SEEING IS BELIEVING.
“It is a very obvious principle, although often forgotten in the pride
of prejudice and of controversy, that what has been seen _by one pair of
human eyes_ is of force to countervail all that has been reasoned or
guessed at by a thousand human understandings.”—_Rev. Thomas Chalmers._
When, after some detention, Esha returned to the garden, and could not
see Clara, she ran up-stairs and sought her in all the rooms. Then
returning to the garden she looked in the summer-house, in the
grape-arbor, everywhere without avail. Suddenly she caught sight of a
small black girl, a sort of under-drudge in the kitchen, who was
standing with mouth distended, showing her white teeth, and grinning at
Esha’s discomfiture. It was the work of a moment for Esha to seize the
hussy, drag her into the wash-house, and by the aid of certain
squeezings, liberally applied to her cervical vertebræ, to compel her to
extrude the fact that Missie Clara had been forcibly carried off by two
men, and placed in a carriage, which had been driven fast away.
When Esha communicated this startling information to Madame Volney, the
wrath of the latter was terrible to behold. It was well for Lawyer
Semmes that his good stars kept him that moment from encountering the
quadroon lady, else a sudden stop might have been put to his
professional usefulness.
After she had recovered from her first shock of anger, she asked: “Why
hasn’t Peek been here these five days?”
“’Cause he ’cluded’t wan’t safe,” replied Esha. “He seed ole Semmes war
up ter su’thin, an’ so he keep dark.”
“Well, Esha, we must see Peek. You know where he lives?”
“Yes, Missis, but we mus’ be car’ful ’bout lettin’ anybody foller us.”
“We can look out for that. Come! Let us start at once.”
The two women sallied forth into the street, and proceeded some
distance, Esha looking frequently behind with a caution that proved to
be not ill-timed. Suddenly she darted across the street, and going up to
a negro-boy who stood looking with an air of profound interest at some
snuff-boxes and pipes in the window of a tobacconist, seized him by the
wool of his head and pulled him towards a carriage-stand, where she
accosted a colored driver of her acquaintance, and said: “Look har,
Jube, you jes put dis little debble ob a spy on de box wid yer, and gib
him a twenty minutes’ dribe, an’ den take him to Massa Ratcliff’s, open
de door, an’ pitch him in, an’ I’ll gib yer half a dollar ef yer’ll do
it right off an’ ahx no questions; an’ ef he dars ter make a noise you
jes put yer fingers har,—dy’e see,—and pinch his win’pipe tight. Doan
let him git away on no account whatsomebber.”
“Seein’ as how jobs air scarss, Esha, doan’ car ef I do; so hahnd him
up.”
Esha lifted the boy so that Jube could seize him by the slack of his
breeches and pull him howling on to the driver’s seat. Then promising a
faithful compliance with Esha’s orders, he received the half-dollar with
a grin, and drove off. Rejoining Madame Volney, Esha conducted her
through lanes and by-streets till they stopped before the house occupied
by Peek. He was at home, and asked them in.
“Are you sure you weren’t followed?” was his first inquiry. Esha replied
by narrating the summary proceedings she had taken to get rid of the
youth who had evidently been put as a spy on her track.
“That was well done, Esha,” said Peek. “Remember you’ve got the sharpest
kind of an old lawyer to deal with; and you must skin your eyes tight if
you ’spect to ’scape being tripped.”
“Wish I’d thowt ob dat dis mornin’, Peek; for ole Semmes has jes done
his wustest,—carried off dat darlin’ chile, Miss Clara.”
Peek could hardly suppress a groan at the news.
“Now what’s to be done?” said Madame Volney. “Think of something
quickly, or I shall go mad. That smooth-tongued Semmes,—O that I had the
old scoundrel here in my grip! Can’t you find out where he has taken
that dear child?”
“That will be difficult, I fear,” said Peek; “difficult for the reason
that Semmes will be on the alert to baffle us. He will of course
conclude that some of us will be on his track. He would turn any efforts
we might make to dog him directly against us, arresting us when we
thought ourselves most secure, just as the boy-detective was arrested by
Esha.”
“But what if Ratcliff should return?”
“That’s what disturbs me; for the papers say he has escaped.”
“Then he may be here any moment?”
“For that we must be prepared.”
“But that is horrible! I pledged my word—my very life—that the poor
child should be saved from his clutches. She _must_ be saved! Money can
do it,—can’t it?”
“Brains can do it better.”
