BLOOD FOR A BLOW
It seems to be one of the self-punitive characteristics of tyranny,
whether the tyrant be a man, a community, or a caste, to have a
pusillanimous fear of its victim. It was not when Clemence lay in irons,
it is barely now, that our South is casting off a certain apprehensive
tremor, generally latent, but at the slightest provocation active, and
now and then violent, concerning her "blacks." This fear, like others
similar elsewhere in the world, has always been met by the same one
antidote--terrific cruelty to the tyrant's victim. So we shall presently
see the Grandissime ladies, deeming themselves compassionate, urging
their kinsmen to "give the poor wretch a sound whipping and let her go."
Ah! what atrocities are we unconsciously perpetrating North and South
now, in the name of mercy or defence, which the advancing light of
progressive thought will presently show out in their enormity?
Agricola slept late. He had gone to his room the evening before much
incensed at the presumption of some younger Grandissimes who had brought
up the subject, and spoken in defence, of their cousin Honoré. He had
retired, however, not to rest, but to construct an engine of offensive
warfare which would revenge him a hundred-fold upon the miserable
school of imported thought which had sent its revolting influences to
the very Grandissime hearthstone; he wrote a "_Phillipique Générale
contre la Conduite du Gouvernement de la Louisiane_" and a short but
vigorous chapter in English on "The Insanity of Educating the Masses."
This accomplished, he had gone to bed in a condition of peaceful
elation, eager for the next day to come that he might take these mighty
productions to Joseph Frowenfeld, and make him a present of them for
insertion in his book of tables.
Jean-Baptiste felt no need of his advice, that he should rouse him; and,
for a long time before the old man awoke, his younger kinsmen were
stirring about unwontedly, going and coming through the hall of the
mansion, along its verandas and up and down its outer flight of stairs.
Gates were opening and shutting, errands were being carried by negro
boys on bareback horses, Charlie Mandarin of St. Bernard parish and an
Armand Fusilier from Faubourg Ste. Marie had on some account come--as
they told the ladies--"to take breakfast;" and the ladies, not yet
informed, amusedly wondering at all this trampling and stage whispering,
were up a trifle early. In those days Creole society was a ship, in
which the fair sex were all passengers and the ruder sex the crew. The
ladies of the Grandissime mansion this morning asked passengers'
questions, got sailors' answers, retorted wittily and more or less
satirically, and laughed often, feeling their constrained
insignificance. However, in a house so full of bright-eyed children,
with mothers and sisters of all ages as their confederates, the secret
was soon out, and before Agricola had left his little cottage in the
grove the topic of all tongues was the abysmal treachery and
_ingratitude_ of negro slaves. The whole tribe of Grandissime believed,
this morning, in the doctrine of total depravity--of the negro.
And right in the face of this belief, the ladies put forth the
generously intentioned prayer for mercy. They were answered that they
little knew what frightful perils they were thus inviting upon
themselves.
The male Grandissimes were not surprised at this exhibition of weak
clemency in their lovely women; they were proud of it; it showed the
magnanimity that was natural to the universal Grandissime heart, when
not restrained and repressed by the stern necessities of the hour. But
Agricola disappointed them. Why should he weaken and hesitate, and
suggest delays and middle courses, and stammer over their proposed
measures as "extreme"? In very truth, it seemed as though that
drivelling, woman-beaten Deutsch apotheke--ha! ha! ha!--in the rue
Royale had bewitched Agricola as well as Honoré. The fact was, Agricola
had never got over the interview which had saved Sylvestre his life.
"Here, Agricole," his kinsmen at length said, "you see you are too old
for this sort of thing; besides, it would be bad taste for you, who
might be presumed to harbor feelings of revenge, to have a voice in
this council." And then they added to one another: "We will wait until
'Polyte reports whether or not they have caught Palmyre; much will
depend on that."
Agricola, thus ruled out, did a thing he did not fully understand; he
rolled up the "_Philippique Générale_" and "The Insanity of Educating
the Masses," and, with these in one hand and his staff in the other, set
out for Frowenfeld's, not merely smarting but trembling under the
humiliation of having been sent, for the first time in his life, to the
rear as a non-combatant.
