A few miles out from Kansas City, Missouri State, on a pleasant plain
sloping off toward a murmuring stream, a branch of the mighty river,
early in the spring of 1856, stood a rambling frame house two stories
high, surrounded with piazzas, over which trailed grape-vines, clematis
and Virginia creepers. The air was redolent with the scent of flowers
nor needed the eye to seek far for them, for the whole front of the
dwelling, and even the adjoining range of wooden stables, were rendered
picturesque by rich masses of roses and honeysuckle that covered them,
and the high, strong fence that enclosed four acres of cleared ground,
at the end of which the buildings stood. Mingled with the scent of
the roses was the fragrance of the majestic magnolia whose buds and
blossoms nodded at one from every nook and unexpected quarter.
This was “Magnolia Farm,” the home of Colonel Titus. He was an
Englishman by birth and education who had invested his small fortune
in a plantation and many slaves in the great Southwest; he also traded
in horses, selling, training, doctoring, taking care of horses, or,
indeed, making money by any means that came in his way (or out of it,
for the matter of that); all was grist that came to his mill. In time
his enterprising spirit met with its reward and he became a leading man
in all affairs pertaining to the interest of the section. The death of
his wife, whom he tenderly loved, soon after the birth of their only
child, had left him solitary. This affliction tendered, therefore,
to deepen his interest in politics, and he eventually became one of
the most bitter partisans on the side of slavery, contrary to the
principles of most of his nationality. In his pro-slavery utterances
he outdid the most rabid native-born Southerners. In 1854 his famous
speech at St. Joseph, Missouri, at the beginning of the trouble in
Kansas, had occasioned the wildest enthusiasm at the South, and the
greatest consternation at the North.
“I tell you to mark every scoundrel among you who is the least tainted
with abolitionism, or pro-slavery, and exterminate them. Neither giving
nor taking quarter from the d----d rascals. To those who have qualms
of conscience as to violating laws, state or national, I say, the time
has come when such impositions must be disregarded, as your rights
and property are in danger. I advise you, one and all, to enter every
election district in Kansas, in defiance of Reeder and his myrmidons,
and vote at the point of the bowie-knife and revolver. Neither take
nor give quarter as the cause demands it. It is enough that the
slave-holding interest wills it, from which there is no appeal.”
With the memory of recent happenings in the beautiful Southland,
against the Negro voter, engraved upon our hearts, these words have
a too familiar sound. No, there is very little advancement in that
section since 1854, viewed in the light of Gov. Davis’ recent action.
The South would be as great as were her fathers “if like a crab she
could go backward.” Reversion is the only god worshipped by the South.
Bill Thomson, whose reputation for pure, unadulterated ‘cussedness’
was notorious in this semi-barbarous section, was his overseer and
most intimate friend. Thomson’s wife was the Colonel’s housekeeper,
and, with the owner’s invalid daughter, these four persons made up the
‘family’ of the ‘big house.’
The summer sun hung evenly over the great fields of cotton; the
rambling house cast no shadow, but the broad piazza at the back
afforded ample shade from the mid-day rays, sheltered as it was by
great pines; within their reach, too, lay the quarters. The porch
overlooked the blooming fields where a thousand acres stretched to
the very edge of the muddy Missouri. This porch, with its deep, cool
shadows, commanded a view of the working force, and made it a favorite
resting place for the Colonel and his daughter Lillian. The crippled
girl found complete happiness seated in her rolling chair gazing out
upon the dusky toilers who tilled the broad acres of foaming cotton.
His daughter’s affliction was a great cross to the Colonel. His
thoughts were bitter when he saw other young girls swinging along
the highway revelling in youthful strength that seemed to mock the
helplessness of his own sweet girl.
“Why had this affliction been sent upon her?” he asked himself. If
he had sinned why should punishment be sent upon the innocent and
helpless? He rebelled against the text wherein it is taught that evil
deeds shall be visited upon the progeny of the doer unto the third and
fourth generations.
Far off in lovely England, ancestral halls might yet await her coming,
if, perchance, Destiny should leave him in Fortune’s lap. There was a
letter lying snugly in his pocket, from a firm in London, that promised
much, if----
It was near the noon siesta, and the Colonel sat on the piazza smoking
his pipe and waiting the time to blow the horn for dinner. His daughter
sat there, too, with an open book on her lap, and a dreamy look in her
deep blue eyes that would wander from the printed page to the beautiful
scene before her.
The sound of sharp words in a high-pitched voice and answering sobs
broke in upon the quiet scene.
