This chapter will show how "Virginia beat biscuit" procured for a man
a home and friends in Paris.
One morning in the spring of 185--, a singular-looking man presented
himself at our house. He was short of stature, and enveloped in furs,
although the weather was not cold. Everything about him which could be
gold, was gold, and so we called him "the gold-tipped man." He called
for my mother, and when she went into the parlor, he said to her:
"Madam, I have been stopping several weeks at the hotel in the town of
L., where I met a boy--Robert--who tells me he belongs to you. As I
want such a servant, and he is anxious to travel, I come, at his
request, to ask if you will let me buy him and take him to Europe. I
will pay any price."
"I could not think of it," she replied. "I have determined never to
sell one of my servants."
"But," continued the man, "he is anxious to go, and has sent me to beg
you."
"It is impossible," said she, "for he is a great favorite with us, and
the only child his mother has."
Finding her determined, the man took his leave, and went back to the
town, twenty-five miles off; but returned next day accompanied by
Robert, who entreated his mother and mistress to let him go.
Said my mother to him: "Would you leave your mother and go with a
stranger to a foreign land?"
"Yes, madam. I love my mother, an' you an' all de fambly--you always
been so good to me--but I want travel, an' dis gent'man say he give me
plenty o' money an' treat me good, too."
Still she refused. But the boy's mother, finally yielding to his
entreaty, consented, and persuaded her mistress, saying: "If he is
willing to leave me, and so anxious to go, I will give him up."
Knowing how distressed we all would be at parting with him, he went
off without coming to say "good-by," and wrote his mother from New
York what day he would sail with his new master for Europe.
At first his mother received from him presents and letters, telling
her he was very much delighted, and "had as much money as he knew what
to do with." But after a few months he ceased to write, and we could
hear nothing from him.
At length, when eighteen months had elapsed, we were one day
astonished to see him return home, dressed in the best Parisian style.
We were rejoiced to see him again, and his own joy at getting back
cannot be described. He ran over the yard and house, examining
everything, and said: "Mistess, I aint see no place pretty as yours,
an' no lady look to me like you in all de finest places I bin see in
Europ', an' no water tas'e good like de water in our ole well. An' I
dream 'bout you all, an' 'bout ev'y ole chur an' table in dis house,
an' wonder ef uvver I'd see 'um ag'in."
He then gave us a sketch of his life since the "gold-tipped man" had
become his master. Arrived in Paris, his master and himself took
lodgings, and a teacher was employed to come every day and instruct
Robert in French. His master kept him well supplied with money, never
giving him less than fifty dollars at a time. His duties were light,
and he had ample time to study and amuse himself.
After enjoying such elegant ease for eight or nine months he awoke one
morning and found himself deserted and penniless! His master had
absconded in the night, leaving no vestige of himself except a gold
dressing-case and a few toilet articles of gold, which were seized by
the proprietor of the hotel in payment of his bill.
Poor Robert, without money and without a friend in this great city,
knew not where to turn. In vain he wished himself back in his old
home.
"If I could only find some Virginian to whom I could appeal," said he
to himself. And suddenly it occurred to him that the American
Minister, Mr. Mason, was a Virginian. When he remembered this, his
heart was cheered, and he lost no time in finding Mr. Mason's house.
Presenting himself before the American Minister, he related his story,
which was not at first believed. "For," said Mr. Mason, "there are so
many impostors in Paris it is impossible to believe you."
Robert protested he had been a slave in Virginia, had been deserted by
his owner in Paris, and begged Mr. Mason to keep him at his house, and
take care of him.
Then Mr. M. asked many questions about people and places in Virginia,
all of which were accurately answered. Finally he said: "I knew well
the Virginia gentleman who was, you say, your master. What was the
color of his hair?" This was also satisfactorily answered, and Robert
began to hope he was believed, when Mr. Mason continued:
"Now, there is one thing which, if you can do, will convince me you
came from Virginia. Go in my kitchen and make me some old Virginia
beat biscuit, and I will believe everything you have said!"
"I think I kin, sir," said Robert, and, going into the kitchen, rolled
up his sleeves, and set to work.
This was a desperate moment, for he had never made a biscuit in his
life, although he had often watched the proceeding as "Black Mammy,"
the cook at home, used to beat, roll, and manipulate the dough on her
biscuit-box.
"If I only could make them look like hers!" thought he, as he beat,
and rolled, and worked, and finally stuck the dough all over with a
fork. Then, cutting them out and putting them to bake, he watched them
with nervous anxiety until they resembled those he had often placed on
the table at home.
Astonished and delighted with his success, he carried them to the
American Minister, who exclaimed: "Now I _know_ you came from old
Virginia!"
Robert was immediately installed in Mr. John Y. Mason's house, where
he remained a faithful attendant until Mr. Mason's death, when he
returned with the family to America.
Arriving at New York, he thought it impossible to get along by
himself, and determined to find his master. For this purpose he
employed a policeman, and together they succeeded in recovering "the
lost master,"--this being a singular instance of a "slave in pursuit
of his fugitive master."
