BLACK AND WHITE.
In the meanwhile, as we have said, the Canadian hunter, whose name we at
length know, had reached the bank of the river where he left the Negro
concealed in the shrubs.
During the long absence of his defender, the slave could easily have
fled, and that with the more reason, because he had almost the certainty
of not being pursued before a lapse of time, which would have given him
a considerable start on those who were so obstinately bent on capturing
him.
He had not done so, however, either because the idea of flight did not
appear to him realizable, or because he was too wearied, he had not
stirred from the spot where he sought a refuge at the first moment, and
had remained with his eyes obstinately fixed on the platform, following
with anxious glance the movements of the persons collected on it.
John Davis had not at all flattered him in the portrait he had drawn of
him to the hunter. Quoniam was really one of the most magnificent
specimens of the African race: twenty-two years of age at the most, he
was tall, well-proportioned and powerfully built; he had wide shoulders,
powerfully developed chest, and well-hung limbs; it was plain that he
combined unequalled strength with far from ordinary speed and lightness;
his features were fine and expressive, his countenance breathed
frankness, his widely opened eyes were intelligent--in short, although
his skin was of the deepest black, and unfortunately, in America, the
land of liberty, that colour is an indelible stigma of servitude, this
man did not seem at all to have been created for slavery, for everything
about him aspired to liberty and that free-will which God has given to
his creatures, and men have tried in vain to tear from them.
When the Canadian re-entered the canoe, and the American quitted the
platform, a sigh of satisfaction expanded the Negro's chest, for,
without knowing positively what had passed between the hunter and his
old master, as he was too far off to hear what was said, he understood
that, temporarily at least, he had nothing to fear from the latter, and
he awaited with feverish impatience the return of his generous defender,
that he might learn from him what he had henceforth to hope or fear.
So soon as he reached land, the Canadian pulled his canoe on to the
sand, and walked with a firm and deliberate step toward the spot where
he expected to find the Negro.
He soon noticed him in a sitting posture, almost at the same spot where
he had left him.
The hunter could not repress a smile of satisfaction.
"Ah, ah," he said to him, "there you are, then, friend Quoniam."
"Yes, master. Did John Davis tell you my name?"
"As you see; but what are you doing there? Why did you not escape during
my absence?"
"Quoniam is no coward," he replied, "to escape while another is risking
his life for him. I was waiting ready to surrender myself if the white
hunter's life had been threatened."[1]
This was said with a simplicity full of grandeur, proving that such was
really the Negro's intention.
"Good!" the hunter replied, kindly, "I thank you, for your intention was
good; fortunately, your interference was unneeded; but, at any rate, you
acted more wisely by remaining here."
"Whatever may happen to me, master, be assured that I shall feel ever
grateful to you."
"All the better for you, Quoniam, for that will prove to me that you are
not ungrateful, which is one of the worst vices humanity is afflicted
by; but be good enough not to call me master again, for it grieves me;
the word implies a degrading inferiority, and besides, I am not your
master, but merely your companion."
"What other name can a poor slave give you?"
"My own, hang it. Call me Tranquil, as I call you Quoniam. Tranquil is
not a difficult name to remember, I should think."
"Oh, not at all," the Negro said with a laugh.
[Footnote 1: Nothing appears to us so ridiculous as that conventional
jargon Which is placed in the mouth of Negroes; a jargon which, in the
first place, impedes the story, and is moreover false; a double reason
which urges us not to employ it here--all the worse for the local
colouring.--G.A.]
"Good! That is settled, then; now, let us go to something else, and, in
the first place, take this."
The hunter drew a paper from his belt, which he handed to the Black.
"What is this?" the latter asked with a timid glance, for his ignorance
prevented him deciphering it.
