of New Bern, North Carolina, for a home.
Sunday was and is the high holiday in all tropical climes. On that day the slave forgot his bonds. It was noon; the early service of the Church of England was ended. The clergyman of the parish had accompanied Charles Montfort home. Mrs. Montfort was visiting friends, so the two gentlemen dined alone. The clergyman was rather glad that he had the opportunity of seeing Mr. Montfort alone, and had used all his powers of persuasion to turn him from his proposed exodus. It was of no avail, as the good man soon found; and with a sigh, he finally took his hat and prepared to leave. Both stood outside the house upon the broad walk beneath the shade of the fragrant cedars and the fruitful tamarind trees. The silence of deep feeling was between these two men. The clergyman could only remember the reverence he had always received, and the loving service given him by this family. Montfort thought with pain of the holy ministrations of this silver-haired man, who had pronounced the solemn words that bound him to his gentle wife, had baptized his children, and (tenderest act of all) had buried the little daughter whose grave was yonder, beneath the flowering trees in the churchyard. Yes, it was sad to part and leave all these tender ties of friendship behind.
“The bishop will come himself, Charles, to persuade you that this is a dangerous step you are about to take,” finally the good man said, breaking the silence.
“Why dangerous? Is it any more so for me than for those who left England to build a home here in the wilderness?”
“Different, very different. The mother hand was still over them, even in these wilds. Out there,” and he pointed in the direction of the bay, “they tell me that for all their boasted freedom, the liberty of England is not found, and human life is held cheaply in the eyes of men who are mere outlaws. Ah! But the bishop,” he continued with a sigh, “he can tell you; he has seen; he is not a weak old man like me. He will talk you out of this plan of separation from all your friends.”
Again silence fell upon them. In the direction of the square a crowd of slaves were enjoying the time of idleness. Men were dancing with men, and women with women, to the strange monotonous music of drums without tune, relics of the tom-tom in the wild African life which haunted them in dreamland. Still, there was pleasure for even a cultivated musical ear in the peculiar variation of the rhythm. The scanty raiment of gay-colored cotton stuffs set off the varied complexions — yellow, bronze, white — the flashing eyes, the gleaming teeth, and gave infinite variety to the scene. Over there, waterfalls fell in the sunlight in silvery waves; parti-colored butterflies of vivid coloring, and humming-birds flashed through the air with electrical radiance; gay parakeets swung and chattered from the branches of the trees.
“Where, my son,” said the clergyman, indicating the landscape with a wave of his hand, “will you find a scene more beautiful than this? How can you leave it and those who love you and yours?”
“Beautiful, indeed; and I will confess that it grows dearer as the time for my departure draws near,” answered Montfort. “I will walk with you,” he continued, as the clergyman turned in the direction of the road. As they passed through the wide entrance gates a Negro woman was weeding her little garden; her pickaninny was astride her back, spurring his mother as a rider his horse. The woman and the child looked up and smiled at the master and his guest, and the woman put the child on the ground and stood upright to bob a queer little courtesy. They walked along in silence until they reached the plaza.
“My son, will you not be persuaded?”
“Father, I have made up my mind firmly, after due consideration. I believe it is for the best.”
They paused a moment at the square; then the holy man said solemnly, as he raised his hand in benediction: “If it then be for the best, which God grant it may be, I pray the good Father of us all to keep you in safety and in perfect peace.” He turned and disappeared in the crowd.
Charles Montfort was immediately surrounded by his friends, who greeted him joyously, for he was a genial man and had endeared himself greatly to his neighbors.
“Still determined to leave us, Charles?” inquired one.
“Yes, for the good of myself and family. How can we submit tamely to the loss of our patrimonies without an effort to reimburse ourselves when a friendly land invites us to share its hospitality?”
“There is truth in your argument for all who, like you, Charles, have a large venture in slaves. Thank heaven I am so poor that a change of laws will not affect me,” said one.
“Where a man’s treasure is, there also is his heart. It is nature. Almost you persuade me, Charles, to do likewise,” remarked another.
“As I have told you, I will retain my patrimony and free my slaves, too, by this venture in the United States under a more liberal government than ours.”
