CONFESSIONS OF A MEAN WHITE.
“Throw thyself on thy God, nor mock him with feeble denial;
Sure of his love, and O, sure of his mercy at last;
Bitter and deep though the draught, yet drain thou the cup of thy trial,
And in its healing effect smile at the bitterness past.”
_Lines composed by Sir John Herschel in a dream._
After an early breakfast the following morning, Vance proceeded to the
hospital. The patient had been expecting him.
“He has seemed to know just how near you’ve been for the last hour,”
said the nurse. “He followed—”
“Sit down, Mr. Vance, please,” interrupted the patient.
Vance drew a chair near to the pillow and sat down.
“It all kum ter me last night, Mr. Vance! Now I remember whar ’t was I
met yer. But fust lem me tell yer who an’ what I be. My name’s Quattles.
I was born in South Kerliny, not fur from Columby. I was what the
niggers call a _mean white_, and my father he was a mean white afore me,
and all my brothers they was mean whites, and my sisters they mahrrid
mean whites. The one thing we was raised ter do fiust-rate, and what we
tuk ter kindly from the start, was ter shirk labor. We was taught ’t was
degradin’ ter do useful work like a nigger does, so we all tried hard
ter find su’thin’ that mowt be easy an’ not useful.”
“My dear fellow,” interrupted Vance, who saw the man was suffering,
“you’re fatiguing yourself too much. Rest awhile.”
“No, Mr. Vance. You musn’t mind these twitchin’s an’ spazums like. They
airn’t quite as bahd as they look. Wall, as I war sayin’, one cuss of
slavery ar’, it drives the poor whites away from honest labor; makes ’em
think it’s mean-sperretid ter hoe corn an’ plant ’taters. An’ this
feelin’, yer see, ar’ all ter the profit uv the rich men,—the Hammonds,
Rhetts, an’ Draytons,—’cause why? ’cause it leaves ter the rich all the
good land, an’ drives the poor whites ter pickin’ up a mean livin’, any
way they kin, outside uv hard work! Howsomever, I didn’t see this; an’
so, like other mis’rable fools, I thowt I war a sort uv a ’ristocrat
myself, ’cause I could put on airs afore a nigger. An’ this feelin’ the
slave-owners try to keep up in the mean whites; try to make ’em feel
proud they’re not niggers, though the hull time the poor cusses fare
wuss nor any nigger in a rice-swamp.”
“My friend,” said Vance, “you’ve got at the truth at last, though I fear
you’ve been long about it.”
“Yer may bet high on that, Mr. Vance! How I used ter cuss the
Abolishuners, an’ go ravin’ mahd over the meddlin’ Yankees! Wall, what
d’yer think war the best thing South Kerliny could do fur me, after
never off’rin’ me a chance ter larn ter read an’ write? I’ll tell yer
what the _peculiar_ prermoted me ter. I riz to be foreman uv of a
rat-pit.”
“Of a _what_?” interrogated Vance.
“Of a rat-pit. There war a feller in Charleston who kept a rat-pit, whar
a little tareyer dog killed rats, so many a minute, to please the
sportin’ gentry an’ other swells. Price uv admission one dollar. The
swells would come an’ bet how many rats the dog would kill in a
minute,—’t was sometimes thirty, sometimes forty, and wunst ’t was
fifty. My bus’ness was ter throw the rats, one after another, inter the
pit. We’d a big cage with a hole in the top, an’ I had ter put my bar
hand in, an’ throw out the rats fast as I could, one by one. The tareyer
would spring an’ break the backs uv the varmints with one jerk uv his
teeth. Great bus’ness fur a white man,—warn’t it? So much more genteel
than plantin’ an’ hoein’! Wall, I kept at that pleasant trade five yars,
an’ then lost my place ’cause both hands got so badly bit I couldn’t
pull out the rats no longer.”
“You must have seen things from a bad stand-point, my friend.”
“Bad as ’t was, ’t was better nor the slavery stand-pint I kum ter next.
Yer’v heerd tell uv Jeff McTavish? Wall, Jeff hahd an overseer who got
shot in the leg by a runaway swamp nigger, an’ so I was hired as a sort
uv overseer’s mate. I warn’t brung up ter be very tender ’bout niggers,
Mr. Vance; but the way niggers was treated on that air plantation was
too much even for my tough stomach. I’ve seen niggers shot down dead by
McTavish fur jest openin’ thar big lips to answer him when he was mad.