"That?" the hunter said with a smile; "it is a precious talisman, which
makes of you a man like all the rest of us, and removes you from the
animals among which you have been counted up to this day; in a word, it
is a deed by which John Davis, native of South Carolina, slave dealer,
from this day restores to Quoniam his full and entire liberty, to enjoy
it as he thinks proper--or, if you prefer it, it is your deed of
liberation written by your former master, and signed by competent
witnesses, who will stand by you if necessary."
On hearing these words the Negro turned pale after the fashion of men of
his colour; that is to say, his face assumed a tinge of dirty gray, his
eyes were unnaturally dilated, and for a few seconds he remained
motionless, crushed, incapable of uttering a word or making a movement.
At length he burst into a loud laugh, leaped up twice or thrice with the
suppleness of a wild beast, and then broke suddenly into tears.
The hunter attentively watched the Negro's movement, feeling interested
to the highest degree in what he saw, and evidencing each moment a
greater sympathy with this man.
"Then," the Black at length said, "I am free--truly free?"
"As free as a man can be," Tranquil replied, with a smile.
"Now I can come, go, sleep, work, or rest, and no one can prevent me,
and I need not fear the lash?"
"Quite so."
"I belong to myself, myself alone? I can act and think like other men? I
am no longer a beast of burthen, which is loaded and harnessed? I am as
good as any other man, white, yellow, or red?"
"Quite so," the hunter answered, amused and interested at the same time
by these simple questions.
"Oh!" the Negro said, as he took his head in his hands, "I am free
then--free at last!"
He uttered these words with a strange accent, which made the hunter
quiver.
All at once he fell on his knees, clasped his hands, and raised his eyes
to Heaven.
"My God!" he exclaimed, with an accent of ineffable happiness. "Thou who
canst do all, thou to whom all men are equal, and who dost not regard
their colour to protect and defend them. Thou, whose goodness is
unbounded like thy power; thanks! Thanks! My God, for having drawn me
from slavery, and restored my liberty!"
After giving vent to this prayer, which was the expression of the
feelings that boiled in his heart, the Negro fell on the ground, and for
some minutes remained plunged in earnest thought. The hunter respected
his silence.
At length the Negro raised his head again.
"Listen, hunter," he said. "I have returned thanks to God for my
deliverance, as was my duty; for it was He who inspired you with the
thought of defending me. Now that I am beginning to grow a little
calmer, and feel accustomed to my new condition, be good enough to tell
me what passed between you and my master, that I may know the extent of
the debt I owe you, and that I may regulate my future conduct by it.
Speak, I am listening."
"What need to tell you a story which can interest you so slightly? You
are free, that ought to be sufficient for you."
"No, that is not sufficient; I am free, that is true, but how have I
become so? That is what I do not know, and I have the right to ask of
you."
"The story, I say again, has nothing that can interest you at all;
still, as it may cause you to form a better opinion of the man to whom
you belonged, I will not longer refuse to tell it to you; so listen."
Tranquil, after this opening, told in all their details the events that
happened between himself and the slave dealer, and when he had finished,
added--
"Well, are you satisfied now?"
"Yes," the Negro replied, who had listened to him with the most
sustained attention. "I know that, next to God, I owe everything to you,
and I will remember it; never will you have to remind me of the debt,
under whatever circumstances we may meet."
"You owe me nothing, now that you are free; it is your duty to employ
that liberty in the way a man of upright and honest heart should do."
"I will try not to prove myself unworthy of what God and you have done
for me; I also thank John Davis sincerely for the good feeling that
urged him to listen to your remonstrances; perhaps I may be able to
requite him some day; and, if the opportunity offers, I shall not
neglect it."
"Good! I like to hear you speak so, for it proves to me that I was not
mistaken about you; and now what do you intend to do?"
"What advice do you give me?"
"The question you ask me is a serious one, and I hardly know how to
answer it; the choice of a profession is always a difficult affair, and
must be reflected upon ripely before a decision is formed; in spite of
my desire to be of service to you, I should not like to give you advice,
which you would doubtless follow for my sake, and which might presently
cause you regret. Besides, I am a man whose life since the age of seven
has always been spent in the woods, and I am, consequently, far too
unacquainted with what is called the world to venture to lead you on a
path which I do not know myself."
