 CHAPTER XXII. A RIDE IN A STAGE COACH. We shall now return to Cincinnati where we left Clotel, preparing to go to Richmond in search of her daughter. Tired of the disguise in which she had escaped, she threw it off on her arrival at Cincinnati, but being assured that not a shadow of safety would attend her visit to a city in which she was well known, unless in some disguise, she again resumed men's apparel on leaving Cincinnati. This time she had more the appearance of an Italian or Spanish gentleman. In addition to the fine suit of black cloth, a splendid pair of dark false whiskers covered the sides of her face, while the curling mustache found its place upon the upper lip. From practice she had become accustomed to high-heeled boots and could walk without creating any suspicion as regarded her sex. It was a cold evening that Clotel arrived at Wheeling and took a seat in the coach going to Richmond. She was already in the State of Virginia, yet a long distance from the place of her destination. A ride in a stage coach over an American road is unpleasant under the most favorable circumstances. But now that it was winter and the roads unusually bad, the journey was still more dreary. However, there were eight passengers in the coach, and I need scarcely say that such a number of genuine Americans could not be together without wiling away the time somewhat pleasantly. Besides Clotel there was an elderly gentleman, with his two daughters, one apparently under twenty years, the other a shade above. The pale spectacled face of another slim tall man with a white neckerchief pointed him out as a minister. The rough featured dark countenance of a stout-looking man with a white hat on one side of his head told that he was from the sunny south. There was nothing remarkable about the other two who might pass for ordinary American gentlemen. It was on the eve of a presidential election when every man is thought to be a politician. Clay, Van Buren, and Harrison were the men who expected the endorsement of the Baltimore Convention. Who does this town go for? asked the old gent with the ladies, as the coach drove up to an inn where groups of persons were waiting for the latest papers. We are divided, cried the voice of one of the outsiders. Well, do you think we will get the majority here? continued the old gent. Can't tell very well. I go for old tip, was the answer from without. This brought up the subject fairly before the passengers, and when the coach again started, a general discussion commenced, in which all took apart except Clotal and the young ladies. Some were for Clay, some for Van Buren, and others for old tip. The coach stopped to take in a real farmer-looking man who no sooner entered when he was saluted with, Do you go for Clay? No, was the answer. Do you go for Van Buren? No. Well, then of course you will go for Harrison. No. Why, don't you mean to work for any of them at the election? No. Well, who will you work for? asked one of the company. I work for Betsy and the children, and I have a hard job of it at that, replied the farmer without a smile. This answer, as a matter of course, set the new corner down, as one upon whom the rest of the passengers could crack their jokes with the utmost impunity. Are you an odd fellow? asked one. No, sir, I've been married more than a month. I mean you belong to the order of odd fellows. No, no, I belong to the order of married men. Are you a mason? No, I am a carpenter by trade. Are you a son of temperance? Bother, you know I am a son of Mr. John Gosling. After a hearty laugh in which all joined, the subject of temperance became the theme for discussion. In this the spectacle gent was at home. He soon showed that he was a New Englander, and went the whole length of the main law. The minister was about having it all his own way, when the Southerner and the White Hat took the opposite side of the question. I don't bet a red cent on these teetotalers, said he, and at the same time looking round to see if he had the approbation of the rest of the company. Why? asked the minister, because they are a set who are afraid to spend a cent. They are a bad lot, the whole on them. It was evident that the White Hat gent was an uneducated man. The minister commenced in full earnest, and gave an interesting account of the progress of temperance in Connecticut. The state from which he came, proving that a great portion of the prosperity of the state was attributable to the disuse of intoxicating drinks. Everyone thought the White Hat had got the worst of the argument, and that he was settled for the remainder of the night. But not he. He took fresh courage and began again. Now, said he, I have just been on a visit to my uncles in Vermont, and I guess I know a little about these here teetotalers. You see, I went up there to make a little stay of a fortnight. I got there at night, and they seemed glad to see me, but they didn't give me anything to drink. Well, excited myself, the jigs up. I shan't get any more liquor till I get out of the state. We all sat up till twelve o'clock that night, and I heard nothing but talk about the juvenile temperance army, the band of hope, the rising generation, the female dorkess temperance society, the none such, and I don't know how many other names they didn't have. As I had taken several pretty large cocktails before I entered the state, I thought upon the whole that I would not spite for the want of liquor. The next morning I commenced writing back to my friends and telling them what's what. Aunt Polly said, Well, Johnny, I suppose you're giving them a pretty account of us all here. Yes, said I. I am telling them if they want anything to drink when they come up here. They had better bring it with them. Oh, said Auntie, they would search their boxes, can't bring any spirits in the state. Well, I was saying, just as I got my letters finished and was going to the post office, for Uncle's house was two miles from the town, Auntie says, Johnny, I suppose you'll try to get a little something to drink in town, won't you? Says I. I suppose it's no use. No, said she. You can't. It ain't to be had, no how, for love, no money. So just as I was putting on my hat. Johnny, cries out Auntie, what, says I. Now I'll tell you, I don't want you to say nothing about it, but I keep some little rum to rub my head with, for I am troubled with the headache. Now I don't want you to mention it for the world, but I'll give you a little taste. The old man is such a teetotaler that I should never hear the last of it. And I would not like for the boys to know it. They are members of the Cold Water Army. Auntie now brought out a black bottle and gave me a cup and told me to help myself, which I assure you I did. I now felt ready to face the cold. As I was passing the bond, I heard Uncle thrash notes. So I went to the door and spoke to him. Come in, Johnny, says he. No, said I. I'm going to post some letters, for I was afraid that he would smell my breath if I went to near him. Yes, yes, come in. So I went in and says he. It's now 11 o'clock. That's about the time you take your grog, I suppose, when you're at home. Yes, said I. I'm sorry for you, lad. You can't get anything up here. You can't even get it at the chemists, except as medicine. And then you must let them mix it and you take it in their presence. This is indeed hard, replied I. Well, it can't be helped, continued he. And it ought not to be, if it could. It's best for society. People's better off without drink. I recollect when your father and I, thirty years ago, used to go out on a spree and spend more than half a dollar in a night. Then he has the rising generation. There's nothing like sat in a good example. Look how healthy your cousins are. There's Benjamin. He never tasted spirits in his life. Oh, John, I would you are a teetotaler. I suppose, said I, I'll have to be one till I leave the state. Now, said he, John, I don't want you to mention it, for your aunt would go into hysterics if she thought there was a drop of intoxicating liquor about the place. And I would not have the boys to know it for anything. But I keep a little brandy to rub my joints for the romantics. And being it's you, I'll give you a little dust. So the old man went to one corner of the bond, took out a brown jug and handed it to me. And I must say, it was a little, the best cognac that I had tasted for many a day. Says I, Uncle, you are a good judge of brandy. Yes, said he. I learned when I was young. So off I started for the post office. When returning, I thought I'd just go through the woods where the boys were chopping wood and wait and go to the house with them when they went to dinner. I found them hot at work, but as merry as crickets. Well, cousin John, are you done writing? Yes, answered I. Have you posted to them? Yes. Hope you didn't go to any place inquiring for grog. Now I know it was no good to do that. I suppose a cocktail would taste good now. Well, I guess it would, says I. The three boys then joined in a hearty laugh. I suppose you have told them that we are a dry set up here. Well, I ain't told them anything else. Now, cousin John, said Edward, if you won't say anything, we will give you a small taste. For mercy's sake, don't let mother or father know it. They are such rabid tea toddlers that they would not sleep a wink tonight if they thought there was any spirits about the place. I am mom, says I. And the boys took a jug out of a hollow stump and gave me some first straight peach brandy. And during the fortnight that I was in Vermont with my teetotaler relations, I was kept about as well cornered as if I had been among my hot water friends in Tennessee. This narrative given by the white hat man was received with unbounded applause by all except the pale gent in spectacles, who showed by the way in which he was running his fingers between his cravat and throat that he did not intend to give it up so. The white hat gent was now the line of the company. Oh, you did not get hold of the right teetotalers, said the minister. I can give you a tale worth a dozen of yours, continued he. Look at society