A FUGITIVE CHATTEL.
“The providential trust of the South is to perpetuate the institution of
domestic slavery as now existing, with freest scope for its natural
development. We should at once lift ourselves intelligently to the
highest moral ground, and proclaim to all the world that we hold this
trust from God, and in its occupancy are prepared to stand or
fall.”—_Rev. Dr. Palmer of New Orleans, 1861._
The next morning Charlton sat in his office, calculating his percentage
on a transaction in which he had just acted as mediator between borrower
and lender. The aspect of the figures, judging from his own, was
cheerful.
The office was a gloomy little den up three flights of stairs. All the
furniture was second hand, and the carpet was ragged and dirty. No broom
or dusting-cloth had for months molested the ancient, solitary reign of
the spiders on the ceiling. A pile of cheap slate-colored boxes with
labels stood against the wall opposite the stove. An iron safe served
also as a dressing-table between the windows that looked out on the
street; and over it hung a small rusty mirror in a mahogany frame with a
dirty hair-brush attached. The library of the little room was confined
to a few common books useful for immediate reference; a City Directory,
a copy of the Revised Statutes, the Clerk’s Assistant, and a dozen other
volumes, equally recondite.
There was a knock at the door, and Charlton cried out, “Come in!”
The visitor was a negro whose face was of that fuliginous hue that
bespeaks an unmixed African descent. He was of medium height, square
built, with the shoulders and carriage of an athlete. He seemed to be
about thirty years of age. His features, though of the genuine Ethiopian
type, were a refinement upon it rather than an exaggeration. The
expression was bright, hilarious, intelligent; frank and open, you would
add, unless you chanced to detect a certain quick oblique glance which
would flash upon you now and then, and vanish before you could well
realize what it meant. Across his left cheek was an ugly scar, almost
deep enough to be from a cutlass wound.
“Good morning, Peculiar. Take a chair.”
“Not that name, if you please, Mr. Charlton,” said the negro, closing
the door and looking eagerly around to see if there had been a listener.
“Remember, you are to call me Jacobs.”
“Ah yes, I forgot. Well, Jacobs, I am glad to see you; but you are a few
minutes before the time. It isn’t yet twelve. Just step into that little
closet and wait there till I call you.”
The negro did as he was directed, and Charlton closed the door upon him.
Five minutes after, the clock of Trinity struck twelve, and there was
another knock at the door.
Before we suffer it to be answered, we must go back and describe an
interview that took place some seven weeks previously, in the same
office, between Charlton and the negro.
A year before that first interview, Charlton had, in some accidental
way, been associated with a well-known antislavery counsel, in a case in
which certain agents of the law for the rendition of fugitive slaves had
been successfully foiled. Though Charlton’s services had been
unessential and purely mercenary, he had shared in the victor’s fame;
and the grateful colored men who employed him carried off the illusion
that he was a powerful friend of the slave. And so when Mr. Peculiar,
_alias_ Mr. Jacobs, found himself in New York, a fugitive from bondage,
he was recommended, if he had any little misgivings as to his immunity
from persecution and seizure, to apply to Mr. Charlton as to a fountain
of legal profundity and philanthropic expansiveness. Greater men than
our colored brethren have jumped to conclusions equally far from the
truth in regard not only to lawyers, but military generals.
Charlton’s primary investigations, in his first interview with Peek, had
reference to the amount of funds that the negro could raise through his
own credit and that of his friends. This amount the lawyer found to be
small; and he was about to express his dissatisfaction in emphatic
terms, when a new consideration withheld him. Affecting that ruling
passion of universal benevolence which the fond imagination of his
colored client had attributed to him, he pondered a moment, then spoke
as follows:
“You tell me, Jacobs, you are in the delicate position of a fugitive
slave. I love the slave. Am I not a friend and a brother, and all that?
But if you expect me to serve you, you must be entirely frank,—disguise
nothing,—disclose to me your real history, name, and situation,—make a
clean breast of it, in short.”
“That I will do, sir. I know, if I trust a lawyer at all, I ought to
trust him wholly.”