The "gold-tipped man" expressed much pleasure at his servant's
fidelity, and, handing him a large sum of money, desired him to return
to Paris, pay his bill, bring back his gold dressing-box and toilet
articles, and, as a reward for his fidelity, take as much money as he
wished and travel over the Continent.
Robert obeyed these commands, returned to Paris, paid the bills,
traveled over the chief places in Europe, and then came again to New
York. Here he was appalled to learn that his master had been arrested
for forgery, and imprisoned in Philadelphia. It was ascertained that
the forger was an Englishman and connected with an underground forging
establishment in Paris. Finding himself about to be detected in Paris,
he fled to New York, and, other forgeries having been discovered in
Philadelphia, he had been arrested.
Robert lost no time in reporting himself at the prison, and was
grieved to find his master in such a place.
Determined to do what he could to relieve the man who had been a good
friend to him, he went to a Philadelphia lawyer, and said to him:
"Sir, the man who is in prison bought me in Virginia, and has been a
kind master to me; I have no money, but if you will do your best to
have him acquitted, I will return to the South, sell myself, and send
you the money."
"It is a bargain," replied the lawyer. "Send me the money, and I will
save your master from the penitentiary."
Robert returned to Baltimore, sold himself to a Jew in that city, and
sent the money to the lawyer in Philadelphia. After this he was bought
by a distinguished Southern Senator--afterward a general in the
Southern army[17]--with whom he remained, and to whom he rendered
valuable services during the war.
[17] General Robert Toombs.
Other instances were known of negroes who preferred being sold into
slavery rather than take care of themselves. There were some in our
immediate neighborhood who, finding themselves emancipated by their
master's will, begged the owners of neighboring plantations to buy
them, saying they preferred having "white people to take care of
them." On the Wheatly plantation, not far from us, there is still
living an old negro who sold himself in this way, and cannot be
persuaded _now_ to accept his freedom. After the war, when all the
negroes were freed by the Federal government, and our people were too
much impoverished longer to clothe and feed them, this old man refused
to leave the plantation, but clung to his cabin, although his wife and
family moved off and begged him to accompany them.
"No," said he, "I nuvver will leave dis plantation, an' go off to
starve wid free niggers."
Not even when his wife was very sick and dying could he be persuaded
to go off and stay one night with her. He had long been too old to
work, but his former owners indulged him by giving him his cabin, and
taking care of him through all the poverty which has fallen upon our
land since the war.
Many of us remember this old man, Harrison Mitchell, who was an
unusual character, high-toned and reliable. His father was an Indian
and his mother a negress. He resembled the Indian, with straight
black hair, brown skin, and high cheek-bones. His great pride was that
he had "cum out de Patrick Henry estate an use to run a freight boat
wid flour down de Jeemes Ruver fum Lynchbu'g to Richmon' long fo' dar
was a sign o' town at Lynch's Ferry." But his great and consuming
theme, especially after the war, was the impossibility of the negroes
taking care of themselves "bedout no white man," and nothing ever
reconciled him to his own freedom. Taking his seat in our back porch,
where my mother usually entertained him, we would assemble to hear him
talk. I would ask: "Well, Uncle Harrison, what do you think of freedom
now after ten years?"
"Lord, mistess, what I t'ink o' freedom? Why, mistess, dese niggers is
no mo' kakalate to take kur o' deyselves dan 'possum. An' I tells 'em
so. Kase what is a nigger bedout white man? He aint nuthin', an' he
aint gwine be nuthin' no ways dey fix it. An' dey aint gwine stay
free, kase de Lord nuvver 'tends 'um to be nuthin' bedout white folks.
Kase ev'ybody know nigger aint got no hade. I nuvver want no nigger be
takin' kur o' me. I looks to my white folks to take kur o' me. I
'lonks to Mars' Robert an' aint gwine lef his plantation tell I die.
What right Yankees got settin' me free, an' den karn't take kur o' me?
No! niggers is niggers, an' gwine be niggers, an' white folks got to
take kur on 'em tell end o' screeation. An' der Lord gwine put ev'y
single one on 'em back in slavery jes' as sure as you born."
True to his word, old Harrison refused to wear an article of clothing
"ef de white folks didn't give it to him." And his daughter, wishing
to give him a blanket, asked her former young mistress to let him
think it was from _her_, or he would not take it.
At last "Mars' Robert" was on his deathbed. Old Harrison went in to
see him for the last time.
"Mars' Robert," said he, "I got one reques' to make fo' you die."
"What is it?" asked his master.
"Mars' Robert, I want to be buried right outside de gate o' de garden
lot where you an' Miss Lucy is buried, so I kin see you fus' on de
mornin' o' de resurrection."
"Harrison, you shall be buried _inside_ the lot with us," replied
"Mars' Robert" distinctly, and a lady who heard it told me she never
saw such radiant happiness as the old man's face expressed when these
words fell on his ear.