CHAPTER XII.

THE STORY OF ESTELLE.

“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair,

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy autumn-fields

And thinking of the days that are no more.”

_Tennyson._

Balmy, bright, and beautiful broke the succeeding morning. Every

passenger as he came on deck looked astern to see what had become of the

Champion. She still kept her usual distance, dogging the Pontiac with

the persistency of a fate. Captain Crane said nothing, but it was

noticeable that he puffed away at his cigar with increased vigor.

Mr. Vance encountered the Berwicks once more on the hurricane deck and

interchanged greetings. Little Clara recognized her friend of the day

before, and, jumping from Hattie’s lap, ran and pulled his coat, looking

up in his face, and pouting her lips for a kiss.

“I fancy I see two marked traits in your little girl, already,” said

Vance to the mother, after he had saluted the child; “she is strong in

the affections, and has a will-power that shows itself in self-control.”

“You are right,” replied the mother; “I have known her to bite her lips

till the blood came, in her effort to keep from crying.”

“Such is her individuality,” continued Vance. “I doubt if circumstances

of education could do much to misshape her moral being.”

“Ah! that is a fearful consideration,” said the lady; “we cannot say how

far the best of us would have been perverted if our early training had

been unpropitious.”

“I knew your father, Mrs. Berwick. He found me, a stranger stricken down

by fever, forsaken and untended, in a miserable shanty called a tavern,

in Southern Illinois, in the sickly season. He devoted himself to me

till I was convalescent. I shall never forget his kindness. Will you

allow mg to look at that little seal on your watch-chain? It ought to

bear the letters ‘W. C. to R. A.’ Thank you. Yes, there they are! I sent

him the seal as a memento. The cutting is my own.”

“I shall regard it with a new interest,” said Mrs. Berwick, as she took

it back.

Mr. Onslow here appeared and bade the party good morning.

“I feel that I am among friends,” said Vance. “I last night promised Mr.

Onslow a story. Did you ever hear of the redoubtable Gashface, Mr.

Berwick?”

“Yes, and I warn you, sir, that I am quite enough of an Abolitionist to

hold his memory in a sort of respect.”

“Bold words to utter on the Southern Mississippi! But do not be under

concern: I myself am Gashface. Yes. The report of his being killed is a

lie. Are you in a mood to hear his story, Mrs. Berwick?”

“I shall esteem it a privilege, sir.”

“The last time I told it was to your father. Be seated, and try and be

as patient as he was in listening.”

The party arranged themselves in chairs; and Mr. Vance was about to take

up his parable, when the figure of Colonel Delancy Hyde was seen

emerging from the stairs leading from the lower deck.

“Hah! Mr. Vance, I’m yourn,” exclaimed the Colonel, with effusion. “Been

lookin’ fur yer all over the boat. Introduce yer friends ter me.”

Vance took from his pocket the Colonel’s card, and read aloud the

contents of it.

“From Virginia, ma’am,” supplemented the Colonel, who was already

redolent of Bourbon; “the name of Delancy Hyde hahz been in the family

more ’n five hunderd yarz. Fak, ma’am! My father owned more slaves nor

he could count. Ef it hahdn’t been fur a damned Yankee judge, we sh’d

hahv held more land nor you could ride over in a day. Them low-born

Yankees, ma’am, air jes’ fit to fetch an’ carry for us as air the master

race; to larn our childern thar letters an’ make our shoes, as the

Greeks done fur the Romans, ma’am. Ever read the Richmond newspapers,

ma’am? John Randolph wunst said he’d go out of his way to kick a sheep.

I’d go out of my way, ma’am, to kick a Yankee.”

“If you’re disposed to listen to a story, Colonel,” said Vance, “take a

chair.” And he pointed to one the furthest from Mrs. Berwick. “I am

about to read an autobiography of the fellow Gashface, of whom you have

heard.”

And Vance drew from his pocket a small visiting card crowded close with

stenographic characters in manuscript.

“An’ that’s an auter—what d’ yer call it,—is it?” asked the Colonel.

“Cur’ous!”

The Colonel reinforced himself with a plug of tobacco, and Vance began

to recite what he called, for the occasion, “The Autobiography of

Gashface.” But we prefer to name it

=The Story of Estelle.=

I was born in New Orleans, and am the son of William Carteret. He was a

Virginian by birth, the younger son of a planter, whose forefather, a

poor Yorkshire gentleman, came over from England with Sir Thomas Dale in

the year 1611. You might think me false to my father’s native State if I

did not vindicate my claim to a descent from one of the first Virginia

families. You must be aware that all the gentle blood that flowed from

Europe to this continent sought Virginia as its congenial reservoir. It

would be difficult to find a low-born white man in the whole eastern

section of the State.

[“That’s a fak!” interposed the Colonel.]

My grandfather died in 1820, leaving all his property to his eldest son,

Albert. (Virginia then had her laws of primogeniture.) Albert generously

offered to provide for my father, but the latter, finding that Albert

could not do this without reducing the provision for his sisters,

resolved to seek fortune at the North. He went to New York, where he

studied medicine. But here he encountered Miss Peyton, a beautiful girl

from Virginia, nobly supporting herself by giving instruction in music.

He married her, and they consoled themselves for their poverty by their

fidelity and devotion to each other. The loss of their first child, in

consequence, as my father believed, of the unhealthy location of his

house, induced him to make extraordinary efforts to earn money.

After various fruitless attempts to establish himself in some lucrative

employment, he made his _début_, under an assumed name, at the Park

Theatre, in the character of Douglas, in Home’s once famous tragedy of

that name. My father’s choice of this part is suggestive of the moderate

but respectable character of his success. He played to the judicious

few; but their verdict in his favor was not sufficiently potent to make

him a popular actor. He soon had to give up the high starring parts, and

to content himself with playing the gentleman of comedies or the second

part in tragedies. In this humbler line he gained a reputation which has

not yet died out in theatrical circles. He could always command good

engagements for the theatrical season in respectable stock-companies. He

was fulfilling one of these engagements in New Orleans when I was born.

A month afterwards he ended his career in a manner that sent a thrill

through the public heart. He was one evening playing Othello for his own

benefit. Grateful for a crowded house, he was putting forth his best

powers, and with extraordinary success. Never had such plaudits greeted

and inspired him. The property-man, whose duty it is to furnish all the

articles needed by the actor, had given him at rehearsal a blunted

dagger, so contrived with a spring that it seemed to pierce the breast

when thrust against it. At night this false dagger was mislaid, and the

property-man handed him a real one, omitting in the hurry of the moment

to inform him of the change. In uttering the closing words of his part,—

“I took by the throat the circumci-sed dog,

And smote him _thus_,”—

my father inflicted upon himself, not a mimic, but a real stab, so

forcible that he did not survive it ten minutes.

Great was my mother’s anguish at her loss. She was not left utterly

destitute. My father had not fallen into the besetting sins of the

profession. He saw in it a way to competence, if he would but lead a

pure and thrifty life. In the seven years he had been on the stage he

had laid up seven thousand dollars. Pride would not let him allow my

mother to labor for her support. But now she gladly accepted from the

manager an offer of twenty-five dollars a week as “walking lady.” On

this sum she contrived for seventeen years to live decently and educate

her son liberally.

At last sickness obliged her to give up her theatrical engagement. She

had invested her seven thousand dollars in bonds of the Planters’ Bank

of Mississippi, to the redemption of which the faith of that State was

pledged. The repudiation of the bonds by the State authorities, under

the instigation of Mr. Jefferson Davis, deprived her of her last

resource. Impoverished in means, broken in health, and unable to labor,

she fell into a decline and died.

The humane manager gave me a situation in his company. I became an

actor, and for seven years played the part of second young gentleman in

comedies and melodramas; also such parts as Horatio in “Hamlet” or

Macduff in “Macbeth.” But my heart was not in my vocation. It had

chagrins which I could not stomach.

One evening I was playing the part of a lover. The _dramatis persona_ of

whom I was supposed to be enamored was represented by Miss B——, rather a

showy, voluptuous figure, but whom I secretly disliked for qualities the

reverse of those of Cæsar’s wife. Instead of allowing my aversion to

appear, I played with the appropriate ardor. In performing the

“business” of the part, I was about to _kiss_ her, when I heard a loud,

solitary hiss from a person in an orchestra box. He was a man of a full

face, very fair red-and-white complexion, and thick black

whiskers,—precisely what a coarse feminine taste would call “a handsome

fellow.” Folding my arms, I walked towards the foot-lights, and asked

what he wanted. “None of your business, you damned stroller!” replied

he; “I have a right to hiss, I suppose.” “And I have a right to

pronounce you a blackguard, I suppose,” returned I. The audience

applauded my rebuke, and laughed at the handsome man, who, with scarlet

cheeks, rose and left the house. I learned he was a Mr. Ratcliff, a rich

planter, and an admirer of Miss B——.

Soon after this adventure I quitted the profession, and for some time

gave myself up to study. My tastes were rather musical than histrionic;

and having from boyhood been a proficient on the piano-forte, I at last,

when all my money was exhausted, offered my services to the public as a

teacher.

My first pupil was Henri Dufour, the only son of the widow of a French

physician. It was soon agreed that, for the greater convenience of

Henri, and in payment for his tuition, I should become a member of the

family, which was small, consisting only of himself, his mother, Jane, a

black slave, and Estelle, a white girl who occupied the position of a

humble companion of the widow.

[At this point in the narrative, Mr. Quattles appeared at the head of

the stairs, and, with his forefinger placed on the side of his long

nose, winked expressively at Colonel Hyde. The latter rose, and said,

“Sorry to go, Mr. Vance; but the fak is, I’m in fur a hahnd at euchre,

an’ jest cum up ter see ef you’d jine us.”

“You’re too gallant a man, Colonel Delancy Hyde,” replied Vance, “not to

agree with me, when I say, Duty to ladies first.”