"That reasoning seems to me perfectly correct. Still, I cannot remain
here, and must make up my mind to something or other."
"Do one thing."
"What is it?"
"Here are a knife, gun, powder, and bullets; the desert is open before
you, so go and try for a few days the free life of the great solitudes;
during your long hours of hunting you will have leisure to reflect on
the vocation you are desirous to embrace; you will weigh in your mind
the advantages you expect to derive from it, and then, when your mind is
quite made up, you can turn your back on the desert, go back to the
towns, and, as you are an active, honest, and intelligent man, I am
certain you will succeed in whatever calling you may choose."
The Negro nodded his head several times.
"Yes," he said, "in what you propose to me there is both good and bad;
that is not exactly what I should wish."
"Explain yourself clearly, Quoniam; I can see you have something at the
end of your tongue which you do not like to say."
"That is true; I have not been frank with you, Tranquil, and I was
wrong, as I now see clearly. Instead of asking you hypocritically for
advice, which I did not at all intend to follow, I ought to have told
you honestly my way of thinking, and that would have been altogether
better."
"Come," the hunter said, laughingly, "speak."
"Well, really I do not see why I should not tell you what I have on my
heart. If there be a man in the world who takes an interest in me it is
certainly you; and hence, the sooner I know what I have to depend on,
the better: the only life that suits me is that of a wood-ranger. My
instincts and feelings impel me to it; all my attempts at flight, when I
was a slave, tended to that object. I am only a poor Negro, whom his
narrow mind and intelligence would not guide properly in towns, where
man is not valued for what he is worth, but for what he appears. What
use would that liberty, of which I am so proud, appear to me, in a town
where I should have to dispose of it to the first comer, in order to
procure the food and clothing I need? I should only have regained my
liberty to render myself a slave. Hence it is in the desert alone I can
profit by the kindness I owe to you, without fear of ever being impelled
by wretchedness to actions unworthy of a man conscious of his own worth.
Hence it is in the desert I desire henceforth to live, only visiting the
towns to exchange the skins of animals I have killed for powder,
bullets, and clothing. I am young and strong, and the God who has
hitherto protected me will not desert me."
"You are perhaps right, and I cannot blame you for wishing to follow my
example, when the life I lead seems to me preferable to all others.
Well, now that is all settled, my good Quoniam, we can part, and I wish
you luck; perhaps we shall meet again, sometimes, on the Indian
territory."
The Negro began laughing, and showed two rows of teeth white as snow,
but made no reply.
Tranquil threw his rifle on his shoulder, gave him a last friendly sign
of parting, and turned to go back to his canoe.
Quoniam seized the rifle the hunter had left him, passed the knife
through his girdle, to which he also fastened the horns of powder and
bullets, and then, after a final glance to see he had forgotten nothing,
he followed the hunter, who had already gained a considerable start on
him.
He caught Tranquil up at the moment he reached his canoe, and was about
to thrust it into the water; at the sound of footsteps, the hunter
turned round.
"Halloh," he said, "is that you again, Quoniam?"
"Yes," he answered.
"What brings you here?"
"Why," the Negro said, as he buried his fingers in his woolly hair, and
scratched his head furiously, "you forgot something."
"What was it?"
"To take me with you."
"That is true," the hunter said, as he offered him his hand; "forgive
me, brother."
"Then you consent?" he asked, with ill-restrained joy.
"Yes."
"We shall not part again?"
"It will depend on your will."
"Oh, then," he exclaimed, with a joyous outburst of laughter, "we shall
be together a long time."
"Well, be it so," the Canadian went on. "Come; two men, when they have
faith in each other, are very strong in the desert. Heaven, doubtless,
willed that we should meet. Henceforth we shall be brothers."