“Ah! Charles,” remarked another listener, “you forget the real difference between our government and that of the United States. And then the social laws are so different. You will never be able to accustom yourself to the habits of a republic. Do you not remember the planters from Georgia and Carolina who fought for good King George, and were stanch Royalists? They retired to the Bahamas when our cause was lost in the American colonies. My brother has just returned from a trip there. He tells strange tales of their surprise at many things we do here. I fear it is but a cold welcome you will receive from men of their class.”
“Certainly,” replied Montfort, “I shall try to be a good subject or citizen of whatever country I may be compelled to reside in for a long or short time.”
“But surely you will not expose your wife to the inconveniencies of life in that country,” said another.
“She has had her choice, but prefers hardships with me to life without me,” proudly returned Montfort.
“A willful man must have his way,” murmured one who had not yet spoken, “and I will give you three months to stay in the land of savages before you will be returning to us bag and baggage.”
“Well,” laughed Montfort, “we shall see.”
Twilight had fallen now, and Montfort bared his head to the refreshing sea breeze which fluttered every leaf. When he bade his friends good night, finally, and started on his homeward walk, the arguments of the good clergyman and of his friends were present in his harassed mind, and he wondered if he were doing wrong not to be prevailed upon to yield to the opinions of others. Once he almost determined that he would give it all up and remain in this land of love and beauty. To collect his scattered thoughts and calm his mind he turned toward the bay, and stood upon the beach, still allowing the breeze to play about his heated temples. Never before had he appreciated his home so much as now, when he contrasted it with the comparative barrenness of the new spot he had chosen. The water was alive with marine creatures; the sea aflame. The air was full of light-giving insects, incessantly moving, which illumined the darkness and gave life to every inanimate object. Over all the moon and stars were set in the cloudless deep-blue sky of coming night. Alas! His good angel fled with the darkness, and morning found him more determined than ever to go on with his project.
When it became generally known in Bermuda that Charles Montfort had decided to leave the place of his birth and establish himself in a foreign land, many friends gathered about him and advised him to reconsider his determination. Montfort laughingly invited them to join him in his new venture, and then earnestly pointed out to them the dangers which threatened their fortunes. He painted his plans in glowing colors, and ended by promising them that in less than twenty-five years he would land in England, a retired planter, his former slaves free and happy, and he himself rich and honored.
Having an immense amount of property to transport, it happened that Mr. Montfort was compelled to make two trips to New Bern before he removed his family to their new home; but after much energetic work and many difficulties, the little family looked through blinding tears at the receding shores of what had been a happy home. A week later a noble ship stood off the shores of North Carolina. On the deck was Charles Montfort; his wife hung upon his arm; beside the devoted couple were Charles, Jr., named for his father, and Jesse, the young darling of his mother’s heart. Silently they gazed upon the fair scene before them, each longing for the land so recently left behind them, though no word of regret was spoken.
2
THE DAYS “BEFORE THE WAR”
O freedom! thou art not as poets dream,
A fair young girl with light and delicate limbs,
Thy birthright was not given by human hands:
Thou wert twinborn with man
.
The shores of Pamlico Sound presented a motley crowd of slaves, overseers, owners of vessels, and a phantasmagoric landscape very charming to eyes unaccustomed to such scenes. It was near the noon siesta. In the harbor lay three or four vessels ready to be loaded with their freight of rice, tobacco, or cotton. The sun poured its level rays straight down upon the heads of all. A band of slaves sang in a musical monotone, and kept time to the music of their song as they unloaded a barge that had just arrived:
Turn dat han’ spike roun’ an’ roun’,
Hol’ hard, honey; hol’ hard, honey.
Brack man tote de buckra’s load,
Hol’ hard, honey; hol’ hard, honey
Neber ’fo’ seed a nigger like you,
Hol’ hard, honey; hol’ hard, honey.
Allers tinkin’ ’bout yer ol’ brack Sue,
Hol’ hard, honey; hol’ hard, honey.
Ef I was an alligater what’d I do?
Hol’ hard, honey; hol’ hard, honey.
Run ’way wid ol’ brack Sue,
Hol’ hard, honey; hol hard, honey.
Massa ketch yer, what’d he do?
Hi, hi, honey; hi, hi, honey.
Cut yer back an’ ol’ brack Sue’s,
He, he, honey; he, he, honey.
I cuss massa ’hin’ de fence,
Hol’ hard, honey; hol’ hard, honey.
