SATAN AMUSES HIMSELF
“We can die;
And, dying nobly, though we leave behind us
These clods of flesh, that are too massy burdens,
Our living souls fly crowned with living conquests.”
_Beaumont and Fletcher._
Vance sat in his room at the St. Charles. He seemed plunged in
meditation. His fingers were playing with a little gold cross he wore
round his neck; a trinket made very precious by the dying kiss and pious
faith of Estelle. It recalled to him daily those memorable moments of
their last earthly parting. And she now seemed so near to him, so truly
alive to him, in all his perplexities, that he would hardly have been
surprised to see her suddenly standing in immortal youth by his side.
How could he, while thus possessed with her enchanting image, evoke from
his heart any warmer sentiment than that of friendship for any other
woman?
He thought of the so-called Perdita. He feared he would have to leave
the city without getting any further light than Miss Tremaine had
vouchsafed on the mystery that surrounded that interesting young person.
One thing, on reconsideration, puzzled him and excited his distrust in
Laura’s story. Perdita had pretended that the name Brown was improvised
for the occasion,—assumed while she was conversing with him. Could she
have been deceiving?
There were still other reflections that brought anxiety. He had not yet
heard from Peek. Could that faithful friend have failed in all his
inquiries for Hyde?
The immediate matter for consideration, however, was the danger that
began to darken over Vance’s own path. It had been ascertained by
leading Secessionists, interested in providing for the financial wants
of the Rebellion, that Vance had drawn more than a hundred thousand
dollars of special deposits of gold from the banks since the fall of
Sumter. The question was now put to him by the usurpers, What had been
done with that money? He was summoned to appear before the authorities
with an explanation. A committee would be in session that very evening
to hear his statement.
There was still another subject to awaken his concern. Kenrick had been
called on to set at rest certain unfavorable reports, by appearing
before that same committee, and accepting a captaincy in the confederate
army. Onslow was to be presented with a colonel’s commission.
Vance had made preparations for the escape of Kenrick and himself. A
little steam-tug called the Artful Dodger, carrying the Confederate
flag, lay in the river. Everybody supposed she was a sort of spy on
United States cruisers. For two days she had lain there with steam all
up, ready to start at a moment’s warning. Her crew appeared to be all
ashore, except the captain, mate, engineer, cook, and two stewards. The
last three were black men. The other three, if they were not Yankees,
had caught some peculiarities of pronunciation which the schoolmaster is
vainly striving to extirpate at the North. These men said _beeyownd_ for
_bounds_ and _neeyow_ for _now_.
While Vance was meditating on his arrangements, a card was brought to
him. It bore the name “Simon Winslow.”
“Show him in,” said Vance to the servant.
As Simon entered, Vance recognized him as the individual who had aided
him the day of the rescue of Quattles from the mob.
“There’s a sort of freemasonry, Mr. Vance,” said Winslow, “that assures
me I may trust you. Your sympathies, sir, are with the Union.”
Wary and suspicious, Vance bowed, but made no reply.
“Do not doubt me,” continued Winslow. “True, I’ve been a slaveholder.
But ’t is now several years since I owned a slave. Mr. Vance, I want
your counsel, and, it may be, your aid. Still distrustful? How shall I
satisfy you that I’m not a traitor knave?”
“Enough, Mr. Winslow! I’ll trust your threescore years and your loyal
face. Tell me what I can do for you. Be seated.”
They sat down, and the old man resumed: “I have lived in this city more
than forty years, Mr. Vance, but for some time I’ve foreseen that there
would be little hope for a man of Northern birth unless he would consent
to howl with the pack for secession and a slave confederacy. Now I’m too
old to tune my bark to any such note. The consequence is, I am a marked
man, liable at any moment to be seized and imprisoned. My property here
is nearly all in real estate; so if that is confiscated, as it will be,
I’ve no fear but Uncle Sam will soon come to give it back to me. The
rest of my assets it will be hard for the keenest-scented inquisitor to
find. To-day, by the death of Mrs. Ratcliff—”
“Of what Mrs. Ratcliff?” inquired Vance.