There warn’t ten uv his slaves out uv a hunderd, that warn’t scored all
up an’ down the back with marks uv the lash.”[27]
“Did you whip them?” inquired Vance.
“I didn’t do nothin’ else; but I did it slack, an’ McTavish he found it
out, and begun jawin’ me. An’ I guv it to him back, and we hahd it thar
purty steep, an’ bymeby he outs with his revolver, but I war too spry
for him. I tripped him up, an’ he hahd ter ask pardon uv a mean white
wunst in his life, an’ no mistake. A little tahmrin’ water, please.”
Vance administered a spoonful, and the patient resumed his story.
“In coorse, I hahd ter leave McTavish. Then fur five years I’d a tight
time of it keepin’ wooded up. What with huntin’ and fishin’,
thimble-riggin’ an’ stealin’, I got along somehow, an’ riz ter be a sort
uv steamboat gambler on the Misippy. ’T was thar I fust saw you, Mr.
Vance.”
“On the Mississippi! When and where?”
“Some fifteen yars ago, on boord the Pontiac, jest afore she blowed up.”
“Indeed! I’ve no recollection of meeting you.”
“Don’t yer remember Kunnle D’lancy Hyde?”
“Perfectly.”
“Wall, I war his shadder. He couldn’t go nowhar I didn’t foller. If he
took snuff, I sneezed. If he got drunk, I staggered. Don’t yer remember
a darkish, long-haired feller, he called Quattles?”
“Are you that man?” exclaimed Vance, restraining his emotion.
“I’m nobody else, Mr. Vance, an’ it ain’t fur nothin’ I’ve got yer here
to har what I’ve ter tell. Ef I don’t stop to say I’m sorry for the mean
things I done, ’taint ’cause I hain’t some shame ’bout it, but ’cause
time’s short. When the Pontiac blowed up, I an’ the Kunnle (he’s ’bout
as much uv a kunnle as I’m uv a bishop), we found ou’selves on that part
uv the boat whar least damage was did. We was purty well corned, for
we’d been drinkin’ some, but the smash-up sobered us. The Kunnle’s fust
thowt was fur his niggers. Says I: ‘Let the niggers slide. We sh’ll be
almighty lucky ef we keep out of hell ou’selves.’ ’T was ev’ry man for
hisself, yer know.”
“Were you on the forward part of the wreck?”
“Yes, Mr. Vance, an’ it soon began ter sink. Poor critters, men an’
women, some scalded, some strugglin’ in the water, war cryin’ for help.
The Kunnle an’ I—”
“Stop a moment,” said Vance; and, drawing out paper and pencil, he made
copious notes.
“As I war sayin’, Mr. Vance, the Kunnle an’ I got four life-presarvin’
stools, lahshed ’em together, an’ begun ter make off for the shore. Says
I, ‘We owt ter save one uv those women folks.’ A yaller gal, with a
white child in her arms, was screamin’ out for us to take her an’ the
child. Jest then she got a blow on the head from a block that fell from
one uv the masts. It seemed ter make her wild, an’ she dropped inter the
water, but held on tight ter the young ’un. Says the Kunnle to me, says
he, ‘Now, Cappn, you take the gal, an’ I’ll take the bebby.’ An’ so we
done it, and all got ashore safe. We lahnded on the Tennessee side. The
sun hahdn’t riz, but ’t was jest light enough ter see. We made tracks
away from the river till we kum ter a nigger’s desarted hut, out of
sight ’t ween two hills. Thar we left the yaller gal and the bebby. The
gal seemed kind o’ crazy; so we fastened ’em in.”
“And the child?” asked Vance. “Did you know whose it was?”
“O yes, I knowed it, ’cause I’d seen the yaller gal more ’n a dozen
times, off an’ on, leadin’ the little thing about. The Berwicks, a
North’n family, was the parrents. Wall, the Kunnle an’ I, we went back
ter the river to see what was goin’ on. The sun was up now. The Champion
hahd turned back to give help. Poor critters war dyin’ all round from
scalds and bruises. All at wunst the Kunnle an’ I kum upon a crowd round
Mr. Berwick, who lay thar on the ground bahdly wounded. His wife lay
dead close by. He kept askin’ fur his child. A feller named Burgess told
him he seed the yaller gal an’ child go overboord, an’ that they must
have drownded. Prehaps he did see ’em in the water, but he didn’t see us
pick ’em up. Old Onslow he said he an’ his boy had sarched ev’rywhar,
but couldn’t find the child nowhar. They b’leeved she was drownded. A
drop uv water, Mr. Vance.”