“Yer may bet yer pile on that, Mr. Vance; the ladies fust ollerz; but

Madame will ’scuze _me_, I reckon. Hahd a high old time, ma’am, last

night, an’ an almighty bahd streak of luck. Must make up fur it

somehow.”

“Business before pleasure, Colonel,” said Vance. “We’ll excuse you.”

And the Colonel, with a lordly sweep of his arm, by way of a bow, joined

his companion, Quattles, to whom he remarked, “A high-tone Suthun

gemmleman that, and one as does credit to his raisin’.” The companions

having disappeared, Vance proceeded with his story.]

Let me call up before you, if I can, the image of Estelle. In person

about three inches shorter than I (and I am five feet six), slender,

lithe, and willowy, yet compactly rounded, straight, and singularly

graceful in every movement; a neck and bust that might have served

Powers for a model when the Greek Slave was taking form in his brain; a

head admirably proportioned to all these symmetries; a face rather

Grecian than Roman, and which always reminded me of that portrait of

Beatrice Cenci by Guido, made so familiar to us through copies and

engravings; a portrait tragic as the fate of the original in its serene

yet mournful expression. But Estelle’s hair differed from that of

Beatrice in not being auburn, but of a rare and beautiful olive tint,

almost like the bark of the laburnum-tree, and exquisitely fine and

thick. In complexion she could not be called either a blonde or a

brunette; although her dark blue eyes seemed to attach her rather to the

former classification. She was one of the few beautiful women I have

seen, whose beauty was not marred by a besetting self-consciousness of

beauty, betrayed in every look and movement, and even in the tones of

the voice. In respect to her personal charms Estelle was as unconscious

as a moss-rose.

Mrs. Dufour was an invalid, selfish, parsimonious, and exacting; but

Estelle, in devotion to that lady’s service and in adaptation to her

caprices, showed a patience and a tact so admirable that it was

difficult to guess whether they were the result of sincere affection or

of a simple sense of duty.

Henri, my pupil in music, was a youth of sixteen, who inherited not only

his mother’s morbid constitution, but her ungenerous qualities of heart

and temper. Arrogant and vain, he seemed to regard me in the light of a

menial, and I could not find in him intellect enough to make him

sensible of his folly.

I spent my last twenty dollars in advertising; but no new pupil appeared

in answer to my insinuating appeal. My wardrobe began to get impaired;

my broadcloth to lose its nap, and my linen to give evidence of

premeditated poverty. One day I marvelled at finding in my drawer a

shirt completely renovated, with new wristbands, bosom, and collar. The

next week the miracle was repeated. Had Mrs. Dufour opened her heart and

her purse? Impossible! Had Jane, my washerwoman, slyly performed the

service? She honestly denied it. I pursued my investigations no further.

The next Sunday, in putting on my best pantaloons, I found in the right

pocket two gold quarter-eagles. Yes! There could now be no doubt. I had

misjudged Mrs. Dufour. Her stinginess was all a pretence. Touched with

gratitude, yet humiliated, I went to return the gold. It was plain that

Madame knew nothing about it. I looked at Estelle, who sat at a window

mending a muslin collar.

“Can you explain, Mademoiselle?” I asked.

“Explain what?” she inquired, as if she had been too absorbed in her own

thoughts to hear a word of the conversation.

“Can you explain how those gold pieces came into my pocket?”

Without the least sign of guilt, she replied, “I cannot explain, sir.”

Was she deceiving me? I thought not. Though we had met twice a day at

meals for weeks, her demeanor towards me had been always distant and

reserved.

It was my habit daily, after giving a morning lesson to my pupil, to

walk a couple of hours on the Levee. One forenoon, on account of the

heat of the weather, I returned home an hour earlier than usual. Henri

and his mother were out riding. As I entered the house I heard the sound

of the piano, and stopped in the hall to listen. It was Estelle at the

instrument.

I had left on the music-stand a rough score of my arrangement of that

remarkable composition, then newly published in Europe, the music and

words of which Colonel Pestal wrote with a link of his fetters on his

prison-wall the day before his execution. I had translated the original

song, and written it on the same page with the music. What was my

astonishment to hear the whole piece,—this new _De Profundis_, this

mortal cry from the depths of a proud, indignant heart,—a cry condensed

by music into tones the most apt and fervid,—now reproduced by Estelle

with such passionate power, such reality of emotion, that I was struck

at once with admiration and with horror.

They were not, then, for Pestal so much as for Estelle,—those utterances

of holy wrath and angelic defiance! The words by themselves are

simple,—commonplace, if you will.[18] But, conveyed to the ear through

Pestal’s music and Estelle’s voice, they seemed vivid with the very

lightning of the soul. As she sang, the victim towered above the

oppressor like an archangel above a fiend. The prison-walls fell

outward, and the welcoming heavens opened to the triumphant captive.

I entered the room. She turned suddenly. Her face had not yet recovered

from the expression of those emotions which the song had called up. She

rose with the air of an avenging goddess. Then, seeing me, she drew up

her clasped hands to her bosom with a gesture full of grace and eloquent

with deprecation, and said, “Forgive me if I have disturbed your

papers.”

“Estelle!” I began. Then, seeing her look of surprise, I said, “Excuse

me if the address is too familiar; but I know you by no other name.”

“Estelle is all sufficient,” she replied.

“Well, then, Estelle, you have moved me by your singing as I was never

moved before,—so terribly in earnest did you seem! What does it mean?”

“It means,” she replied, “that you have adapted the music to a faithful

translation of the words.”

“I have heard you play,” said I, “but why have you kept me in ignorance

of your powers as a singer?”

“My powers, such as they are,” she said, “have been rarely used since I

left the convent. I can give little time now to music. Indeed, the hour

I have given to it this morning was stolen, and I must make up for it.

So good by.”

“Stay, Estelle,” said I, seizing her hand. “There is a mystery which

hangs over you like a cloud. Tell me what it is. Your eyes look as if a

storm of unshed tears were brooding behind them. Your expression is

always sad. Can I in any way help you? Can I render a true brother’s

service?”

She stood, looking me in the face, and it was plain, from a certain

convulsed effort at deglutition, that she was striving to swallow back

the big grief that heaved itself up from her heart. She wavered as if

half inclined to reveal something. There was the noise of a carriage at

the door; and, pressing my hand gently, she said, with an effort at a

smile that should have been a sob, “Thank you; you cannot—help me; my

mistress is at the door; good by.” And dropping my hand, she glided out

of the room.

I can never forget her as she then appeared in her virginal, spring-like

beauty, with her profuse silky hair parted plainly in front, and folded

in a classic knot behind, with her dress of a light gauze-like material,

and an unworked muslin collar about her neck having a simple blue ribbon

passing under it and fastened in front with a little cross of gold. How

unpretending and unadorned,—and yet what a charm was lent to her whole

attire by her consummate grace of person and of action!

Mrs. Dufour entered, and I did not see Estelle again that day.

----------

It was that fearful summer when the fever seemed to be indiscriminate in

its ravages. Not only transient visitors in the city, but old residents

long acclimated, natives of the city, physicians and nurses, were

smitten down. Many fled from the pest-ridden precincts. Whole blocks of

houses were deserted. There were few doors at which Death did not knock

for one or more of the inmates.

My pupil, Henri Dufour, was taken ill on a Saturday, and on Wednesday

his mortal remains were conveyed to the cemetery. I had tended him day

and night, and was much worn down by watchings and anxiety. Jane, a

hired black domestic, was wanted by her owner, and left us. All the work

of our diminished household now fell on Estelle. As for Madame Dufour,

she lived in a hysterical fear lest the inevitable summoner should visit

her next. She was continually imagining that the symptoms were upon her.

One day she fell into an unusual state of alarm. I was alone with her in

the house. Estelle had gone out without asking permission,—an

extraordinary event. I did what I could for the invalid, and, by her

direction, called in a physician whose carriage she had seen standing at

a neighboring door.

The poor little doctor seemed flurried and overworked, and an odor of

brandy came from his breath. He assured Mrs. Dufour that her symptoms

were wholly of the imagination, and that if she would keep tranquil, all

danger would speedily pass. He administered a dose of laudanum. It

afterwards occurred to me that he had given three times the usual

quantity. He received his fee and departed; and I sat down behind the

curtain of an alcove so as to be within call.

Three minutes had not elapsed when Estelle burst into the room, and in a

voice low and husky, as if with overpowering agitation, exclaimed: “You

have deceived me, Madame! Mr. Semmes tells me you never gave him any

orders about a will. Do you mean to cheat me? Beware! Tell me this

instant! tell me! Will you do it? Will you do it?”

“Estelle! how can you?” whined Mrs. Dufour. “At such a time, when the

slightest agitation may bring on the fever, how can you trouble me on

such a subject?”

“No evasion!” exclaimed Estelle, in imperious tones. “I demand it,—I

exact it,—now—this instant! You shall—you shall perform it!”

Madame had some vague superstitious notion connected with the signing of

a will, and she murmured: “I shall do nothing at present; I’m not in a

state to sign my name. The doctor said I must be tranquil. How can you

be so selfish, Estelle? Do you imagine I’m going to die, that you are so

urgent just now?”

“You told me three months ago,” replied Estelle, “that the will had been

regularly signed and witnessed. You lied! If you now refuse to make

amends, do not hope for peace either in this world or the next. No

priest shall attend you here, and my curses shall pursue you down to

hell to double the damnation your sin deserves! Will you sign, if I

bring the notary?”

Mrs. Dufour began to moan, and complain of her symptoms, while I could

hear Estelle pacing the room like a caged tigress. Suddenly she stood

still, and cried, “Do you still refuse?”

The moaning of the invalid had been succeeded by a stertorous breathing,

as if she had been suddenly overcome by sleep.