“Let both be used. Is not this a case where some medium can help us? Why
not consult Bender?”
“There is, perhaps, one chance in a hundred that he might guide us
aright,” said Peek. “That chance I will try, but I have little hope he
will find her. During the years I have been searching for my wife I have
now and then sought information about her from clairvoyants; but always
without success. The kingdom of God cometh not with observation. So with
these spiritual doings. Look for them, and you don’t find them. Don’t
look, and they come. I once knew a colored boy, a medium, who was lifted
to the ceiling before my eyes in the clear moonlight. A white man
offered him a hundred dollars if he would show him the same thing; but
it couldn’t be. No sooner had the white man gone than the boy was
lifted, while the rest of us were not expecting it, and carried backward
and forward through the air for a full minute. Seeing is believing.”
“But we’ve no time for talking, Peek. We must act. _How_ shall we act?”
“Can you give me any article of apparel which Miss Clara has recently
worn,—a glove, for instance?”
“Yes, that can easily be got.”
“Send it to me at once. Send also a glove which the lawyer has worn. Do
not let the two come in contact. And be careful your messenger is not
tracked.”
“Do you mean to take the gloves to a clairvoyant?”
“Not to a clear-see’er, but to a clear-smeller,—in short, to a
four-footed medium, a bloodhound of my acquaintance.”
“O, but what hound can keep the scent through our streets?”
“If any one can, Victor can.”
“Well, only do something, and that quickly, for I’m distracted,” said
Madame Volney, her tears flowing profusely. “Come, Esha, we’ll take a
carriage at the corner, and drive home.”
“Not at the corner!” interposed Peek. “Go to some more distant stand.
Move always as if a spy were at your heels.”
The two women passed into the street. Half an hour afterwards Esha
returned with the glove. There was a noise of firing.
“Dem guns am fur de great vict’ry down below,” said Esha. “De Yankees,
dey say, hab been beat off han’some at Fort Jackson; an’ ole Farragut
he’s backed out; fines he can’t come it. But, jes you wait, Peek. Dese
Yankees hab an awful way of holdin’ on. Dey doan know when dey air fair
beat. Dey crow loudest jes when dey owt ter shut up and gib in.”
Esha slipped out of the house, looking up and down the street to see if
she were watched, and Peek soon afterwards passed out and walked rapidly
in the direction of St. Genevieve Street. The great thoroughfares were
filled with crowds of excited people. The stars and bars, emblem of the
perpetuity of slavery, were flaunted in his face at every crossing. The
newspapers that morning had boasted how impregnable were the defences.
The hated enemy—the mean and cowardly Yankees—had received their most
humiliating rebuff. Forts Jackson and St. Philip and the Confederate ram
had proved too much for them.
Peek stopped at a small three-story brick house of rather shabby
exterior and rang the bell. The door was opened by an obese black woman
with a flaming red and yellow handkerchief on her head. In the entry-way
a penetrating odor of fried sausages rushed upward from the kitchen and
took him by the throat.
“Does Mr. Bender board here?”
“Yes, sar, go up two pair ob stairs, an’ knock at de fust door yer see,
an’ he’ll come.”
Peek did as he was directed. “_J. Bender, Consulting Medium_,” appeared
and asked him in. A young and not ill-looking man, in shabby-genteel
attire. Shirt dirty, but the bosom ornamented with gold studs. Vest of
silk worked with sprigs of flowers in all the colors of the rainbow. His
coat had been thrown off. His pantaloons were of the light-blue material
which the war was making fashionable. He was smoking a cigar, and his
breath exhaled a suspicion of whiskey.
“How is business, Mr. Bender?” asked Peek.
“Very slim just now,” said Bender. “This war fills people’s minds. Can I
do anything for you to-day?”
“Yes. You remember the young woman at the house I took you to the other
day,—the one whose name you said was Clara?”
“I remember. She paid me handsomely. Much obliged to you for taking me.
Will you have a sip of Bourbon?”
“No, thank you. I don’t believe in anything stronger than water. I want
to know if you can tell me where in the city that young lady now is.”
Bender put down his cigar, clasped his hands, laid them on the table,
and closed his eyes. In a minute his whole face seemed transfigured. A
certain sensual expression it had worn was displaced by one of rapt and
tender interest. The lids of the eyes hung loosely over the uprolled
balls. He looked five years younger. He sighed several times heavily,
moved his lips and throat as if laboring to speak, and then seemed
absorbed as if witnessing unspeakable things. He remained thus four or
five minutes, and then put out his hands and placed them on one of
Peek’s.
