_"My conscience whispers."_--Shakespeare.
But at last the crisis came. One of the girls--Sallie, a faithful
creature--had married "Bradley's John," and now John was about to be
sold and sent to Georgia. Either John must be separated from his wife
and child, or Sallie must be sold, or Mr. Davenport must buy John and
keep him here! The final issue had come! John begged to be bought.
Sallie pleaded not to be allowed to be sold, nor to be separated from
her husband. Katherine agreed to plead for Sallie, who had been her own
playmate ever since she could remember.
"Git Mos' Grif ter buy John, Mis' Kate! Fo' God's sake, Mis' Kate,
git'im ter buy John! Yoh kin. I knows mon'sous well dat yoh kin! He
gwine ter do jes' what yoh tell 'im ter. I knows dat he is, Mis' Kate!"
Mr. Davenport was in his study. Katherine had explained the case to him
fully, and Sallie's black face peered in behind him, with anxious eyes,
watching and listening to her mistress.
"Katherine, I cannot! I cannot pay money for a human being. I have
yielded, step by step, to what I felt was wrong long ago, until now I
am caught in the tangled threads of this awful system--but I cannot! I
_cannot_ pay money for a human soul!"
Suddenly Sallie fell at his feet, and, swaying to and fro, swung her
sturdy frame like a reed in the wind.
"Oh, Mos' Grif, fo' God's sake, buy John! Ain't yo' got no mussy, Mos'
Grif? Don' let dat Mos' Bradley sen' John 'way off dar! I gwine ter die
right heah, if yo' don' hep me, Mos' Grif! Ain't I been a good girl?
Ain't I nus de chillun good, an' did'n I pull Mos' Beverly outen de
crick when he fall in an' wus mose drownded? Oh, fo' Christ's sake, Mos'
Grif, buy my John! He gwine ter wuk fo' yoh all his life long, an' he
gwine ter be good!"
She swayed and wept and moaned. She held her baby to her breast and
cried out for John, and then she held it out toward Griffith and stared
through streaming eyes at his face to see if he had relented. And still
Griffith was silent. His teeth were set tight together, and his nails
cut his palms, but he said not a word.
"Mos' Grif, Mos' Grif! what did God A'mighty gib yoh all dis lan' an'
houses an' money fo'? What He gib yoh my Mis' Katherine fo'?'Cause He
know yoh gwine ter be good an' kine, an'--an' dat yoh gwine ter be
good ter _us!_ Mos' Grif, de good Lawd ain't fo'got we alls des kase we
black!"
She rolled the baby on the floor beside her and grasped both of her
master's clenched hands, and struggled to open them as she talked. She
seemed to think if they would but relax that he would yield.
"Mos' Grif, we bofe gwine ter wuk fo' yoh, an' pray fo' yoh, and dat
baby, dar, gwine ter wuk an' pray fo' yoh all ouh lifes long--all de
days ob ouh lifes, des fo' dat little, teenchy six hund'ud dollahs, what
Mos' Bradley got ter hab fo' John! All ouh lifes long! All ouh lifes
long, we gwine ter wuk and pray fo' yoh, des fo' dat little, teenchy six
hund'ud dollahs!!"
Mrs. Davenport put her hand on her husbond's shoulder. Her eyes were wet
and her lips trembled.
"Griffith, what harm can it do? And see how _much_ good! Griffith, we
will _all_ love you better if you will. I can't bear to see Sallie the
way she has been these last two months--ever since it was decided to
sell John to that man when he comes. It is heart-breaking. You know,
darling, she played with me ever since we were babies, and she has been
_so_ good to my children--_our_ children, Griffith!" She lowered her
voice to a mere whisper: "Can God want you to be so cruel as this,
Griffith?"
Mr. Davenport had never dreamed that anything he might feel it his duty
to do would seem to his wife like cruelty. It hurt him sorely. He looked
up at her with a drawn face.
"Katherine," he said, "let us give Sallie her freedom, and let her go
with John."
"No, no, no, no! I ain't gwine ter go wid dat man! I ain't gwine ter
be no free wife nigger, 'pendin' on him! I ain't gwine ter leabe Mis'
Kath'rine, nedder!" She arose in her fear, which was turning to wrath.