“She is stone,—stone! She sleeps!—she has no heart!” groaned Estelle.

I now left the alcove. Estelle knelt weeping with her face on the sofa.

I touched her on the head, and she started up alarmed. She saw tears of

sympathy on my cheek. I drew her away with my arm about her waist, and

said, “Come! come and tell me all.”

She let me lead her down-stairs into the parlor. I placed her in an

arm-chair, and sat on a low ottoman at her feet. “Tell me all, Estelle,”

I repeated. “What does it mean?”

I then drew from her these facts. Her mother, though undistinguishable

from a white woman, had been a slave belonging to a Mr. Huger, a

sugar-planter. She was _reputed_ to be the daughter of what the Creoles

call a _meamelouc_, that is, the offspring of a white man and a metif

mother, a metif being the offspring of a white and a quarteron. This

account of the genealogy of Estelle’s mother I never had occasion to

doubt till years afterwards. The father of Estelle was Albert Grandeau,

a young Parisian of good family. Being suddenly called home from

Louisiana to France by the death of his parents, he left America,

promising to return the following winter, and purchase the prospective

mother of his child and take her to Paris. This he honestly intended to

do; but alas for good _intentions_! It is good _deeds_ only that are

secure against the caprices of Fate. The vessel in which Grandeau sailed

foundered at sea, and he was among the lost. Estelle’s mother died in

child-birth.

And then Estelle,—on the well-known principle of Southern law, “_proles

sequitur ventrem_,”—in spite of her fair complexion, was a slave. Mr.

Huger dying, she fell to the portion of his unmarried daughter, Louise,

who was a member of the newly established Convent of St. Vivia. She took

Estelle, then a mere child, with her to bring up. Fortunately for

Estelle, there were highly accomplished ladies in the convent, to whom

it was at once a delight and a duty to instruct the little girl. French,

English, and Italian were soon all equally familiar to her, and before

she was seventeen she surpassed, in needlework and music, even her

teachers. But the convent of St. Vivia had been cheated in the title of

its estate; and through failure of funds, it was at length broken up.

Soon afterwards, Louise Huger, whose health had always been feeble, died

suddenly, leaving Estelle to her sister, Mrs. Dufour, with the request

that measures should be at once taken to secure the maiden’s freedom, in

the contingency of Mrs. Dufour’s demise. It was the failure of the

latter to take the proper steps for Estelle’s manumission that now

roused her anger and anxiety.

These disclosures on the part of Estelle awoke in me conflicting

emotions.

Shall I confess it? Such was the influence of education, of inherited

prejudice, and of social proscription, that when she told me she was a

slave, I shuddered as a high-caste Brahmin might when he finds that the

man he has taken by the hand is a Pariah. Estelle was too keen of

penetration not to detect it; and she drew her robe away from my touch,

and moved her chair back a little.

My ancestors, with the exception of my father, had been slaveholders

ever since 1625. I had lived all my life in a community where slavery

was held a righteous and a necessary institution. I had never allowed

myself to question its policy or its justice. Skepticism as to a God or

a future state was venial, nay, rather fashionable; but woe to the youth

who should play the Pyrrhonist in the matter of slavery!

Yet it was not fear, it was not self-interest, that made me acquiesce;

it was simply a failure to exercise my proper powers of thought. I took

the word of others,—of interested parties, of social charlatans, of

sordid, self-stultified fanatics,—that the system was the best possible

one that could be conceived of, both for blacks and whites. From the

false social atmosphere in which I had grown up I had derived the

accretions that went to build up and solidify my moral being.

And so if St. Paul or Fenelon, Shakespeare or Newton, had come to me

with ebonized faces, I should have refused them the privileges of an

equal. To such folly are we shaped by what we passively receive from

society! To such outrages on justice and common sense are we reconciled

simply by the inertness of our brains, not to speak of the hollowness of

our hearts!

Estelle paused, and almost despaired, when she saw the effect upon me of

her confession. But I pressed her to a conclusion of her story, and then

asked, “Who has any claim upon you, in the event of Madame Dufour’s

dying intestate?”

“Nearly all her property,” replied Estelle, “is mortgaged to her nephew,

Carberry Ratcliff, and he is her only heir.”

“Give me some account of him.”

“He is a South Carolinian by birth. Some years ago he married a Creole

lady, by whom he got a fine cotton-plantation on the Red River, stocked

with several hundred slaves. He has a house and garden in Lafayette, but

lives most of the time on his plantation at Loraine.”

“Have you ever seen him?”

“Yes; the first time only ten days ago, and he has been here four times

since to call on Madame Dufour, though he rarely used to visit her

oftener than twice a year.”

As Estelle spoke, her eyes flashed, and her breast heaved.

“How did he behave to you, Estelle?”

“How should the lord of a plantation behave to a comely female slave? Of

course he insulted me both with looks and words. What more could you

expect of such a connoisseur in flesh and blood as the planter who

recruits his gangs at slave-auctions? Do not ask me how he behaved.”

I rose, deeply agitated, and paced the room.

“What sort of a looking man is this Mr. Ratcliff?”

She went to an _étagère_ in a corner, opened a little box, and took from

it a daguerrotype, which she placed in my hand.

Looking at the likeness, I recognized the man who once insulted me at

the theatre.

“I must go and attend to Madame Dufour,” said Estelle.

“Let me accompany you,” said I.

She made no objection. We went together into the chamber. Estelle rushed

to the bedside,—shook the invalid,—called her aloud by name,—put her ear

down to learn if she breathed,—put her hand on the breast to find if the

heart beat,—then turned to me, and shrieked, “She is dead!”

What was to be done?

I led Estelle into the parlor. She sat down. Her face was of a frightful

pallor; but there was not the trace of a tear in her eyes. The

expression was that of blank, unmitigated despair.

“Poor, poor child!” I murmured. “What can I do for her? Estelle, you

must be saved,—but how?”

My words and my look seemed to inspire her with a hope. She rose, sank

upon both knees before me, lifted up her clasped hands, and said: “O

sir! O Mr. Carteret! as you are a man, as you reverence the recollection

of your mother, save me,—save me from the consequences of this death! I

am now the slave of Mr. Ratcliff; and what that involves to me you can

guess, but I, without a new agony, cannot explain. Save me, dear sir!

Good sir, kind sir, for God’s love, save me!” And then, with a wild cry

of despair, she added: “I will be yours,—body and soul, I will be yours,

if you will only save me! I will be your slave,—your _anything_,—only

let me belong to one I can love and respect. Do not, do not cast me

off!”

“Cast you off, dear child? Never!” said I, and, raising her to her feet,

I kissed her forehead.

That first kiss! How shall I analyze it? It was pure and tender as a

mother’s, notwithstanding the utter abandonment signified in the

maiden’s words. That very self-surrender was her security. Had she been

shy, I might have been less cold. But her look of disappointment showed

she attributed that coldness to some less flattering cause,—plainly to

indifference, if not to personal dislike. She could not detect in me the

first symptom of what she instinctively knew would be a guaranty of my

protection, stronger than duty.

Like all the slaves and descendants of slaves in Louisiana, of all

grades of color, she had been bred up to a knowledge that it was a

consequence of her condition that there could be no marriage union

between her and a respectable white man. Impressed with this conviction,

she had pleaded to be allowed to remain in some convent, though it were

but as a servant, for the remainder of her life. The selfishness of her

mistress and owner, Miss Huger, put it out of her power to make this

choice effectual. Her kind-hearted Catholic instructors consoled her, as

well as they could, by the assurance that, being a slave, the sin of any

mode of life to which she might be forced would be attended with

absolution. But she had the horror which every pure nature, strong in

the affections, must feel, under like circumstances, at the prospect of

constraint. Since her life was to be that of a slave, O that her master

might be one she could love, and who could love her! The first part of

the dream would be realized if I could buy her. What misery to think

that the latter part must remain unfulfilled!

I led her to a chair. She sat down and burst into a passion of tears. In

vain I tried to console her by words. Supporting her head with one hand,

I then with the other smoothed back the beautiful hair from her

forehead. Gradually she became calm. I knelt beside her, and said:

“Estelle, compose yourself. I promise you I will risk everything, life

itself, to save you from the fate you abhor. Now summon your best

faculties, and let us together devise some plan of proceeding.”

She lifted my hand to her lips in gratitude, made me take a seat by her

side, and said: “Mr. Ratcliff or his agent may be here any minute, and

then you would be powerless. The first step is to leave this house, and

seek concealment.”

“Do you know any place of refuge?”

“Yes; I know a mulatto woman, named Mallet, who has a little stall on

Poydras Street for the sale of baskets. She occupies a small tenement

near by, and has two spare rooms. I think we can trust her, for I once

tended one of her children who died; and she does not know that I am a

slave.”

“But, Estelle, I grieve to say it,—I am poor, almost destitute. My

friends are chiefly theatrical people, poor like myself, and most of

them are North at this season.”

“Do not let that distress you,” she said; “I am the owner of a gold

watch, for which we can get at least fifty dollars.”

“And mine will bring another fifty,” returned I. “Let us go, then, at

once, since here you are in danger.”

An old negro, well known to the family, and who carried round oranges

for sale, at this moment stopped at the door. I gave him a dollar, on

condition that he would occupy and guard the house till some one should

come to relieve him. I then, at Estelle’s suggestion, sent a letter to

the Superintendent of Burials, announcing Madame Dufour’s death, and

requesting him to attend to the interment. I also enclosed the address

of Mr. Ratcliff and Mr. Semmes as the persons who would see all expenses

paid. To this I signed my real name.