There was nothing in the negro’s language to indicate the traditional
slave of the stage and the novel, who always says “Massa,” and speaks a
gibberish indicated to the eye by a cheap misspelling of words. A
listener who had not seen him would have supposed it was an educated
white gentleman who was speaking; for even in the tone of his voice
there was an absence of the African peculiarity.
“My friends tell me I may trust you, sir,” said Jacobs, advancing and
looking Charlton square in the face. Charlton must have blenched for an
instant, for the negro, as a slight but significant compression of the
lip seemed to portend, drew back from confidence. “Can I trust you?” he
continued, as if he were putting the question as much to himself as to
Charlton. There was a pause.
Charlton took from his drawer a letter, which he handed to the negro,
with the remark, “You know how to read, I suppose.”
Without replying. Peek took the letter and glanced over it,—a letter of
thanks from a committee of colored citizens in return for Charlton’s
services in the case already alluded to. Peek was reassured by this
document. He returned it, and said, “I will trust you, Mr. Charlton.”
“Take a seat then, Jacobs, and I will make such notes of your story as I
may think advisable.”
Peek did as he was invited; but Charlton seemed interested mainly in
dates and names. A more faithful reporter would have presented the
memorabilia of the narrative somewhat in this form:
“Was born on Herbert’s plantation in Marshall County, Mississippi.
Mother a house-slave. When he was four years old she was sold and taken
to Louisiana. His real name not Jacobs. That name he took recently in
New York. The name he was christened by was PECULIAR INSTITUTION. It was
given to him by one Ewell, a drunken overseer, and was soon shortened to
Peek, which name has always stuck to him. Was brought up a body servant
till his fourteenth year. Soon found that the way for a slave to get
along was to lie, but to lie so as not to be found out. Grew to be so
expert a liar, that among his fellows he was called the lawyer. No
offence to you, Mr. Charlton.
“As soon as he could carry a plate, was made to wait at table. Used to
hear the gentlemen and ladies talk at meals. Could speak their big words
before he knew their meaning. Kept his ears and eyes well open. An old
Spanish negro, named Alva, taught him by stealth to read and write. When
the young ladies took their lessons in music, this child stood by and
learnt as much as they did, if not more. Learnt to play so well on the
piano that he was often called on to show off before visitors.
“Was whipped twice, and then not badly, at Herbert’s: once for stealing
some fruit, once for trying to teach a slave to read. Family very pious.
Old Herbert used to read prayers every morning. But he didn’t mind
making a woman give up one husband and take another. Didn’t mind
separating mother and child. Didn’t mind shooting a slave for
disobedience. Saw him do it once. Herbert had told Big Sam not to go
with a certain metif girl; for Herbert was as particular about matching
his niggers as about his horses and sheep. A jealous negro betrayed Sam.
Old Herbert found Sam in the metif girl’s hut, and shot him dead,
without giving him a chance to beg for mercy.[2] Well, Sam was only a
nigger; and didn’t Mr. Herbert have family prayers, and go to church
twice every Sunday? Who should save his soul alive, if not Mr. Herbert?
“In spite of prayers, however, things didn’t go right on the plantation.
The estate was heavily mortgaged. Finally the creditors took it, and the
family was broken up. Peculiar was sold to one Harkman, a speculator,
who let him out as an apprentice in New Orleans, in Collins’s
machine-shop for the repair of steam-engines. But Collins failed, and
then Peek became a waiter in the St. Charles Hotel. Here he stayed six
years. Cut his eye-teeth during that time. Used to talk freely with
Northern visitors about slavery. Studied the big map of the United
States that hung in the reading-room. Learnt all about the hotels, North
and South. Stretched his ears wide whenever politics were discussed.
“Having waited on the principal actors and singers of the day at the St.
Charles, he had a free pass to the theatres. Used often to go behind the
scenes. Waited on Blitz, Anderson, and other jugglers. Saw Anderson show
up the humbug, as he called it, of spiritual manifestations. Went to
church now and then. Heard some bad preachers, and some good. Heard Mr.
