A CONTINUATION OF THE LAST CHAPTER.
A YEAR and two months have rolled by, since Nicholas, a convict,
took up his abode within the frowning walls of a prison: thus much
of Fuddle's merciful sentence has he served out. In the dreary hours
of night, fast secured in his granite cell, has he cherished, and
even in his dreams contemplated, the means of escaping into that
freedom for which his soul yearns. But, dearly does he love Sal
Stiles, to whose keeping he confides the secret of his ambition;
several times might he, having secured the confidence of Fladge,
have effected his own escape; but the admonitions of a faithful
heart bid him not leave her behind in slavery. To that admonition of
his bosom did he yield, and resolve never to leave her until he
secured her freedom. A few days after he had disclosed to her his
resolution, the tall figure of Guy Grantham, a broker of slaves by
profession, appeared in the prison yard, for the purpose of carrying
away the woman, whom he had sold for the Washington market, where
her charms would indeed be of much value during the session, when
congress-men most do riot. Already were the inseparable chains about
her hands, and the miserable woman, about to be led away, bathed in
grief. Nicholas, in his studies, had just finished a piece of
scroll-work for Mrs. Fladge, as a companion approached him in great
haste, and whispered the word of trouble-"they're taking her
away"-in his ear. Quick as lightning did the anger of his very soul
break forth like a tempest: he rushed from his place of labour,
vaulted as it were to the guard gate, seized the woman as she
stepped on the threshold in her exit, drew her back with great
force, and in a defiant attitude, drawing a long stiletto from his
belt, placed himself between her and her destroyer. "Foes of the
innocent, your chains were not made for this woman; never shall you
bear her from this; not, at least, while I have arm to defend her,
and a soul that cares not for your vengeance!" spake he, with
curling contempt on his lip, as his adversaries stood aghast with
fear and trembling. "Nay!-do not advance one step, or by the God of
justice I make ye feel the length of this steel!" he continued, as
Grantham nervously motioned an attempt to advance. Holding the woman
with his left hand pressed backward, he brandished his stiletto in
the faces of his opponents with his right. This was rebellion in its
most legal acceptation, and would have justified the summary process
Grantham was about adopting for the disposal of the instigator, at
whose head he levelled his revolver, and, without effect, snapped
two caps, as Nicholas bared his bosom with the taunt--"Coward,
shoot!" Mr. Fladge, who was now made sensible of the error his
indulgence had committed, could not permit Grantham the happy
display of his bravery; no, he has called to his aid some ten
subguardsmen, and addressing the resolute Grantham, bids him lay
aside his weapon. Albeit he confesses his surprise at such strange
insolence and interference; but, being responsible for the life,
thinks it well to hold a parley before taking it. Forsooth his words
fall useless on the ears of Nicholas, as defiantly he encircles the
woman's waist with his left arm, bears her away to the block, dashes
the chains from her hands, and, spurning the honied words of Fladge,
hurls them in the air, crying: "You have murdered the flesh;--would
you chain the soul?" As he spoke, the guard, having ascended the
watch tower, rings out the first alarm peal. "Dogs of savage might!
ring your alarms; I care not," he continued, casting a sardonic
glance at the tower as the sound died away on his ear. His pursuers
now made a rush upon him, but ere they had secured him he seized a
heavy bludgeon, and repelling their attack, found some hundred of
his companions, armed with stone hammers, rallying in his defence.
Seeing this formidable force thus suddenly come to his rescue, Mr.
Fladge and his force were compelled to fall back before the advance.
Gallantly did Nicholas lead on his sable band, as the woman sought
refuge in one of the cells, Mr. Fladge and his posse retreating into
the guard-house. Nicholas, now in full possession of the citadel,
and with consternation and confusion triumphant within the walls,
found it somewhat difficult to restrain his forces from taking
possession of the guardhouse, and putting to death those who had
sought shelter therein. Calmly but firmly did he appeal to them, and
beseech them not to commit an outrage against life. As he had placed
himself between the woman and her pursuers, so did he place himself
before a file of his sable companions, who, with battle hammers
extended, rushed for the great gates, as the second alarm rung out
its solemn peal. Counselling his compatriots to stand firm, he
gathered them together in the centre of the square, and addressed
them in a fervent tone, the purport of which was, that having thus
suddenly and unexpectedly become plunged into what would be viewed
by the laws of the land as insurrection, they must stand on the
defensive, and remember it were better to die in defence of right
than live under the ignorance and sorrow of slavery.