“And didn’t you undeceive them?” asked Vance, giving the water.
“No, Mr. Vance. The Kunnle seed a prize in that yaller gal, and the
Devil put an idee inter his head. Says the Kunnle to me, says he, ‘Now
foller yer leader, Cappn.’ (He used ter call me Cappn.) ‘Swar jest as
yer har me swar.’ Then up he steps an’ says to Mr. Onslow, ’Judge, it’s
all true what Mr. Burgess says; the yaller gal, with the child in her
arms, war crowded overboord. This gemmleman an’ I tried ter save them.
Ef we didn’t, may I be shot. We throw’d the gal a life-presarver, but
she couldn’t hold on, no how. Fust the child went under, an’ we was so
chilled we couldn’t save it. Then the gal let go her grip uv the stool
an’ sunk. ’T war as much as we could do ter git ashore ou’selves.’”
“Did the judge put you to your oaths?” asked Vance.
“Yes, Mr. Vance. He swar’d us both; then writ down all we said, read it
over ter us, and we put our names ter it, an’ ’t was witnessed all
right. The feller Burgess bahcked us up by sayin’ he see us in the water
jest afore the gal fell, which was all true. It seemed a plain case. The
judge tell’d it all ter Mr. Berwick, an’ he growed sort o’ wild, an’
died soon arter. What bekummed of _you_ all that time, Mr. Vance?”
“I landed on the Arkansas side,” said Vance. “I supposed the Berwick
family all lost. The bodies of the parents I saw and identified, and
Burgess told me he’d talked with two men who saw the child go down.”
“Wall, Mr. Vance. Thar ain’t much more uv a story. We went ter Memphis.
The Kunnle swelled round consid’rable, and got his name inter the
newspapers. But the yuller gal she was sort o’ cracked-brained. She war
no use ter us or ter the child. The Kunnle got low-sperreted. He’d made
a bad spec, ahter all. He’d lost his niggers; an’ the yuller gal, she as
he hoped ter sell in Noo Orleenz fur sixteen hunderd dollars, she turned
out a fool. Howzomever, he found a lightish, genteel sort uv a nigger, a
quack doctor, who took her off our hands. He said as how she mowt be
’panned an’ made as good as noo.”
“And what did you do with the child?”
“Wall, another bright idee hahd struck the Kunnle. Says he, ‘Color this
young ’un up a little, and she’d bring risin’ uv four hunderd dollars at
a vahndoo. Any mahn, used ter buyin’ niggers, would see at wunst she’d
grow up ter be a val’able fancy article. Ef I could afford it, I’d hold
her on spekilation till she war fifteen.’ Wall, Mr. Vance, uv all the
mean things I ever done, the meanest was to let the Kunnle, whan we got
ter Noo Orleenz, take that poor little patient thing, as I had toted all
the way down from Memphis, an’ sell her ter the highest bidder.”
With an irrepressible groan, Vance walked to the window. When he
returned, he looked with pity on Quattles, and said, “Proceed!”
“Yer see, Mr. Vance, I owed the Kunnle two hunderd dollars, he’d won
from me at euchre. He offered ter make it squar ef I’d give up my
int’rest in the child. Wall, I’d got kind o’ fond uv the little thing;
an’ ’t wasn’t till I got blind drunk on’t that I could bring my mind ter
say yes. The thowt uv what I done that day has kept me drunk most ever
sence. But the Kunnle, he tried to comfort me like. Says he, ‘The child
was fairly ourn, seein’ as how we saved it from drownin’.’ ‘Don’t take
on so, old feller,’ says he. ‘Think yerself lucky ef yer hahvn’t nothin’
wuss nor that agin yerself.’ But ’t was no go. He never could make me
hold up my head agin like as I used ter; an’ we two cut adrift, an’
hain’t kept ’count uv each other sence.”
“How did he dispose of the child?”
“He stained her skin till she looked like a half mulatter, an’ then he
jest got Ripper, the auctioneer, ter sell her.”
“Who bought the child?”
