OTHER PHASES OF THE SUBJECT.
WE must leave to the reader's imagination much that transpired at
the Rosebrook Villa during the night above mentioned, and ask him to
accompany us on the following morning, when curious placards may be
seen posted here and there at corners of streets and other
conspicuous places about the city. Mr. Pringle Blowers has lost a
beautiful female slave, whose fair hair, beautiful complexion, deep
blue eyes, delicate features, and charming promise, is in large type
and blackest printer's ink set forth most glowingly. Had Mr. Pringle
Blowers been a poet instead of a chivalric rice-planter, he might
have emblazoned his loss in sentimental rhyme. But Pringle Blowers
says poets always make fools of themselves; and, although the south
is a sweet and sunny land, he is happy indeed that it is troubled
with none of the miscreants. He owned niggers innumerable; but they
were only common stock, all of whom he could have lost without
feeling any more than ordinary disappointment at the loss of their
worth in money. For this one, however, he had a kind of undefined
love, which moved his heart most indescribably. Disappointed in the
gratification of his desires, he is mortified and maddened to
desperation. Why should a slave he had invested so much money in,
and felt so like making a lady of, and never would have thought of
setting at field labour, run away? He only wanted her for the most
aristocratic purpose the south can provide for a beautiful slave.
Hence Mr. Pringle Blowers, through the medium of his knowledge of
letters, puts forward his placard-a copy of which he inserts in all
the most respectable morning journals-in which the fair outlines of
his lost woman are simply set forth. He will give three hundred
dollars for her apprehension, fifty dollars more for proof to
convict any person of harbouring her, and an additional sum for
lodging her in any gaol in the country. This large reward Mr.
Pringle Blowers will pay in hard cash; and he has no doubt the
offering will be quite enough to excite the hunting propensities of
fashionable young gentlemen, as well as inveterate negro hunters.
Beside this, negro hunting being rather a democratic sport than
otherwise, Mr. Pringle Blowers reconciles his feelings with the fact
of these sports being uncommonly successful.
The reader will naturally conclude that the offer of this large
reward produced some sensation in and about the city. People stopped
along the streets, read the curious hand-bill, smiled, and made
various remarks. Ladies, always curious to know what is prominent
among the current events of the day, sent servants to ascertain what
so attractive the posters contained. It was, indeed, a regular bit
of self-enjoyed fun for them; for the ladies had all heard of
Pringle Blowers, and that a female slave for whose capture he would
give three hundred dollars had run away from him they were heartily
glad to learn.
The day-police were equally happy to hear of the loss, and anxious
to make the capture. In this position it was doubly necessary to be
cautious in proceeding to effect the escape of the fair girl. If
discovered in the act the stranger might be subjected to a series of
inprisonments that would sacrifice his life. Again, he might be
assassinated by some disguised hand; or, if an infuriated mob were
let loose upon him, no police interference could save his life. As
suspicion is ever on the point of giving out its dangerous caprices
where a community live fearing one another, so the stranger became
sensible of the shafts of suspicion that might at any moment be
darted at him. Despatching his schooner on her voyage, he continued
for several days walking about the city, as if indifferent to what
was passing. He read the curious poster in which was offered the
goodly reward for the apprehension of a lost slave, affected great
coolness, and even ignorance of the mode by which such articles were
recovered.
Fortunate was it for the stranger that he despatched the schooner
without the prize he intended to carry off, for no sooner had she
got under way and begun to move down the harbour, than she was
boarded by four men, who, producing their authority, searched her
from stem to stern. Such were their suspicions, that they would not
be satisfied until they had opened a few boxes and bales that were
stowed away in the hold. This done, the schooner was permitted to
continue her voyage, and the stranger, unmolested, continues his
walks about the city. A few days pass and the excitement has calmed
down. Pringle Blowers, although chagrined at the loss of his
valuable piece of woman property, resolves to wait the issue with
patience and forbearance. If she, fool like, has made away with
herself, he cannot bring her to life; if she be carried off by
villainous kidnappers, they must eventually suffer the consequences.
Her beauty will expose their plots. He will absorb his usual
requirement of spirit, keep the nerve up, and never despond of
regaining her while his reward of three hundred dollars stands
before a money-loving public. He would rather have lost two dozen
common niggers than this one he set so much by, intended to make so
much of, and upon whom he had set his very heart, soul, and burning
passions. But there is no profit in grief, no use in giving way to
disappointment. Philosophers bear disappointments with fortitude; he
must be a philosopher, keep a sharp look out and not despair.