“Mrs. Carberry Ratcliff. By her death I become the legally
irresponsible, and therefore all the more _morally_ the responsible,
manager of an estate of more than half a million, of which a
considerable portion is to be used by me for the benefit of two women at
present slaves.”
“But her husband will never consent to it!” interposed Vance.
“Fortunately,” replied Winslow, “all the property was some time since
sent North and converted into gold. Well: I’ve just come from an
interview with Ratcliff himself. He came to tell me of his wife’s death.
He brought with him a _quasi_ will, signed a year ago, in which his wife
requests me to hand over to him such property as I may consider at her
disposal. He called on me to demand that I should forthwith surrender my
trust; said he was in immediate need of three hundred thousand dollars.
He did not dream of a rebuff. He was in high spirits. The news from Bull
Run had greatly elated him. His wife’s death he plainly regarded as a
happy relief. Conceive of his wrath, when, in the midst of his lofty
hopes and haughty demands, I handed him a copy of the memoranda, noted
down by me this very day, in which Mrs. Ratcliff makes a very different
disposition of the property.”
“I know something of the man’s temper,” said Vance.
“He laughed a scornful laugh,” resumed Winslow, “and, shaking his
forefinger at me, said: ‘You shall swing for this, you damned old
Yankee! Your trusteeship isn’t worth a straw. I’ll have you compelled to
disgorge, this very hour.’ But when I told him that the whole
half-million, left in my hands by his wife’s father, was safely
deposited in gold in a Northern city, the man actually grew livid with
rage. He drew his Derringer on me, and would probably have shot me but
for the sober second thought that told him he could make more out of me
living than dead. In a frenzy he left my office. This was about half an
hour ago. After reflection on our interview I concluded it would be
prudent in me to escape from the city if possible, and I have come to
ask if you can aid me in doing it.”
“Nothing could be more opportune,” replied Vance, “than your coming. I
have laid all my plans to leave in a small steamer this very night. A
young friend goes with me. You shall accompany us. Have you any
preparations to make?”
“None, except to find some trustworthy person with whom I can leave an
amount of money for the two slave-women of whom I spoke. For it would be
dangerous, if not impracticable, to attempt to take them with us.”
“Yes, use your golden keys to unlock their chains in this case,” said
Vance. “Do not show yourself again on the street. Ratcliff will at once
have detectives at your heels. Hark! There’s a knock at the door. Pass
into my chamber, and lock yourself in, and open only to my rapping,
thus,—one, two—one, two—one.”
Winslow obeyed, and Vance, opening his parlor door, met Kenrick.
“Well, cousin,” asked Vance, “are you all ready? You look pale, man!
What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” replied Kenrick; “that is, everything. I wish I’d never seen
that Perdita Brown! Look here! They’ve got her photograph in the
print-shops. Beautiful, is it not?”
“Yes; it almost does her justice. Could you draw out from the Tremaines
no remark which would afford a further clew?”
“After you had failed, what could I hope to do? But I’ll tell you what I
ventured upon. All stratagems in love and war are venial, I suppose.
Seeing that Miss Tremaine was deeply interested in your conquering self,
I tried to pique her by making her think you were secretly enamored of
Miss Brown. She denied it warmly. I then said: ‘Reflect! Hasn’t he been
very inquisitive in trying to find out all he could about her?’ She was
obliged to confess that you had; and at last, after considerable
skirmishing between us, she dropped this remark: ‘Those who would fall
in love with her had better first find out whether she’s a lady.’ ‘She
certainly appears one,’ I replied. ‘Yes,’ said Miss Tremaine, ‘and so
does many a Creole who has African blood in her veins.’”
“Ah! what could that mean?” exclaimed Vance, thoughtfully. “Can that
story of a paternal Brown be all a lie?”
Here there was a low knock at the door. Vance opened it, and there stood
Peek.
“Come in!” said Vance, grasping him by the hand, drawing him in, and
closing the door. “What news?”