Quoniam leaped into the canoe, and gaily caught up the paddles.
The poor slave had never been so happy; never had the air seemed to him
purer, or nature more lovely--everything smiled on him, and made holiday
for him, for that moment he was about to begin really living the life of
other men, without any bitter afterthought; the past was no more than a
dream. He had found in his defender what so many men seek in vain,
throughout a lengthened existence--a friend, a brother, to whom he could
trust entirely, and from whom he would have no secrets.
In a few minutes they reached the spot which the Canadian had noticed on
his arrival; this spot, clearly indicated by the two oaks which had
fallen in a cross, formed a species of small sandy promontory,
favourable to the establishment of a night bivouac; for thence not only
could the river be surveyed a long distance up and down, but it was also
easy to watch both banks, and prevent a surprise.
"We will pass the night here," Tranquil said; "let us carry up the
canoe, so as to shelter our fire."
Quoniam seized the light skiff, raised it, and placing it on his
muscular shoulders, carried it to the spot his comrade had pointed out.
In the meanwhile, a considerable period had elapsed since the Canadian
and the Negro met so miraculously. The sun, which had been low when the
hunter doubled the promontory and chased the herons, was now on the
point of disappearing; night was falling rapidly, and the background of
the landscape was beginning to be confused in the shades of night, which
grew momentarily denser.
The desert was awakening, the hoarse roar of the wild beasts was heard
at intervals, mingled with the miawling of the carcajou, and the sharp
snapping bark of the prairie wolves.
The hunter chose the driest wood he could find to kindle the fire, in
order that there might be no smoke, and the flame might light up the
vicinity, so as to reveal at once the approach of the dangerous
neighbours whose cries they could hear, and whom thirst would not fail
soon to bring toward them.
The roasted birds and a few handfuls of pemmican composed the rangers'
supper; a very sober meal, only washed down with water from the river,
but which they ate with good appetite, like men who knew how to
appreciate the value of any food Providence places at their disposal.
When the last mouthful was swallowed, the Canadian paternally shared his
stock of tobacco with his new comrade, and lit his Indian pipe, in which
he was scrupulously imitated by Quoniam.
"Now," said Tranquil, "it is as well you should know that an old friend
of mine gave me the meeting at this spot about three months ago; he will
arrive at daybreak to-morrow. He is an Indian Chief, and, although
still very young, enjoys a great reputation in his tribe. I love him as
a brother, and we were, I may say, brought up together. I shall be glad
to see you gain his favour, for he is a wise and experienced man, for
whom desert life possesses no secrets. The friendship of an Indian Chief
is a precious thing to a wood-ranger; remember that. However, I feel
certain you will be good friends at once."
"I will do all that is required for that. It is sufficient that the
Chief is your friend, for me to desire that he should become mine. Up to
the present, though I have wandered about the woods a long time as a
runaway slave, I have never seen an independent Indian; hence it is
possible that I may commit some awkwardness without my knowledge. But be
assured that it will not happen through any fault of mine."
"I am convinced of it, so be easy on that head. I will warn the Chief,
who, I fancy, will be as surprised as yourself, for I expect you will be
the first person of your colour he has ever met. But night has now quite
set in; you must be fatigued by the obstinate pursuit you experienced
the whole day, and the powerful emotion you endured: sleep, while I
watch for both, especially as I expect we shall make a long march
to-morrow, and you must be prepared for it."
The Negro understood the correctness of his friend's remarks, the more
so as he was literally exhausted with fatigue; he had been hunted so
closely by his ex-master's blood-hounds, that for four days he had not
closed his eyes. Hence, laying aside any false shame, he stretched out
his feet to the fire, and slept almost immediately.
Tranquil remained seated on the canoe with his rifle between his legs,
to be prepared for the slightest alarm, and plunged into deep thought,
while attentively watching the neighbourhood, and pricking his ear at
the slightest noise.