HOW SLAVEHOLDERS FEAR EACH OTHER.
THE reader will please remember that we left Nicholas, maddened to
distraction at the perfidy of which Grabguy makes him the victim,
chained to an iron ring in the centre of Graspum's slave pen. In
addition to this very popular mode of subduing souls that love
liberty, his wife and children are sold from him, the ekings of his
toil, so carefully laid up as the boon of his freedom, are
confiscated, and the wrong-doer now seeks to cover his character by
proclaiming to a public without sympathy that no such convention
existed, no such object entertained. Grabguy is a man of position,
and lady Grabguy moves well in society no way vulgar; but the slave
(the more honourable of the two) hath no voice-he is nothing in the
democratic world. Of his origin he knows not; and yet the sting
pierces deeper into his burning heart, as he feels that, would
justice but listen to his tale, freedom had not been a stranger. No
voice in law, no common right of commoners, no power to appeal to
the judiciary of his own country, hath he. Overpowered, chained, his
very soul tortured with the lash, he still proclaims his
resolution-"death or justice!" He will no longer work for him who
has stripped away his rights, and while affecting honesty, would
crush him bleeding into the earth.
Grabguy will counsel an expedient wherewith further to conceal his
perfidy; and to that end, with seeming honesty lady Grabguy would
have her fashionable neighbours believe sincere, he will ship the
oppressed man to New Orleans, there to be sold.-"Notwithstanding, he
is an extremely valuable nigger," he says, affecting superlative
indifference.
"I'd rather sell him for a song than he should disturb the peace of
the city thus." To New Orleans Mr. Grabguy sends his unsubdued
property; but that the threatened sale is only a feint to more
effectually dissolve the contract and forfeit the money paid as part
of his freedom, he soon becomes fully sensible. Doubly incensed at
such conduct the fire of his determination burns more fiercely; if
no justice for him be made manifest on earth his spirit is consoled
with the knowledge of a reward in heaven. Having tortured for months
the unyielding man, Grabguy, with blandest professions of kindness,
commands that the lacerated servant be brought back to his domicile.
Here, with offers of kindness, and sundry pretexts of his sincerity,
the master will pledge his honour to keep faith with his slave. The
defrauded wretch knows but too well how little confidence he can
place in such promises; to such promises does he turn a deaf ear.
Grabguy, if serious, must give him back his wife, his children, and
his hard earnings, in which the joyous hope of gaining freedom was
centred: that hope had carried him through many trials. Sad is the
dilemma in which Mr. Grabguy finds himself placed; simple justice to
the man would have long since settled the question.
And now Nicholas is a second time sent to Graspum's pen, where
living men are chained to rings of fierce iron for loving freedom
and their country. For twenty-two days and nights is he chained to
that floor where his soul had before been tortured. Threats of being
returned to New Orleans again ring their leaden music in his ears;
but they have no terrors for him; his indignant spirit has battled
with torture and vanquished its smart--he will defend himself unto
death rather than be made the object of a sham sale. A vessel for
New Orleans waits in the harbour a fair wind for sailing. On board
of her Mr. Grabguy will carry out his resolve; and to which end the
reader will please accompany us to a small cell in Graspum's pen,
about fourteen by sixteen feet, and seven in height--in the centre
of which is chained to a ring that man, once so manly of figure,
whose features are now worn down by sorrow or distorted by
torture,--as three policemen enter to carry out the order of
shipment. The heavy chain and shackle with which his left foot is
secured yield to him a circuit of some four feet. As the officials
advance his face brightens up with animation; his spirit resumes its
fiery action, and with a flashing knife, no one knows by whom
provided, he bids them advance no further.
"You must go to the whipping-post, my good fellow! I know it's kind
of hard; but obey orders we must. Ye see, I've gin ye good advice,
time and agin; but ye won't take it, and so ye must abide the
consequences," says one of the officials, who advances before the
others, and addresses himself to the chained man.
"I'll go to a whipping-post no more!" exclaims Nicholas, his angry
spirit flashing in his face, as in an attitude of defence he presses
his right hand into his bosom, and frowns defiantly upon the
intruders.
"My name is Monsel, an officer! Not a word of disobedience," returns
the officer, in a peremptory voice.
Another suggests that he had better be throated at once. But the
chained victim of democracy's rule warns them against advancing
another step. "Either must die if you advance. I have counselled
death, and will lay my prostrate body on the cold floor rather than
be taken from this cell to the whipping-post. It is far better to
die defending my right, than to yield my life under the lash! I
appeal to you, officers of the state, protectors of the peace, men
who love their right as life's boons!" The men hesitate, whisper
among themselves, seem at a loss as to what course to pursue. "You
are setting the laws of the state at defiance, my good fellow!"
rejoins Monsel.
"I care not for the law of the state! Its laws for me are founded in
wrong, exercised with injustice!" Turning towards the door, Mr.
Monsel despatches his fellow-officers for a reinforcement. That
there will be a desperate struggle he has no doubt. The man's
gestures show him fully armed; and he is stark mad. During the
interim, Mr. Monsel will hold a parley with the boy. He finds,
however, that a few smooth words will not subdue him. One of the
officials has a rope in his hand, with which he would make a lasso,
and, throwing it over his head, secure him an easy captive. Mr.
Monsel will not hear of such a cowardly process. He is a wiry man,
with stunted features, and has become enured to the perils of negro
catching. Hand to hand he has had many an encounter with the brutes,
and always came off victor; never did he fail to serve the interests
of the state, nor to protect the property of his client. With a sort
of bravado he makes another advance. The city esteems him for the
valuable services he has rendered its safety; why should he shrink
in this emergency?