And then, seeing the negro’s hesitation, Vance turned to Kenrick, and
said: “Cousin, this is the man to whom you need no introduction. He was
christened Peculiar Institution; but, for brevity, we call him Peek.”
Kenrick put out his hand with a face so glowing with a cordial respect
that Peek could not resist the proffer.
“Now, Peek,” said Vance, “pull off that hot wig and those green
spectacles, and, unless you would keep us standing, sit down and be at
ease. There! That’s right. Now, first of all, did you hit upon any trace
of your wife and boy?”
“None, Mr. Vance. I think they cannot be in Texas.”
“Then what of Colonel Delancy Hyde?”
“The Colonel was said to have attached himself to the fortunes of
General Van Dorn. That’s all I could find out about Hyde.”
“Pity! I must unearth the fellow somehow. The fate of that poor little
girl of the Pontiac haunts me night and day. My suspicions of foul play
have been fully confirmed. When you have time, read this letter which I
had written to send you. It will tell you of all I learnt from Quattles
and Amos Slink. But you have something to ask. What is it?”
“Where shall I find Captain Onslow of the Confederate army?”
Vance pointed to Kenrick, who replied: “I know him well. He is probably
now in this house. ’T is his usual time for dressing for dinner.”
“I’ve terrible news for him,” said Peek.
“What has happened?”
“On my way from Austin to Fort Duncan on the Rio Grande I passed through
San Antonio. You have heard something of the persecutions of Union men
in Western Texas?”
“Yes. Good Heavens! Is old Onslow among the victims?”
“He and his whole family—wife, son, and daughter—have been slain by the
Confederate agents.”
The cousins looked at each other, and each grew paler as he read the
other’s thought. Vance spoke first. “Go on, Peek,” he said. “Tell us
what you know.”
“The old man, you see,” said Peek, “has been trying for some time to do
without slave labor. He has employed a good many Germans on his lands.
The slaveholders haven’t liked this. At the beginning of the Rebellion
he went with old Houston and others against secession; but when Houston
caved in, Onslow remained firm and plucky. He kept quiet, however, and
did nothing that the Secesh authorities could find fault with. But what
they wanted was an excuse for murdering him and seizing his lands. They
employed three scoundrels, a broken-down lawyer, a planter, and a
horse-jockey, to visit him under the pretence that they were good Union
and antislavery men, trying to escape the conscription. The old man fell
into the trap. Thinking he was among friends, he freely declared, that
‘he meant to keep true to the old flag; that only one of his family had
turned traitor; the rest (thank God!) including the women, were
thoroughly loyal; that secession would prove a failure, and end (thank
God always!) in the breaking up of slavery.’ At the same time he told
them he should make no resistance, either open or clandestine, to the
laws of the State. The scoundrels tried to implicate him in some secret
plot, but failed. They had drawn out of him enough, however, for their
purposes. They left him, and straightway denounced him as an
Abolitionist. A gang of cutthroats, set on by the Rebel leaders, came to
hang him. Well knowing he could expect no mercy, the old man barricaded
his doors, armed his household, and prepared to resist. The women loaded
the guns while the men fired. Several of the assailants were wounded.
The rest grew furious, and at last made an entrance by a back door,
rushed in, and overpowered William Onslow, the son, who had received a
ball in his neck. They dragged him out and hung him to a tree. The
daughter they tried to pinion and lash to the floor, but she fought so
desperately that a ruffian, whose hair she had torn out by the roots,
shot her dead. The mother, in a frantic attempt to save the daughter,
received a blow on the head from which she died. The old man, exhausted
and fatally wounded, was disarmed, and placed under guard in the room
from which he had been firing. It was not till the women and the son
were dead that I arrived on the spot. I claimed to be a Secesh nigger,
and the passes Mr. Vance had given me confirmed my story. The Rebels
regarded me as a friend and helper. I lurked round the room where the
old man was confined, and at last, through whiskey, I persuaded his
guard to lie down and go to sleep. I then made myself known to the
sufferer. I helped him write a letter to his surviving son. Here it is,
stained as you see by the writer’s blood. You can read it, Mr. Vance. It
contains no secrets. Hardly had I concealed it in my pocket, when some
of the Rebels came in, seized the old man, helpless and dying as he was,
and, dragging him out, hung him on a tree by the side of his son.”