“Wall, Cash bowt her. That’s all I ever could find out. Ef Ripper knowed
more, he wouldn’t tell.”
“To whom did you sell the yellow girl?”
“We didn’t sell her at all. Was glad to git her off our hahnds at no
price. The chap what took her called hisself Dr. Davy. He was a free
nigger, a trav’lin’ quack,—one of those fellers that ’tises to cure
ev’ry thing.”
“When did you last hear of him?”
“The last I heerd tell uv Davy, he war in Natchez, and that war five
years ago.”
“What became of the yellow girl?”
“Wall, thar’s a quar story ’bout that. Whan we fust saw that air gal on
the wreck, she was callin’ out ter us, ‘Take me an’ the child with yer!’
She said it wunst, an’ hahd jest begun ter say it again, an’ hahd got as
fur as _Take_, whan the block hit her on the head, an’ she fell inter
the water. Wall, six months ahter, Davy took that air gal ter a surgeon
in Philadelphy, an’ hahd her ’panned; an’ jest as the crushed bone war
lifted from the brain, that gal cried out, ‘—me an’ the child with yer!’
Shoot me ef she didn’t finish the cry she’d begun jest six months
afore.[28] She got back her senses all straight, an’ Davy made her his
wife.”
“Did you keep anything that belonged to the child?”
“Jest you feel in the pockets uv them pants under my piller, and git out
my pus.”
Vance obeyed, and drew forth a small bag of wash-leather. This he
emptied on the coverlet, the contents being a few dimes and five-cent
pieces, a tonga-bean, and a small pill-box covered with cotton-wool and
tied round with twine.
“Thar! Open that ar’ box,” said the patient.
Vance opened it, and took out a pair of little sleeve-buttons, gold with
a setting of coral. Examining them, he found on the under surface the
inscription C. A. B. in diminutive characters.
“I’ll tell you how ’t was,” said the wounded man. “That night of the
’splosion the yuller gal an’ the child must have gone ter bed without
ondressin’; for they’d thar cloze all on. Most like the gal fell asleep
an’ forgot. Soon as we touched the shore, the Kunnle says ter me, says
he, ‘Cap’n, you cahrry the child, an’ I’ll pilot the gal.’ Wall; I took
the child in my arms, an’ as I cahrr’d her, I seed she wore gold buttons
on the sleeves uv her little pelisse,—a pair on each; an’, thinks I, the
Kunnle will pocket them buttons sure. So I pocketed ’em myself; but whan
it kum to partin’ with the child, I jest took one pair uv the buttons,
an sowd ’em on inside uv the bosom uv her little shirt whar they
wouldn’t be seen. The other pair is that thar. Take ’em an’ keep ’em,
Mr. Vance.”
“Have you any article of clothing belonging to her?”
“Not a rag, Mr. Vance. They all went with her.”
“Did you notice any mark on the clothes?”
“Yes, they was marked C. A. B., in letters worked in hahnsum with white
silk.”
“Was that the kind of letter?” asked Vance, who, having drawn the cipher
in old English, held it before the patient’s eyes.
“Yes, them’s um. I remember, ’cause I used ter ondress the child. An’,
now I think uv it, one uv her eyes was bluish, an’ t’ other grayish.”
“What day was it you parted with the child?”
“The same day she was sold.”
“When was that?”
“It must have been in May follerin’ the ’splosion. Lem me see. ’T was
that day I got the pill-box. I’d been ter the doctor’s fur some
physickin’ stuff. He give me a prescrip, an’ I went an’ got some pills
in that air box, an’ then throwed the pills away an’ kept the box.”
Vance glanced at the cover. The apothecary’s name and the number of the
prescription were legible. Vance put the box in his pocket.
“Can’t yer think uv su’thin’ else?” asked Quattles.
“Only this,” replied Vance: “How shall I manage Hyde?”
“Wall, ef the Kunnle sh’d hold up his milk, you jest say ter him these
eer words: ‘Dorothy Rusk must be provided for. What kn I do fur her?’
The widder Rusk is his sister, yer see, an’ that’s the one soft spot the
Kunnle’s got.”
Vance carefully recorded the mysterious words; then asked, “Do you
remember Peek, the runaway slave Hyde had in charge?”
“In coorse I do,” said Quattles, twisting with pain from his wound.