in the States where temperance views prevail, and you will there see real happiness. The people are tax-bless, the poor houses are shut up for want of occupants, and extreme destitution is unknown. Everyone who drinks it all is liable to become an habitual drunkard. Yes, I said boldly, that no man living who uses intoxicating drinks is free from the danger of at least occasional and if of occasional, ultimately of habitual excess. This seems to be no character, position, or circumstances that free men from the danger. I have known many young men of the finest promise, led by the drinking habit into vice, ruin, and early death. I have known many tradesmen whom it has made bankrupt. I have known Sunday scholars whom it has led to prison teachers, and even superintendents whom it has dragged down to profligacy. I have known ministers of high academic honors, of splendid eloquence, nay of vast usefulness, whom it has fascinated and hurried over the precipice of public infamy with their eyes open and gazing with horror on their fate. I have known men of the strongest and clearest intellect in a vigorous resolution, whom it has made weaker than children and fools, gentlemen of refinement and taste, whom it has debased into brutes, poets of high genius whom it has bound in a bondage worse than the galleys, and ultimately cut short their days. I have known statesmen, lawyers, and judges whom it has killed, kind husbands and fathers whom it has turned into monsters. I have known honest men whom it has made villains, elegant and Christian ladies whom it has converted into bloated sauce. But you talk too fast, replied the white-hat man, you don't give a failure chance to say nothing. I heard you, continued the minister, and now you hear me out. It is indeed wonderful how people become lovers of strong drink. Since years since before I became a tea-todler I kept spirits about the house, and I had a servant who was much addicted to the strong drink. He used to say that he could not make my boots shine without mixing the blacking with whiskey. So to satisfy myself that the whiskey was put in the blacking, one morning I made him bring the dish in which he kept the blacking and poured in the whiskey myself. And now, sir, what do you think? Why, I suppose your boots shine better than before, replied the white-hat. No, continued the minister. He took the blacking out, and I watched him, and he drank down the whiskey, blacking and all. This turned the joke upon the advocate of strong drink, and he began to put his wits to work for arguments. You are from Connecticut, are you? asked the southerner. Yes, and we are an orderly, pious, peaceable people. Our holy religion is respected, and we do more for the cause of Christ than the whole southern states put together. I don't doubt it, said the white-hat gent. You sell wooden nut-mags and other spurious articles enough to do some good. You talk of your holy religion, but your robes' righteousness are woven at Lowell and Manchester. Your paradise is high per centum on factory stocks. Your palms of victory and crowns of rejoicing are triumphs over a rival party and politics, on the questions of banks and tariffs. If you could, you would turn heaven into Birmingham, make every angel a weaver, and with the eternal din of looms and spindles drown all the anthems of the morning stars. Ah, I know you, Connecticut people, like a book. No, no, all haws. You can't come at all me. This last speech of the rough-featured man again put him in the ascendant, and the spectacle gent once more ran his fingers between his cravat and throat. You live in Tennessee, I think? said the minister. Yes, replied the southerner. I used to live in Orleans, but now I claim to be a Tennessean. You people of New Orleans are the most ungodly set in the United States, said the minister. Taking a New Orleans newspaper from his pocket, he continued, Just look here. There are not less than three advertisements of bullfights to take place on the Sabbath. You people of the slave states have no regard for the Sabbath, religion, morality, or anything else intended to make mankind better. Here Clotel could have borne ample testimony, had she dared to have taken sides with the Connecticut man. Her residence in Vicksburg had given her an opportunity of knowing something of the character of the inhabitants of the Fire South. Here was an account of a grand bullfight that took place in New Orleans a week ago last Sunday. I will read it to you, and the minister read aloud the following. Yesterday, pursuant to public notice, came off at Gretna, opposite the fourth district, the long heralded fight between the famous grizzly bear, General Jackson, Victor and fifty battles, and the Atacapus Ball, Santa Ana. The fame of the coming conflict had gone forth to the four winds, and women and children, old men and boys, from all parts of the city, and from the breezy banks of Lake Pontchartrain and Borgne, brushed up their Sunday suit and prepared to ace the fund. Long before the published hour, the quiet streets of the roll of Gretna were filled with crowds of anxious denizens, flocking to the arena, and before the fight commenced, such a crowd had collected as Gretna had not seen, nor will be likely to see again. The arena for the sports was a cage, twenty feet square, built upon the ground, and constructed of heavy timbers and iron bars. Around it were seats, circularly placed, and intended to accommodate many thousands. About four or five thousand persons assembled, covering the seats as with a cloud, and crowding down around the cage were within reach of the bars. The bull selected to sustain the honor and verify the pluck of Atacapus on this trying occasion was a black animal from the opalusis, life and sinewy as a four-year-old corsa, and with eyes like burning coals. His horns bore the appearance of having been filed at the tips, and wanted that keen and slashing appearance so common with others of his kith and kin, otherwise it would have been all day with Bruin at the first pass, and no mistake. The bear was an animal of note, and called General Jackson, from the fact of his looking up everything that came in his way, and taken the responsibility on all occasions. He was a wicked-looking beast, very lean and un-aimable in aspect, with hair all stand in the wrong way. He had fought some fifty bulls, so they said, always coming out victorious. But that neither one of the fifty had been an Atacapus bull, the bulls of the performances did not say. Had he attacked Atacapus first, it is likely his fifty battles would have remained unfought. At half-past four o'clock the performances commenced. The bull was first seen standing in the cage alone, with head erect and looking a very monarch in his capacity. At an appointed signal, a cage containing the bear was placed alongside the arena, and an opening being made, Bruin stalked into the battleground. Not, however, without sundry stirring up with a ten-foot pole, he being experienced in such matters and backwards in raising a row. Also in the battlefield both animals stood, like wary champions, eyeing each other. The bear, cowering low with head up turned and fangs exposed, while Atacapus stood wondering, with his eyes dilated, lashing his sides with his long, bushy tail and pawing up the earth in very wrath. The bear seemed little inclined to begin the attack, and the bull, standing a moment, made steps first backward and then forward, as if measuring his antagonist and meditating where to plant a blow. Bruin wouldn't come to the scratch no way, till one of the keepers with an iron rod tickled his ribs and made him move. Seeing this Atacapus took it as a hostile demonstration, and gathering his strength, dashed savagely at the enemy, catching him on the points of his horns, and doubling him up like a sack of bran against the bars. Bruin sung out at this and made a dash for his opponent's nose. Missing this, the bull turned to their bow face, and the bear caught him by the ham, inflicting a ghastly wound. But Atacapus, with a kick, shook him off and renewing the attack, went at him again, head on, and with a rush. This time he was not so fortunate, for the bear caught him above the eye, burying his fangs in the tough hide and holding him as in a vice. It was now the bull's turn to sing out, and he did, bellowing forth with a voice more hideous than that of all the bulls of Bastion. Some minutes stood matters thus, and the cries of the bull, mingled with the whole scrowl of the bear, made hideous music, fit only for a dance of devils. Then came a pause, the bear having relinquished his hold, and for a few minutes it was doubtful whether the fun was not up. But the magic wand of the keeper, the ten-foot pole, again stirred up Bruin, and at it they went, and with a rush. Bruin now tried to fasten on the bull's back, and drove his tusks in him in several places, making the red blood flow like wine from vats of Luna. But Adacapus was plucked to the backbone, and catching Bruin on the tips of his horns, shuffled him up right merrily, making the fur fly like feathers and a gale of wind. Bruin cried enough, in bear language, but the bull followed up his advantage, and making one furious plunge, full at the figurehead of the enemy, struck a horn into his eye, burying it there, and dashing the tender organ into darkness and atoms. And followed the blow, and poor Bruin, blinded, bleeding, and in mortal agony, turned with a howl to leave. But Adacapus caught him in the retreat, and rolled him over like a ball. Over and over again this rolling over was enacted, and finally, after more than an hour, Bruin curled himself up on his back, bruised, bloody, and dead beat. The thing was up with California, and Adacapus was declared the victor, amidst the applause of the multitude that made the heavens ring. There, said he, can you find anything against Connecticut equal to that? The Southerner had to admit that he was beat by the Yankee. During all this time, it must not be supposed that the old gent with the two daughters, and even the young ladies themselves, had been silent. Clotel and they had not only given their opinions as regarded the merits of the discussion, but that sly glance of the eye, which is ever given where the young of both sexes meet, had been freely at work. The American ladies are rather partial to foreigners, and Clotel had the appearance of a fine Italian. The old gentleman was now near his home, and a whisper from the eldest daughter, who was unmarried but marriageable, induced him to extend to Mr. Johnson an invitation to stop and spend a week with the young ladies at their family residence. Clotel excused herself upon various grounds, and at last, to cut short the matter, promised that she would pay them a visit on her return. The arrival of the coach at Lynchburg separated the young ladies from the Italian gent, and the coach again resumed its journey. