HOW THEY STOLE THE PREACHER.
THE scenes we have described in the foregoing chapter have not yet
been brought to a close. In and about the tavern may be seen groups
of men, in the last stage of muddled mellowness, the rank fumes of
bad liquor making the very air morbid. Conclaves of grotesque
figures are seated in the veranda and drinking-room, breaking the
midnight stillness with their stifled songs, their frenzied
congratulations, their political jargon; nothing of fatal
consequence would seem to have happened.
"Did master send for me? You've risen from a rag shop, my man!"
interrupts the physician.
"Master there-sorry to see him sick-owns me." Harry cast a subdued
look on the bed where lay his late purchaser.
Harry's appearance is not the most prepossessing,--he might have been
taken for anything else but a minister of the gospel; though the
quick eye of the southerner readily detected those frank and manly
features which belong to a class of very dark men who exhibit
uncommon natural genius.
At the sound of Harry's voice, M'Fadden makes an effort to raise
himself on his elbow. The loss of blood has so reduced his physical
power that his effort is unsuccessful. He sinks back,
prostrate,--requests the physician to assist him in turning over. He
will face his preacher. Putting out his hand, he embraces him
cordially,--motions him to be seated.
The black preacher, that article of men merchandise, takes a seat at
the bed-side, while the man of medicine withdraws to the table. The
summons is as acceptable to Harry as it is strange to the physician,
who has never before witnessed so strange a scene of familiarity
between slave and master. All is silent for several minutes. Harry
looks at his master, as if questioning the motive for which he is
summoned into his presence; and still he can read the deep anxiety
playing upon M'Fadden's distorted countenance. At length, Harry,
feeling that his presence may be intrusive, breaks the silence by
enquiring if there is anything he can do for master. Mr. M'Fadden
whispers something, lays his trembling hand on Harry's, casts a
meaning glance at the physician, and seems to swoon. Returning to
his bed-side, the physician lays his hand upon the sick man's brow;
he will ascertain the state of his system.
"Give-him-his-Bible," mutters the wounded man, pointing languidly to
the table. "Give it to him that he may ask God's blessing for me-for
me-for me,--"
The doctor obeys his commands, and the wretch, heart bounding with
joy, receives back his inspiring companion. It is dear to him, and
with a smile of gratitude invading his countenance he returns
thanks. There is pleasure in that little book. "And now, Harry, my
boy," says M'Fadden, raising his hand to Harry's shoulder, and
looking imploringly in his face as he regains strength; "forgive
what I have done. I took from you that which was most dear to your
feelings; I took it from you when the wounds of your heart were
gushing with grief-" He makes an effort to say more, but his voice
fails; he will wait a few moments.
The kind words touch Harry's feelings; tears glistening in his eyes
tell how he struggles to suppress the emotions of his heart. "Did
you mean my wife and children, master?" he enquires.
M'Fadden, somewhat regaining strength, replies in the affirmative.
He acknowledges to have seen that the thing "warn't just right." His
imagination has been wandering through the regions of heaven, where,
he is fully satisfied, there is no objection to a black face. God
has made a great opening in his eyes and heart just now. He sees and
believes such things as he neither saw nor believed before; they
pass like clouds before his eyes, never, never to be erased from his
memory. Never before has he thought much about repentance; but now
that he sees heaven on one side and hell on the other, all that once
seemed right in bartering and selling the bodies and souls of men,
vanishes. There, high above all, is the vengeance of heaven written
in letters of blood, execrating such acts, and pointing to the
retribution. It is a burning consciousness of all the suffering he
has inflicted upon his negroes. Death, awful monitor! stares him in
the face; it holds the stern realities of truth and justice before
him; it tells him of the wrong,--points him to the right. The
unbending mandates of slave law, giving to man power to debase
himself with crimes the judicious dare not punish, are being
consumed before Omnipotence, the warning voice of which is calling
him to his last account.
And now the wounded man is all condescension, hoping forgiveness!
His spirit has yielded to Almighty power; he no longer craves for
property in man; no, his coarse voice is subdued into softest
accents. He whispers "coloured man," as if the merchandise changed
as his thoughts are brought in contact with revelations of the
future.
"Take the Bible, my good boy-take it, read it to me, before I die.
Read it, that it may convert my soul. If I have neglected myself on
earth, forgive me; receive my repentance, and let me be saved from
eternal misery. Read, my dear good boy,"-M'Fadden grasps his hand
tighter and tighter-"and let your voice be a warning to those who
never look beyond earth and earth's enjoyments." The physician
thinks his patient will get along until morning, and giving
directions to the attendants, leaves him.
Harry has recovered from the surprise which so sudden a change of
circumstances produced, and has drawn from the patient the cause of
his suffering. He opens the restored Bible, and reads from it, to
Mr. M'Fadden's satisfaction. He reads from Job; the words producing
a deep effect upon the patient's mind.
The wretched preacher, whose white soul is concealed beneath black
skin, has finished his reading. He will now address himself to his
master, in the following simple manner.
"Master, it is one thing to die, and another to die happy. It is one
thing to be prepared to die, another to forget that we have to die,
to leave the world and its nothingness behind us. But you are not
going to die, not now. Master, the Lord will forgive you if you,
make your repentance durable. 'Tis only the fear of death that has
produced the change on your mind. Do, master! learn the Lord; be
just to we poor creatures, for the Lord now tells you it is not
right to buy and sell us."
"Buy and sell you!" interrupts the frightened man, making an effort
to rise from his pillow; "that I never will, man nor woman. If God
spares my life, my people shall be liberated; I feel different on
that subject, now! The difference between the commerce of this world
and the glory of heaven brightens before me. I was an ignorant man
on all religious matters; I only wanted to be set right in the way
of the Lord,--that's all." Again he draws his face under the sheet,
writhing with the pain of his wound.