It was agreed that Estelle should leave at once. She gave me written

directions for finding our place of rendezvous. There was before it an

old magnolia-tree which I was particularly to note. I was to follow soon

with such articles of attire, belonging to her and to myself, as I could

bring, and I was to return for more if necessary. We parted, and I think

she must have read something not sinister in the expression of my face,

for her own suddenly brightened, and, with a smile ineffably sweet in

its thankfulness, she said, “_Au revoir!_”

Our plans were all successfully carried out. The wardrobe of neither of

us was extensive. Two visits to the house enabled me to remove all that

we required. My letter to the Superintendent of Burials I had dropped

into his box, and that afternoon I saw him enter the house, so that I

knew the proper attentions to the dead would not be wanting.

Mrs. Mallet gladly received us on our own terms. Estelle had

appropriated for me the better of the two little rooms, and had arranged

and decked it so as to wear an appearance of neatness and comfort, if

not of luxury. I expostulated, but she would not listen to my occupying

the inferior apartment. Her own preferences must rule.

Ever dear to memory must be that first evening in our new abode! There

was one old fauteuil in her room, and, placing Estelle in that, I sat on

a low trunk by her side, where I could lean my elbow on the arm of the

chair. It was a warm, but not oppressive July evening, with a bright

moon. The window was open, and in the little area upon which it looked a

lemon-tree rustled as the breeze swelled, now and then, to a whisper.

We were alone. I asked a thousand questions. I extorted the secret of my

mended clothes and the mysterious gold pieces. That air of depression

which had always been so marked in Estelle had vanished. She spoke and

looked like a new being. I put a question in French, and she answered in

that language with a fluency and a purity of accent that put me to the

blush for my own lingual shortcomings. I spoke of books, and was

surprised to find in her a bold, detective taste in recognizing the

peculiarities, and penetrating to the spiritual life, of the higher

class of thinkers and literary artists, whether French, English, or

American.

I asked her to sing. In subdued tones, but with an exquisite accuracy,

she sang some of the favorite airs by Mozart, Bellini, and Donizetti,

using the Italian as if it were her native tongue.

And there, in that atmosphere of death, while the surrounding population

were being decimated by the terrible pestilence, I drank in my first

draughts of an imperishable love.

I looked at my watch. It was half an hour after midnight. How had the

hours slipped by! We must part.

“Estelle!” I exclaimed with emotion; but I could not put into words what

I had intended to say. Then, taking her hand, I added, “You have given

me the most delightful evening of my life.”

No light was burning in the room, but by the moonbeams I could see her

face all luminous with joy and triumph. My second kiss was bestowed; but

this time it was on her lips,—brief, but impassioned. “Good night,

Estelle!” I whispered; and, forcing myself instantly away, I closed the

door.

I entered my apartment, and went to bed, but not to sleep. Tears that I

could not repress gushed forth. A strange rapture possessed me. Nature

had proved itself stronger than convention. The impulsive heart was more

than a match for the calculating head. For the first time in my life I

saw the new heavens and the new earth which love brings in. Estelle now

seemed all the dearer to me for her very helplessness,—for the

degradation and isolation in which slavery had placed her. Were she a

princess, could I love her half as well? But she shall be treated with

all the consideration due to a princess! Passion shall take no advantage

of her friendlessness and self-abandonment.

Then came thoughts of the danger she was in,—of what I should do for her

rescue; and it was not till light dawned in the east that I fell into a

slumber.

We gave up nearly the whole of the next day to the discussion of plans.

In pursuance of that on which we finally fixed, Estelle wrote a letter

to Mr. Ratcliff in these words:—

“TO CARBERRY RATCLIFF, Esq.:—Sir: By the time this letter reaches you

I shall be out of your power, and with my freedom assured. Still I

desire to be at liberty to return to New Orleans, if I should so

elect, and therefore I request you to name the sum in consideration of

which you will give me free papers. A friend will negotiate with you.

Let that friend have your answer, if you please, in the form of an

advertisement in the Picayune, addressed to

ESTELLE.”

Two days afterwards we found the following answer in the newspaper

named:—

“TO ESTELLE: For fifty dollars, I will give you the papers you desire.

C. R.”

Long and anxiously we meditated on this reply. I dreaded a trap. Was it

not most likely that Ratcliff, in naming so low a figure, hoped to

secure some clew to the whereabouts of Estelle?

While I was puzzling myself with the question, Estelle suggested an

expedient. The answer to the advertisement undoubtedly came from

Ratcliff, and we had a right to regard it as valid. Why not address a

letter, with fifty dollars, to Ratcliff, and have it legally registered

at the post-office?

“Admirable!” exclaimed I, delighted at her quickness.

“No, it is not admirable,” she replied. “An objection suggests itself.

Some one will have to go to the post-office to register the letter, and

he may be known or tracked.”

I reflected a moment, and then said: “I think I can guard against such a

danger. Having been an actor, I am expert at disguises. I will go as an

old man.”

The plan was approved and put into effect. The two watches were disposed

of at a jeweller’s for a hundred and ten dollars. In an altered hand I

wrote Ratcliff a letter, enclosed in it a fifty-dollar bill, and bade

him direct his answer simply to Estelle Grandeau, Cincinnati, Ohio. I

added one dollar for the purpose of covering any expense he might be at

for postage. Then, at the shop of a theatrical costumer, I disguised

myself as a man of seventy, and went to the post-office. There I had the

letter and its contents of money duly registered.

As I was returning home in my disguise, I saw the old negro I had left

in charge at Mrs. Dufour’s. He did not recognize me, and was not

surprised at my questions. From him I learned, that before he left the

house a gentleman (undoubtedly Ratcliff) had called, and had seemed to

be in a terrible fury on finding that Estelle had gone away some hours

before; but his rage had redoubled when he further ascertained that a

young man was her attendant.

The interesting question now was, Had Ratcliff any clew to my identity?

My true name, William Carteret, under which I had been known at Mrs.

Dufour’s, was not the name I had gone by on the stage. Here was one

security. Still it was obvious the utmost precaution must be used.

My plans were speedily laid. Not having money enough to pay the passage

of both Estelle and myself up the Mississippi, I decided that Estelle

should go alone, disguised as an old woman. I engaged a state-room, and

paid for it in advance. I had much difficulty in persuading her to

accede to the arrangement, so painful was the prospect of a separation;

but she finally consented. At my friend the costumer’s I fitted her out

in a plain, Quaker-like dress. She was to be Mrs. Carver, a

schoolmistress, going North. The next morning I covered her beautiful

hair with a grayish wig; and then, by the aid of a hare’s foot and some

pigments, added wrinkles and a complexion suitable to a maiden lady of

fifty. With a veil over her face, she would not be suspected.

The hour of parting came. I put a plain gold ring on her finger. “Be

constant,” I said. “Forever!” she solemnly replied, pressing the ring to

her lips with tears of delight. The carriage was at the door. The

farewell kiss was exchanged. Her little trunk was put on the driver’s

foot-board. Mrs. Mallet entered and took a seat, and Estelle was about

to follow, when suddenly a faintness seized me. She detected it at once,

turned back, and exclaimed in alarm: “You are not well. What is the

matter?”

“Nothing, that a glass of wine will not cure,” I replied. “There! It is

over already. Do not delay. Your time is limited. Driver! Fast, but

steady! Here’s a dollar for you! There! Step in, Estelle.”

She looked at me hesitatingly. I summoned all my will to check my

increasing faintness. Urging her into the carriage, I closed the door,

and the horses started. Estelle watched me from the window, till an

angle in the street hid me from her view. Then, staggering into the

house, I crawled up-stairs to my chamber, and sank upon the bed.

----------

The next ten days were a blank to consciousness. Fever and delirium had

the mastery of my brain. On the eleventh morning I seemed to wake

gradually, as if from some anxious dream. I lay twining my hands feebly

one over the other. Then suddenly a speck in the ceiling fixed my

attention. Raising myself on the pillow, I looked around. Very gently

and slowly recollection came back. The appearance of Mrs. Mallet soon

seemed a natural sequence. She smiled, gave an affirmative shake of the

head, as if to tell me all was well, and at her bidding, I lay down and

slept. The following day I was strong enough to inquire after Estelle.

“Be good, and you shall see her,” was the reply.

“What! Did she not take passage in the boat?”

“There! Do not be alarmed; she will explain it all.”

And as she spoke, Estelle glided in, held up her forefinger by way of

warning, and, smiling through her tears, kissed my forehead. I felt a

shock of joy, followed by anxiety. “Why did you not go?” I asked.

“I found I could dispose of my state-room, and I did it, for I was too

much concerned about your health to go in peace. It was fortunate I

returned. You have had the fever, but the danger is over.”

“How long have I lain thus?”

“This is the twelfth day.”

“Have I had a physician?”

“No one but Estelle; but then she is an expert; she once walked the

hospitals with the Sisters of Charity.”

My convalescence was rapid. By the first of September I was well enough

to take long strolls in the evening with Estelle. On the fifth of that

month, early one starlit night, I said to her, “Come, Estelle, put on

your bonnet and shawl for a walk.”

She brought them into my room, and placed them on the bed.

“Where shall we go?” she inquired.

“To the Rev. Mr. Fulton’s,” I replied; “that is, if you will consent to

be—”

“To be what?” she asked, not dreaming of my drift.

“To be married to me, Estelle!”

The expressions that flitted over her face,—expressions of doubtful

rapture, pettish incredulity, and childlike eagerness,—come back vividly

to my remembrance.

“You do not mean it!” at length she murmured, reproachfully.

“From my inmost heart I mean it, and I desire it above all earthly

desires,” I replied.

She sank to the floor, and, clasping my knees with her arms, bowed her

head upon them, and wept. Then, starting up, she said: “What! Your wife?

Really your wife? Mistress and wife in one? Me,—a slave? Can it be,

William, you desire it?”

It was the first time she had called me by my first name.

“Have you considered it well?” she continued. “O, I fear it would be

ungenerous in me to consent. Such an alliance might jeopard all your

future. You are young, well-connected, and can one day command all that

the best society of the country can offer. No, William, not for me,—not

for me the position of your wife!”