Clapp preach. Heard Mr. Palmer preach. After hearing the latter on the
duties of slaves, tried to run away. Was caught and taken to a new
patent whipping-machine, recently introduced by a Yankee. Here was left
for a whipping. Bought off the Yankee with five dollars, and taught him
how to stain my back so as to imitate the marks of the lash. Thus no
discredit was brought on the machine. A week after was sold to a Red
River planter, Mr. Carberry Ratcliff.
“Can never speak of this man calmly. He had a slave, a woman white as
you are, sir, that he beat, and then tried to make me take and treat as
my wife. When he found I had cheated him, he just had me tied up and
whipped till three strong men were tired out with the work. It’s a
wonder how I survived. My whole back is seamed deep with the scars. This
scar over my cheek is from a blow he himself gave me that day with a
strip of raw hide. He sold me to Mr. Barnwell in Texas as soon as I
could walk, which wasn’t for some weeks. I left, resolving to come back
and kill Ratcliff. I meant to do this so earnestly, that the hope of it
almost restored me. Revenge was my one thought, day and night. I felt
that I could not be at ease till that man Ratcliff had paid for his
barbarity. Even now I sometimes wake full of wrath from my dreams,
imagining I have him at my mercy.
“I went to Texas with a bad reputation. Was put among the naughty
darkies, and sent to the cotton-field. Braxton, the overseer, had been a
terrible fellow in his day, but I happened to be brought to him at the
time he was beginning to get scared about his soul. Soon had things my
own way. Braxton made me a sort of sub-overseer; and I got more work out
of the field-hands by kindness than Braxton had ever got by the lash.
“One day I discovered on a neighboring plantation an old woman who
proved to be my mother. She had been brought here from Louisiana. She
was on the point of dying. She knew me, first from hearing my name, and
then from a cross she had pricked in India ink on my breast. She hadn’t
seen me for sixteen years. Had been having a hard time of it. Her hut
was close by a slough, a real fever-hole, and she had been sick most of
the time the last three years.
“The old woman flashed up bright on finding me: gave me a long talk;
told me little stories of when I was a child; told me how my father had
been sold to an Alabama man, and shot dead for trying to break away from
a whipping-post. All at once she said she saw angels, drew me down to
her, and dropped away quiet as a lamb, so that, though my forehead lay
on her breast, I didn’t know when she died.
“After this loss, I was pretty serious. Wasn’t badly treated. My master,
an educated gentleman, was absent in New Orleans most of the time.
Overseer Braxton, after the big scare he got about his soul, grew to be
humane, and left almost everything to me. But I felt sick of life, and
wanted to die, though not before I had killed Ratcliff. One day I heard
that Corinna, a quadroon girl, a slave on the plantation, had fallen
into a strange state, during which she preached as no minister had ever
preached before. I had known her as a very ordinary and rather stupid
girl. Went to see her in one of her trances. Found that report had
fallen short of the real case. Was astonished at what I saw and heard.
Saw what no white man would believe, and so felt I was wiser on one
point than all the white men. My interviews with Corinna soon made me
forget about Ratcliff; and when she died, six weeks after my first
visit, felt my mind full of things it would take me a lifetime to think
out and settle.
“After Corinna’s death, I stayed some months on the plantation, though I
had a chance to leave. Stayed because I had an easy time and because I
found I could be of use to the slaves; and further, because I had
resolved, if ever I got free, it should be by freeing myself. A white
man, a Mr. Vance, whose life I had saved, wanted to buy and free me. I
made him spend his money so it would show for more than just the freeing
of one man. But Braxton, the overseer, who was letting me have pretty
much my own way, at last died; and Hawks, his successor, was of opinion
that the way to get work out of niggers was to treat them like dogs; and
so, one pleasant moonlight night, I made tracks for Galveston. Here, by
means of false papers, I managed to get passage to New Orleans, and
there hid myself on board a Yankee schooner bound for New London,
Connecticut. When she was ten days out, I made my appearance on deck,
much to the surprise of the crew. Fifteen days afterwards we arrived in
the harbor of New London.