How different is the scene presented at Rosebrook's Villa! There,
Annette is seen, prepared to take her departure. Dressed in male
attire, with frock coat and trousers setting so neatly, dress boots,
white vest, and brightly arranged shirt-bosom, she is the type of
perfection of a youthful southron. Franconia has expended her skill
in completing the fair girl's toilet, when Mrs. Rosebrook places a
pair of green spectacles over her eyes, bids her look in the glass,
and tells her she will pass for a planter's son among a million.
"Nobody will know me, now," she answers, viewing herself in the
mirror. Her neat setting suit, Panama hat, and green spectacles,
give a peculiar air to her lithe figure. And though her emotions are
well nigh ready to give forth tears, she cannot suppress a smile at
the singular transformation of her person.
"It'll take sharper eyes than policemen's to discover the disguise,"
says Rosebrook, who, having ordered a carriage to the door, enters
the room and takes her kindly by the hand. "Keep up a good heart;
don't despond, my child, and the chances are that you'll be
safe-you'll be in Wilmington to-morrow morning" he continues: then,
turning to Franconia, who will accompany her to that place, he
awaits her pleasure. "I am ready!" returns that generous woman, as,
arrayed in her travelling dress, she takes Annette by the hand, and
is about to proceed to the gate where the carriage waits. Mrs.
Rosebrook must take one more fond parting. Laying her right arm over
her shoulder, and pressing her to her bosom, she kisses and kisses
her fair cheek, bids her remember that God alone is her protector,
her guide to a happy future. In freedom may she live to freedom's
God; in slavery, hope ever, and trust in his mercy! With this
admonition, the excited girl, trembling, leaves the Villa, leaning
on Franconia's arm. Bradshaw has the carriage at the door, piled
with sundry boxes and portmanteaus, giving it the appearance of a
gentleman's travelling equipage. He has orders to drive to the
steam-boat landing, where the young invalid planter will embark for
New York via Wilmington and the land route. Soon they have taken
their seats, and with Rosebrook's good-natured face shining beside
Bradshaw, on the front seat, they say their happy adieu! and bound
over the road for the steamer.
It is now within fifteen minutes of the starting time. The wharf
presents a bustling scene: carriages and coaches are arriving with
eager-looking passengers, who, fearing they are a little behind
time, stare about as if bewildered, scold heedless drivers, point
out heir baggage to awkward porters who run to and fro with trunks
and boxes on their heads, and then nervously seek the ticket-office,
where they procure the piece of paper that insures them through to
New York. Albeit, finding they have quite time enough on their
hands, they escort their female voyagers on board, and loiter about
in the way of every one else, enjoying that excitement in others
which they have fortunately passed through. Here and there about the
wharf, leaning their head carelessly over black piles, are
sly-looking policemen, who scan every voyager with a searching eye.
They are incog., but the initiated recognise them at a glance. The
restless leer of that lynx eye discovers their object; anything,
from a runaway nigger to a houseless debtor, is to them acceptable
prey. Atween decks of the steamer, secured at the end of the wharf,
another scene of bustle and confusion presents itself. A passenger
is not quite sure his baggage is all on board, and must needs waste
his breath in oaths at the dumb porter, who works at his utmost
strength, under the direction of Mr. Mate, whose important figure is
poised on the wharf. Another wants to "lay over" at Richmond, and is
using most abusive language to a mulatto waiter, who has put his
trunk on one side of the boat and carpet bag on the other. A third,
a fussy old lady with two rosy-faced daughters she is, against her
southern principles, taking to the north to be educated, is making a
piteous lamentation over the remains of two bonnets-just from the
hands of the milliner-hopelessly smashed in her bandbox. The
careless porter set it on a pile of baggage, from where it tottled
over under the feet of an astonished gentleman, who endeavours to
soothe the good lady's feelings with courteous apologies. On the
upper deck, heeding no one, but now and then affecting to read a
newspaper, as passengers pace to and fro, is the stranger, seated on
one of the side seats. The engineer moves his valve now and then,
the cross-head ascends, the steam hisses below, the condenser
rumbles, the steam from the funnel roars furiously forth, spreading
its scalding vapour through the air. Again, the man, almost
imperceptibly touches the iron rod with his finger, the magic
monster again moves its piston downward, the wheels make a turn, the