I replied to these misgivings by putting on her shawl, then her bonnet,

the tying of which I accompanied with a kiss that brought the roses to

her cheeks.

“Estelle,” I said, “unless we are very different from what we believe,

the step is one we shall not regret. I must be degenerate indeed, if I

can ever find anything in life more precious than the love you give and

inspire. But perhaps you shrink from so binding a tie.”

“Shrink from it?” she repeated, in a tone of abandonment to all that was

rapturous and delightful in her conceptions, though the tears gushed

from her eyes. “O, generous beyond my dreams! Would I might prove to you

of what my love is capable, and how you have deepened its unfathomable

depths by this last proof of your affection!”

We went forth under the stars that beautiful evening to the well-known

minister’s house. He received us kindly, asked us several questions,

and, having satisfied himself of our intelligence and sincerity, united

us in marriage. We gave him our real names,—William Carteret and Estelle

Grandeau,—and he promised to keep the secret.

Six weeks flew by, how swiftly! The pressure which circumstances had put

upon Estelle’s buoyancy of character being taken away, she moved the

very embodiment of joy. It was as if she was making up for the past

repression of her cheerfulness by an overflow, constant, yet gentle as

the superflux of a fountain. Her very voice grew more childlike in its

tones. A touching gratitude that never wearied of making itself felt

seemed added to an abounding tenderness towards me.

She had a quick sense of the humorous which made hers an atmosphere of

smiles. She would make me laugh by the odd and childish, yet charming

pet phrases she would lavish upon me. She would amuse me by her anxiety

in catering for me at meal-time, and making her humble fare seem

sumptuous by her devices of speech, as well as by her culinary arts. The

good nuns with whom she had lived had made her a thorough housekeeper,

and a paragon of neatness. She wanted further to be my valet, my very

slave, anticipating my wants, and forestalling every little effort which

I might put forth.

My object now was to raise the sum necessary for our departure from the

city. I took pupils in music among the humblest classes,—among the free

blacks and even the slaves. I would be absent from nine o’clock in the

morning till five in the afternoon. Estelle aided me in my purpose. She

learned from Mrs. Mallet the art of making baskets, and contrived some

of a new pattern which met a ready sale. We began to lay up five,

sometimes six dollars a day.

Once I met Mr. Ratcliff in Carondelet Street. He evidently recognized

me, for he turned on me a glance full of arrogance and hate. The

encounter made me uneasy, but, thinking the mention of it might produce

needless anxiety, I said nothing about it to Estelle. We were sitting

that very evening in our little room. Estelle, always childlike, was in

my lap, questioning me closely about all the incidents of the day,—what

streets I had walked through; what persons I had seen; if I had been

thinking of her, &c. I answered all her questions but one, and she

seemed content; and then whispered in my ears the intelligence that she

was likely to be the mother of my child. Delightful announcement! And

yet with the thrill of satisfaction came a pang of solicitude.

“Do you believe,” prattled Estelle, “there ever were two people so

happy? I can’t help recalling those words you read me the other night

from your dear father’s last part, ‘If it were now to die, ’t were now

to be most happy.’ It seems to me as if the felicity of a long life had

been concentrated into these few weeks, and as if we were cheating our

mortal lot in allowing ourselves to be quite so happy.”

Was this the sigh of her presaging heart?

I resolved on immediate action. The next day (a Wednesday) I passed upon

the Levee. After many inquiries, I found a ship laden with cotton that

would sail the following Sunday for Boston. The captain agreed to give

up his best state-room for a hundred dollars. It should be ready for our

occupancy on Saturday. I closed with his offer at once. Estelle rejoiced

at the arrangement.

“What has happened to-day?” I asked her.

“Nothing of moment,” she replied. “Two men called to get names for a

Directory.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That if they wanted my husband’s name, they must get it from him

personally.”

“You did well. Were they polite?”

“Very, and seemed to seek excuses for lingering; but, getting no

encouragement, they left.”

Could it be they were spies? The question occurred to me, but I soon

dismissed it as improbable.

And yet they were creatures employed by Carberry Ratcliff to find out

what they could about the man who had offended him.

Ratcliff was the type of a class that spring from slavery as naturally

as certain weeds spring from a certain quality of manure. He was such a

man as only slavery could engender. The son of a South Carolina planter,

he was bred to believe that his little State—little in respect to its

white population—was yet the master State of the Union, and that his

family was the master family of the State. The conclusion that he was

the master man of his family, and consequently of the Union, was not

distant or illogical. As soon as he could lift a pistol he was taught to

fire at a mark, and to make believe it was an Abolitionist. Before he

was twelve years old he had fired at and wounded a free negro, who had

playfully answered an imperious order by mimicking the boy’s strut. Of

this achievement the father was rather proud.

Accustomed to regard the lives and persons of slaves as subject to his

irresponsible will, or to the caprices of his untrained and impure

passions, he soon transferred to the laboring white man and woman the

contempt he felt for the negro. We cannot have the moral sense impaired

in one direction without having it warped and corrupted throughout.

Wrong feeling must, by an inexorable law, breed wrong thinking. And so

Ratcliff looked upon all persons, whether white or black, who had to

earn their bread by manual labor, as (in the memorable words of his

friend Mr. Hammond, United States Senator from South Carolina) “Mudsills

and slaves.” For the thrifty Yankee his contempt was supreme, bitter,

almost frantic.

By mismanagement and extravagance his family estate was squandered, and,

the father having fallen in a duel with a political adversary, Ratcliff

found himself at twenty-one with expensive tastes and no money. He

borrowed a few hundred dollars, went to Louisiana, and there married a

woman of large property, but personally unattractive. Revengeful and

unforgetting as a savage where his pride was touched, and more cruel

than a wolf in his instincts, Ratcliff had always meant to requite me

for the humiliation I had made him experience. He had lost trace of me

soon after the incident at the theatre. No sooner had I passed him in

Carondelet Street than he put detectives on my track, and my place of

abode was discovered. He received such a report of my wife’s beauty as

roused him to the hope of an exquisite revenge. Doubtless he found an

opportunity of seeing Estelle without being seen; and on discovering in

her his slave, his surprise and fury reached an ungovernable height.

Let me not dwell on the horrors of the next few days. We had made all

our arrangements for departure that Saturday morning.

Estelle, in her simple habit, never looked so lovely. A little

cherry-colored scarf which I had presented her was about her neck, and

contrasted with the neutral tint of her robe. The carriage for our

conveyance to the ship was at the door. Our light amount of luggage was

put on behind. We bade our kind hostess good by. Estelle stepped in, and

I was about to follow, when two policemen, each with a revolver in his

hand, approached from a concealment near by, shut the carriage door,

and, laying hands upon me, drew me back. At the same moment, from the

opposite side of the street, Ratcliff, with two men wearing official

badges, came, and, opening the opposite door of the coach, entered and

took seats. So sudden were these movements, that they were over before

either Estelle or I could offer any resistance.

The coachman at once drove off. An imploring shriek from Estelle was

followed by a frantic effort on her part to thrust open the door of the

coach. I saw her struggling in the arms of the officers, her face wild

with terror, indignation, rage. Ratcliff, who had taken the seat

opposite to her, put his head out of the coach, and bowed to me

mockingly.

One of my stalwart captors held a pistol to my head, and cautioned me to

be “asy.” For half a minute I made no resistance. I was calculating how

I could best rescue Estelle. All the while I kept my eyes intently on

the departing carriage.

My captors held me as if they were prepared for any struggle. But I had

not been seven years on the stage without learning something of the

tricks of the wrestler and the gymnast. Suddenly both policemen found

their legs knocked from under them, and their heads in contact with the

pavement. A pistol went off as they fell, and a bullet passed through

the crown of my hat; but before they could recover their footing, I had

put an eighth of a mile between us.

Where was the carriage? The street into which it had turned was

intersected by another which curved on either side like the horns of a

crescent. To my dismay, when I reached this curve, the carriage was not

to be seen. It had turned into the street either on the right or on the

left, and the curve hid it from view. Which way? I could judge nothing

from the sound, for other vehicles were passing. I stopped a man, and

eagerly questioned him. He did not speak English. I put my question in

French. He stopped to consider,—believed the carriage had taken the left

turning, but was not quite certain. I ran leftward with all my speed.

Carriages were to be seen, but not one with the little trunk and valise

strapped on behind. I then turned and ran down the right turning.

Baffled! At fault! In the network of streets it was all conjecture.

Still on I ran in the desperate hope of seeing the carriage at some

cross street. But my efforts were fruitless.

Panting and exhausted, I sought rest in a “magasin” for the sale of

cigars. A little back parlor offered itself for smokers. I entered. A

waiter brought in three cigars, and I threw a quarter of a dollar on the

table. But I was no lover of the weed. The tobacco remained untouched. I

wanted an opportunity for summoning my best thoughts.

Even if I had caught the coach, would not the chances have been against

me? Clearly, yes. Further search for it, then, could be of no avail.

Undoubtedly Ratcliff would take Estelle at once to his plantation, for

there he could have her most completely in his power. Let that

calculation be my starting-point.

How stood it in regard to myself? Did not my seizure by the policemen

show that legal authority for my arrest had been procured? Probably. If

imprisoned, should I not be wholly powerless to help Estelle? Obviously.

Perhaps the morning newspapers would have something to say of the

affair? Nothing more likely. Was it not, then, my safest course to keep

still and concealed for the present? Alas, yes! Could I not trust

Estelle to protect her own honor? Ay, she would protect it with her

life; but the pang was in the thought that her life might be sacrificed

in the work of protection.

The “magasin” was kept by Gustave Leroux, an old Frenchman, who had been

a captain under Napoleon, and was in the grand army in its retreat from

Moscow. A bullet had gone through his cheeks, and another had taken off

part of his nose.