While our hero-whose singular exploit we have divested of that
dramatic effect presented in the original-addressed his forlorn band
in the area of the prison, strange indeed was the scene of confusion
presenting along the streets of the city. The alarm peals had not
died ineffectual on the air, for as a messenger was despatched to
warn the civil authorities of the sad dilemma at the prison, the
great bell of St. Michael's church answered the warning peal with
two loud rings; and simultaneously the city re-echoed the report of
a bloody insurrection. On the long line of wharfs half circling the
city, stood men aghast with fright; to the west all was quiet about
the battery; to the south, the long rampart of dark moving pines
that bordered on that side the calm surface of a harbour of
unsurpassed beauty, seemed sleeping in its wonted peacefulness; to
the east, as if rising from the sea to mar the beauty of the scene,
stood fort Sumpter's sombre bastions, still and quiet like a monster
reposing; while retracing along the north side of the harbour, no
sign of trouble flutters from Fort Moultrie or Castle Pinkney-no,
their savage embrasures are closed, and peace hangs in mists over
their dark walls. The feud is in the city of democrats, wherein
there are few who know not the nature of the warning peal; nor,
indeed, act on such occasions like a world in fear, waiting but the
tap of the watchman's baton ere it rushes to bloodshed.
In the busy portion of the city have men gathered at the corners of
the street to hold confused controversy; with anxious countenances
and most earnest gesticulations do they discuss the most certain
means of safety. Ladies, in fright, speedily seek their homes, now
asking questions of a passerby, whose intense excitement has carried
off his power of speech, then shunning every luckless negro who
chances in their way. The rumour of an insurrection, however falsely
founded, turns every negro (of skin there is no distinction) into an
enemy; whilst the second sound of the alarm peal makes him a bloody
votary, who it needs but the booming of the cannon ere he be put to
the sword. Guardsmen, with side-arms and cross-belts, are eager and
confused, moving to and fro with heavy tread; merchants and men of
more easy professions hasten from their labours, seek their homes,
prepare weapons for the conflict, and endeavour to soothe the fears
of their excited families, beseeching protection. That a deadly
struggle is near at hand no one doubts, for men have gathered on the
house-tops to watch the moving mass, bearing on its face the
unmistakeable evidence of fear and anxiety, as it sweeps along the
streets. Now the grotesque group is bespotted with forms half
dressed in military garb; then a dark platoon of savage faces and
ragged figures brings up the rear; and quickly catching the sound
"To the Workhouse!" onward it presses to the scene of tumult.
Firemen in curious habiliment, and half-accoutred artillerymen, at
the alarm peal's call are rallying to their stations, as if some
devouring element, about to break over the city, demanded their
strongest arm; while eager and confused heads, protruded from green,
masking shutters, and in terror, would know whither lies the scene
of the outbreak. Alarm has beset the little world, which now moves a
medley of fear and trembling.
The clock in St. Michael's tall spire has just struck two, as, in
the arena of the prison, Nicholas is seen, halted in front of his
little band, calmly awaiting the advance of his adversaries, who,
fearing to open the great gates, have scaled the long line of wall
on the north side. Suddenly the sound of an imploring voice breaks
upon his ear, and his left hand is firmly grasped, as starting with
surprise he turns and beholds the slave woman, her hair hanging
loosely over her shoulders, and her face bathed in tears. With
simple but earnest words does she admonish him against his fatal
resolution. Fast, and in the bitter anguish of her soul, fall her
implorings; she would have him yield and save his life, that she may
love him still. Her words would melt his resolution, had he not
taken the rash step. "In my soul do I love thee, woman!" he says,
raising her gently to her feet, and imprinting a kiss upon her olive
brow; "but rather would I die a hero than live a crawling slave:
nay, I will love thee in heaven!" The woman has drawn his attention
from his adversaries, when, in that which seems a propitious moment,
they rush down from the walls, and ere a cry from his band warn him
of the danger, have well nigh surprised and secured him. With two
shots of a revolver pierced through the fleshy part of his left arm,
does he bound from the grasp of his pursuers, rally his men, and
charge upon the miscreants with undaunted courage. Short but deadly
is the struggle that here ensues; far, indeed, shrieks and horrid
groans rend the very air; but the miscreants are driven back from
whence they came, leaving on the ground five dead bodies to atone
for treble the number dead of our hero's band. In the savage
conflict did the woman receive a fatal bullet, and now lies writhing
in the agonies of death (a victim of oppression in a land of
liberty) at our hero's feet. Not a moment is there to spare, that he
may soothe her dying agonies, for a thundering at the great gates is
heard, the bristling of fire-arms falls upon his ear, and the drums
of the military without beat to the charge. Simultaneously the great
gates swing back, a solid body of citizen soldiery, ready to rush
in, is disclosed, and our hero, as if by instinct moved to rashness,
cries aloud to his forces, who, following his lead, dash recklessly
into the soldiery, scatter it in amazement, and sweep triumphantly
into the street. The first line of soldiery did not yield to the
impetuous charge without effect, for seven dead bodies, strewn
between the portals of the gate, account for the sharp report of
their rifles. Wild with rage, and not knowing whither to go, or for
what object they have rushed from the bounds of their prison house,
our forlorn band, still flourishing their battle hammers, have
scarcely reached the second line of military, stationed, in war
order, a few squares from the prison, when our hero and nine of his
forlorn band fall pierced through the hearts with rifle bullets. Our
Nicholas has a sudden end; he dies, muttering, "My cause was only
justice!" as twenty democratic bayonets cut into shreds his
quivering body. Oh, Grabguy! thou wilt one day be made to atone for
this thy guilt. Justice to thy slave had saved the city its
foreboding of horror, and us the recital of a bloody tragedy we
would spare the feelings of our readers by ending here.