Massa don’ hyar make no differyence,
Hol’ hard, honey; hol’ hard, honey.
Turn dat han’ spike roun’ an’ roun’,
Hol’ hard, honey; hol’ hard, honey.
Brack man tote de buckra’s load,
Hol’ hard, honey; hol’ hard, honey.
As the refrain died away the bell for the noon rest sounded faintly in the distance, gradually drawing nearer, and again their rich and plaintive voices blended together in sweet cadences as they finished placing the heavy load to the satisfaction of their drivers:
Hark, dat merry, purty bell go
Jing-a-lingle, jing-a-lingle, jingle bell,
Jing-a-lingle, jing-a-lingle, jing-a-lingle bell,
Jingle bell, jingle bell.
Even so sang the children of Israel in their captivity, as they sat by the rivers of Babylon awaiting deliverance.
Just now a ship, which had some time since appeared as a dark spot on the horizon, turned her majestic prow and steered for the entrance to the sound. Immediately the pilot boat in the harbor put out to her. Everyone on the shore became eagerly intent upon the strange ship, and they watched the pilot climb aboard with all the interest which usually attends the slightest cause for excitement in a small community.
The ship came on very slowly, for there was little wind, under topsail, jib, and foresail, the British flag at the peak and the American flag at the fore. The people on shore could see the captain standing by the pilot, the anchor ready to be dropped, and the bowsprit shrouds loose. But now their interest was divided with a new arrival. A man on horseback rode down to the shaky wooden platform which served as a landing place for passengers; behind him, at a respectful distance, rode a white-haired mulatto. The man leaped from his horse and threw his reins to the slave, signaled a couple of Negroes in a boat, jumped into it as they, obedient to his sign, pulled alongside the wharf, and was rowed swiftly out to the advancing ship, which was now making considerable headway toward the shore.
Among the idlers on the wharf was one whom everyone addressed as Bill. He was large, or rather burly, carried a rawhide in his hand, and from his air of authority toward them, was evidently the overseer of the gang of slaves who were loading the tobacco barge. From out the crowd a man who had been sitting idly on a bale of cotton moved toward him.
“Holloa, Bill,” he said, addressing the owner of the rawhide.
“Howdy, Hank”; returned Bill, surveying the other curiously, “whar in time did you drap from?”
Hank did not reply directly. He shifted the tobacco quid in his mouth from one cheek to the other, then with a nod of the head toward the approaching vessel, asked: “Whar’s she from?”
“Hain’t been in town lately, I reckon, or you’d know all about the ‘Island Queen’ from Bermudy. Planter named Montfort on her. He’s movin’ his niggers here to Caroliny; gittin’ too hot fer him back thar,” replied Bill, with a backward jerk of his thumb in the supposed direction of Bermuda. “How’s things up yer way?”
“Fair, fair to middlin’, Bill; thar’s been some talk ’bout a risin’ among the niggers, and so we jes tuk a few o’ them an’ strun ’em up fer a eggsample to the res’. I tell you, Bill, we jes don’t spec’ to hav’ no foolin’ ’bout this yer question of who’s on top as regards a gentleman’s owning his niggers, an’ whomsoeveder goes ter foolin’ with that ar pertickler pint o’ discusshun is gwine ter be made a eggsample of, even ef it’s a white man. Didn’ hyar nuthin’ ’bout a circus up our way, did yer?”
Bill scratched his chin and shook his head in the negative.
“Wall, ’twas this here way: Jed Powers, you ‘member Dan Powers’ Jed, don’ yer? Dan thet was tarred an’ feathered fer selling good likely whiskey ter niggers?” Bill nodded in the affirmative. “Jed Powers wuz seed walkin’ with Jimison’s wench Violy. Be blowed ef he wasn’t gittin’ ready ter cut an’ run ter Canidy with her!”
“Don’ b’lieve yer, durned ef I do,” said Bill.
“Fact! Be durned ef it ain’t jes so.”
“Wall! Of all the onnat’rall cusses!”
“But his wurst offense, in gineral, wuz thet he wuz meanin’ fer to marry her!” Hank paused in his narrative to allow a full appreciation of his statement to be impressed upon Bill’s mind.
“Wus an’ wus!” groaned the latter. “What is we comin’ to, by thunder! I allays took Jed to be a decen’ sort o’ cuss, too. What’s the committee doin’ ’bout it?”