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of Clotel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please see LibriVox.org, recording by Amy Graymore. Clotel by William Wells Brown. Chapter 23. Truth Stranger Than Fiction. Is the poor privilege to turn the key upon the captive freedom he's as far from the enjoyment of the earth and air who watches all the chains as they who wear. During certain seasons of the year, all tropical climates are subject to epidemics of most destructive nature. The inhabitants of New Orleans look with as much certainty for the appearance of the yellow fever, smallpox, or cholera in the hot season as the Londoner does for fog in the month of November. In the summer of 1831 the people of New Orleans were visited with one of these epidemics. It appeared in a form unusually repulsive and deadly. It seized persons who were in health without any premonition. Sometimes death was the immediate consequence. The disorder began in the brain by an oppressive pain accompanied or followed by fever. The patient was devoured with burning thirst, the stomach distracted by pains, and vain sought relief in efforts to disburden itself. Fiery veins streaked the eye, the face was inflamed, and died of a dark, dull red colour. The ears from time to time rang painfully. Now mucus secretions surcharged the tongue and took away the power of speech. Now the sick one spoke, but in speaking had a foresight of death. When the violence of the disease approached the heart, the gums were blackened. The sleep broken, troubled by convulsions, or by frightful visions, was worse than the waking hours, and when the reason sank under a delirium which had its seat in the brain repose utterly forsook the patient's couch. The progress of the heat within was marked by yellowish spots which spread over the surface of the body. If then a happy crisis came not, all hope was gone. Soon the breath infected the air with a fetid odor, the lips were glazed, despair painted itself in the eyes, and sobs with long intervals of silence formed the only language. From each side of the mouth spread foam, tinnished with black and burnt blood. Blue streaks mingled with the yellow all over the frame, all remedies were useless. This was the yellow fever. The disorder spread alarm and confusion throughout the city. On an average more than four hundred died daily. In the midst of disorder and confusion death heaped victims on victims. Death followed friend and quick secession. The sick were avoided from the fear of contagion and for the same reason the dead were left unburied. Nearly two thousand dead bodies lay uncovered in the burial ground, with only here and there a little lime thrown over them to prevent the air becoming infected. The negro whose home is in a hot climate was not proof against the disease. Many plantations had to suspend their work for want of slaves to take the places of those carried off by the fever. Henry Morton and his wife were among the thirteen thousand swept away by the raging disorder that year. Like too many Morton had been dealing extensively in lands and stocks, and though apparently in good circumstances was, in reality, deeply involved in death. Altheza, although as white as most white women in a southern climb, was, as we already know, born a slave. By the laws of all the southern states the children followed the condition of the mother. If the mother is free the children are free. If a slave they are slaves. Morton was unacquainted with the laws of the land, and although he married Altheza it was a marriage which the law did not recognize, and therefore she whom he thought to be his wife was, in fact, nothing more than his slave. What would have been his feelings had he known this, and also known that his two daughters, Ellen and Jane, were his slaves. Yet such was the fact. After the disappearance of the disease with which Henry Morton had so suddenly been removed his brother went to New Orleans to give what aid he could in settling up the affairs. James Morton, on his arrival in New Orleans, felt proud of his nieces and promised them a home with his own family in Vermont, little dreaming that his brother had married a slave woman and that his nieces were slaves. The girls themselves had never heard that their mother had been a slave, and therefore knew nothing of the danger hanging over their heads. An inventory of the property was made out by James Morton and placed in the hands of the creditors, and the young ladies, with their uncle, were about leaving the city to reside for a few days on the banks of Lake Pontchartain, where they could enjoy a fresh air that the city could not afford. But just as they were about taking the train an officer arrested the whole party. The young ladies as slaves and the uncle upon the charge of attempting to conceal the property of his deceased brother. Morton was overwhelmed with horror at the idea of his nieces being claimed as slaves and asked for time that he might save them from such a fate. He even offered to mortgage his little farm in Vermont for the amount which young slave women of their ages would fetch. But the creditors pleaded that they were an extra article and would sell for more than common slaves and must therefore be sold at auction. They were given up but neither ate nor slept, nor separated from each other, till they were taken into the New Orleans slave market where they were offered to the highest bidder. There they stood trembling, blushing, and weeping, compelled to listen to the grossest language and shrinking from the rude hands that examined the graceful proportions of their beautiful frames. After a fierce contest between the bidders the young ladies were sold, one for two thousand three hundred dollars and the other for three thousand dollars. We need not add that had those young girls been sold for mere house servants or field hands they would not have brought one half the sums they did. The fact that they were the great granddaughters of Thomas Jefferson no doubt increased their value in the market. Here were two of the softer sex accustomed to the fondest indulgence surrounded by all refinements of life and with all the timidity that such a life could produce barred her away like cattle in Smithfield Market. Ellen the eldest was sold to an old gentleman who purchased her, as he said, for a housekeeper. The girl was taken to his residence nine miles from the city. She soon, however, knew for what purpose she had been bought and an educated and cultivated mind and taste which made her see and understand how great was her degradation. Now armed her hand with the ready means of death. The morning after her arrival she was found in her chamber a corpse. She had taken poison. Jane was purchased by a dashing young man who had just come into the possession of a large fortune. The very appearance of the young southerner pointed him out as an unprincipled profligate and the young girl needed no one to tell her of her impending doom. The young maid of fifteen was immediately removed to his county seat near the junction of the Mississippi River with the sea. This was a most singular spot, remote in a dense forest spreading over the summit of a cliff that rose abruptly to a great height above the sea, but so grand in its situation in the desolate sublimity which reigned around in the reverential murmur of the waves that washed its base that though picturesque it was a forest prison, here the young lady saw no one except an old negris who acted as a servant. The smiles with which the young man met her were indignantly spurned, but she was the property of another and could hope for justice and mercy only through him. Jane though only in her fifteenth year had become strongly attached to Valny Lapak, a young Frenchman, a student in her father's office. The poverty of the young man and the youthful age of the girl had caused their feelings to be kept from the young lady's parents. At the death of his master Valny had returned to his widowed mother at Mobile and knew nothing of the misfortune that had befallen his mistress until he received a letter from her. But how could he ever obtain a sight of her even if he wished locked up as she was in her master's mansion? After several days of what her master termed obscenity on her part, the young girl was placed in an upper chamber and told that that would be her home until she should yield to her master's wishes. There she remained more than a fortnight, and with the exception of a daily visit from her master, she saw no one but the old niggers who waited upon her. One bright moonlit evening as she was seated at the window, she perceived the figure of a man beneath her window. At first she thought it was her master, but the tall figure of the stranger soon convinced her that it was another. Yes, it was Valny. He had no sooner received her letter than he set out for New Orleans, and finding on his arrival there that his mistress had been taken away, resolved to follow her. There he was, but how could she communicate with him? She dared not trust the old niggers with her secret, for fear that it might reach her master. Jane wrote a hasty note and threw it out of the window, which was eagerly picked up by the young man, and he soon disappeared in the woods. Night passed away in