“Ah! this is a good hand,” said the young seer; “I like the feel of it.
I wish his would speak as well of him.”
“Of whom do you mean?”
“Of this one whose hands are on yours. Ah! he is weak and you are
strong. He knows the right, but he will not do the right. He knows there
is a heaven, and yet he walks hellward.”
“Can we not save him?” asked Peek.
“No. His own bitter experiences must be his tutor.”
“Why will he try to deceive,” asked Peek;—“to deceive sometimes even in
these manifestations of his wonderful gift?”
“You see it is the very condition of that gift that he should be
impressible to influences whether good or bad. He takes his color from
the society which encamps around him. Sometimes, as now, the good ones
come, and then so bitterly he bewails his faults! Sometimes the bad get
full possession of him, and he is what they will,—a drunkard, a liar, a
thief, a scoffer. Yes! I have known him to scoff at these great facts
which make spirit existence to him a certainty.”
“Can I help him in any way? Will money aid him to throw off the bad
influences?”
“No. Poor as he is, he has too much money. He doesn’t know the true uses
of it. He must learn them through suffering. Leave him to the discipline
of the earth-life. You know what that is. How much you have passed
through! How sad, and yet how brave and cheerful you have been! It all
comes to me as I press the palm of your hand. Ah! you have sought her so
long and earnestly! And you cannot find her! And you think she is
faithful to you still!”
“Yes, and neither mortal nor spirit could make me think otherwise. But
tell me where I shall look for her.”
The young man lifted the black hand to his white forehead and
pressed the palm there for a moment, and then, with a sigh, laid it
gently on the table, and said: “It is of no use. I get confused
impressions,—nothing clear and forcible. Why have you not consulted
me before about your wife?”
“Because, first, I wished to leave it to you to find out what I wanted;
and this you have done at last. Secondly, I did not think I could trust
you, or rather the intelligences that might speak through you. But you
have been more candid than I expected. You have not pretended, as you
often do, to more knowledge than you really possess.”
“The reason is, that I am now admitted into a state where I can look
down on myself as from a higher plane; so that I feel like a different
being from myself, and must distinguish between _me_, as I now _am_, and
_him_ as he usually _is_. Do you know what is truly the hell of
evil-doers? _It is to see themselves as they are, and God as he is._[40]
These tame preachers rave about hell-fire and lakes of sulphur. What
poor, feeble, halting imaginations they have. Better beds of brimstone
than a couch of down on which one lies seeing what he might have been,
but isn’t,—then seeing what he _is_! But pardon me; your mind is
preoccupied with the business on which you came. You are anxious and
impatient.”
“Can you tell me,” asked Peek, “what it is about?”
The clairvoyant folded his arms, and, bending down his head, seemed for
a minute lost in contemplation. Then looking up (if that can be said of
him while his external eyes were closed), he remarked: “The bloodhound
will put you through. Only persevere.”
“And is that all you can tell me?” inquired Peek.
“Yes. Why do you seem disappointed?”
“Because you merely give me the reflection of what is in my own mind.
You offer me no information which may not have come straight from your
own power of thought-reading. You show me no proof that your promise may
not be simply the product of my own sanguine calculations.”
“I cannot tell you how it is,” replied the clairvoyant; “I say what I am
impressed to say. I cannot argue the point with you, for I have no
reasons to give.”
“Then I must go. What shall I pay?”
“Pay him his usual fee, two dollars. Not a cent more.”
The clairvoyant sighed heavily, and leaning his elbows on the table,
covered his face with his hands. He remained in this posture for nearly
a minute. Suddenly he dropped his hands, shook himself, and started up.
His eyes were open. He stared wildly about, then seemed to slip back
into his old self. The former unctuous, villanous expression returned to
his face. He looked round for his half-smoked cigar, which he took up
and relighted.
Peek drew two dollars from a purse, and offered them to him.
“I reckon you can afford more than that,” said Mr. Bender.
“That’s your regular fee,” replied Peek. “I haven’t been here half an
hour.”
“O well, we won’t dispute about it,” said the medium, thrusting the rags
into a pocket of his vest.
Peek left the house, the dinner-bell sounding as he passed out, and
another whiff from the breath of the sausage-fiend that presided over
that household pursuing him into the street.