I must have sat with the untouched cigars before me nearly three hours.

At last, supposing I was alone, I bowed my forehead on my hand, and

wept. Suddenly I looked up. The old Frenchman, with his nose and cheek

covered with large black patches, was standing with both hands on the

table, gazing wistfully and tenderly upon me.

“What is it, my brave?” he asked in French, while tears began to fill

his own eyes. I looked up. There was no resisting the benignity of that

old battered face. I took the two hands which he held out to me in my

own. He sat down by my side, and I told him my story.

After I had finished, he sat stroking his gray moustache with forefinger

and thumb, and for ten minutes did not speak. Then he said: “I have seen

this Mr. Ratcliff. A bad physiognomy! And yet what Mademoiselle

Millefleurs would call a pretty fellow! Let us see. He will carry the

girl to Lorain, and have her well guarded in his own house. As he has no

faith in women, his policy will be to win her by fine presents, jewels,

dresses, and sumptuous living. He will try that game for a full month at

least. I think, if the girl is what you tell me she is, we may feel

quite secure for a month. That will give us time to plan a campaign.

Meanwhile you shall occupy a little room in my house, and keep as calm

as you can. My dinner will be ready in ten minutes. You must try to coax

an appetite, for you will want all your health and strength. _Courage,

mon brave!_”

This old soldier, in his seventieth year, had done the most courageous

act of his life. Out of pure charity he had married Madame Ponsard, five

years his elder, an anti-Bonapartist, and who had been left a widow,

destitute, and with six young parentless grandchildren. Fifty years back

he had danced with her when she was a belle in Paris, and that fact was

an offset for all her senile vanity and querulousness. It reconciled

him, not only to receiving the lady herself, large, obese, and rubicund,

and, worst of all, anti-Bonapartist, but to take her encumbrances, four

girls and two boys, all with fearful appetites and sound lungs. But the

old Captain was a sentimentalist; and the young life about him had

rejuvenated his own. After all, there was a selfish calculation in his

lovely charities; for he knew that to give was to receive in larger

measure.

I accepted his offer of a shelter. The next morning he brought me a copy

of the Delta. It contained this paragraph:

“We regret to learn that Mr. Julian Talbot, formerly an actor, and well

known in theatrical circles, was yesterday arrested in the atrocious act

of abducting a female slave of great personal beauty, belonging to the

Hon. Carberry Ratcliff. The slave was recovered, but Talbot managed to

escape. The officers are on his track. It is time an example was made of

these sneaking Abolitionists.”

----------

“O insupportable, O heavy hour!” I tried to reconcile myself to delay. I

stayed a whole fortnight with Leroux. At last I procured the dress of a

laboring Celt, and tied up in a bundle a cheap dress that would serve

for a boy. I then stuck a pipe through my hat-band, and put a shillelah

under my arm. A mop-like red wig concealed a portion of my face.

Lamp-black and ochre did the rest. Leroux told me I was premature in my

movements, but, without heeding his expostulations, I took an

affectionate leave of him and of Madame, whose heart I had won by

talking French with her, and listening to her long stories of the

ancient _régime_.

I went on board a Red River boat. One of the policemen who arrested me

was present on the watch; but I stared him stupidly in the face, and

passed on unsuspected.

Ratcliff was having a canal dug at Lorain for increasing the facilities

of transporting cotton; and as the work was unhealthy, he engaged

Irishmen for it. The killing an Irishman was no loss, but the death of a

slave would be a thousand dollars out of the master’s pocket. I easily

got a situation among the diggers. How my heart bounded when I first saw

Ratcliff! He came in company with his superintendent, Van Buskirk, and

stood near me some minutes while I handled the spade.

For hours, every night during the week, I watched the house to discover

the room occupied by Estelle. On Sunday I went in the daytime. From the

window of a room in the uppermost story a little cherry-colored scarf

was flaunting in the breeze. I at once recognized its meaning. Some

negroes were near by under a tree. I approached, and asked an ancient

black fellow, who was playing on an old cracked banjo, what he would

take for the instrument.

“Look yere, Paddy,” said he, “if yer tink to fool dis chile, yer’ll fine

it airn’t to be did. So wood up, and put off ter wunst, or yer’ll kotch

it, shoo-ah.”

“But, Daddy, I’m in right earnest,” replied I. “If you’ll sell that

banjo at any price within reason, I’ll buy it.”

“It’ll take a heap more’n you kn raise ter buy dis yere banjo; so,

Paddy, make tracks, and jes’ you mine how yer guv dis yere ole nigger

any more ob yer sarss.”

“I’ll pay you two dollars for that banjo, Daddy. Will you take it?” said

I, holding out the silver.

The old fellow looked at me incredulously; then seized the silver and

thrust the banjo into my hand, uttering at the same time such an

expressive “Wheugh!” as only a negro can. Then, unable to restrain

himself, he broke forth: “Yah, yah, yah! Paddy’s got a bargain dis time,

shoo-ah. Yah, yah, yah! Look yere, Paddy. Dat am de most sooperfinest

banjo in dese parts; can’t fine de match ob it in all Noo Orleenz. Jes’

you hole on ter dem air strings, so dey won’t break in two places ter

wonst, and den fire away, and yer’ll ’stonish de natives, shoo-ah. Yah,

yah, yah! Takes dis ole nigg to sell a banjo. Yah! yah!”

Every man who achieves success finds his penalty in a train of

parasites; and Daddy’s case was not exceptional. As he started in a bee

line for his cabin, to boast of his acuteness in trade to an admiring

circle, he was followed by his whole gang of witnesses.

All this time I could see Ratcliff with a party of gentlemen on his

piazza. They were smoking cigars; and, judging from the noise they made,

had been dining and drinking. I slipped away with the banjo under my

arm.

That night I returned and played the air of “Pestal” as near to the

house as I deemed it prudent to venture. I would play a minute, and then

pause. I had not done this three times, when I heard Estelle’s voice

from her chamber, humming these words in low but audible tones:

“Hark! methinks I hear celestial voices sing,

Soon thou shalt be free, child of misery,—

Rest and perfect joy in heaven are waiting thee;

Spirit, plume thy wings and flee!”

I struck a few notes, by way of acknowledgment, and left.

The next night I merely whistled the remembered air in token of my

presence. A light appeared for a moment at the window, and then was

removed. I crept up close to the house. On that side of it where Estelle

was confined there were no piazzas. I had not waited two minutes when

something touched my head and bobbed before my eyes. It was a little

roll of paper. I detached it from the string to which it was tied; and

then, taking from my pocket an old envelope, I wrote on it in the dark

these words: “To-morrow night at ten o’clock down the string. If

prevented, then any night after at the same hour. Love shall find a way.

Forever.”

The letter which I found folded in the paper lies yet in my pocket-book,

but I need not look at it in order to repeat it entire. It is in these

words:—‚Î

“What shall I call thee? Dearest? But that word implies a comparative;

and whom shall I compare with thee? Most precious and most beloved? O,

that is not a tithe of it! Idol? Darling? Sweet? Pretty words, but

insufficient. Ah! life of my life, there are no superlatives in

language that can interpret to thee the unspeakable affection which

swells in my heart and moistens my eyes as I commence this letter! Can

we by words give an idea of a melody? No more can I put on paper what

my heart would be whispering to thine. Forgive the effort and the

failure.

“I have the freedom of the upper story of the house, and my room is

where you saw the scarf. Two strong negro women, with sinister faces,

and employed as seamstresses, watch me every time I cross the

threshold. At night I am locked in. The windows, as you may see, are

always secured by iron bars.

“Ratcliff hopes to subdue me by slow approaches. O, the unutterable

loathing which he inspires! He has placed impure books in my way. He

sends me the daintiest food and wines. I confine myself to bread,

vegetables, and cream. He cannot drug me without my knowledge. Twice

and sometimes three times a day he visits me, and, finding me firm in

my resolve, retires with a self-satisfied air which maddens me. He

evidently believes in my final submission. No! Sooner, death! on my

knees I swear it.

“Yesterday he sent splendid dresses, laces, jewels, diamonds. He

offers me a carriage, an establishment, and to settle on me enough to

make me secure for the future. How he magnifies my hate by all these

despicable baits!

“Sweet, be very prudent. While steadily maintaining towards this

wretch, whom the law calls my master, the demeanor that may best

assure him of my steadfast resolve, I take care not to arouse his

anger; for I know what you want is opportunity. He may any time be

called off suddenly to New Orleans. Be wary. Tell me what you propose.

A string shall be let down from my window to-morrow night at ten by

stealth, for I am watched. God keep thee, my husband, my beloved! How

I shudder at thought of all thy dangers! Be sure, O William, tender

and true, my heart will hold eternally one only image. Adieu!

ESTELLE.”

The next night I put her in possession of a rope and a boy’s dress, also

of two files, with directions for filing apart the iron bars. I saw it

would not be difficult to enable her to get out of the house. The

dreadful question was, How shall we escape the search which will at once

be made? For a week we exchanged letters. At last she wrote me that

Ratcliff would the next day leave for New Orleans for his wife. I wrote

to Estelle to be ready the ensuing night, and on a signal from me to let

herself down by the rope.

These plans were successfully carried out. Disguised as a laboring boy,

Estelle let herself down to the ground. Once more we clasped each other

heart to heart. I had selected a moonless night for the escape. In order

to baffle the scent of the bloodhounds that would be put on our track, I

took to the river. In a canoe I paddled down stream some fifteen miles

till daylight. There, at a little bend called La Coude, we stopped. It

now occurred to me that our safest plan would be to take the next boat

up the river, and return on our course instead of keeping on to the

Mississippi. Our pursuers would probably look for us in any direction

but that.