dreariness to her, and the next morning she viewed the spot beneath her window, with the hope of seeing the footsteps of him, who had stood there the previous night. Evening returned, and with it the hope of again seeing the man she loved. In this she was not disappointed, for daylight had scarcely disappeared in the moon once more rising through the tops of the tall trees, when the young man was seen in the same place as on the previous night. He had in his hand a rope ladder. As soon as Jane saw this, she took the sheets from her bed, told them into strings, tied them together, and that one end down the side of the house. A moment more, and one end of the rope ladder was in her hand, and she fastened it inside the room. Soon the young maiden was seen descending, and the enthusiastic lover, with his arms extended, waiting to receive his mistress. The planter had been out on a hunting excursion and returning home, saw his victim, as her lover was receiving her and his arms. At this moment the sharp sound of her rifle was heard, and the young man fell weltering in his blood at the feet of his mistress. Jane fell senseless by his side. For many days she had a confused consciousness of some great agony, but knew not where she was, or by whom surrounded. The slow recovery of her reason settled into the most intense melancholy, which gained at length the compassion even of her cruel master. The beautiful bright eyes, always pleading in expression, were now so heart-piercing in their sadness that he could not endure their gaze. In a few days the poor girl died of a broken heart and was buried at night at the back of the garden by the negroes, and no one wept at the grave of her who had been so carefully cherished and so tenderly beloved. This reader is an unvarnished narrative of one doomed by the laws of the southern states to be a slave. It tells not only its own story of grief, but speaks of a thousand wrongs and woes beside, which never see the light, all the more bitter and dreadful, because no help can relieve, no sympathy can mitigate, and no hope can cheer. Chapter 24 of Clotel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Clotel by William Wells Brown Chapter 24 The Arrest The fearful storm it threatens lowering which God in mercy long delays, slaves yet may see their masters cowering, while whole plantations smoke and blaze. Carter It was late in the evening when the coach arrived at Richmond, and Clotel once more alighted in her native city. She had intended to seek lodging somewhere in the outskirts of the town, but the lateness of the hour compelled her to stop at one of the principal hotels for the night. She had scarcely entered the inn when she recognized among the numerous black servants one to whom she was well known, and her hope only was that her disguise would keep her from being discovered. The imperturbable calm and entire forgetfulness of self, which induced Clotel to visit a place from which she could scarcely hope to escape, to attempt the rescue of a beloved child, demonstrate that over-willingness of woman to carry out the promptings of the finer feelings of her heart. True to woman's nature she had risked her own liberty for another. She remained in the hotel during the night, and the next morning, under the plea of illness she took her breakfast alone. That day the fugitive slave paid a visit to the suburbs of the town, and once more beheld the cottage in which she had spent so many happy hours. It was winter, and the clematis and passion-flower were not there, but there were the same walks she had so often pressed with her feet, and the same trees which had so often shaded her as she passed through the garden at the back of the house. Old remembrances rushed upon her memory, and caused her to shed tears freely. Clotel was now in her native town, and near her daughter, but how could she communicate with her, how could she see her? To have made herself known would have been a suicidal act, betrayal would have followed, and she arrested. Three days had passed away, and Clotel still remained in the hotel at which she had first put up, and yet she had got no tidings of her child. Unfortunately for Clotel, a disturbance had just broken out amongst the slave population in the State of Virginia, and all strangers were eyed with suspicion. The evils consequent on slavery are not lessened by the incoming of one or two rays of light. If the slave only becomes aware of his condition, and conscious of the injustice under which he suffers, if he obtains but a faint idea of these things, he will seize the first opportunity to possess himself of what he conceives to belong to him. The infusion, of Anglo-Saxon with African blood, has created an insurrectionary feeling among the slaves of America, hitherto unknown. Aware of their blood connection with their owners, these mulattoes labor under the sense of their personal and social injuries and tolerate, if they do not encourage in themselves, low and vindictive passions. On the other hand, the slave owners are aware of their critical position, and are very watchful, always fearing an outbreak among the slaves. True, the free states are equally bound with the slave states to suppress any insurrectionary movement that may take place among the slaves. The northern freemen are bound by their constitutional obligations to aid the slave holder in keeping his slaves in their chains. Yet there are, at the time we write, four millions of bond slaves in the United States. The insurrection to which we now refer was headed by a full blooded negro who had been born and brought up a slave. He had heard the twang of the driver's whip, and saw the warm blood streaming from the negro's body. He had witnessed the separation of parents and children, and was made aware, by too many proofs, that the slave could expect no justice at the hand of the slave owner. He went by the name of Nat Turner. He was a preacher amongst the negroes, and distinguished for his eloquence, respected by the whites, and loved and venerated by the negroes. On the discovery of the plan for the outbreak, Turner fled to the swamps, followed by those who had joined in the insurrection. Here the revolted negroes numbered some hundreds, and for a time bade defiance to their oppressors. The dismal swamps cover many thousands of acres of wild land, and a dense forest, with wild animals and insects, such as are unknown in any other part of Virginia. Here runaway negroes usually seek a hiding place, and some have been known to reside here for years. The revoltors were joined by one of these. He was a large, tall, full-blooded negro, with a stern and savage countenance. The marks on his face showed that he was from one of the barbarous tribes in Africa, and claimed that country as his native land. His only covering was a girdle around his loins, made of skins of wild beasts which he had killed. His only token of authority among those that he led was a pair of epaulettes made from the tail of a fox, and tied to his shoulder by a cord. Brought from the coast of Africa, when only fifteen years of age to the island of Cuba, he was smuggled from dense into Virginia. He had been two years in the swamps, and considered it his future home. He had met a negro woman who was also a runaway, and after the fashion of his native land had gone through the process of oiling her as the marriage ceremony. He had built a cave on a rising mound in the swamp. This was their home. His name was Piquillo. His only weapon was a sword, made from the blade of a scythe, which he had stolen from a neighboring plantation. His dress, his character, his manners, his moda-fighting, were all in keeping with the early training he had received in the land of his birth. He moved about with the activity of a cat, and neither the thickness of the trees nor the depth of the water could stop him. He was a bold, turbulent spirit, and from revenge embrewed his hands in the blood of all the whites he could meet. Hunger, thirst, fatigue, and loss of sleep he seemed made to endure as if by peculiarity of constitution. His air was fierce, his steppe oblique, his look sanguinary. Such was the character of one of the leaders in the South Hampton insurrection. All Negroes were arrested who were found beyond their master's threshold, and all strange whites watched with a great degree of alacrity. Such was the position in which Clotel found affairs when she returned to Virginia in search of her Mary. Had not the slave-owners been watchful of strangers, owing to the outbreak, the fugitive could not have escaped the vigilance of the police. For advertisements, announcing her escape, and offering a large reward for her arrest, had been received in the city previous to her arrival, and the officers were therefore on the lookout for the runaway slave. It was on the third day, as the quadrune was seated in her room at the inn, still in the disguise of a gentleman, that two of the city officers entered the room, and informed her that they were authorized to examine all strangers, to assure the authorities that they were not in league with the revolted Negroes. With trembling heart the fugitive handed the key of her trunk to the officers. To their surprise they found nothing but women's apparel in the box, which raised their curiosity and caused a further investigation that resulted in the rest of Clotel as a fugitive slave. She was immediately conveyed to prison, there to await the orders of her master. For many days, uncheered by the voice of kindness, alone, hopeless, desolate, she waited for the time to arrive when the chains were to be placed on her limbs, and she returned to her inhuman and unfeeling owner. The arrest of the fugitive was announced in all the papers, but created little or no sensation. The inhabitants were too much engaged in putting down the revolt among the slaves, and although all the odds were against the insurgents, the whites found it no easy matter with all their caution. Every day brought news of fresh outbreaks, without scruple and without pity, the whites massacred all blacks found beyond their owner's