Our southern readers, in a certain state, will readily recognise the
scene we here describe. The chained man, drawing his shining steel
from his bosom, says, "You take me not from here, alive." Mr.
Monsel's face becomes pale, while Nicholas's flashes angry scowls;
an irresistible nervousness seizes him,--for a moment he hesitates,
turns half round to see if his companions stand firm. They are close
behind, ready for the spring, like sharp-eyed catamounts; while
around the door anxious visitors crowd their curious faces. The
officers second in command file off to the right and left, draw
their revolvers, and present them in the attitude of firing. "Use
that knife, and you fall!" exclaims one, with a fearful imprecation.
At the next moment he fires, as Monsel rushes upon the chained man,
followed by half a dozen officials. An agonising shriek is heard,
and Monsel, in guttural accents, mutters, "I am a murdered man-he
has murdered me! Oh, my God,--he has murdered me!" Nicholas has
plunged the knife into the fleshy part of Monsel's right arm; and
while the bloody weapon, wrested from his hand, lies on the floor,
an official drags the wounded man from his grasp. As some rise,
others fall upon him like infuriated animals, and but for the timely
presence of Grabguy and Graspum would have despatched him like a
bullock chained to a stake. The presence of these important
personages produces a cessation of hostilities; but the victim,
disarmed, lies prostrate on the ground, a writhing and distorted
body, tortured beyond his strength of endurance. A circle where the
struggle ensued is wet with blood, in which Nicholas bathes his poor
writhing body until it becomes one crimson mass.
All attention is now directed to the wounded man, who, it is found,
although he has bled freely of good red blood, is neither fatally
nor seriously wounded. It is merely a flesh wound in the arm, such
as young gentlemen of the south frequently inflict upon each other
for the purpose of sustaining their character for bravery. But the
oppressed slave has raised his hand against a white man,--he must pay
the penalty with his life; he no longer can live to keep peaceful
citizens in fear and trembling. Prostrate on the floor, the victors
gather round him again, as Graspum stoops down and unlocks the
shackle from his leg. "It's the Ingin, you see: the very devil
wouldn't subdue it, and when once its revenge breaks out you might
just as well try to govern a sweeping tornado," Graspum remarks,
coolly, as he calls a negro attendant, and orders the body to be
drawn from out the puddle of disfiguring gore. Languidly that poor
bosom heaves, his eyes half close, and his motionless lips pale as
death.
"Had I know'd it when I bargained for him, he would never have
pested me in this way, never! But he looked so likely, and had such
a quick insight of things,--Ingin's Ingin, though!" says Grabguy.
"The very look might have told you that, my dear fellow; I sold him
to you with your eyes open, and, of course, expected you to be the
judge," interrupts Graspum, his countenance assuming great
commercial seriousness.
Mr. Grabguy politely says, he meant no insinuations. "Come,
Nicholas! I told you this would be the end on't," he continues,
stooping down and taking him by the shoulders, with an air of
commiseration.
The bruised body, as if suddenly inspired with new life, raises
itself half up, and with eyes opening, gazes vacantly at those
around, at its own hands besmeared with gore; then, with a curl of
contempt on his lip, at the shackle just released from his limb-"Ah,
well, it's ended here; this is the last of me, no doubt," he
murmurs, and makes another attempt to rise.
"Don't move from where you are!" commands an official, setting his
hand firmly against his right shoulder, and pressing him back. He
has got the infective crimson on his hands, chafes them one against
the other, perpendicularly, as Nicholas looks at him doubtingly.
"It's all over--I'll not harm you; take me to a slaughter-house if
you will,--I care not," he says, still keeping his eye on the
official.
Grabguy, somewhat moved at the sight, would confirm his
harmlessness. "You'll give up now, won't you?" he enquires, and
before Nicholas has time to answer, turns to the official, saying,
"Yes, I know'd he would!"
The official bows his head significantly, but begs to inform Mr.
Grabguy, that the negro, having violated the most sacred law of the
state, is no longer under his care. He is a prisoner, and must, as
the law directs, answer for the heinous crime just committed. Mr.
Grabguy, if he please, may forward his demand to the state
department, and by yielding all claim to his criminal property,
receive its award-two hundred round dollars, or thereabouts.
"Stand back, gentlemen-stand back, I say!" commands the officer, as
the crowd from the outside come pressing in, the news of the
struggle having circulated through the city with lightning speed.
Rumour, ever ready to spread its fears in a slave state, reported an
insurrection, and many were they who armed themselves to the very
teeth.
The officer, in answer to a question why he does not take the man
away, says he has sent for means to secure him. He had scarcely
given out the acceptable information, when an official, followed by
a negro man, bearing cords over his right arm, makes his appearance.
The oppressed man seems subdued, and as they make the first knot
with the cord they wind about his neck, he says, sarcastically,
"'Twouldn't be much to hang a slave! Now round my hands. Now, with a
half hitch, take my legs!" thus mocking, as it were, while they
twist the cords about his yielding limbs. Now they draw his head to
his knees, and his hands to his feet, forming a curve of his
disabled body. "How I bend to your strong ropes, your strong laws,
and your still stronger wills! You make good slip-nooses, and better
bows of human bodies," he says, mildly, shaking his head
contemptuously. The official, with a brutal kick, reminds him that
there will be no joking when he swings by the neck, which he
certainly will, to the great delight of many.
"I welcome the reality,--by heaven I do, for only in heaven is there
justice for me!" With these words falling from his lips, four negro
men seize the body, bear it to the door: an excited crowd having
assembled, place it upon a common dray, amid shouts and furious
imprecations of "D--him, kill him at once!" Soon the dray rolls
speedily away for the county prison, followed by the crowd, who
utter a medley of yells and groans, as it disappears within the
great gates, bearing its captive to a cell of torture.