Peek ended his narrative, and Vance, taking the proffered letter, slowly
drew it from the envelope and unfolded it. There dropped out four
strands of hair: one white, one iron-gray, one a fine and thick flaxen,
and one a rich brown-black.
“I cut off those strands of hair, thinking that Captain Onslow might
prize them,” said Peek.
“You did well,” remarked Vance. “And since you have authority to permit
it, I will read this letter.”
He then read aloud as follows:—
“Stricken down by a death-wound, I write this. When it
reaches you, my son, you will be the last survivor of your
family. The faithful negro who bears this letter will tell you
all. You may rely on what he says. This crafty, this Satanic
Slave Power has—I can use the pen no longer. But I
can dictate. The negro must be my amanuensis.”
And then, in a different handwriting, the letter proceeded:—
“This Slave Power, which, for many weeks past, has been hunting down
and hanging Union men, has at last laid its bloody hand on our
innocent household. Should you meet Colonel A. J. Hamilton,[34] he
will tell you something of what the pro-slavery butchers have been
doing.
“Yesterday three men called on me. They brought forged letters from
one I knew to be my friend. The trick succeeded. I admitted them to my
confidence. They left and denounced me to the Confederate leaders. My
only crime was a secret sympathy with the Union cause. Not a finger
had I lifted or threatened to lift against the ruling powers of the
State. But I did not love slavery,—that was the crime of crimes in the
eyes of Jeff Davis’s immediate partisans and friends.
“To-day they came with ropes to hang us,—to hang us, remember, not for
resistance to authority, however usurped, not for one imprudent act or
threat against slavery, but simply because we were known at heart to
disapprove of slavery, and consequently to love the old flag. And many
hundreds have been hung here for no other offence. We knew we could
expect no better fate than our neighbors had bravely encountered; and
we resolved, men and women, to sell our lives dearly. Your brother
fell wounded, and was hung; then your sister, resisting outrage, was
slain; then your mother, striving to protect Emily, received a mortal
blow. And I am lying here wounded, soon to be dragged forth and
hung—for what?—for unbelief, not in a God, but in the Southern
Confederacy and its corner-stone!
“And this is slavery! All these brutalities and wrongs spring from
slavery as naturally as the fruit from the blossom. That which is
inherently wrong must, by eternal laws, still produce and reproduce
wrong. The right to hold one innocent man a slave, implies the right
to enslave or murder any other man! There is no such right. It is a
lie born in the inmost brain of hell. No laws can make it a right. No
clamor of majorities can give it a sanction. In slavery, Satan once
more scales the heavenly heights.
“Jeff Davis, I hear, has just joined the church. Would he be pardoned,
and _retain_ the offence? If so, not prayers nor sacraments can save
his trembling and perjured soul from the guilt of such wrongs as I and
mine, and hundreds of other true men and women, here in Texas have
fallen under because of slavery. God is not to be cheated by any such
flattering unction as Davis is laying to his heart. The more he seeks
to cover profane with holy things, the deeper will be his damnation in
that world where all shams and self-delusions are dissolved, and the
true man stands revealed, to be judged by his fidelity to Christ’s
golden rule,—to the cause of justice and humanity on earth.
“Our national agony is the old conflict of the Divine with the Satanic
principle. Believe in God, my son, and you cannot doubt the result. Do
you suppose Eternal Justice will be patient much longer? Think of the
atrocities to which this American slave system has reconciled us! A
free white man can, in any of the Slave States, go into a negro’s
house and beat or kill any of the inmates, and not be prosecuted by
law, except a free white man sees him do it; because _a negro’s
testimony is not taken against a white man_. As for the _marriage_ of
slaves, you well know what a mere farce—what a subject for ribaldry
and laughter—it is among the masters. No tie, whether of affection, of
blood, or of form, is respected.[35]
“The originators of this rebellion saw that _by inevitable laws of
population_ slavery must go down under a republican form of
government. Their fears and their jealousies of freedom grew
intolerable. The very word _free_ became hateful. They saw that their
property in slaves depended for its duration on the action of
political forces slumbering in the mass of their white population,
which population, though now densely ignorant, would gradually learn
that slavery is adverse to the interests of nine tenths of the whites.