plantations. The Negroes, in return, set fire to houses, and put those to death who attempted to escape from the flames. Thus carnage was added to carnage, and the blood of the whites flowed to avenge the blood of the blacks. These were the ravages of slavery. No graves were dug for the Negroes, their dead bodies became food for dogs and vultures, and their bones, partly calcined by the sun, remained scattered about, as if to mark the mournful fury of servitude and lust of power. When the slaves were subdued, except a few in the swamps, blood hounds were put in this dismal place to hunt out the remaining revoltors. Among the captured Negroes was one of whom we shall hereafter make mention. CHAPTER 25 DEATH IS FREEDOM There are, in the District of Columbia, several slave prisons, or Negro pens, as they are termed. These prisons are mostly occupied by persons to keep their slaves in when collecting their gangs together for the New Orleans market. Some of them belong to the government, and one in particular is noted for having been the place where a number of free-colored persons have been incarcerated from time to time. In this district is situated the capital of the United States. Any free-colored persons visiting Washington, if not provided with papers asserting and proving their right to be free, may be arrested and placed in one of these dens. If they succeed in showing that they are free, they are set at liberty, provided they are able to pay the expenses of their arrest and imprisonment. If they cannot pay these expenses, they are sold out. Through this unjust and oppressive law, many persons born in the free states have been consigned to a life of slavery on the cotton, sugar, or rice plantations of the southern states. By order of her master, Clotel was removed from Richmond and placed in one of these prisons to await the sailing of a vessel for New Orleans. The prison in which she was put stands midway between the capital at Washington and the President's house. Here the fugitive saw nothing but slaves brought in and taken out, to be placed in ships, and sent away to the same part of the country to which she herself would soon be compelled to go. She had seen or heard nothing of her daughter while in Richmond, and all hope of seeing her now had fled. If she was carried back to New Orleans she could expect no mercy from her master. At the dusk of the evening previous to the day when she was to be sent off as the old prison was being closed for the night, she suddenly darted past her keeper and ran for her life. It is not a great distance from the prison to the Long Bridge, which passes from the lower part of the city across the Potomac, to the extensive forests and woodlands of the celebrated Arlington Place, occupied by that distinguished relative and descendant of the immortal Washington, Mr. George W. Custis. Fither the poor fugitive directed her flight. So unexpected was her escape that she had quite a number of rods the start before the keeper had secured the other prisoners and rallied his assistants in pursuit. It was at an hour when in a part of the city where horses could not be readily obtained for the chase no bloodhounds were at hand to run down the flying woman, and for once it seemed as though there was to be a fair trial of speed and endurance between the slave and the slave catchers. The keeper and his forces raised the hue and cry on their pathway close behind, but so rapid was the flight along the wide avenue that the astonished citizens as they poured forth from their dwellings to learn the cause of alarm were only able to comprehend the nature of the chase in time to fall in with a motley mass in pursuit as many a one did that night to raise an anxious prayer to heaven as they refused to join in the pursuit that the panting fugitive might escape and the merciless soul dealer for once be disappointed of his prey. And now with the speed of an arrow having passed the avenue with the distance between her and her pursuers constantly increasing this poor hunted female gained the long bridge as it is called where interruption seemed improbable and already did her heart begin to beat high with a hope of success. She had only to pass three fourths of a mile across the bridge and she could bury herself in a vast forest just at the time when the curtain of night would close around her and protect her from the pursuit of her enemies. But God by his providence had otherwise determined. He had determined that an appalling tragedy should be enacted that night within plain sight of the President's house and the capital of the Union which should be an evidence wherever it should be known of the unconquerable love of liberty the heart may inherit as well as a fresh admonition to the slave dealer of the cruelty and enormity of his crimes. Just as the pursuers crossed the high draw for the passage of sloops soon after entering upon the bridge they beheld three men slowly approaching from the Virginia side. They immediately called to them to arrest the fugitive whom they proclaimed a runaway slave. True to their Virginia instincts as she came near they formed in line across the narrow bridge and prepared to seize her. Seeing escape impossible in that quarter she stopped suddenly and turned upon her pursuers. On came the profane and ribald crew faster than ever already exulting in her capture and threatening punishment for her flight. For a moment she looked wildly and anxiously around to see if there was no hope of escape. On either hand far down below rolled the deep foamy waters of the Potomac and before and behind the rapidly approaching step and noisy voices of pursuers showing how vain would be any further effort for freedom. Her resolution was taken. She clasped her hands convulsively and raised them as she at the same time raised her eyes towards heaven and begged for that mercy and compassion there which had been denied her on earth. And then with a single bound she vaulted over the railings of the bridge and sunk forever beneath the waves of the river. Thus died Clotel, the daughter of Thomas Jefferson, a President of the United States, a man distinguished as the author of the Declaration of American Independence and one of the first statesmen of that country. Had Clotel escaped from oppression in any other land in the disguise in which she fled from the Mississippi to Richmond and reached the United States, no honor within the gift of the American people would have been too good to have been heaped upon the heroic woman. But she was a slave. And therefore out of the pale of their sympathy they have tears to shed over Greece and Poland. They have an abundance of sympathy for poor Ireland. They can furnish a ship of war to convey the Hungarian refugees from a Turkish prison to the land of the free and the home of the brave. They boast that America is the cradle of liberty. If it is, I fear they have rocked the child to death. The body of Clotel was picked up from the bank of the river where it had been washed by the strong current, a hole dug in the sand, and there deposited, without either inquest being held over it or religious service being performed. Such was the life, and such was the death, of a woman whose virtues and goodness of heart would have done honor to one in a higher station of life, and who, if she had been born in any other land but that of slavery, would have been honored and loved. A few days after the death of Clotel the following poem appeared in one of the newspapers. Now rest for the wretched, the long day is past, and night on Yon prison descendeth at last. Now lock up and bolt, ha, jailer, look there, who flies like a wild bird escaped from the snare. A woman, a slave up, out in pursuit, while linger some gleams of day. Let thy call ring out, now a rabble root, is at thy heel speed away. A bold race for freedom, on, fugitive, on. Then help but the right, and thy freedom is won. How eager she drinks, the free air of the plains. Every limb, every nerve, every fiber she strains. From Columbia's glorious capital, Columbia's daughter flees, to the sanctuary God has given, the sheltering forest trees. Now she treads the long bridge, joy lighteth her eye. Beyond her the dense wood and darkening sky. God hopes, thrill her heart, as she neareth the shore. O despair, there are men fast advancing before. Shame, shame on their manhood. They hear, they heed, the cry, her flight to stay. And like demon-forms, without stretched arms, they wait to seize their prey. She pauses, she turns. Ah, will she flee back? Like wolves her pursuers howl, loud on their track. She lifteth to heaven, when look of despair. Her anguish breaks forth in one hurried prayer. Hark! Her jailers yell, like a bloodhounds bay. On the low night wind it sweeps. Now death or the chain, to the stream she turns, and she leaps, O God, she leaps. The dark and the cold, yet merciful wave. Receives to its bosom the form of the slave. She rises, earth-scenes on her dim vision gleam. Yet she struggleeth not, with the strong rushing stream. And lower the death cries her woman's heart gives, as she floats adown the river. Faint and more faint grows the drowning voice, and her cries have ceased forever. Now back, jailer, back to thy dungeons again, to swing the red lash and rivet the chain. The form thou wouldst fetter, returned to its God. The universe holdeth no realm of night, more drear than her slavery. More merciless fiends than here state her flight. Joy the hunted slave is free. That bond woman's corpse, let Potomac's proud wave, go bear it along by our Washington's grave, and heave it high up on that hallowed strand, to tell of the freedom he won for our land. A weak woman's corpse, by Freeman chased down, her raw for our country her raw, to freedom she leaped, through drowning and death, her raw for our country her raw. CHAPTER XXVI The escape. No refuge is found on our unhallowed ground, for the wretched and slavery's manacles bound, while our star-spangled banner in vain boasts to wave, o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. We left Mary the daughter of Quotel, in the capacity of a