It was still the pleasant month of May when, as the Colonel sat in his
favorite seat on the back piazza, just before noon Bill Thomson rode up
to the back of the house followed by a strange horseman.
“I’ve brought you a visitor, Colonel, a stranger and yet not a
stranger, bein’ as we’ve met before. He brings you news,” Thomson
called out as they prepared to mount the piazza steps. “Mr. Maxwell,
Colonel Titus. Mr. Maxwell has come all the way from London to bring
you news from the Hall. Now I know he’s welcome. Mr. Maxwell, sir, in
the Colonel you see a Southron of the Southrons, but old England will
always hold first place in his hospitable heart. So, Colonel?”
“That’s the right sound, William. Mr. Maxwell, do you stop with us over
night sir?”
“I fear that I must tax your hospitality to that extent. Your uncle
died six months ago. The estate will be yours in one year if the direct
heir is not found. Your signature will be needed to certain papers that
will prove your identity and residence here, and we shall also want
affidavits made out for filing. All this is a mere formality required
by law. Of course, Mr. Pendleton has charge of the estates, being the
family lawyer, and is only anxious that the rightful heir inherit. You
remember Mr. Pendleton, do you not, Colonel Titus?”
“Oh, yes! Old Pen, we boys used to call him. I hope he’ll continue to
look after my affairs, if the estate comes to me. I remember him as a
very reliable man.”
Warren bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment paid his chief.
“I have no doubt he will be pleased to serve you. There is very
little doubt of your succeeding to the baronetcy--practically we have
demonstrated that fact, and I think your claims pass unquestioned.”
“Be seated, Mr. Maxwell; make yourself comfortable. Jude!” he called,
“Jude, I say!”
Maxwell started involuntarily, as Judah came out from the hallway. At
last he had found a clew to the lost ones! His pulses beat fast, but
his facial muscles told no tale. But his almost imperceptible start was
noticed by the two men, who exchanged glances.
“Take the gentleman’s horse, and tell Mrs. Thomson we have a guest over
night,” said the Colonel to the waiting servant. Judah’s impassive
face gave forth not a gleam of intelligence as he departed to obey his
master’s orders.
“Now, Mr. Maxwell,” said the Colonel as they sat sipping the fragrant
mixture sent out to them by Mrs. Thomson by the unfortunate Tennie,
“you said something about no dispute over my being next of kin. Kindly
explain that remark.”
“Certainly,” replied Warren, smiling. “This is my second trip to
America in two years, hunting up the Carlingford heirs. I thought I had
found Lord George’s younger son, Henry, on my first trip, but after a
fruitless chase, I was forced to give it up. We are convinced that he
is dead and without issue.”
“Just so! Poor Henry! His was a sad fate. But it was his destiny. Do
you believe in destiny, my young friend?”
“I believe that many things we call destiny may be overcome by
resolving to conquer difficulties, not allowing them to conquer us.”
“True, very true,” replied the Colonel, meditatively.
“Mr. Maxwell, you have expressed the position of our people to a dot
concerning the little difficulty we are having with Kansas. Now the
North thinks they’re going to beat in the fight, and the fools are
going to try to fight us, but it’s the destiny of the South to rule in
this glorious country, an’ if it ain’t our destiny we’ll make it so,
d----d if we don’t when I get the boys fixed. Got a cool two hundred
and fifty coming down here from Virginia nex’ week; boys who don’ care
a cuss what they do so long as they beat the Free States out.”
“Thomson,” broke in the Colonel, “it appears to me that I have seen
Mr. Maxwell before. What do you say?”
“I reckon you have. Don’ you remember our hunting trip up at Erie two
years ago? and the murder of White Eagle?”
“Sure enough! Mr. Maxwell was the young Englishman who took such a
prominent part in the affair.”
Warren bowed gravely.
“Most unfortunate affair! Strange, too, that the man should have
been killed just when the children needed him most. If he had lived,
Thomson, in all probability, would not have recovered his property.” He
paused with a keen glance in Warren’s quiet face, but it told nothing.
His voice, too, was calm and even as he inquired:
“Then Mr. Thomson was the owner of the unfortunate children?”
“Yes,” returned Thomson, “I’d been hunting them gals and their mother
for nigh fifteen years, an’ it was just luck and chance my meeting up
with them young ones.”
Warren puffed away at his cigar as though it were his only object in
life.
“Fine cigar,” he observed, at length.
“Particularly fine. The tobacco was raised by my own hands right over
there for my private use,” said the Colonel.
“What do you think of our institutions, Mr. Maxwell?” asked Thomson,
nonchalantly. “They’ve made this country. ’Spose you have some
compunctions of conscience over us, eh? Most Englishmen do at first.
But, man, look at the advantage it gives, the prosperity it brings, the
prestige it gives our fine gentry all over the world. You must confess
that we are a grand people.”
“Yet you complained of a tea tax, and fought a ‘liberty fight’ on that
pretext,” observed Warren drily.
“Jes’ so, jes’ so! But see what we’ve done for the Africans, given them
the advantages of Christian training, and a chance to mingle, although
but servants, in the best circles of the country. The niggers have
decidedly the best of it. The masters suffer from their ignorance and
incompetency.”
“How do you think the excitement over the Kansas-Nebraska matter will
end?” questioned Maxwell, avoiding a statement of his own opinions.