“Wall, we sot out to stop thet fun, anyhow. We got him after a hot chase, an’ we put him in jail; an’ las’ week we guv him his trial. Jedge sentenced him to fifty lashes an’ hangin’ by the neck untell he wuz dead. But somehow or nuther folks is gittin’ squeamish. Jedge don’ durst to hang him; he’ll jes guv him the fifty lashes an’ a talkin’ to on the immoralty o’ his acts an’ ways. Jedge tol’ him he wuz young an’ had a chance to ’pent from the desolute ways o’ his youth, of which his wurst failin’ wuz a-wantin’ to marry niggers, leastwise he’d end in hell, shure. Jedge tol’ him everythin’ ’cordin’ ter law an’ jestice. We wuz calkerlatin’ ter have a celebrashun to which all the leading citizens o’ this county would ’a’ been bid, but, o’ course, not havin’ the hangin’ sort o’ took the ginger out o’ the whole business.”
“I hain’t a doubt o’ yer horsepertality in case o’ the event, Hank; we’s allays got along mighty comf’table tergether,” replied Bill, nodding an emphatic approval of all that Hank had said. The whole speech had been liberally punctuated with copious floods of tobacco juice, which formed a small river between the two men.
“Best thing I know of down our way,” said Bill, after they had taken another good look at the ship, “the best thing I know of was a raffle over ter Jellison’s auction-rooms. A raffle’s a great thing fer pickin up bargains in niggers an’ horses. This pertickler one was fer a bay horse, a new light buggy an’ harness, an’ a mulatto gal Sal. The whole thing wuz wurth fifteen hundred dollars, an’ we had fifteen hundred chances at a dollar a head. Highest throw took first choice; lowest, the remainder. Winners to pay twenty dollars each fer refreshments.”
“Leetle bit selfish o’ you, Bill, ter keep all thet to yerself,” said Hank, giving Bill a reproachful glance.
“Mabby so, mabby so. But you won’t lose nuthin’, Hank, ef I can help yer in the footur. ’Pears like someone wuz a-tellin’ me,” he continued reflectively, “thet yer wuz a-wurkin’ fer the county ’bout thet time fer board an’ clo’s.”
“Be durned ef I wuzn’t,” replied Hank with great candor. “Shot at a free nigger an’ killed Brady’s dog Pete. Ef it’d been the nigger I’d happened ter kill, hit would ’a’ been all right; but bein’ ’twas a bluded hound thet had tred hundreds o’ runaways, it wuz anuther question; an’ not havin’ the muney ter pay a fine, an’ Brady bein’ purty mad, why in I went fer a munth.”
“Wall, as I was a-sayin’, ter perceed, by a lucky chance it wuz my fust choice, an’ I choose the gal. I knowed she wuz a fust-class breeder an’ my muney wuz shure fer a hundred per cent on her.”
“I swear ter gosh, but yer right, Bill; mate her with the right sort an’ you’s got yer own muney.”
Both men now turned their attention to the advancing ship.
“I see ol’ Pollock’s got ’em in tow,” remarked Hank reflectively, after a moment’s silence. “Ans Pollock’s as crafty as can be. No ’fense meant, yer know; seems he’s yer boss still; mean cuss ef he’s rich’s a jedge”; he continued, “s’pose they’ve got a heap o’ money, too.”
“Can’t say as to thet,” replied Bill, “but they bought Pollock’s ol’ place, an’ it looks as though money might be plenty the way everything has been fixed up fer the missis.”
The noon hours were now over, and a great deal of confusion reigned, caused by the arrival of a ship in port with so rich a man as Mr. Montfort aboard. The two friends became separated in the ensuing bustle which attended the landing of the party. During the preceding conversation a carriage and teams for transporting the baggage and slaves had drawn up alongside the shore; and as Mr. Montfort stepped on the rickety wharf and assisted his wife to do the same, a murmur of involuntary admiration ran through the motley crowd of rough white men and ignorant slaves.
Grace Montfort was a dream of beauty even among beautiful women. Tall and slender; her form was willowy, although perfectly molded. Her complexion was creamy in its whiteness, of the tint of the camellia; her hair, a rich golden brown, fell in rippling masses far below the waist line; brown eyes, large and soft as those seen in the fawn; heavy black eyebrows marking a high white forehead, and features as clearly cut as a cameo, completed a most lovely type of Southern beauty.