servant in her own father's house, where she had been taken by her mistress, for the ostensible purpose of plunging her husband into the depths of humiliation. At first the young girl was treated with great severity, but after finding that Horatio Green had lost all feeling for his child, Mrs. Green's own heart became touched for the offspring of her husband, and she became its friend. Mary had grown still more beautiful, and like most of her sex in that country was fast coming to maturity. The arrest of Quotel, while trying to rescue her daughter, did not reach the ears of the latter till her mother had been removed from Richmond to Washington. The mother had passed from time to eternity before the daughter knew that she had been in the neighborhood. Horatio Green was not in Richmond at the time of Quotel's arrest. Had he been there it is not probable that he would have made an effort to save her. She was not his slave, and therefore was beyond his power. Even had he been there, and inclined to aid her, the revolt amongst the slaves had been brought to an end, and most of the insurgents either put to death or sent out of the state. One however remained in prison. He was the slave of Horatio Green and had been a servant in his master's dwelling. He too could boast that his father was an American statesman. His name was George. His mother had been employed as a servant in one of the principal hotels in Washington, where members of Congress usually put up. After George's birth his mother was sold to a slave trader, and he to an agent of Mr. Green, the father of Horatio. George was as white as most white persons. No one would suppose that any African blood course through his veins. His hair was straight, soft, fine, and light. His eyes blue, nose prominent, lips thin, his head well-formed, forehead high and prominent, and he was often taken for a free white person, by those who did not know him. This made his condition still more intolerable, for one so white seldom ever received fair treatment at the hands of his fellow slaves. And the whites usually regarded such slaves as persons who, if not often flogged and otherwise ill-treated, to remind them of their condition, would soon forget that they were slaves and think themselves as good as white folks. George's opportunities were far greater than most slaves. Being in his master's house and waiting on educated white people, he had become very familiar with the English language. He had heard his master and visitors speak of the downtrodden and oppressed Poles. He heard them talk of going to Greece to fight for Grecian liberty, and against the oppressors of that ill-fated people. George, fired with the love of freedom and zeal for the cause of his enslaved countrymen, joined the insurgents, and with them had been defeated and captured. He was the only one remaining of these unfortunate people, and he would have been put to death with them, but for a circumstance that occurred some weeks before the outbreak. The courthouse had by accident taken fire and was fast consuming. The engines could not be made to work, and all hope of saving the building seemed at an end. In one of the upper chambers there was a small box containing some valuable deeds belonging to the city. A ladder was placed against the house, leading from the street to the window of the room in which the box stood. The wind blew strong and swept the flames in that direction. Godsheets of fire were blown again and again over that part of the building, and then the wind would lift the pall of smoke which showed that the work of destruction was not yet accomplished. While the doomed building was thus exposed and before the destroying element had made its final visit, as it did soon after, George was standing by and hearing that much depended on the contents of the box, and seeing no one disposed to venture through the fiery element to save the treasure, mounted the ladder and made his way to the window, entered the room, and was soon seen descending with the much valued box. Three cheers rent the air as the young slave fell from the ladder when near the ground. The white men took him up in their arms to see if he had sustained any injury. His hair was burnt, eyebrows closely singed, and his clothes smelled strongly of smoke. But the heroic young slave was unhurt. The city authorities at their next meeting passed a vote of thanks to George's master for the lasting benefit that the slave had rendered to public, and commanded the poor boy to the special favour of his owner. When George was on trial for participating in the revolt, this meritorious act, as they were pleased to term it, was brought up in his favour. His trial was put off from session to session, till he had been in prison more than a year. At last, however, he was convicted of high treason and sentenced to be hanged within ten days of that time. The judge asked the slave if he had anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed on him. George stood for a moment in silence and then said, As I cannot speak as I should wish, I will say nothing. You may say what you please, said the judge. You had a good master, continuity, and still you were dissatisfied. You left your master and joined the negroes who were burning our houses and killing our wives. As you have given me permission to speak, remarked George, I will tell you why I joined the revolted negroes. I have heard my master read in the Declaration of Independence that all men are created free and equal, and this caused me to inquire of myself why I was a slave. I also heard him talking with some of his visitors about the war with England, and he said, All wars and fighting for freedom were just and right. If so, in what am I wrong? The grievances of which your fathers complained and which caused the Revolutionary War were trifling in comparison with the wrongs and sufferings of those who were engaged in the late revolt. Your fathers were never slaves, ours are. Your fathers were never bought and sold like cattle, never shut out from the light of knowledge and religion, never subjected to the lash of brutal task-basters. For the crime of having a dark skin, my people suffered the pangs of hunger, the infliction of stripes, the ignominy of brutal servitude. We are kept in heathenish darkness by laws expressly enacted to make our instruction a criminal offence. What right has one man to the bones, sinews, blood and nerves of another? Did not one God make us all? You say your fathers fought for freedom, so did we. You tell me that I am to be put to death for violating the laws of the land. Did not the American revolutionists violate the laws when they struck up for liberty? They were revoltors, but their success made them patriots. We were revoltors, and our failure made us rebels. Had we succeeded, we would have been patriots, too. Success makes all the difference. You make merry on the Fourth of July. The thunder of cannon and ring of bells announce it as the birthday of American independence. Yet while these cannons are roaring and bells ringing, one-sixth of the people of this land are in chains of slavery. You boast that this is the land of the free, but a traditionary freedom will not save you. It will not do to praise your fathers and build their sepulchres. Worse for you that you have such an inheritance if you spend it foolishly and are unable to appreciate its worth. The sad of the genius of a true humanity, beholding you with tearful eyes from the mount of vision, shall fold his wings in sorrowing pity and repeat the strain, O land of Washington, how often would I have gathered thy children together, as a hen doth gather her brood under her wings, and ye would not behold your house is left unto you desolate. This is all I have to say, I have done. Nearly every one present was melted to tears, even the judge seemed taken by surprise the intelligence of the young slave. But George was a slave, and an example must be made of him, and therefore he was sentenced. Being employed in the same house was Mary, the daughter of Quotel. George had become attached to her, and the young lovers fondly looked forward to the time, when they would be husband and wife. After George had been sentenced to death, Mary was still more attentive to him, and begged an obtained leave of her mistress to visit him and his cell. The poor girl paid a daily visit to him, whom she had pledged her heart in hand. At one of these meetings, in only four days from the time fixed for his execution, while Mary was seated in George's cell, it occurred to her that she might yet save him from a felon's doom. She revealed to him the secret that was then occupying her thoughts, v. that George should exchange clothes with her, and thus attempting his escape in disguise. But he would not for a single moment listen to the proposition, not that he feared detection, but he would not consent to place an innocent and affectionate girl in a position where she might have to suffer for him. Mary pleaded but in vain. George was inflexible. The poor girl, left her lover with a heavy heart, regretting that her scheme had proved unsuccessful. Towards the close of the next day, Mary again appeared at the prison door for admission, and was soon by the sight of him whom she so ardently loved. While there the clouds which had overhung the city for some hours broke, and the rain fell in torrents amid the most terrific thunder and lightning. In the most persuasive manner possible, Mary again importuned George to avail himself of her assistance to escape from an ignominious death. After assuring him that she, not being the person condemned, would not receive any injury, he at last consented, and they began to exchange apparel. As George was of small stature, and both were white, it was no difficulty in his passing out without detection. And as she usually left the cell weeping with handkerchief and hand, and sometimes at her face, he had only to adopt this mode and his escape was safe. They kissed each other, and Mary had told George, where he would find a small parcel of provisions which she had placed in a secluded