"Mis' Kate, yoh ain't gwine ter let him gib me away, is yoh? I don'
belong to nobody ter gib away, but des ter my Mis' Kate, an' she ain't
gwine ter gib me 'way arter I done nus her chillun an' save de life of
Mos' Beverly! Dat ain't dekine o' lady my Mis' Kate is! O Mis' Kate,
Mis' Kate! I done wisht yoh'd a-gone and married dat Mos' Tom Harrison
dat time wat'e ax you! _He_ don't lub money dat much dat he can't spahr
a little six hund'ud dollahs ter sabe me an' John an'--an'--an' dis heah
baby!"
She caught up the baby from the floor again and held it toward her
master.
"Dar! take hit an' kill hit fus' as well as las'! kase _I_ gwine ter
die, an' hit gwine ter be my Mos' Grif dat kill bofe of us. God gwine
ter know'bout dat! John gwine ter tell'im! Jesus gwine ter know dat six
little hund'ud dollahs is wuf more ter my Mos' Grif dan me an' yoh an'
John," she moaned, holding the baby up in front of her. "All free, bofe
ob us, ain't wuf dat little much t' ouh Mos' Grift All free, bofe ob
us! A little, teenchy, ugly six hund'ud dollahs! He radder hab hit in
de bank er in de desk er in he pocket--dat little six hund'ud dollahs
what's mo' bigger dan _all_ ob us--an' mo' bigger dan Mis' Kate's lub!"
She fell to sobbing again. "Des dat little much! Des dat little much!"
she moaned. "All ob us got ter die fer des dat little much! An' Mos'
Grif, he don' care. He lub dat little much money mo' dan wat he do _all_
ob us, countin' in Mis' Kate's lub wid de res'!"
His wife had gone to her chair and was holding a handkerchief to her
face. He could see her lips and chin tremble.
"I will buy John, Sallie, if------"
Sallie grasped the two hands again. They were relaxed and cold.
"I knowed hit! I knowed hit! O good, kind Jesus! O Lord, Saviour! dey
ain't no _if!_ Dey ain't no if! My Mos' Grif gwine ter do hit. Dey ain't
no if lef in dem han's! My Mos' Grif gwine ter buy John!" and she fell
on her knees again and sobbed for joy. She caught the little black baby
up from the floor where it lay, laughing and kicking its toes in the
air, and crushed it so close to her breast that it cried out and then
set up a wail. Sallie stopped weaving her body to and fro, and tried to
smile through her tears.
"Des listen ter dat fool baby! Hits oryin' fo' des a little hu't like
dat, an' I only des choke hit wif my arms! Mos' Grif done choke my hawt
out vrid grief, an' now he done strangle me wid joy, befo' I got ter
cry, chile! Yoah po' mammy's hawt done bus' wide open wid joy now. Dat's
what make I can't talk no sense, Mos' Grif. I des wants ter yell. But
Mis' Katherine, she know. I des kin see dat she do. _She_ know dat I
feel des like I gwine ter bos' plum' down ter my chist. She know!"
She laid the baby down again and suddenly held up both arms toward her
master. Her voice was a wail.
"Tell me dat dey ain't no _if_ lef in your hawt, Mos' Grif! I knows dat
dey ain't, but I got ter heah yo' _say_ dat dey ain't, an' den I kin
go!"
"I will buy John, Sallie. There is no if," he said; and Katherine threw
her arms around his neck and looked at him through tears of joy.
That night the Rev. Griffith Davenport prayed long and earnestly that he
might be forgiven for this final weakness. He felt that his moral fiber
was weakening. He had broken the vow taken so long ago. He felt that the
bonds were tightening about him, and that it would be harder than
ever to cleanse his soul from what he had grown to feel was an awful
wrong--this ownership, and now this money purchase, of a human soul.
"I have gone the whole length," he sighed to himself. "I have at last,
with my eyes open, with my conscience against me, done this wrong! I
have paid money for a human being. I know it is a wrong--I know--I know,
and yet I have done it! God help me! God forgive me! I cannot see my
way! I cannot see my way!"
In the distance, as he arose from his knees, there floated in through
the open window the refrain from Sallie's song, as she moved about the
quarters:--
An' deys no mo' trouble, an' deys no mo' pain,
An' deys no mo' trouble fo' me, fo' me!
An' deys no mo' sorrer, an' no mo' pain--
Oh, deys no mo' trouble fo' me, f-o-h-h m-e-e-e!
I libs on de banks ob de golden shoah,
Oh, I libs in de promise' lan'!
An' I sez to de Lawd, when He opens the doah,
Dat deys no mo' trouble fo' me!
