NOW in her seventeenth year, Clotelle's personal appearance presented a
great contrast to the time when she lived with old Mrs. Miller. Her tall
and well-developed figure; her long, silky black hair, falling in
curls down her swan-like neck; her bright, black eyes lighting up her
olive-tinted face, and a set of teeth that a Tuscarora might envy, she
was a picture of tropical-ripened beauty. At times, there was a heavenly
smile upon her countenance, which would have warmed the heart of an
anchorite. Such was the personal appearance of the girl who was now in
prison by her own act to save the life of another. Would she be hanged
in his stead, or would she receive a different kind of punishment? These
questions Clotelle did not ask herself. Open, frank, free, and generous
to a fault, she always thought of others, never of her own welfare.
The long stay of Clotelle caused some uneasiness to Miss Wilson; yet she
dared not tell her father, for he had forbidden the slave-girl's going
to the prison to see her lover. While the clock on the church near by
was striking eleven, Georgiana called Sam, and sent him to the prison in
search of Clotelle.
“The girl went away from here at eight o'clock,” was the jailer's answer
to the servant's inquiries.
The return of Sam without having found the girl saddened the heart of
the young mistress. “Sure, then,” said she, “the poor, heartbroken thing
has made way with herself.”
Still, she waited till morning before breaking the news of Clotelle's
absence to her father.
The jailer discovered, the next morning, to his utter astonishment, that
his prisoner was white instead of black, and his first impression was
that the change of complexion had taken place during the night, through
fear of death. But this conjecture was soon dissipated; for the dark,
glowing eyes, the sable curls upon the lofty brow, and the mild, sweet
voice that answered his questions, informed him that the prisoner before
him was another being.
On learning, in the morning, that Clotelle was in jail dressed in male
attire, Miss Wilson immediately sent clothes to her to make a change in
her attire. News of the heroic and daring act of the slave-girl spread
through the city with electric speed.
“I will sell every nigger on the place,” said the parson, at the
breakfast-table,--“I will sell them all, and get a new lot, and whip
them every day.”
Poor Georgiana wept for the safety of Clotelle, while she felt glad that
Jerome had escaped. In vain did they try to extort from the girl the
whereabouts of the man whose escape she had effected. She was not aware
that he had fled on a steamer, and when questioned, she replied,--
“I don't know; and if I did I would not tell you. I care not what you do
with me, if Jerome but escapes.”
The smile with which she uttered these words finely illustrated the
poet's meaning, when he says,--
“A fearful gift upon they heart is laid,
Woman--the power to suffer and to love.”
Her sweet simplicity seemed to dare them to lay their rough hands amid
her trembling curls.
Three days did the heroic young woman remain in prison, to be gazed at
by an unfeeling crowd, drawn there out of curiosity. The intelligence
came to her at last that the court had decided to spare her life, on
condition that she should be whipped, sold, and sent out of the State
within twenty-four hours.
This order of the court she would have cared but little for, had she not
been sincerely attached to her young mistress.
“Do try and sell her to some one who will use her well,” said Georgiana
to her father, as he was about taking his hat to leave the house.
“I shall not trouble myself to do any such thing,” replied the
hard-hearted parson. “I leave the finding of a master for her with the
slave-dealer.”
Bathed in tears, Miss Wilson paced her room in the absence of her
father. For many months Georgiana had been in a decline, and any little
trouble would lay her on a sick bed for days. She was, therefore, poorly
able to bear the loss of this companion, whom she so dearly loved.
Mr. Wilson had informed his daughter that Clotelle was to be flogged;
and when Felice came in and informed her mistress that the poor girl had
just received fifty lashes on her bare person, the young lady fainted
and fell on the floor. The servants placed their mistress on the sofa,
and went in pursuit of their master. Little did the preacher think, on
returning to his daughter, that he should soon be bereft of her; yet
such was to be his lot. A blood-vessel had been ruptured, and the three
physicians who were called in told the father that he must prepare to
lose his child. That moral courage and calmness, which was her great
characteristic, did not forsake Georgiana in her hour of death. She
had ever been kind to the slaves under her charge, and they loved and
respected her. At her request, the servants were all brought into her
room, and took a last farewell of their mistress. Seldom, if ever, was
there witnessed a more touching scene than this. There lay the young
woman, pale and feeble, with death stamped upon her countenance,
surrounded by the sons and daughters of Africa, some of whom had been
separated from every earthly tie, and the most of whose persons had been
torn and gashed by the negro-whip. Some were upon their knees at the
bedside, others standing around, and all weeping.
Death is a leveler; and neither age, sex, wealth, nor condition, can
avert when he is permitted to strike. The most beautiful flowers
must soon fade and droop and die. So, also, with man; his days are as
uncertain as the passing breeze. This hour he glows in the blush of
health and vigor, but the next, he may be counted with the number no
more known on earth. Oh, what a silence pervaded the house when this
young flower was gone! In the midst of the buoyancy of youth, this
cherished one had dropped and died. Deep were the sounds of grief and
mourning heard in that stately dwelling when the stricken friends, whose
office it had been to nurse and soothe the weary sufferer, beheld her
pale and motionless in the sleep of death.
Who can imagine the feeling with which poor Clotelle received the
intelligence of her kind friend's death? The deep gashes of the cruel
whip had prostrated the lovely form of the quadroon, and she lay upon
her bed of straw in the dark cell. The speculator had brought her, but
had postponed her removal till she should recover. Her benefactress was
dead, and--
“Hope withering fled, and mercy sighed farewell.”
“Is Jerome safe?” she would ask herself continually. If her lover could
have but known of the sufferings of that sweet flower,--that polyanthus
over which he had so often been in his dreams,--he would then have
learned that she was worthy of his love.
It was more than a fortnight before the slave-trader could take his
prize to more comfortable quarters. Like Alcibiades, who defaced
the images of the gods and expected to be pardoned on the ground of
eccentricity, so men who abuse God's image hope to escape the vengeance
of his wrath under the plea that the law sanctions their atrocious
deeds.