Having informed the reader that Ellen Juvarna was mother of
Nicholas, whom she bore unto Marston, we will now draw aside the
veil, that he may know her real origin and be the better prepared to
appreciate the fate of her child. This name, then, was a fictitious
one, which she had been compelled to take by Romescos, who stole her
from her father, Neamathla, a Creek Indian. In 1820, this brave
warrior ruled chief of the Mickasookees, a tribe of brave Indians
settled on the borders of the lake of that name, in Florida. Old in
deeds of valour, Neamathla sank into the grave in the happy belief
that his daughter, the long-lost Nasarge, had been carried into
captivity by chiefs of a hostile tribe, in whose chivalrous spirit
she would find protection, and religious respect for her caste.
Could that proud spirit have condescended to suppose her languishing
in the hands of mercenary slave-dealers, his tomahawk had been first
dipped in the blood of the miscreant, to avenge the foul deed. From
Romescos, Nasarge, who had scarce seen her twelve summers, passed
into the hands of one Silenus, who sold her to Marston, for that
purpose a fair slave seems born to in our democratic world.
And now again must we beg the indulgence of the reader, while we
turn to the counter-scene of this chapter. The influence of that
consternation which had spread throughout the city, was not long in
finding its way to the citadel, a massive fort commanding the city
from the east. On the plat in front are three brass field-pieces,
which a few artillery-men have wheeled out, loaded, and made ready
to belch forth that awful signal, which the initiated translate
thus:--"Proceed to the massacre! Dip deep your knives in the heart
of every negro!"
Certain alarm bells are rung in case of an insurrection of the
negroes, which, if accompanied by the firing of three guns at the
citadel, is the signal for an onslaught of the whites. The author,
on asking a gentleman why he exhibited so much fear, or why he
deemed it necessary to put to the sword his faithful servants,
answered,--"Slaves, no matter of what colour, sympathise with each
other in their general condition of slavery. I could not, then,
leave my family to the caprice of their feelings, while I sought the
scene of action to aid in suppressing the outbreak." At the
alarm-bell's first tap were the guns made ready-at the second peal
were matchlocks lighted-and nervous men waited in breathless
suspense the third and last signal peal from the Guard Tower. But,
in a moment that had nearly proved fatal to thousands, and as the
crash of musketry echoed in the air, a confused gunner applied the
match: two vivid flashes issued from the cannon, their peals booming
successively over the city. It was at that moment, citizens who had
sought in their domiciles the better protection of their families
might be seen in the tragic attitude of holding savage pistols and
glistening daggers at the breasts of their terrified but faithful
servants,--those, perhaps, whose only crime was sincerity, and an
earnest attachment to master's interests. The booming of a third
cannon, and they had fallen, victims of fear, at the feet of their
deluded victors. Happily, an act of heroism (which we would record
to the fame of the hero) saved the city that bloody climax we sicken
while contemplating. Ere the third gun belched its order of death, a
mounted officer, sensible of the result that gun would produce,
dashed before its angry mouth, and at the top of his voice cried
out-"In Heaven's name, lay your matchlock down: save the city!" Then
galloping to the trail, the gunner standing motionless at the
intrepid sight, he snatched the fiery torch from his hand, and
dismounting, quenched it on the ground. Thus did he save the city
that awful massacre the misdirected laws of a democratic state would
have been accountable for to civilisation and the world.