De Lawd He says, when he took my han',
"Enter into de gates ob res'!"
An' He gib me a harp, an' I jines de ban',
Fo' deys no mo' sorrer fer me!
Lippy Jane was dancing, on the back porch, to the rhythm of the distant
song, and two of the black boys stopped in their race with Beverly, over
the lawn, to take up the chorus--"Oh, deys no mo' trouble fo' me, f-o-h
m-e!"
But, in spite of his prayer for "light and leading," as he would
have called it, Mr. Davenport felt that his moral fiber was, indeed,
weakening, and yet he could not see his way out of the dilemma. He had
definitely decided so long ago now that he could not remember when he
had thought otherwise, that for one in his position, at least, even the
mere ownership of slaves could not be right. He recalled that it had
come to him at first in the form of purchase and sale, and it had seemed
to him that under no conditions could he be forced into that form of the
complication; but a little later on he decided that the mere ownership
involved moral turpitude for one of his denomination, at least, if he
was in deed and in truth following the leadership of the Christ.
When first he had agreed to take part of his father's slaves, therefore,
he had made himself feel that it was right that he should assume a part
of the old Major's burdens as his son and trustee, only, and that there
was to be no transfer of property. That this service was his father's
due and that he should give it freely seemed plain to him. Katherine's
slaves he had always thought of as hers alone--not at all as his; but
ever since the old Major had died and the will had settled beyond a
quibble that the Rev. Griffith Davenport was himself, in deed and in
truth "Mos' Grif" to all these dependent creatures, it had borne more
and more heavily upon his conscience. He had tried to think and plan
some way out of it and had failed, and now he had been forced to face
the final issue--the one phase which he had felt could never touch
him,--the purchase for money of a black man, and he had yielded at
the first test! His heart had outweighed his head and his conscience
combined, and the line he had fixed so long ago as the one boundary of
this evil which _he_ could never pass, and which, thank God, no one else
could thrust upon him, was obliterated, and he stood on the far side
condemned by his whole nature! In this iniquity from which he had felt
his hands should forever be free, they were steeped! He felt wounded and
sore and that a distinct step downward had been taken, and yet he asked
himself over and over again what he could have done in the matter that
would not have been far worse. He slept little. The next day when he
went to Mr. Bradley to buy John his whole frame trembled and he felt
sick and weak.
His neighbor noticed that he was pale, and remarked upon it, and then
turned the subject to the matter in hand which Sallie had duly reported
an hour after she had won and her master had lost the great moral
contest. For it cannot be denied that, all things considered.
Sallie had won a distinct victory for the future moral life of herself
and for John and the baby.
So complicated are our relations to each other and to what we are
pleased to call right and wrong in this heterogeneous world, that in
doing this Sallie had forced her master into a position which seemed to
him to cancel his right to feel himself a man of honor and a credit to
the religion in which he believed he had, so far, found all his loftiest
ideals. He could plainly see, now, that this phase of the terrible
problem would be sure to arise and confront him again and again as time
went on, and his heart ached when he felt that he had lost his grasp
upon the anchor of his principles and that the boundary lines of his
ethical integrity were again becoming sadly confused in a mind he had
grown to feel had long ago clearly settled and defined them.
"You look as pale as a ghost. Better try a little of Maria's blackberry
cordial? No? Do you good, I'm sure, if you would," said Mr. Bradley.
"You're taking this thing altogether too much to heart, sir. What
possible difference can it make to John whether you pay for him or
whether he had come to you as the others did? If yo'll will allow me to
say so, I think it is a ridiculous distinction. Somebody paid for the
ones you've got. If you'll allow an old neighbor to make a suggestion,
I think you read those Yankee papers altogether too much and too
seriously. It perverts your judgment. It's a good sight easier for those
fellows up there to settle this question than it is for us to do it.
They simply don't know what they are talking about, and we do. With them
it's all theory. Here it's a cold fact. What in the name of common sense
would they have? Suppose we didn't own and provide for and direct all
these niggers, what on earth would become of'em? Where would they get
enough to eat? You know as well as I do there is nothing on this earth
as helpless and as much to be pitied as a free nigger. They don't know
how to take care of themselves, and nobody is going to hire one. What in
thunder do people want us to do? Brain 'em?"