And so this war was originated _even less to separate from the North
than to crush into hopeless subjection, through that separation, the
white masses at the South_. The slave barons dreaded lest this drugged
and stupefied giant should rouse from his ignoble slumber, and,
learning his strength, and opening his eyes to the truth, should,
Samson-like, seize the pillars of their system. To prevent this, a
grand oligarchy of slaveholders must be created, and the liberties of
the whites destroyed!
“You will see all this now, my son. Yes, I have this comfort in my
extremity: my son will be converted from wrong; the stubborn head will
be reached through the stricken heart; we shall not have died in vain.
And his conversion will be instantaneous. But be prudent, my son. Let
not passion betray you. These Rebel leaders are as remorseless as they
are crafty. All the bad energies of the very prince of devils are
ranged on their side, and will help them to temporary success.
“Let them see that higher and more persistent energies can spring from
the right. What I most fear for the North is the paralyzing effect of
its prosperity. It will go on thriving on the war, while the South is
learning the wholesome training of adversity. Young men at the North
will be tempted by money-making to stay at home. The voice of Mammon
will be louder than the voice of God in their hearts. This will be
their tremendous peril. But God will not be thwarted. If prosperity
will not make the North do God’s work, then adversity must be called
in.
“Set your heart on no private vengeance, my son. Take this as my dying
entreaty. Let your revenge be the restoration of the old flag. All the
rest must follow as the night the day.... And now, farewell! May God
bless and guide you. I go to join your mother, brother, and sister.
Their spirits are round me while I speak. Their love goes forth to you
with mine, and my prayer for you is their prayer also. Adieu!”
There was silence for a full minute after the reading.
“I’ll wait,” said Kenrick, “till he gets through dinner before I tell
him the news. He’ll need all his strength, poor fellow!”
“I foresee,” said Vance, “that Onslow will be of our party of escape
this night.” And then, turning to Peek, he remarked: “Your coming,
Peculiar, is timely. I want the help of a trustworthy driver. You are
the man for us. Can you, without exciting suspicion, get the control of
a carriage and two fast, fresh horses?”
Peek reflected a moment, and then said: “Yes; I know a colored man,
Antoine Lafour, who has the care of two of the best horses in the city.
His master really thinks Antoine would fight any Abolitionist who might
come to free him; but Antoine and I laugh at the old man’s credulity.”
“There’s yet another service you can render,” said Vance; and he gave
five raps on the door of his chamber.
The lock was turned from the inside, and Winslow appeared.
“You’re among friends,” said Vance. “This is my cousin, Mr. Kenrick; and
this is Peculiar Institution, otherwise called Peek. Notwithstanding his
inauspicious name, you may trust him as you would your own right hand.”
“But I want an agent who can write and keep accounts.”
“Then Peek is just the man for you. Of his ability you can satisfy
yourself in five minutes. For his _honesty_ I will vouch.”
“But will he remain in New Orleans the next six months?”
“I hope so,” replied Vance. “This is my plan for you, Peek: that you
should still occupy that little house of mine with the Bernards. I’ve
spoken to them about it; and they will treat you well for my sake. I
want some one here with whom I may freely communicate; and more, I want
you to pursue your search for Colonel Delancy Hyde, and to secure him
when found, which you can easily do with money. Will you remain?”
“You know how it is with me, Mr. Vance,” said Peek. “I have two objects
in life: One is to find my wife and child; the other is to help on the
great cause. For both these objects I can have no better head-quarters
than New Orleans.”
“Good! He will remain, Mr. Winslow. Go now both of you into the next
room. You’ll find writing materials on the table.”