spot, when the prison keeper opened the door and said, Come girl, it's time for you to go. George again embraced Mary and passed out of the jail. It was already dark, and the street lamps were lighted, because that our hero in his new dress had no dread of detection. The provisions were sought out and found, and poor George was soon on the road towards Canada, but neither of them had once thought of a change of dress for George, when he should have escaped. And he had walked but a short distance before he felt that a change of his apparel would facilitate his progress. But he dared not go amongst even his collared associates for fear of being betrayed. However, he made the best of his way on towards Canada, riding in the woods during the day and traveling by the guidance of the North Star at night. With the poet he could truly say, Star of the North, while blazing day, pours round me its full tide of light, and hides the pale but faithful ray, I too lie hid, and long for night. One morning George arrived on the banks of the Ohio River, and found his journey had terminated, unless he could get someone to take him across the river in a secret manner, for he would not be permitted to cross in any of the ferry boats, if being a penalty for crossing a slave, besides the value of the slave. He concealed himself in the tall grass and weeds near the river to see if he could embrace an opportunity to cross. He had been in his hiding place but a short time when he observed a man in a small boat, floating near the shore, evidently fishing. His first impulse was to call out to the man and ask him to take him over to the Ohio side, but the fear that the man was a slave-holder, or one who might possibly arrest him, deterred him from it. The man, after rowing and floating about for some time, fastened the boat to the root of a tree, and started to a neighboring farmhouse. This was George's moment, and he seized it. Running down the bank, he unfastened the boat, jumped in, and with all the expertness of one accustomed to a boat, rode across the river and landed on the Ohio side. Being now in a free state, he thought he might with perfect safety travel on towards Canada. He had, however, gone but a very few miles when he discovered two men on horseback coming behind him. He felt sure that they could not be in pursuit of him, yet he did not wish to be seen by them, so he turned into another road leading to a house nearby. The men followed, and were but a short distance from George when he ran up to a farmhouse, before which was standing a farmer-looking man, and a broad-brimmed hat and straight-collared coat, whom he implored to save him from the slave-catchers. The farmer told him to go into the bar nearby. He entered by the front door, the farmer following and closing the door behind George but remaining outside, and gave directions to his hired man as to what should be done with George. The slaveholders by this time had dismounted and were in the front of the barn demanding admittance and charging the farmer with secreting their slave-woman, for George was still in the dress of a woman. The friend, for the farmer-proof to be a member of the society of friends, told the slave-owners that if they wished to search his barn, they must first get an officer and a search warrant. While the parties were disputing, the farmer began nailing up the front door and the hired man served the back door in the same way. The slaveholders, finding that they could not prevail on the friend to allow them to get the slave, determined to go in search of an officer. One was left to see that the slave did not escape from the barn, while the other went off at full speed to Mount Pleasant, the nearest town. George was not the slave of either of these men. Nor were they in pursuit of him, but they had lost a woman who had been seen in the vicinity, and when they saw George in the disguise of a female and attempting to elude pursuit, they felt sure they were close upon their victim. However, if they had caught him, although he was not their slave, they would have taken him back and placed him in jail, and there he would have remained until his owner arrived. After an absence of nearly two hours, the slave-owner returned with an officer and found the friend still driving large nails into the door. In a triumphant tone and with a corresponding gesture, he handed the search warrant to the friend and said, There, sir, now I will see if I can't get my nigger. Well, said the friend, Thou hast gone to work according to the law, and Thou canst now go into my barn. Lend me your hammer that I may get the door open, said the slave-holder. Let me see the warrant again, and after reading it over once more he said, I see nothing in this paper which says I must supply thee with tools to open my door. If thou wishest to go in, thou must get a hammer elsewhere. The sheriff said, I will go to a neighboring farm and borrow something which will introduce us to Miss Dina. And he immediately went in search of tools. In a short time the officer returned, and they commenced an assault and battery upon the barn door which soon yielded, and in went the slave-holder and officer and began turning up the hay and using all other means to find the lost property. But to their astonishment the slave was not there. After all hope of getting Dina was gone, the slave-owner, in a range, said to the friend, My nigger is not here. I did not tell thee there was anyone here. Yes, but I saw her go in and you shut the door behind her. And if she was not in the barn, what did you nail the door for? Can I do what I please with my own bound door? Now I will tell thee, thou need trouble thyself no more, for the person thou art after, entered the front door, and went out at the back door, and is long away from here by this time. Thou and thy friend must be somewhat fatigued by this time. Won't thou go in and take a little dinner with me? We need not say that this cool invitation of the good Quaker was not accepted by the slave-holders. George, in the meantime, had been taken to a friend's dwelling some miles away, where after laying aside his female attire and being snugly dressed up in a straight-collared coat and pantaloons to match, was again put on the right road towards Canada. The fugitive now travelled by day and laid by during night. After a fatiguing and dreary journey of two weeks, the fugitive arrived in Canada and took up his abode in the little town of St. Catharines, and obtained work on the farm of Colonel Street. Here he attended a night school and labored for his employer during the day. The climate was cold and wages small, yet he was in a land where he was free, and this the young slave prized more than all the gold that could be given him. Besides doing his best to obtain education for himself, he imparted what he could to those of his fellow fugitives about him, of whom there were many. CHAPTER 27 George, however, did not forget his promise to use all the means and his power to get Mary out of slavery. He therefore labored with all his might to obtain money, with which to employ someone to go back to Virginia for Mary. After nearly six months' labor at St. Catharines he employed an English missionary to go and see if the girl could be purchased and at what price. The missionary went accordingly but returned with the sad intelligence that on the account of Mary's aiding George to escape the court had compelled Mr. Green to sell her out of the state and she had been sold to a Negro trader and taken to the New Orleans market. As all hope of getting the girl was now gone, George resolved to quit the American continent for ever. He immediately took passage in a vessel laden with timber bound for Liverpool, and in five weeks from that time he was standing on the quay of the Great English Seaport. With little or no education he found many difficulties in the way of getting a respectable living. However he obtained a situation as Porter in the large house in Manchester where he worked during the day and took private lessons at night. In this way he labored for three years and was then raised to the situation of clerk. George was so white as easily to pass for a white man and being somewhat ashamed of his African descent he never once mentioned the fact of his having been a slave. He soon became a partner in the firm that employed him and was now on the road to wealth. In the year 1842, just ten years after George Green, for he adopted his master's name, arrived in England, he visited France and spent some days at Dunkirk. It was towards sunset, on a warm day in the month of October, that Mr. Green, after strolling some distance from the hotel de Leon, entered a burial ground and wandered along alone among the silent dead, gazing upon the many green graves and marble tombstones of those who once moved on the theatre of busy life and whose sounds of gaiety once fell upon the ear of man. All nature around was hushed in silence and seemed to partake of the general melancholy which hung over the quiet resting place of departed mortals. After tracing the varied inscriptions which told the characters or conditions of the departed and viewing the mounds beneath which the dust of mortality slumbered, he had now reached a secluded spot. Near to where an aged weeping willow bowed its thick foliage to the ground as though anxious to hide from the scrutinizing gaze of curiosity the grave beneath it. Mr. Green seated himself upon a marble tomb and began to read Roscoe's, Leo the Tenth, a copy of which he had under his arm. It was then about twilight, and he had scarcely gone through half a page when he observed a lady in black leading a boy some five years old up one of the paths. And as the lady's black veil was over her face he felt somewhat illiberty to eye her more closely. While looking at her the lady gave a scream and appeared to be in a fainting position when Mr. Green sprang from his seat in time to save her from falling to the ground. At this moment an elderly gentleman was seen approaching with a rapid step who from his appearance was evidently the lady's father or