The Rigolette was the first boat that stopped. We went on board, and the

first person we encountered was Ratcliff! He was returning, having

learnt at the outset of his journey that his wife had left New Orleans

the day before. Estelle was thrown off her guard by the suddenness of

the meeting, and uttered a short, sharp cry of dismay which betrayed

her. Poor child! She was little skilled in feigning. Ratcliff walked up

to her and removed her hat.

I had seen men in a rage, but never had I witnessed such an infuriated

expression as that which Ratcliff’s features now exhibited. It was

wolfish, beastly, in its ferocity. His smooth pink face grew livid.

Seizing Estelle roughly by the arm, he—whatever he was about to do, the

operation was cut short by a blow from my fist between his eyes which

felled him senseless on the deck.

The spectacle of a rich planter knocked down by an Irishman was not a

common one on board the Rigolette. We were taken in custody, Estelle and

I, and confined together in a state-room.

Ratcliff was badly stunned, but cold water and brandy at length restored

him. At Lorain the boat stopped till Van Buskirk and half a dozen low

whites, his creatures and hangers-on, could be summoned to take me in

charge. Ratcliff now recognized me as his acquaintance of the theatre,

and a new paroxysm of fury convulsed his features. I was searched,

deprived of my money, then handcuffed; then shackled by the legs, so

that I could only move by taking short steps. Estelle’s arms were

pinioned behind her, and in that state she was forced into an open

vehicle and conveyed to the house.

I was placed in an outbuilding near the stable, a sort of dungeon for

refractory slaves. It was lighted from the roof, was unfloored, and

contained neither chair nor log on which to sit. For two days and nights

neither food nor drink was brought to me. With great difficulty, on

account of my chain, I managed to get at a small piece of biscuit in my

coat-pocket. This I ate, and, as the rain dripped through the roof, I

was enabled to quench my thirst.

On the third day two men led me out to an adjoining building, and

down-stairs into a cellar. As we entered, the first object I beheld sent

such a shock of horror to my heart that I wonder how I survived it. Tied

to a post, and stripped naked to her hips, her head drooping, her breast

heaving, her back scored by the lash and bleeding, stood Estelle. Near

by, leaning on a cotton-bale, was Ratcliff smoking a cigar. Seated on a

block, his back resting against the wall, with one leg over the other,

was a white man, holding a cowskin, and apparently resting from his

arduous labors as woman-whipper. Forgetting my shackles, and uttering

some inarticulate cry of anguish, I strove to rush upon Ratcliff, but

fell to the ground, exciting his derision and that of his creatures, the

miserable “mean” whites, the essence of whose manhood familiarity with

slavery had unmoulded till they had become bestial in their feelings.

Estelle, roused by my voice, turned on me eyes lighted up by an

affection which no bodily agony could for one moment enfeeble, and said,

gaspingly: “My own husband! You see I keep my oath!”

“Husband indeed! We’ll see about that,” sneered Ratcliff. “Fool! do you

imagine that a marriage contracted by a slave without the consent of the

master has any validity, moral or legal?”

I turned to him, and uttered—I know not what. The frenzy which seized me

lifted me out of my normal state of thought, and by no effort of

reminiscence have I ever since been able to recall what I said.

I only remember that Ratcliff, with mock applause, clapped his hands and

cried, “Capital!” Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he remarked: “There is

yet one little ceremony more to be gone through with. Bring in the

bridegroom.”

What new atrocity was this?

A moment afterwards a young, lusty, stout, and not ill-looking negro,

fantastically dressed, was led in with mock ceremony, by one of the mean

whites, a whiskey-wasted creature named Lovell. I looked eagerly in the

face of the negro, who bowed and smirked in a manner to excite roars of

laughter on the part of Ratcliff and his minions.

“Well, boy, are you ready to take her for better or for worse?” asked

the haughty planter.

The negro bowed obsequiously, and, jerking off his hat, scratched his

wool, and, with a laugh, replied: “’Scuze me, massa, but dis nigger

can’t see his wife dat is to be ’xposed in dis onhan’some mahnner to de

eyes of de profane. If Massa Ratcliff hab no ’jection, I’ll jes’ put de

shawl on de bride’s back. Yah, yah, yah!”

“O, make yourself as gallant as you please now,” said the planter,

laughing. “Let’s see you begin to play the bridegroom.”

Gracious heavens! Was I right in my surmises? Under all his harlequin

grimaces and foolery, this negro, to my quickened penetration, seemed to

be crowding back, smothering, disguising, some intense emotion. His

laugh was so extravagantly African, that it struck me as imitative in

its exaggeration. I had heard a laugh much like it from the late Jim

Crow Rice on the stage. Was the negro playing a part?

He approached Estelle, cut the thongs that bound her to the post, threw

her shawl over her shoulders, and then, falling on one knee, put both

hands on his heart, and rolled up his eyes much after the manner of

Bombastes Furioso making love to Distaffina. The Ratcliffites were in

ecstasies at the burlesque. Then, rising to his feet, the negro

affectedly drew nearer to Estelle, and, putting up his hand, whispered,

first in one of her ears, then in the other. I could see a change,

sudden, but instantly checked, in her whole manner. Her lips moved. She

must have murmured something in reply.

“Look here, Peek, you rascal,” cried Ratcliff, “we must have the benefit

of your soft words. What have you been saying to her?”

“I’ze been tellin’ her,” said the negro, with tragic gesticulation,

pointing to himself and then at me, “to look fust on dis yere pikter,

den on dat. Wheugh!”

Still affecting the buffoon, he came up to me, presenting his person so

that his face was visible only to myself. There was a divine pity in his

eyes, and in the whole expression of his face the guaranty of a high and

holy resolve. “She will trust me,” he whispered. “Do you the same.”

To the spectators he appeared to be mocking me with grimace. To me he

seemed an angel of deliverance.

“Now, Peek, to business!” said Ratcliff. “You swear, do you, to make

this woman your wife in fact as well as in name; do you understand me,

Peek?”

“Yes, massa, I understan’.”

“You swear to guard her well, and never to let that white scoundrel

yonder come near or touch her?”

“Yes, massa, I swar ter all dat, an’ ebber so much more. He’ll kotch

what he can’t carry if he goes fur to come nare my wife.”

“Kiss the book on it,” said Ratcliff, handing him a Bible.

“Yes, massa, as many books as you please,” replied Peek, doing as he was

bidden.

“Then, by my authority as owner of you two slaves, and as justice of the

peace, I pronounce you, in presence of these witnesses, man and wife,”

said Ratcliff. “Why the hell, Peek, don’t you kiss the bride?”

“O, you jes’ leeb dis chile alone for dat air, Massa Ratcliff,” replied

the negro; and, concealing his mouth by both hands, he simulated a kiss.

“Now attend to Mrs. Peek while another little ceremony takes place,”

said Ratcliff.

At a given signal I was stripped of my coat, waistcoat, and shirt, then

dragged to the whipping-post, and bound to it. I could see Estelle, her

face of a mortal paleness, her body writhing as if in an agony. The

first lash that descended on my bare flesh seemed to rive her very

heart-strings, for she uttered a loud shriek, and was borne out

senseless in the negro’s arms.

“All right!” said Ratcliff. “We shall soon have half a dozen little

Peeks toddling about. Proceed. Vickery.”

A hundred lashes, each tearing or laying bare the flesh, were inflicted;

but after the first, all sensibility to pain was lost in the intensity

of my emotions. Had I been changed into a statue of bronze I could not

have been more impenetrable to pain.

“Now, sir,” said the slave lord, coming up to me, “you see what it is to

cross the path of Carberry Ratcliff. The next time you venture on it,

you won’t get off so easy.”

Then, turning to Vickery, he said: “I promised the boys they should have

a frolic with him, and see him safely launched. They have been longing

for a shy at an Abolitionist. So unshackle him, and let him slide.”

My handcuffs and shackles were taken off. My first impulse on being

freed, was to spring upon Ratcliff and strangle him. I could have done

it. Though I stood in a pool of my own blood, a preternatural energy

filled my veins, and I stepped forth as if just refreshed by sleep. But

the thought of Estelle checked the vindictive impulse. A rope was now

put about my neck, so that the two ends could be held by my conductors.

In this state I was led up-stairs out of the building, and beyond the

immediate enclosure of the grounds about the house to a sort of trivium,

where some fifty or sixty “mean whites” and a troop of boys of all

colors were assembled round a tent in which a negro was dealing out

whiskey gratis to the company. Near by stood a kettle sending forth a

strong odor of boiling tar. A large sack, the gaping mouth of which

showed it was filled with feathers, lay on the ground.

There was a yell of delight from the assembly as soon as I appeared.

Half naked as I was, I was dragged forward into their midst, and tied to

a tree near the kettle. I could see, at a distance of about a quarter of

a mile, Ratcliff promenading his piazza.

There was a dispute among the “chivalry” whether I should be stripped of

the only remaining article of dress, my pantaloons, before being “fitted

to a new suit.” The consideration that there might be ladies among the

distant spectators finally operated in my favor. A brush, similar to

that used in whitewashing, was now thrust into the bituminous liquid;

and an illustration of one of “our institutions, sir,” was entered upon

with enthusiasm. Lovell was the chief operator. The brush was first

thrust into my face till eyelids, eyebrows, and hair were glued by the

nauseous adhesion. Then it was vigorously applied to the bleeding seams

on my back, and the intolerable anguish almost made me faint. My entire

person at length being thickly smeared, the bag of feathers was lifted

over me by two men and its contents poured out over the tarred surface.

I will not pain you, my friends, by suggesting to your imagination all

that there is of horrible, agonizing, and disgusting in this operation,

which men, converted into fiends by the hardening influences of slavery,

have inflicted on so many hundreds of imprudent or suspected persons

from the Northern States. I see in it all now, so far as I was

concerned, a Providential martyrdom to awake me to a sense of what

slavery does for the education of white men.