The two children followed their mother closely. They were sturdy boys, who resembled her in the beauty of their features; and in Jesse, the baby, a still greater resemblance could be traced, because the hair had been allowed to remain in long, soft curls. So they came ashore to their new home, obsequiously waited upon by Mr. Pollock, and lovingly attended by their numerous slaves. In an instant the family was seated in the waiting vehicle; and before the spectators could fully realize the beauty and elegance of the newcomers, they were whirled away, and the carriage was lost in a cloud of dust.
Hank Davis and Bill Sampson met once more before they left the wharf. “Ef they hain’t got an overseer, I’m goin’ to ’ply fer the job”; said Hank, “never seed sich a booty in my life.”
Bill Sampson scratched his head meditatively: “Strikes me, Hank, thet thet ar female’s got a black streak in her somewhar.”
Hank stared at Bill a moment, as though he thought he had suddenly lost his senses; then he burst into a loud guffaw.
“You git out, Bill Sampson.”
“Wall, maybe,” said Bill, “maybe so. Thar’s too much cream color in the face and too little blud seen under the skin fer a genooine white ’ooman. You can’t tell nothin’ ’bout these Britishers; they’re allers squeamish ’bout thar nigger brats; yas, sah, very squeamish. I’ve hern tell that they think nuthin of ejcatin’ thar black brats, and freein’ ’em, an’ makin’ ’em rich.”
“You go to the devil”; returned Hank, as he moved away, “you’re wus’ nan ol’ nigger, allers seein’ a possum up a tree; an’ ’taint no possum ’tall — nuthin’ but er skunk.”
Apologists tell us as an excuse for the barbarous practice of slavery, that it was a godlike institution for the spread of the gospel of the meek and lowly carpenter’s son, and that the African savage brought to these shores in chains was a most favored being.
Such may be the thoughts of the careless and superficial mind; but when we survey the flotsam and jetsam left from the wreck of the Civil War, we can deceive ourselves no longer; we must confess that the natural laws which govern individuals and communities never relax in their operation. The fruit of slavery was poisonous and bitter; let us rejoice that it no longer exists.
3
“COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE”
In sooth I know not why I am so sad:
It wearies me; you say it wearies you;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff ’tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn;
And such a wantwit sadness makes of me
That I have much ado to know myself.
— MERCHANT OF VENICE
The old Pollock homestead was an exquisite spot. The house was a long, low, rambling structure, consisting of many large, airy rooms inside, and ornamented without by piazzas supported by huge pillars. Immense trees shaded the driveway and embowered the stately white mansion. Gay parterres of flowers ornamented the rolling lawn, which divided the great house from the Negro quarters which were picturesquely visible at a convenient distance from it.
Within the house Mr. Montfort had gathered all the treasures which could possibly add to the comfort and pleasure of his lovely wife. Beautiful rugs covered the floors, fine paintings adorned the walls, gleaming statuary flashed upon one from odd nooks and corners. In the library music had found a home in the most comfortable corner of the room. On a table one might find a volume of Goethe in the original; on the grand piano the score of a then-popular opera; while a magnificent harp, standing near, hinted of musical talents highly cultivated.
Business had prospered with Montfort; his crops flourished; but a nameless trouble seemed to be halting upon the threshold of the home he loved, and to threaten those whom he cherished so fondly.
The first year of residence in New Bern had been very pleasant for the Montforts. Society, such as it was, opened its arms to the family and voted the highly cultured wife and cherub children great additions. The house was a favorite resort for all the young people of the neighborhood. Mrs. Montfort had been educated in England, and had brought with her to the provincial families with whom she now associated all the refinements of the Old World. Having great wealth for the times, she had always been indulged in every whim by the doting bachelor uncle who had made her his heiress, but who had died soon after her marriage to Charles Montfort. As Grace Montfort, she found again the love her uncle had delighted to lavish upon his adopted child. Possessed of a bright, joyous nature, she liked nothing better than to gather about her the young men and women of the neighborhood and make life pleasant for them; and they in turn learned from her customs and refinements which otherwise might never have come their way. Everyone voted her the dearest and most beautiful woman they had ever known, and all would have gone merry as a marriage bell, but (if it were not for the buts and ifs of this life, what a pleasant place the world would be) into this paradise of good feelings and admiration came Anson Pollock with his bitter envy and his unlawful love, and finally with his determination to possess the lovely Grace Montfort at all hazards.