"Oh, I know, I know," said Mr. Davenport, helplessly, looking far off
into the beautiful valley, with its hazy atmosphere and its rich fields
of grain. "I've thought about it a thousand times, and a thousand times
it has baffled me. I'm not judging, now, for you, Mr. Bradley, not in
the least. I feel myself too thoroughly caught in the meshes of our
social fabric to presume to unravel it for other people. But--but in
_my_ position--for myself--it seems a monstrously wrong thing for me
to count out this money and pay it over for John, just as if he were a
horse. It makes me feel sick--as I fancy a criminal must feel after his
first crime." Mr. Bradley laughed.
"You don't look it, Davenport! Criminal! Ha, ha, ha, ha! that's rich!"
Griffith moved uneasily and did not join the laugh which still convulsed
his neighbor.
"For _me_ it is wrong--distinctly, absolutely wrong. It is a terrible
thing for me to say--and still do it--I, a preacher of God! For you, I
cannot judge. 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,' is what I always think
in this matter. But for me, for _me_ it is not right--and yet what can I
do?"
Mr. Bradley laughed again, partly in amusement and partly in derision,
at what he looked upon as the preacher's unworldly view, and what he
spoke of with vexation to others as "Davenport's damned foolishness,"
which had, of late, grown to be a matter of real unrest to the
neighborhood, in which it was felt that the influence of such opinions
could not fail to be dangerous to social order and stability. It was as
if you or I were to spring the question of free land or free money in
a convention of landlords and bankers. Or, if you please, like the
arguments for anarchy or no government addressed to the "Fourth
ward," or the members of Congress. It was, in short, subversive of the
established order of things, and neither you, nor I, nor they,
accept quite gracefully such propositions, if in their application to
ourselves, they would be a sore and bitter loss--if it would render less
secure and lofty our seat on the social or political throne. We revolt
and we blame the disturber of the old established order of things--the
order, which having been good enough for our fathers is surely good
enough for you and for me. In short, was not the way in religion and in
social order of our fathers far the better way? Is not the better way
always that of the man who owns and rides in the carriage? If you will
ask him--or if you are he--you will learn or see that there is not the
least doubt of the fact. If you should happen to ask the man who
walks, you may hear another story--if the man who walks happens to be
a philosopher; but as all pedestrians are not philosophers and since
acquiescence is an easy price to pay for peace, it may happen that the
man in the carriage will be corroborated by the wayfarer whom his wheels
have run down.
And so, my friend, in the year 1852, had you been sitting counting out
the six hundred dollars which must change hands to enable John to play
with the little black baby on his knee, after his day's work was done,
and to keep Sallie from the pitiful fate she dreaded, it is to be
questioned if you would not have agreed with Mr. Bradley in his covert
opinion that "Davenport's squeamishness was all damned nonsense," and
that he might far better stop reading those Yankee newspapers. But be
that as it may, the deed was done. The transfer was made, and the Rev.
Griffith Davenport rode home with a sad heart and troubled conscience.
He did not sing nor even hum his favorite hymns as he rode. His usually
radiant face was a study in perplexity. When he passed the cross-roads
he did not whistle to the robin who always answered him.
Selim's successor and namesake slackened his gait and wondered. Then he
jogged on, and when he stopped at the home "stile" and Griffith still
sat on his back, apparently oblivious of the fact that the journey was
at an end, Selim whinnied twice before the responsive pat fell upon his
glossy neck.
Jerry ran out. "Dinnah's raidy, Mos' Grif. Mis' Kath'rine she been a
waitin' foh yoh."
The rider roused himself and dismounted, more like an old man than like
his cheery, jovial, alert self.
"Is that so? Is it dinner-time already?" he asked absently. "Feed him,
but don't put him up. I may want him again after dinner."
"You ain't sick, is you, Mos' Grif?"
"No, no, boy, I'm not sick," he said, and then recognizing the look of
anxiety on the faithful fellow's face: "What made you ask that?"
"Yoh look so monst'ous lemoncholly, Mos' Grif. Hit ain't seem like
yo'se'f. I des fought dey mus' be somp'in de mattah wid yo' insides."
Mr. Davenport laughed and snapped the riding whip at the boy. Jerry
dodged the stroke, but rubbed the place where it was supposed to fall.
"Lemoncholly, am I? I'll lemoncholly you, you rascal, if you don't just
knock off and go fishing this afternoon. I shan't need you with me."
He was half way to the house when he called back: "Bring me a nice mess
of trout, boy, and you'll see my insides, as you call'em, will be all
right. It's trout I need. Now mind!"
And Jerry was comforted.