"I wish everybody could see us as master does, about this time; for
surely God can touch the heart of the most hardened. But master
ain't going to die so soon as he thinks," mutters Harry, wiping the
sweat from his face, as he lays his left hand softly upon master's
arm. "God guide us in all coming time, and make us forget the
retribution that awaits our sins!" he concludes, with a smile
glowing on his countenance.
The half spoken words catch upon the patient's ear. He starts
suddenly from his pillow, as if eager to receive some favourable
intelligence. "Don't you think my case dangerous, my boy? Do you
know how deep is the wound?" he enquires, his glassy eyes staring
intently at Harry.
"It is all the same, master!" is the reply.
"Give me your hand again"-M'Fadden grasps his hand and seems to
revive-"pray for me now; your prayers will be received into heaven,
they will serve me there!"
"Ah, master," says Harry, kindly, interrupting him at this juncture,
"I feel more than ever like a christian. It does my heart good to
hear you talk so true, so kind. How different from yesterday! then I
was a poor slave, forced from my children, with nobody to speak a
kind word for me; everybody to reckon me as a good piece of property
only. I forgive you, master-I forgive you; God is a loving God, and
will forgive you also." The sick man is consoled; and, while his
preacher kneels at his bed-side, offering up a prayer imploring
forgiveness, he listens to the words as they fall like cooling drops
on his burning soul. The earnestness--the fervency and pathos of the
words, as they gush forth from the lips of a wretch, produce a still
deeper effect upon the wounded man. Nay, there is even a chord
loosened in his heart; he sobs audibly. "Live on earth so as to be
prepared for heaven; that when death knocks at the door you may
receive him as a welcome guest. But, master! you cannot meet our
Father in heaven while the sin of selling men clings to your
garments. Let your hair grow grey with justice, and God will reward
you," he concludes.
"True, Harry; true!"--he lays his hand on the black man's shoulder, is
about to rise--"it is the truth plainly told, and nothing more." He
will have a glass of water to quench his thirst; Harry must bring it
to him, for there is consolation in his touch. Seized with another
pain, he grasps with his left hand the arm of his consoler, works
his fingers through his matted hair, breathes violently, contorts
his face haggardly, as if suffering acutely. Harry waits till the
spasm has subsided, then calls an attendant to watch the patient
while he goes to the well. This done he proceeds into the kitchen to
enquire for a vessel. Having entered that department as the clock
strikes two, he finds Ellen busily engaged preparing food for Mr.
M'Fadden's property, which is yet fast secured in the pen. Feeling
himself a little more at liberty to move about unrestrained, he
procures a vessel, fills it at the well, carries it to his master's
bed-side, sees him comfortably cared for, and returns to the
kitchen, where he will assist Ellen in her mission of goodness.
The little pen is situated a few yards from the tavern, on the edge
of a clump of tall pines.
Ellen has got ready the corn and bacon, and with Harry she proceeds
to the pen, where the property are still enjoying that inestimable
boon,--a deep sleep.
"Always sleeping," he says, waking them one by one at the
announcement of corn and bacon. "Start up and get something good my
girl has prepared for you." He shakes them, while Ellen holds the
lantern. There is something piercing in the summons-meats are strong
arguments with the slave-they start from their slumbers, seize upon
the food, and swallow it with great relish. Harry and Ellen stand
smiling over the gusto with which they swallow their coarse meal.
"You must be good boys to-night. Old master's sick; flat down on e'
back, and 'spects he's going to die, he does." Harry shakes his head
as he tells it to the astonished merchandise. "Had a great time at
the crossing to-day; killed two or three certain, and almost put
master on the plank."
"'Twarn't no matter, nohow: nobody lose nofin if old Boss do die:
nigger on e' plantation don' put e' hat in mournin'," mutters the
negro woman, with an air of hatred. She has eaten her share of the
meal, shrugs her shoulders, and again stretches her valuable body on
the ground.
"Uncle Sparton know'd old Boss warn't gwine t' be whar de debil
couldn't cotch 'em, so long as 'e tink. If dat old mas'r debil, what
white man talk 'bout so much, don' gib 'em big roasting win 'e git
'e dah, better hab no place wid fireins fo' such folks," speaks up
old Uncle Sparton, one of the negroes, whose face shines like a
black-balled boot.
"Neber mind dat, Uncle Sparton; 'taint what ye say 'bout he. Ven
mas'r debil cotch old Boss 'e don't cotch no fool. Mas'r debil down
yander find old Boss too tuf fo' he business; he jus' like old hoss
what neber die," rejoins another.
In a word, M'Fadden had told his negroes what a great democrat he
was-how he loved freedom and a free country-until their ideas of
freedom became strangely mystified; and they ventured to assert that
he would not find so free a country when the devil became his
keeper. "Mas'r tink 'e carry 'e plantation t' t'oder world wid him,
reckon," Uncle Sparton grumblingly concludes, joining the motley
conclave of property about to resume its repose.
Ellen returns to the house. Harry will remain, and have a few words
more with the boys. A few minutes pass, and Ellen returns with an
armful of blankets, with which she covers the people carefully and
kindly. How full of goodness-how touching is the act! She has done
her part, and she returns to the house in advance of Harry, who
stops to take a parting good-night, and whisper a word of
consolation in their ears. He looks upon them as dear brothers in
distress, objects for whom he has a fellow sympathy. He leaves them
for the night; closes the door after him; locks it. He will return
to Ellen, and enjoy a mutual exchange of feeling.
Scarcely has he left the door, when three persons, disguised, rush
upon him, muffle his head with a blanket, bind his hands and feet,
throw him bodily into a waggon, and drive away at a rapid speed.