Gradually the friendly relations of the neighbors turned to coldness and reserve. It was whispered about that Montfort was about to free his slaves. This in itself was a dangerous doctrine at that time in that part of the world, and a man suspected of entertaining ideas of freedom for slaves must either change his tactics or his residence, or else forfeit life and property. Then again, Bill Sampson’s words to Hank Davis had somehow found a voice, and the suspicion of Negro blood in the veins of Mrs. Montfort was a deathblow to a proud spirit and social aspirations. These two serious charges had spread abroad like wildfire.
It was a hot morning, a very hot morning in early summer. There had been no rain for some time. Mrs. Montfort lay in a hammock outside the breakfast-room windows. Lucy, her maid, was mending lace and children’s garments a short distance away.
Lucy was Mrs. Montfort’s foster sister; both were born on the same day. Their relations had always been those of inseparable friends rather than of mistress and slave.
“No rain today, Lucy. I never used to mind the heat at home (this with a sigh). How fair it must be over the blue waters of the bay; I can almost smell the cedars outside the entrance gates.”
“Yas, Miss Grace” (to Lucy her mistress was always “Miss Grace”), “I do feel sort o’ squeamish myself sometimes when I tink of the gals all dancin’ Sundays in the square; but reckon we’ll git used ter these people here arter a-while; leastwise, I hope so.”
Mrs. Montfort did not reply, and her maid noticed, as she glanced anxiously at her mistress, that a frown was on her face. Lucy sighed. “Miss Grace” had been noted once for her sunny, cheerful temper. Now all was changed.
Beyond the rolling lawn fields of cotton could be seen, the leaves twisting in the heat and the steady glare of the sun. Zigzag fences separated the cotton from fields of corn; away in the distance dim aisles of pine trees stretched their dark arms toward the heavens, their dark foliage suggestive of cool shadows and quiet glades. The road wound in and out among the pines, through a woodland, and terminated in the highway just visible from the piazza. Inside the long, open windows little Jesse played at building houses with the bags of golden eagles that his father kept in a drawer of his escritoire.
“Grace, Grace, Lucy,” called the child, “my houses won’t stay up; come in and help me.”
Just then a group appeared coming around a corner of an outbuilding. Two men walked beside a pony, astride whose back sat Master Charles. As they approached the house the gentlemen swept off their wide-brimmed hats in a gallant salute to Mrs. Montfort, which she returned by rising from her recumbent position and dropping a low courtesy. The gentlemen were Mr. Montfort and Mr. Pollock. Jesse, hearing the pony’s feet, came out the window and ran down the piazza steps to his father, who, as Charles sprang to the ground, lifted the excited child to the pony’s back. Mrs. Montfort watched the approach of the little procession with a pleased smile. She made a fair picture in her elaborately embroidered white morning robe, her beautiful hair arranged in drooping curls at the sides of her head, as was the fashion of the time.
“See me, Mama Grace,” cried Jesse, as he clapped his little hands, and dug the heels of his tiny-slippered feet into the pony’s side, in imitation of his father on horseback. As Montfort watched him, the picture of his last Sunday in Bermuda arose before him: the little Negro child astride his mother’s back, spurring her like a rider his horse; and in his ears rang the pleasant voice of his silver-haired pastor. At the piazza steps he called a servant to take away the pony, and turned to enter the house, followed by Mr. Pollock, with Jesse in his arms and Charles by his side. Jesse kept up an incessant chatter. They passed through the breakfast-room, where Montfort placed the child upon the floor.
“Charles, help me build my houses!” he cried, attracted to his late employment at sight of the golden eagles. “See, papa, all my houses tumble down. Charles’ houses don’t fall down, but mine always do. Come and help me, Charles.”
“You are not patient enough, my son,” replied the father, smiling down upon his petulance. “You must be patient and persevere, and after a while you will be able to make your houses stand. Isn’t that right, Mr. Pollock?”