“There are warm times ahead. The Yankees have got to be forced to leave
the States. We’ll make ourselves a living terror to them. The trouble
is bein’ stirred up by a lot of psalm singing abolitionists and an old
lunatic named Brown. Yankees won’t fight; they’ll scatter like chaff
before my Rangers. Now, there’s fighting blood for you; every man owns
a nigger and loves the South and her institutions, an’ they ain’t goin’
to be beat out o’ Kansas for an extension to the institution.”
“Well, gentlemen, my opinion is that you are wrong. A government cannot
prosper founded on crushed and helpless humanity,” replied Maxwell
firmly.
“Well, well,” interrupted the Colonel, “There are two sides to every
question. Some day--soon, perhaps, you will realize that we are a
chivalrous, gallant people, worthy of the admiration of the world.”
“While the Free Staters think themselves in the right, you also feel
that your side is right.”
“Precisely. They have inherited their ideas as we have ours. We do not
agree. It is our duty to convince them of their error, and with God’s
help we will do it.”
“But surely, you do not defend the atrocities committed against
helpless women and children that are perpetrated by your side in Kansas
every day?”
“Defend them? No! But I sympathize with the feelings of the
perpetrators. You condemn them wholly without comprehending them or
their motives, thus injuring them and doing mischief to yourself. Each
group of men in this country has its own standard of right and wrong,
and we won’t give our ideas up for no d----d greasy, Northern mechanic.”
“That’s the right sort, Colonel,” nodded Thomson, in sympathetic
approval.
The announcement that dinner was served cut short further discussion,
much to Warren’s relief. The Colonel’s words impressed the young man
greatly. But ever in opposition to specious argument arose thoughts
of Winona and Judah and the terrible work done at the sacking of
Osawatamie.
The remainder of the day was spent in riding over the plantation,
and studying the beauties of the ‘institution’ as propounded by the
philosophical Colonel. Once only, Warren’s anxious gaze descried Winona
wheeling the chair of her crippled mistress up and down the lawn, but
when the men returned to the house both were invisible.
He and the Colonel were seated upon the piazza in the soft Southern
night talking over the points of law in claiming the Carlingford
estate, when Mrs. Thomson called the latter for a moment into the
house. Something blacker than the black night passed him as he sat
there alone. Warren was startled, and it was some moments after the
figure passed, before he realized that a man had spoken to him in
passing: “Leave your window unlatched.”
Pleading fatigue, the young man retired early, but not to sleep. His
pulse beat at fever heat; his excited fancy could detect the sound
of drums and the hurrying of marching feet. He sunk into a feverish
slumber, from which he was awakened by the weeping of distressed
females. He listened--all was still; it was the imagination again. He
could not sleep, so he arose and looked carefully after his pistols.
Danger seemed all about him, but he unlatched the window and drew it
back softly, then stretched himself again upon the bed.
About one o’clock he was awakened from a light slumber by some one
shaking him, and sitting up, found Judah beside him,--his dark face
distinctly visible by the moon’s dim light. Sitting in the darkness,
the sweet scent of the magnolia enveloping them in its fragrance,
the faint sounds of insect life mingling with the murmur of rustling
leaves, Warren Maxwell listened to whispered words that harrowed up
his very soul. To emphasize his story, Judah stripped up his shirt and
seizing the young white man’s hand pressed it gently over the scars and
seams stamped upon his back.
“I could bear it all, Mr. Maxwell,” he concluded, “but Winona----”
here his voice broke. “They’ve educated her to increase her value in
the slave market, and next week Mr. Thomson takes her and me up the
river to sell us to the highest bidder. If help does not come I have
sworn to kill her before she shall become slavery’s victim. It is
impossible for me to put in words the fate of a beautiful female slave
on these plantations; the torture of hell cannot surpass it.”
A great wave of admiration swept over Warren at Judah’s words. It was
the involuntary tribute of Nature to nobility of soul wherever found.
The boy had become a man, and his demeanor was well calculated to
inspire admiration and trust. Something truly majestic--beyond his
years--had developed in his character. Warren thought him a superb
man, and watched him, fascinated by his voice, his language, and
his expressive gestures. Slavery had not contaminated him. His life
with White Eagle had planted refinement inbred. In him was the true
expression of the innate nature of the Negro when given an opportunity
equal with the white man.
Impulsively, Maxwell laid his arm affectionately about the neck and
shoulders of the youth.
“No extremes, Judah, until all else fails. I can buy you both if it
comes to that, and my promise to take you to England with me still
holds good.”
“I doubt that you will be allowed to buy us. There is a stronger reason
for our destruction underlying all this than is apparent. Don’t let it
be known that we have held any communication with you, or that you are
at all interested in our fate. Be cautious.”
“I will remember. But I shall have to study this matter over. I hardly
know how to meet this issue if the use of money is denied us. When do
you leave?”
“Monday, on the ‘Crescent.’”
“Then I’ll plead pressing business and leave to-morrow to meet you on
board the steamer when she sails. Trust me, Judah, I will not fail you.”
The tears were in Judah’s throat as he tried to thank him. “I do
trust you, Mr. Maxwell, next to God. I knew you would be here soon; I
dreamt a year ago that I saw you coming toward me out of a cloud of
intense blackness. I have watched for you ever since. I was not at all
surprised when I saw you riding up the avenue to-day; only for my hope
in you as our deliverer, I’d have shot myself months ago.”
“There is a God, Judah,” replied Warren solemnly.
“But He seems far off from my unfortunate race,” replied the man
bitterly.
“Never doubt Him; His promises are aye and amen. With God’s aid, I will
save you or sacrifice myself.”
They parted as silently as they had met.