“There’s Mrs. Thomson scolding Tennie again,” observed Lillian. The
words of that lady came to them distinctly from the hallway:
“What’s the matter with you to-day? You leave your work for the other
girls. What are you moping about? Is it Luke?”
“Luke been conjured,” came in a stifled voice.
“By whom?”
Mrs. Thomson was a woman of considerable education and undoubted
piety, but her patience was as short as pie-crust. At her question all
Tennie’s wrath broke forth.
“Dat yaller huzzy, Clorinder; she conjured Luke till he gone plum wil’
over her. Ef eber I gits my han’s on her, she goin’ ’member me de
longes’ day she lib.”
“Hush, I tell you! This stuff must end right here.”
“But, Mistis, dat nigger----”
“Hush your mouth! Don’t you ‘but’ me! Do you get the cowhide and follow
me to the cellar, and I’ll whip you well for aggravating me as you have
to-day. It seems as if I can never sit down to take a little comfort
with the Lord, without your crossing me. The devil always puts you
up to disturbing me, just when I’m trying to serve the Lord. I’ve no
doubt I’ll miss going to heaven on your account. But I’ll whip you well
before I leave this world, that I will. Get the cowhide and come with
me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself to put me in such a passion.
It’s a deal harder for me than it is for you. I have to exert myself
and it puts me all in a fever; while you have only to stand and take
it.”
The sounds died away, and once more quiet reigned. The Colonel resumed
his train of thought, his brow contracted into a frown as he watched
the rings of smoke curling up from the bowl of his pipe. He sighed.
His daughter, watching him, echoed his sigh, because, she thought her
father was changing. He was a tall, powerful man with dark hair and
beard fast whitening. He had deep-set eyes that carried a shifting
light; they had the trick, too, of not looking one squarely in the face.
“His hair is right gray,” she said to herself, sadly, “and he is
beginning to stoop; he never stooped before. He’s studying, always
studying about the mortgages and politics. Oh, dear, if I’d only been a
boy! Maybe I could have helped him. But I’m only a girl and a cripple
at that.” She changed the sigh into a smile, as women learn to do, and
said aloud, “Here’s Winona with your julep.”
The girl bore a goblet on a waiter filled with the ruby liquid and a
small forest of mint. The Colonel smiled, his annoyances forgotten
for a moment; he lifted the glass gallantly, saying: “Your health, my
daughter!”
As he sipped and drank, the girl laughed gleefully and proceeded to
refill his pipe, he watching her the while with fond eyes. Winona
watched the scene with bent brows. So, happy had she been with her dead
father, not so long ago.
She had passed from childhood to womanhood in two years of captivity--a
womanhood blessed with glorious beauty that lent a melancholy charm to
her fairness when one remembered the future before such as she. She had
been allowed at lessons with her young mistress and had wonderfully
improved her privileges. The Colonel and Thomson encouraged her desire
for music, too; “It’ll pay ten dollars for every one invested,”
remarked the latter. It was now two years since the two friends had
returned from a mysterious absence, bringing Winona and Judah with
them. The time seemed centuries long to the helpless captives, reared
in the perfect freedom of Nature’s woods and streams.
Winona was given Lillian for a maid, and under her gentle rule the
horrible nightmare of captivity dragged itself away peacefully if not
happily.
With Judah it was different; he was made assistant overseer, because of
his intelligence and his enormous strength. As graceful as vigorous,
he had developed into a lion of a man. But his nature seemed changed;
he had lost his sunny disposition and buoyant spirits. He was a stern,
silent man, who apparently, had never known boyhood. He was invaluable
as a trainer of horses, and scrupulously attentive to his other work,
but in performing these duties he had witnessed scenes that rivalled in
cruelty the ferocity of the savage tribes among whom he had passed his
boyhood, and had experienced such personal abuse that it had driven
smiles forever from his face.
Thomson wore the physique of a typical Southerner. People learning his
English ancestry were surprised and somewhat doubtful as they noted his
sharp profile, thin lips, curved nose and hollow cheeks. His moustache
and hair, coal black in color, increased the doubt.
As we have said, there was no greater scoundrel in Missouri than Bill
Thomson. Men declared there was “a heap in him. Other bad ones were
jes’ onery scamps; but Bill had a head on him.”
He it was who was organizing and drilling numbers of companies of men,
in case the d----d Yankees proved unruly, to burn and loot the infant
territory and carry it into the slave-holding lines by fire and fraud.
Into this man’s hands Judah was given body and soul.