He found the apothecary among his clerks, preparing with his own hands
the "chalybeate tonic" for which the f.m.c. was expected to call. Raoul
Innerarity stood at his elbow, looking on with an amiable air of having
been superseded for the moment by his master.
"Ha-ah! Professor Frowenfeld!"
The old man nourished his scroll.
Frowenfeld said good-morning, and they shook hands across the counter;
but the old man's grasp was so tremulous that the apothecary looked at
him again.
"Does my hand tremble, Joseph? It is not strange; I have had much to
excite me this morning."
"Wat's de mattah?" demanded Raoul, quickly.
"My life--which I admit, Professor Frowenfeld, is of little value
compared with such a one as yours--has been--if not attempted, at least
threatened."
"How?" cried Raoul.
"H-really, Professor, we must agree that a trifle like that ought not to
make old Agricola Fusilier nervous. But I find it painful, sir, very
painful. I can lift up this right hand, Joseph, and swear I never gave a
slave--man or woman--a blow in my life but according to my notion of
justice. And now to find my life attempted by former slaves of my own
household, and taunted with the righteous hamstringing of a dangerous
runaway! But they have apprehended the miscreants; one is actually in
hand, and justice will take its course; trust the Grandissimes for
that--though, really, Joseph, I assure you, I counselled leniency."
"Do you say they have caught her?" Frowenfeld's question was sudden and
excited; but the next moment he had controlled himself.
"H-h-my son, I did not say it was a 'her'!"
"Was it not Clemence? Have they caught her?"
"H-yes--"
The apothecary turned to Raoul.
"Go tell Honoré Grandissime."
"But, Professor Frowenfeld--" began Agricola.
Frowenfeld turned to repeat his instruction, but Raoul was already
leaving the store.
Agricola straightened up angrily.
"Pro-hofessor Frowenfeld, by what right do you interfere?"
"No matter," said the apothecary, turning half-way and pouring the
tonic into a vial.
"Sir," thundered the old lion, "h-I demand of you to answer! How dare
you insinuate that my kinsmen may deal otherwise than justly?"
"Will they treat her exactly as if she were white, and had threatened
the life of a slave?" asked Frowenfeld from behind the desk at the end
of the counter.
The old man concentrated all the indignation of his nature in the reply.
"No-ho, sir!"
As he spoke, a shadow approaching from the door caused him to turn. The
tall, dark, finely clad form of the f.m.c, in its old soft-stepping
dignity and its sad emaciation, came silently toward the spot where
he stood.
Frowenfeld saw this, and hurried forward inside the counter with the
preparation in his hand.
"Professor Frowenfeld," said Agricola, pointing with his ugly staff, "I
demand of you, as a keeper of a white man's pharmacy, to turn that
negro out."
"Citizen Fusilier!" exclaimed the apothecary; "Mister Grandis--"
He felt as though no price would be too dear at that moment to pay for
the presence of the other Honoré. He had to go clear to the end of the
counter and come down the outside again to reach the two men. They did
not wait for him. Agricola turned upon the f.m.c.
"Take off your hat!"
A sudden activity seized every one connected with the establishment as
the quadroon let his thin right hand slowly into his bosom, and answered
in French, in his soft, low voice:
"I wear my hat on my head."
Frowenfeld was hurrying toward them; others stepped forward, and from
two or three there came half-uttered exclamations of protest; but
unfortunately nothing had been done or said to provoke any one to rush
upon them, when Agricola suddenly advanced a step and struck the f.m.c.
on the head with his staff. Then the general outcry and forward rush
came too late; the two crashed together and fell, Agricola above, the
f.m.c. below, and a long knife lifted up from underneath sank to its
hilt, once--twice--thrice,--in the old man's back.
The two men rose, one in the arms of his friends, the other upon his own
feet. While every one's attention was directed toward the wounded man,
his antagonist restored his dagger to its sheath, took up his hat and
walked away unmolested. When Frowenfeld, with Agricola still in his
arms, looked around for the quadroon, he was gone.
Doctor Keene, sent for instantly, was soon at Agricola's side.
"Take him upstairs; he can't be moved any further."
Frowenfeld turned and began to instruct some one to run upstairs and
ask permission, but the little doctor stopped him.
"Joe, for shame! you don't know those women better than that? Take the
old man right up!"