O, ye palliators of the “institution”!—Northern men with Southern

principles,—ministers of religion who search the Scriptures to find

excuses for the Devil’s own work,—and ye who think that any system under

which money is made must be right, and of God’s appointment,—who hate

any agitation which is likely to diminish the dividends from your

cotton-mills or the snug profits from your Southern trade,—come and

learn what it is to be tarred and feathered for profaning, by thought or

act, or by suspected thought or act, that holy of holies called slavery!

After the feathers had been applied, a wag among my tormentors fixed to

my neck and arms pieces of an old sheet stretched on whalebone to

imitate a pair of wings. This spectacle afforded to the spectators the

climax of their exhilaration and delight. I was then led by a rope to

the river’s side and put on an old rickety raft where I had to use

constant vigilance to keep the loose planks from disparting. Two men in

a boat towed me out into the middle of the stream, and then, amid mock

cheers, I was left to drift down with the current or drown, just as the

chances might hold in regard to my strength.

Two thoughts sustained me; one Estelle, the other Ratcliff. But for

these, with all my youth and power of endurance, I should have sunk and

died under my sufferings. For nearly an hour I remained within sight of

the mocking, hooting crowd, who were especially amused at my efforts to

save myself from immersion by keeping the pieces of my raft together. At

length it was floated against a shallow where some brushwood and loose

sticks had formed a sort of dam. The sun was sinking through wild,

ragged clouds in the west. My tormentors had all gradually disappeared.

For the last thirty-six hours I had eaten nothing but a cracker. My eyes

were clogged with tar. My efforts in keeping the raft together had been

exhaustive. No sooner was I in a place of seeming safety than my

strength failed me all at once. I could no longer sit upright. The wind

freshened and the waves poured over me, almost drowning me at times.

Thicker vapors began to darken the sky. A storm was rising. Night came

down frowningly. The planks slipped from under me. I could not lift an

arm to stop them. I tried to seize the brushwood heaped on the sand-bar,

but it was easily detached, and offered me no security. I seemed to be

sinking in the ooze of the river’s bottom. The spray swept over me in

ever-increasing volume. I was on the verge of unconsciousness.

Suddenly I roused myself, and grasped the last plank of my raft. I had

heard a cry. I listened. The cry was repeated,—a loud halloo, as if from

some one afloat in an approaching skiff. I could see nothing, but I

lifted my head as well as I could, and cried out, “Here!” Again the

halloo, and this time it sounded nearer. I threw my whole strength into

one loud shriek of “Here!” and then sank exhausted. A rush of waves

swept over me, and my consciousness was suspended.

----------

When I came to my senses, I lay on a small cot-bedstead in a hut. A

negro, whom I at once recognized as the man called Peek, was rubbing my

face and limbs with oil and soap. A smell of alcohol and other volatile

liquids pervaded the apartment. Much of my hair had been cut off in the

effort to rid it of the tar.

“Estelle,—where is she?” were my first words.

“You shall see her soon,” replied the negro. “But you must get a little

strength first.”

He spoke in the tones, and used the language, of an educated person. He

brought me a little broth and rice, which I swallowed eagerly. I tried

to rise, but the pain from the gashes left by the scourge on my back was

excruciating.

“Take me to my wife,” I murmured.

He lifted me in his arms and carried me to the open door of an adjoining

cabin. Here on a mattress lay Estelle. A colored woman of remarkable

aspect, and with straight black hair, was kneeling by her side. This

woman Peek addressed as Esha. The little plain gold cross which Estelle

used to wear on the ribbon round her neck was now made to serve as the

emblem of one of the last sacraments of her religion. At her request,

Esha held it, pinned to the ribbon, before her eyes. On a rude table

near by, two candles were burning. Estelle’s hands were clasped upon her

bosom, and she lay intently regarding the cross, while her lips moved in

prayer.

“Try to lib, darlin’,” interrupted Esha; “try to lib,—dat’s a good

darlin’! Only try, an’ yer kn do it easy.”

Estelle took the little cross in her hand and kissed it, then said to

Esha, “Give this, with a lock of my hair, to—”

Before she could pronounce my name, I rallied my strength, and, with an

irrepressible cry of grief, quitted Peek’s support, and rushed to her

side. I spoke her name. I took her dear head in my hands. She turned on

me eyes beaming with an immortal affection. A celestial smile irradiated

her face. Her lips pouted as if pleading for a kiss. I obeyed the

invitation, and she acknowledged my compliance by an affirmative motion

of the head; a motion that was playful even in that supreme moment.

“My own darling!” she murmured; “I knew you would come. O my poor,

suffering darling!”

Then, with a sudden effort, she threw her arms about my neck, and,

drawing me closer down to her bosom, said, in sweet, low tones of

tenderness: “Love me still as among the living. I do not die. The body

dies. I do not die. Love cannot die. Who believes in death, never loved.

You may not see _me_, but I shall see _you_. So be a good boy. Do good

to all. Love all; so shall you love me the better. I do not part with my

love. I take it where it will grow and grow, so as to be all the more

fit to welcome my darling. Carrying my love, I carry my heaven with me.

It would not be heaven without my love. I have been with my father and

mother. So beautiful they are! And such music I have heard! There! Lay

your cheek on my bare bosom. So! You do not hurt me. Closer! closer!

_Carissime Jesu, nunc libera me!_”[19]

Thus murmuring a line from a Latin poem which she had learnt in the

convent where her childhood was passed, her pure spirit, without a

struggle or a throe of pain, disentangled itself from its lovely mortal

mould, and rose into the purer ether of the immortal life.

----------

I afterwards learnt that Ratcliff, finding Estelle inexorable in her

rejection of his foul proffers, was wrought to such a pitch of rage that

he swore, unless she relented, she should be married to a negro slave.

He told her he had a smart nigger he had recently bought in New Orleans,

a fellow named Peek, who should be her husband. Goaded to desperation by

his infamous threats, Estelle had replied, “Better even a negro than a

Ratcliff!” This reply had stung him to a degree that was quite

intolerable.

To be not only thwarted by a female slave, but insulted,—he, a South

Carolinian, a man born to command,—a man with such a figure and such a

face rejected for a strolling actor,—a vagabond, a fellow, too, who had

knocked him down,—what slave-owner would tamely submit to such

mortification! He brooded on the insult till his cruel purpose took

shape and consistency in his mind; and it was finally carried out in the

way I have described.

It may seem almost incredible to you who are from the North, that any

man not insane should be guilty of such atrocities. But Mr. Onslow need

not be told that slavery educates men—men, too, of a certain

refinement—to deeds even more cowardly and fiendish. Do not imagine that

the tyrant who would not scruple to put a black skin under the lash,

would hesitate in regard to a white; and the note-book of many an

overseer will show that of the whippings inflicted under slavery, more

than one third are of women.[20]

For three weeks I was under Peek’s care. Thanks to his tenderness and

zeal, my wounds were healed, my strength was restored. Early in December

I parted from him and returned to New Orleans. I went to my old friends,

the Leroux. They did not recognize me at first, so wasted was I by

suffering. Madame forgot her own troubles in mine, and welcomed me with

a mother’s affection. The grandchildren subdued their riotous mirth, and

trod softly lest they should disturb me. The old Captain wept and raved

over my story, and uttered more _sacr-r-r-rés_ in a given time than I

supposed even a Frenchman’s volubility could accomplish. I bade these

kind friends good by, and went northward.

In Cincinnati and other cities I resumed my old vocation as a

play-actor. In two years, having laid up twenty-five hundred dollars, I

returned to the Red River country to secure the freedom of the slave to

whom I owed my life. He had changed masters. It had got to Ratcliff’s

ears that Peek had cheated him in sparing Estelle and rescuing me. He

questioned Peek on the subject. Peek, throwing aside all his habitual

caution, had declared, in regard to Estelle, that if she had been the

Virgin Mary he could not have treated her with more reverence; that he

had saved my life, and restored me to her arms. Then, shaking his fist

at Ratcliff, he denounced him as a murderer and a coward. The result

was, that Peek, after having been put through such a scourging as few

men could endure and survive, had been sold to a Mr. Barnwell in Texas.

I followed Peek to his new abode, and proposed either to buy and free

him, or to aid him to escape. He bade me save my money for those who

could not help themselves. He meant to be free, but did not mean to pay

for that which was his by right. At that time he was investigating

certain strange occurrences produced by some invisible agency that

claimed to be spiritual. He must remain where he was a while longer. I

was under no serious obligations to him, he said. He had simply done his

duty.

We parted. I tried to find the woman Esha, who had been kind to my wife,

but she had been sold no one knew to whom. I went to New Orleans, and

assuming, by legislative permission, the name of William Vance, I

entered into cotton speculations.

My features had been so changed by suffering, that few recognized me. My

operations were bold and successful. In four years I had accumulated a

little fortune. Occasionally I would meet Ratcliff. Once I had him

completely in my power. He was in the passage-way leading to my office.

I could have dragged him in and——

No! The revenge seemed too poor and narrow. I craved something huge and

general. The mere punishing of an _individual_ was too puny an

expenditure of my hoarded vengeance. But to strike at the “institution”

which had spawned this and similar monsters, that would be some small

satisfaction.

Closing up my affairs in New Orleans, I entered upon that career which

has gained me such notoriety in the Southwest. I have run off many

thousand slaves, worth in the aggregate many millions of dollars. My

theatrical experience has made me a daring expert in disguising myself.

At one time I am a mulatto with a gash across my face; at another time,

an old man; at another, a mean whiskey-swilling hanger-on of the

chivalry. My task is only just begun. It is not till we have given

slavery its immedicable wound, or rather till it has itself committed

suicide in the house of its friends, that I shall be ready to say, _Nunc

dimittas, domi-ne!_[21]