“Old Skinner, the captain, had been playing possum with me all the
voyage,—keeping dark, and pretending to be my friend, meaning all the
while to have me arrested in port. No sooner had he dropped anchor than
he sent on shore for the officers. But the mate tipped me the wink.
‘Darkey,’ said he, ‘do you see that little green fishing-boat yonder?
Well, that belongs to old Payson, an all-fired abolitionist and friend
of the nigger. Our Captain and crew are all under hatches, and now if
you don’t want to be a lost nigger, jest you drop down quietly astern,
swim off to Payson, and tell him who you are, and that the
slave-catchers are after you. If old Payson don’t put you through after
that, it will be because it isn’t old Payson.’
“I did as the mate told me. Reached the fishing-boat. Found old Payson,
a gnarled, tough, withered old sea-dog, who comprehended at once what
was in the wind, and cried, ‘Ha! ha!’ like the war-horse that snuffs the
battle. Just as I got into the boat, Captain Skinner came up on the
schooner’s deck, and saw what had taken place. The schooner’s small boat
had been sent ashore for the officers whose business it was to carry out
the Fugitive-Slave Law. What could Skinner do? Visions of honors and
testimonials and rewards and dinners from Texan slaveholders, because of
his loyalty to the _institution_ in returning a runaway nigger, suddenly
vanished. He paced the deck in a rage. To add to his fury, old Payson,
while I stood at the bows, dripping and grinning, came sailing up before
a stiff breeze, and passed within easy speaking distance, Payson pouring
in such a volley of words that Skinner was dumbfounded. ‘I’ll make New
London too hot for you, you blasted old skinflint!’ cried Payson. ‘You’d
sell your own sister just as soon as you’d sell this nigger, you would!
Let me catch you ashore, and I’ll give you the blastedest thrashing you
ever got yet, you infernal doughface, you! Go and lick the boots of
slaveholders. It’s jest what you was born for.’
“And the little sail-boat passed on out of hearing. Payson got in the
track of one of the spacious steamboats that ply between the cities of
Long Island Sound and New York, and managed to throw a line, so as to be
drawn up to the side. We then got on board. In six hours, we were in New
York. Payson put me in the proper hands, bade me good by, returned to
his sail-boat, and made the best speed he could back to New London,
fired with hopes of pitching into that ‘meanest of all mean skippers,
old Skinner.’
“This was three years ago. The despatch agents of the underground
railroad hurried me off to Canada. As soon as I judged it safe, I
returned to New York. Here I got a good situation as head-waiter at
Bunker’s. Am married. Have a boy, named Sterling, a year old. Am very
happy with my wife and child and my hired piano. But now and then I and
my wife have an alarm lest I shall be seized and carried back to
slavery.”
Here Mr. Institution finished his story, which we have condensed,
generally using, however, his own words. Charlton did not subject him to
much cross-questioning. He asked, _first_, what was the name of the
schooner in which Peek had escaped from Texas. It was the Albatross.
Charlton made a note. _Second_, did Mr. Barnwell, Peek’s late master,
have an agent in New Orleans? Yes; Peek had often seen the name on
packages: P. Herman & Co. And, _third_, did Peek marry his wife in
Canada? Yes. Then she, too, is a fugitive slave, eh?
Peek seemed reluctant to answer this question, and flashed a quick,
distrustful glance on Charlton. The latter assumed an air of
indifference, and said, “Perhaps you had better not answer that
question; it is immaterial.”
Again Peek’s mind was relieved.
“That is enough for the present, Mr. Jacobs,” continued Charlton. “If I
have occasion to see you, I can always find you at Bunker’s, I suppose.”
“Yes, Mr. Charlton. Inquire for John Jacobs. Keep a bright lookout for
me, and you sha’n’t be the loser. Will five dollars pay you?”
Charlton wavered between the temptation to clutch more at the moment,
and the prospect of making his new client available in other ways. At
length taking the money he replied, “I will make it do for the present.
Good morning.”