“Should you ever see that nigger, Mr. Vance, tell him that Amos Slink,
St. Joseph Street, kn tell him su’thing’ ’bout his wife. Amos wunst
tell’d me how he ’coyed her down from Montreal. ’T was through that same
lawyer chap that kum it over Peek.”
“Can Amos identify you as the Quattles of the Pontiac?”
“In coorse he can, for he knowed all ’bout me at the time.”
“And now, my friend, I wish to have this testimony of yours sworn to and
witnessed; but I’m overtasking your strength.”
“Do it, Mr. Vance. Help me ter lose my strength, ef yer think I kn do
any good tellin’ the truth.”
“Can you get along without this opiate two hours longer?”
“Yes, Mr. Vance, I kn do without it altogether.”
“Then I’ll leave you for two hours.”
“One word, Mr. Vance.”
“What is it?”
“Did yer ever pray?”
“Yes; every man prays who tries to do good or undo evil. You’ve been
praying for the last hour, my friend.”
“How did yer know that? I’ve been thinkin’ of it, that’s a fak. But I’m
not up to it, Mr. Vance. Could you pray for me jest three minutes?”
“Willingly, my poor fellow.”
And kneeling at the little cot, Vance, holding a hand of the sufferer,
prayed for him so tenderly, so fervently, and so searchingly withal,
that the poor dying outcast wept as he had never wept before. O precious
tears, parting the mist that hung upon his future (even as clouds are
parted that hide the sunset’s glories), and revealing to his spiritual
eyes new possibilities of being, fruits of repentance, through a mercy
which (God be thanked!) is not measured by the mercy of men.
Leaving the hospital, Vance stepped into an office, and drew up, in the
form of a deposition, all the facts elicited from Quattles. His next
step was to find Amos Slink. That gentleman had settled down in the
second-hand clothing business. Vance made a liberal purchase of hospital
clothing; and then adverted to the past exploits of Amos in the
“nigger-catching” line. Amos proudly produced letters to authenticate
his prowess. They bore the signature of Charlton. “I want you to lend me
those letters, Mr. Slink.”
“Couldn’t do it, Mr. Vance. Them letters I mean to hand down to my
children.”
“Well, it’s of no consequence. I’ll go into the next store for the rest
of my goods.”
“Don’t think of it. Here! take the letters. Only return ’em.” Vance not
only secured the letters, but got Mr. Slink to go with him to the
hospital to identify Quattles.
Then, on his way, enlisting three friends who were good Union men, one
of them being a justice of the peace, Vance led them where the wounded
man lay. Slink, who was known to the parties, identified the patient as
the Mr. Quattles of the Pontiac; and the identification was duly
recorded and sworn to. Vance then read his notes aloud to Quattles,
whose competency to listen and understand was formally attested by the
surgeon. The justice administered the oath. Quattles put his name to the
document, and the signature was duly witnessed by all present.
No sooner was the act completed than the patient sank into
unconsciousness. “He’ll not rally again,” said the surgeon. A quick,
heavy breathing, gradually growing faint and fainter,—and lo! there was
a smile on the face, but the spirit that had left it there had fled!
Vance first went to the apothecary whose name was on the pill-box. “Did
Mr. Gargle keep the books in which he pasted his prescriptions?”
“Yes, he had them for twenty years back.”
“Would he look in the volume for 18—, for a certain number?”
“Willingly.”
In two minutes the number was found, and the day of the prescription
fixed. Vance then proceeded to the office of _L’Abeille_, turned to the
newspaper of that day, and there, in the advertising columns, found a
sale advertised by P. Ripper & Co., auctioneers. It was a sale of a
“lot” of negroes; and as a sort of postscript to the specifications was
the following:—
“Also, one very promising little girl, an orphan, two years old,
almost white; can take care of herself; promises to be very pretty;
has straight, brown hair, regular features, first-rate figure.
Warranted sound and healthy. Amateurs who would like to train up a
companion to their tastes will find this a rare opportunity to
purchase.”
Not pausing to indulge the emotions which these cruel words awoke, Vance
went in search of Ripper & Co. The firm had been broken up more than ten
years before. Not one of the partners was in the city. They had
disappeared, and left no trace. Were any of their old account-books in
the warehouse? No. The building had been burnt to the ground, and a new
one erected on its site.
“Where next?” thought Vance. “Plainly to Natchez, to see if I can learn
anything of Davy and his wife.”