IT was a beautiful Sunday in September, with a cloudless sky, and the
rays of the sun parching the already thirsty earth, that Clotelle stood
at an upper window in Slater's slave-pen in New Orleans, gasping for
a breath of fresh air. The bells of thirty churches were calling the
people to the different places of worship. Crowds were seen wending
their way to the houses of God; one followed by a negro boy carrying
his master's Bible; another followed by her maid-servant holding the
mistress' fan; a third supporting an umbrella over his master's head
to shield him from the burning sun. Baptists immersed, Presbyterians
sprinkled, Methodists shouted, and Episcopalians read their prayers,
while ministers of the various sects preached that Christ died for all.
The chiming of the bells seemed to mock the sighs and deep groans of the
forty human beings then incarcerated in the slave-pen. These imprisoned
children of God were many of them Methodists, some Baptists, and others
claiming to believe in the faith of the Presbyterians and Episcopalians.
Oh, with what anxiety did these creatures await the close of that
Sabbath, and the dawn of another day, that should deliver them from
those dismal and close cells. Slowly the day passed away, and once
more the evening breeze found its way through the barred windows of the
prison that contained these injured sons and daughters of America.
The clock on the calaboose had just struck nine on Monday morning,
when hundreds of persons were seen threading the gates and doors of the
negro-pen. It was the same gang that had the day previous been stepping
to the tune and keeping time with the musical church bells. Their Bibles
were not with them, their prayer-books were left at home, and even their
long and solemn faces had been laid aside for the week. They had come
to the man-market to make their purchases. Methodists were in search of
their brethren. Baptists were looking for those that had been immersed,
while Presbyterians were willing to buy fellow-Christians, whether
sprinkled or not. The crowd was soon gazing at and feasting their eyes
upon the lovely features of Clotelle.
“She is handsomer,” muttered one to himself, “than the lady that sat in
the pew next to me yesterday.”
“I would that my daughter was half so pretty,” thinks a second.
Groups are seen talking in every part of the vast building, and the
topic on 'Change, is the “beautiful quadroon.” By and by, a tall young
man with a foreign face, the curling mustache protruding from under a
finely-chiseled nose, and having the air of a gentleman, passes by. His
dark hazel eye is fastened on the maid, and he stops for a moment; the
stranger walks away, but soon returns--he looks, he sees the young woman
wipe away the silent tear that steals down her alabaster cheek; he
feels ashamed that he should gaze so unmanly on the blushing face of the
woman. As he turns upon his heel he takes out his white handkerchief and
wipes his eyes. It may be that he has lost a sister, a mother, or some
dear one to whom he was betrothed. Again he comes, and the quadroon
hides her face. She has heard that foreigners make bad masters, and she
shuns his piercing gaze. Again he goes away and then returns. He takes a
last look and then walks hurriedly off.
The day wears away, but long before the time of closing the sale
the tall young man once more enters the slave-pen. He looks in every
direction for the beautiful slave, but she is not there--she has been
sold! He goes to the trader and inquires, but he is too late, and he
therefore returns to his hotel.
Having entered a military school in Paris when quite young, and soon
after been sent with the French army to India, Antoine Devenant had
never dabbled in matters of love. He viewed all women from the same
stand-point--respected them for their virtues, and often spoke of the
goodness of heart of the sex, but never dreamed of taking to himself a
wife. The unequalled beauty of Clotelle had dazzled his eyes, and
every look that she gave was a dagger that went to his heart. He felt a
shortness of breath, his heart palpitated, his head grew dizzy, and his
limbs trembled; but he knew not its cause. This was the first stage of
“love at first sight.”
He who bows to the shrine of beauty when beckoned by this mysterious
agent seldom regrets it. Devenant reproached himself for not having made
inquiries concerning the girl before he left the market in the morning.
His stay in the city was to be short, and the yellow fever was raging,
which caused him to feel like making a still earlier departure. The
disease appeared in a form unusually severe and repulsive. It seized
its victims from amongst the most healthy of the citizens. The disorder
began in the brain by oppressive pain accompanied or followed by fever.
Fiery veins streaked the eye, the face was inflamed and dyed of a dark
dull red color; the ears from time to time rang painfully. Now mucous
secretions surcharged the tongue and took away the power of speech; now
the sick one spoke, but in speaking had foresight of death. When the
violence of the disease approached the heart, the gums were blackened.
The sleep broken, troubled by convulsions, or by frightful visions, was
worse than the waking hours; and when the reason sank under a delirium
which had its seat in the brain, repose utterly forsook the patient's
couch. The progress of the fever within was marked by yellowish spots,
which spread over the surface of the body. If then, a happy crisis came
not, all hope was gone. Soon the breath infected the air with a fetid
odor, the lips were glazed, despair painted itself in the eyes, and
sobs, with long intervals of silence, formed the only language. From
each side of the mouth, spread foam tinged with black and burnt blood.
Blue streaks mingled with the yellow all over the frame. All remedies
were useless. This was the yellow fever. The disorder spread alarm and
confusion throughout the city. On an average more than four hundred died
daily. In the midst of disorder and confusion, death heaped victims
on victims. Friend followed friend in quick succession. The sick were
avoided from the fear of contagion, and for the same reason the dead
were left unburied. Nearly two thousand dead bodies lay uncovered in the
burial-ground, with only here and there a little lime thrown over them,
to prevent the air becoming infected. The negro, whose home is in a
hot climate, was not proof against the disease. Many plantations had to
suspend their work for want of slaves to take the places of those who
had been taken off by the fever.