The old man and the negro withdrew. Kenrick paced the floor, thinking
one moment of Clara, and the next of the dreadful communication he must
make to Onslow. Vance sat down and leaned his head on his hands to
consider if there was anything he had left undone.
“I hear some one knocking at the door of my room,” said Kenrick. He went
into the corridor, and a servant handed him a card. It was from Onslow,
and pencilled on it was the following:—
“Come to the dinner-table, Kenrick. Where are you?
Dreaming of Perdita? Or planning impracticable victories
for your Yankee friends? Come and join me in a bottle of
claret. It may be our last together. Only think of it, my
dear fellow, I am to be made a Colonel! But that will not
please you. Sink politics! We will ignore all that is disagreeable.
There shall be no slavery,—no Rebeldom,—no
Yankeedom. All shall be Arcadian. We will talk over old
times, and compare notes in regard to Perdita. I don’t believe
you are a tenth part as much in love as I am. Where has the
enchantress gone? ‘O matchless sweetness! whither art thou
vanished? O thou fair soul of all thy sex! what paradise hast
thou enriched and blessed?’ Come, Kenrick, come; if only
for auld lang syne, come and chat with me; for the day of
action draws near, when there shall be no more chatting!”
Sick at heart, Kenrick handed the card to Vance, who read it, and said:
“The sooner a disagreeable duty is discharged, the better. Go, cousin,
and let him know the character of that fell Power which he would serve.
Let him know what reason he, of all men, has to love it!”
“I’d rather face a battery than do it; but it must be done.”
At the same moment Winslow and the negro entered.
“I’ve arranged everything with Peek,” said the old man. “I’ve placed in
his hands funds which I think will be sufficient.”
“That reminds me that I must do the same,” said Vance; and, taking a
large sum in bank-bills from his pocket-book, he gave it to Peek to use
as he might see fit, first for the common cause, and secondly for
prosecuting inquiries in regard to the kidnapped child of the Pontiac,
and his own family.
Peek carefully noted down dates and amounts in a memorandum-book, and
then remarked, “Now I must see Captain Onslow.”
“Give me that letter from his father, and I will myself deliver it,”
said Kenrick.
“But I promised to see him.”
“That you can do this evening.”
Peek gave up the letter, and Kenrick darted out of the room.
Turning to Vance and Winslow, Peek remarked: “I thank you for your
confidence, gentlemen. I’ll do my best to deserve it.”
“I wish our banks deserved it as well,” said Vance; then he added: “And
now, Peek, make your arrangements carefully, and be with the carriage at
the door just under my window at nine o’clock precisely.”
Peek compared watches with Vance, promised to be punctual, and took his
leave.
Vance rang the bell, and ordered a private dinner for two. Unlocking a
drawer, he took from it two revolvers and handed one to Winslow, with
the remark, “You are skilled in the use of the pistol, I suppose?”
“Though I’ve been a planter and owned slaves, I must say _no_.”
“Then a revolver would rather be a danger than a security.”
And Vance thrust the pistols into the side pockets of his own coat.
Dinner was brought in.
“Come,” said Vance, “we must eat. My way of life has compelled me to
suffer no excitement to impair my appetite. Indeed, I have passed
through the one supreme excitement, after which all others, even the
prospect of immediate death, are quite tame. Happy the man, Mr. Winslow,
who can say, I cling to this life no longer for myself, but for others
and for humanity!”
“Such a sentiment would better become a man of my age than of yours,”
replied Winslow.
“Here’s the dinner,” said Vance. “Now let us talk nothing but nonsense.
Let us think of nothing that requires the effort of a serious thought.”
“Well then,” replied Winslow. “Suppose we discuss the last number of De
Bow’s Review, or that charlatan Maury’s last lying letter in the London
Times.”
“Excellent!” said Vance. “For reaching the very sublime of the
superficial, commend me to De Bow or to the Chevalier Maury.”
Before the dinner was over, each man felt that the day had not been
unprofitable, since he had earned a friend.