massive vessel surges upon her lines, as if eager to press forward
on her course. Another gentle touch, and, obeying the summons, the
motive power is still; the man subjects the monster with his little
finger. He has stopped her near the centre, where, with a slight
touch, he can turn back or forward. Again, he lifts a small key, and
the steam, with a deafening roar, issues from the escape: he is
venting his chest. Simultaneously the second bell sounds forth its
clanking medley: two minutes more, and the snake-like craft will be
buffeting the waves, on her daily errand. As passengers begin to
muster on board, their friends clustering round the capsill of the
wharf, obstructing the way, the sturdy figure of Mr. Pringle Blowers
may be seen behind a spile near the capsill, his sharp, peering eyes
scanning the ship from fore to aft. He is not sure she will get off
by this route; common sense tells him that, but there exists a
prompting something underneath common sense telling him it's money
saved to keep a sharp look-out. And this he does merely to gratify
that inert something, knowing at the same time that, having no
money, no person will supply her, and she must be concealed in the
swamps, where only "niggers" will relieve her necessities. At this
moment Rosebrook's carriage may be seen driving to the ticket office
at the head of the wharf, where Rosebrook, with great coolness, gets
out, steps within the railing, and procures the tickets in his own
name. Again taking his seat, the mate, who stands on the capsill of
the wharf, now and then casting a glance up, cries out, "Another
carriage coming!" Bradshaw cracks his whip, and the horses dash down
the wharf, scatter the people who have gathered to see the boat off,
as a dozen black porters, at the mate's command, rush round the
carriage, seize the baggage, and hurry it on board. Rosebrook,
fearing his friends will lose their passage, begs people to clear
the gangway, and almost runs on board, his fugitive charge clinging
to his arms. The captain stands at the gangway, and recognising the
late comer, makes one of his blandest bows: he will send a steward
to show them a good state-room. "Keep close till the boat leaves,
and remember there is a world before you," Rosebrook says, shaking
Annette by the hand, as she returns, "God bless good master!" They
are safe in the state-room: he kisses Franconia's cheek, shuts the
door, and, hurrying back, regains the wharf just as the last bell
strikes, and the gangway is being carried on board.
"Not going along with us, eh?" ejaculates the captain, as, from the
capsill, Rosebrook looks round to bid him good-by.
"Not to-day" (he returns, laconically). "Take good care of my
friends; the young invalid from Lousiana in particular." Just then
he catches the stranger's eye, and, with a significant motion of his
fingers, says, "All safe!" With a nod of recognition the stranger
makes his adieu; the fastenings are cast away, the faint tinkle of a
bell is heard amid the roar of steam; the man at the valves touches
the throttle bar; up mounts the piston rod-down it surges again; the
revolving wheels rustle the water; the huge craft moves backward
easy, and then ahead; a clanking noise denotes the connections are
"hooked on," and onward she bounds over the sea. How leaps with joy
that heart yearning for freedom, as the words "She's away!" gladden
Annette's very soul! Her enraptured feelings gush forth in prayer to
her deliverers; it is as a new spring of life, infusing its
refreshing waters into desert sands. She seems a new being, with
hope, joy, and happiness brightening the future for her. But, alas!
how vain are hopes,--how uncertain the future!
Rosebrook watched the steaming craft as she crosses the bar, and
dwindles out of sight. "Thou art safe, poor slave," he says to
himself, as she passes from view behind the distant peak.
Something touches him on the shoulder as he returns to his carriage.
"Ah! this you, Pringle Blowers?" he exclaims, turning round
suddenly, as the full face of that important personage presented
itself. "Been seeing some friends off to--?"
"No," replies Blowers, with seeming indifference. He is just shying
round,--keeping an eye out for a smart kind of "a gal," lost last
week.
"Quite a misfortune, that, Blowers! God bless me, I'm sorry,"
returns Rosebrook, dryly. Rosebrook invites him to get in and ride a
short distance. Blowers has not the slightest objection; seats his
square frame on the left side of the carriage. "Those were clever
posters you put out for the apprehension of that girl, Blowers!"
"Took some genius, I reckon," interrupts Blowers, with broad laugh.
"They say she was very handsome, and, if it be true, I hope you may
get her, Blowers," continues Rosebrook, naively.
The disappointed man shakes his head, touches the other on the arm,
and says, "Nothing is more sure!"