Pollock stood a little apart, gazing in amazement at the scene before him. Golden eagles given to a child to play with was a little beyond him. He made no direct reply to Mr. Montfort’s remark, and if the latter had been an observant man, he might have been a bit puzzled at the expression on his face. But Charles Montfort was ingenuousness itself, seeing in no man an enemy. Anson Pollock was his opposite; his ruling passion was covetousness. His eyes were fairly dazzled by the sight of the gold so carelessly strewing the floor. It positively took away his breath.
“Come, Pollock, we will talk over those matters in my study,” said Montfort presently. “My son,” he added, as he paused at the doorway, “be careful not to lose your ducats. They are your portion to pay your college bills when you cross the ocean to finish your education.”
“Going to send him abroad to study?” carelessly inquired Pollock.
“Oh, yes; America’s all right for me, but bonny England for my boys.”
Anson Pollock, whom Charles Montfort had chosen for his friend, was a man of dashing appearance. He carried his years jauntily, and had a good opinion of himself where women were concerned. He was made much of by the ladies in the vicinity because of his wealth. It mattered not that his wife had died mysteriously. Rumor said his ill treatment and infidelity had driven her to suicide; it had even been whispered that he had not hesitated to whip her by proxy through his overseer, Bill Sampson, in the same way he did his slaves; but rumor is a lying jade. Nevertheless, his fair speech, auburn curls, and deep-blue eyes, so falsely smiling, won his way, and Mr. Pollock was the popular ladies’ man of two counties.
He had showered Mrs. Montfort with assiduous attention since her arrival three years before, but he soon found that he made no headway. Once he dared to tell her of his passion — that from the first moment he saw her aboard the “Island Queen” he had been maddened by her beauty.
“Why do you tell me this?” she cried, in angry amazement at his daring. “Am I so careless of my husband’s honor that his friends feel at liberty to insult me?”
“Granted that I overstep the bounds of friendship in speaking thus to you, but it is from no lack of respect; rather the deed of one who risks all upon one throw of the dice. Have mercy, I pray you, and grant me your friendship — your love.”
Then Grace Montfort said, while her eyes blazed with wrath: “Mr. Pollock, we are strangers here, my husband and I. He trusts you, and I have no wish to disturb that trust; but if you ever address such words to me again, I shall let Mr. Montfort know the kind of man you are. I promise you that he will know how to deal with you.” This conversation had taken place one night at a grand fête, where Grace had been the belle of the assembly; they were in the conservatory at the time. Anson Pollock was not accustomed to having his advances received in this way by any woman whom he elected to honor with his admiration. As the indignant woman swept back to the ballroom, he stood and watched her with an evil look, which meant no good. After that they met as usual, but Pollock had never ventured to speak to her again of love. Outwardly he was the same suave, genial gentleman, but within his breast was a living fire of hatred. The two men became faster friends than ever. Mrs. Montfort was pleased to have it so; they had so few friends in this alien land; she felt so lonely, so helpless. She dreaded making enemies. It was but the lull before the storm.
When the study door had closed behind the two men, Mr. Montfort dropped his pleasant, careless manner and faced Mr. Pollock with an anxious face.
“Pollock,” he began abruptly, “I’m worried.”
“What about?” asked Pollock, turning from the window, where he seemed to be viewing the landscape.
“Have you heard the rumors about my wife being of African descent?” Montfort asked, coming very close to Pollock, as though afraid the very air would hear him. “There are threats, too, against my life because of my desire to free my slaves.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Pollock. “I have heard the rumors about Mrs. Montfort, but that is nothing — nothing but the malice of some malicious, jealous woman. As for the threats against your life, how can you think of such things a second time. You are among the most chivalrous people on the face of the earth, who will protect you in your home.”
Montfort stood a moment before his friend, gazing at him earnestly; then he said: “Pollock, if anything happens to me, I want you to promise me to help my wife and babies to get back to Bermuda.”
“Why, what can happen, man; you are nervous without a cause.”
“In that safe,” continued Montfort, not heeding the interruption, “you will find money and deeds; promise me that you will save them for my family.”
“I promise; but it is all nonsense.”
“I shall hold you to your promise,” replied Montfort solemnly.
The committee on public safety generally met once a month. They had a chairman, but no one knew his identity save a chosen few of the committee. Indeed very little was known positively as to the identity of any of the members; certainly no one would ever have suspected the elegant Anson Pollock of being connected with such an organization.