The course he now took was through stately streets occupied by large and
showy houses. He stopped before one, on the door-plate of which was the
name, Lovell. Here his friend Lafour lived as coachman. For two weeks
they had not met. Peek was about to pass round and ring at the servant’s
door on the basement story of the side, when an orange was thrown from
an upper window and fell near his feet. He looked up. An old black woman
was gesticulating to him to go away. Peek was quick to take a hint. He
strolled away as far as he could get without losing sight of the house.
Soon he saw the old woman hobble out and approach him. He slipped into
an arched passage-way, and she joined him.
“What’s the matter, mother?”
“Matter enough. De debble’s own time, and all troo you, Peek. I’se been
watchin’ fur yer all de time dese five days.”
“Explain yourself. How have I brought trouble on Antoine?”
“Dat night you borrid de ole man’s carriage,—dat was de mischief.
Policeman come las’ week, an’ take Antoine off ter de calaboose. Tree
times dey lash him ter make him tell whar dey can find you; but he tell
’em, so help him God, he dun know noting ’bout yer.”
Peek reflected for a moment, and then recalled the fact that Myers, the
detective, had got sight of the coat-of-arms on the carriage. Yes! the
clew was slight, but it was sufficient.
“My poor Antoine!” said Peek. “Must he, then, suffer for me? Tell me,
mother, what has become of Victor, his dog?”
“Goramity! dat dog know more’n half de niggers. He wouldn’t stay in dat
house ahfer Antoine lef; couldn’t make him do it, no how.”
“Where shall I be likely to find the dog?”
“’Bout de streets somewhar, huntin’ fur Antoine. Ef dat dumb critter
could talk, he’d ’stonish us all.”
“Well, mother, thank you for all your trouble. Here’s a dollar to buy a
pair of shoes with. Good by.”
The old woman’s eyes snapped as she clutched the money, and with a
“Bress yer, Peek!” hobbled away.
The rest of that day Peek devoted to a search for Victor. He sought him
near the stable,—in the blacksmith’s shop,—in the market,—at the few
houses which Antoine frequented; but no Victor could be found. At last,
late at night, weary and desponding, Peek retraced his steps homeward;
and as he took out the door-key to enter the house, the dog he had been
looking for rose from the upper step, and came down wagging his tail,
and uttering a low squealing note of satisfaction.
“Why, Victor, is this you? I’ve been looking for you all day.”
The dog, as if he fully understood the remark, wagged his tail with
increased vigor, and then checked himself in a bark which tapered off
into a confidential whine, as if he were afraid of being heard by some
detective.
Victor was a cross between a Scotch terrier and a thorough-bread Cuba
bloodhound, imported for hunting runaway slaves. He combined the good
traits of both breeds. He had the accurate scent, the large size and
black color of the hound, the wiry hair, the tenacity, and the
affectionate nature of the terrier. In the delicate action of his
expressive nose, you saw keenness of scent in its most subtle
inquisitions.
Late as was the hour, Peek (who, in the event of being stopped, had the
mayor’s pass for his protection) determined on an instant trial of the
dog’s powers, for the exercise of which perhaps the night would in this
instance be the most favorable time. He took him to Semmes’s office, and
making him scent the lawyer’s glove, indicated a wish to have him find
out his trail. Victor either would not or could not understand what was
wanted. He threw up his nose as if in contempt, and turned away from the
glove as if he desired to have nothing to do with it. Then he would run
away a short distance, and come back, and rise with his fore feet on
Peek’s breast. He repeated this several times, and at last Peek said:
“Well, have your own way. Go ahead, old fellow.”
Victor thanked him in another low whine, uttered as if addressed
exclusively to his private ears, and then trotted off, assured that Peek
was following. In half an hour’s time, he stopped before a square
whitewashed building with iron-grated windows.
“Confound you, Victor!” muttered Peek. “You’ve told me nothing new,
bringing me here. I was already aware your master was in jail. I can do
nothing for him. Can’t you do better than that? Come along!”
Returning to Semmes’s office, Peek tried once more to interest the dog
in the glove; but Victor tossed his nose away as if in a pet. He would
have nothing to do with it.
“Come along, then, you rascal,” said Peek. “We can do nothing further
to-night. Come and share my room with me.”
He reached home as the clock struck one. Victor followed him into the
house, and eagerly disposed of a supper of bones and milk. Peek then
went up to bed and threw down a mat by the open window, upon which the
dog stretched himself as if he were quite as tired as his human
companion.
-----
Footnote 40:
The actual definition given by E. A., one of the Rev. Chauncy Hare
Townshend’s mesmerized subjects.