one intimately connected with her. He came up and in a confused manner asked what was the matter. Mr. Green explained as well as he could after taking up the smelling bottle which had fallen from her hand and holding it a short time to her face, she soon began to revive. During all this time the lady's veil had so covered her face that Mr. Green had not seen it. When she had so far recovered as to be able to raise her head she again screamed and fell back into the arms of the old man. It now appeared quite certain that either the countenance of George Green or some other object was the cause of these fits of fainting and the old gentleman, thinking it was the former and rather a petulant tone, said, I will thank you, sir, if you will leave us alone. The child whom the lady was leading had now set up a squall and amid the deathlike appearance of the lady, the harsh look of the old man and the cries of the boy, Mr. Green left the grounds and returned to his hotel. Whilst seated by the window and looking out upon the crowded street, with every now and then the strange scene in the graveyard vividly before him, Mr. Green thought of the book he had been reading and remembering that he had left it on the tomb where he had suddenly dropped it when called to the assistance of the lady, he immediately determined to return in search of it. After a walk of some twenty minutes he was again over the spot where he had been an hour before, and from which he had been so unceremoniously expelled by the old man. He looked in vain for the book. It was nowhere to be found. Nothing saved the bouquet which the lady had dropped, and which lay half buried in the grass from having been trodden upon, indicated that any one had been there that evening. Mr. Green took up the bunch of flowers and again returned to the hotel. After passing a sleepless night and hearing the clock strike six, he dropped into a sweet sleep from which he did not awaken until roused by the rap of a servant who, entering his room, handed him a note which ran as follows, Sir, I owe you an apology for the inconvenience to which you were subjected last evening, and if you will honor us with your presence to dinner to-day at four o'clock I shall be most happy to give you your due satisfaction. My servant will be waiting for you at half-past three. I am, sir, your obedient servant, J. Devonant, October 23, to George Green Esquire. The servant who handed this note to Mr. Green informed him that the bearer was waiting for a reply. He immediately resolved to accept the invitation and replied accordingly. Who this person was, and how his name and the hotel where he was stopping had been found out was indeed a mystery. However, he waited impatiently for the hour when he was to see his new acquaintance and get the mysterious meeting in the graveyard solved. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HAPPY MEETING. MAN'S LOVE IS OF A MAN'S LIFE A THING APART. TO HIS WOMEN'S WHOLE EXISTENCE. VIRON. The clock on a neighboring church had scarcely seen striking three when the servant announced that a carriage had called for Mr. Green. In less than half an hour he was seated in a most sumptuous sparoosh drawn by two beautiful iron grays and rolling along over a splinted gravel road completely shaded by large trees, which appeared to have been the accumulating growth of many centuries. The carriage soon stopped in front of a low villa, and this too was embedded in magnificent trees covered with moss. Mr. Green alighted and was shown into a superb drawing room, the walls of which were hung with fine specimens from the hands of the great Italian painters, and won by a German artist representing a beautiful, monkish legend connected with the Holy Catherine, an illustrious lady of Alexandria. The furniture had an antique and dignified appearance, high-backed chairs stood round the room, a venerable mirror stood on the mantle shelf, rich curtains of crimson to mask hung and folds at either side of the large windows, and a rich turkey carpet covered the floor. In the center stood a table covered with books, in the mist of which was an old-fashioned vase filled with fresh flowers whose fragrance was exceedingly pleasant. A faint light, together with the quietness of the hour, gave beauty beyond description to the whole scene. Mr. Green had scarcely seated himself upon the sofa, when the elderly gentleman whom he had met the previous evening made his appearance, followed by the little boy, and introduced himself as Mr. Devonon. A moment more and a lady, a beautiful brunette dressed in black with long curls of a chestnut color hanging out her cheeks, entered the room. Her eyes were of a dark hazel, and her whole appearance indicated that she was a native of a southern climb. The door at which she entered was opposite to where the two gentlemen were seated. They immediately rose, and Mr. Devonon was in the act of introducing her to Mr. Green when he observed that the ladder had sunk back upon the sofa, and the last word that he remembered to have heard was, it is her. After this all was dark and dreamy, how long he remained in this condition it was for another to tell. When he awoke he found himself stretched upon the sofa, with his boots off, his neckerchief removed, shirt collar unbuttoned, and his head resting upon a pillow. By his sides sat the old man with the smelling bottle in one hand, and a glass of water in the other, and the little boy standing at the foot of the sofa. As soon as Mr. Green had so far recovered as to be able to speak he said, Where am I, and what does this mean? Wait a while, applied the old man, and I will tell you all. After a lapse of some ten minutes he arose from the sofa, adjusted his apparel, and said, I am now ready to hear anything you have to say. You were born in America? said the old man. Yes, he replied, and you were acquainted with a girl named Mary, continued the old man. Yes, and I loved her as I can love none other. The lady whom you met so mysteriously last evening is Mary, applied Devonon. George Green was silent, but the fountains of mingled grief and joy stole out from beneath his eyelashes, and glistened like pearls upon his pale and marble-like cheeks. At this juncture the lady again entered the room. Mr. Green sprang from the sofa, and they fell into each other's arms to the surprise of the old man and little George, and to the amusement of the servants who had crept up one by one, and were hid behind the doors or loitering in the hall. When they had given vent to their feelings they resumed their seats, and each in turn related the adventures through which they had passed. How did you find out my name and address? asked Mr. Green. After you had left us in the graveyard our little George said, Oh, Mama, if there ain't a book. And picked it up and brought it to us. Papa opened it and said, The gentleman's name is written in it, and here is a card of the Hotel de Leon, where I suppose he is stopping. Papa wished to leave the book and said it was all a fancy of mine that I had ever seen you before, but I was perfectly convinced that you were my own George Green. Are you married? No, I am not. Then thank God, explained Mrs. Devonaut. And are you single now? inquired Mr. Green. Yes, she replied. This is indeed the Lord's doing, said Mr. Green, at the same time bursting into a flood of tears. Mr. Devonaut was past age when men should think upon matrimonial subjects, yet the scene brought vividly before his eyes the days when he was a young man and had a wife living. After a short interview the old man called their attention to the dinner which was then waiting. We need scarcely add that Mr. Green and Mrs. Devonaut did very little towards diminishing the dinner that day. After dinner the lovers, for such we have to call them, gave their experience from the time that George left the jail dressed in Mary's clothes. Up to that time Mr. Green's was substantially as we have related it. Mrs. Devonaut's was as follows. The night after you left the prison, said she, I did not shut my eyes and sleep. The next morning about eight o'clock Peter the gardener came to the jail to see if I had been there the night before and was informed that I had and that I had left a little after dark. About an hour after Mr. Green came himself and I need not say that he was much surprised on finding me there dressed in your clothes. This was the first tidings they had of your escape. What did Mr. Green say when he found that I had fled? Oh, continued Mrs. Devonaut. He said to me when no one was near I hope George will get off but I fear you will have to suffer in his stead. I told him that if it must be so I was willing to die if you could live. At this moment George Green burst into tears through his arms around her neck and exclaimed I am glad I have waited so long with the hope of meeting you again. Mrs. Devonaut again resumed her story. I was kept in jail three days during which time I was visited by the magistrates and two of the judges. On the third day I was taken out and Master told me that I was liberated upon condition that I should be immediately sent out of the state. There happened to be just at that time in the neighborhood a negro trader and he purchased me and I was taken to New Orleans. On the steamboat we were kept in a close room where slaves are usually confined so that I saw nothing of the passengers on board or the towns we passed. We arrived at New Orleans and were all put into the slave market for sale. I was examined by many persons. But none seemed willing to purchase me as all thought me too white and said I would run away and pass as a free white woman. On the second day while in the slave market and while the planters and others were examining slaves and making their purchases, I observed a tall young man with long black hair eyeing me very closely and then talking to the trader. I felt sure that my time had now come but the day closed without my being sold. I did not regret this for I had heard that foreigners made the worst of masters and I felt confident that the man who eyed me so closely was not an American. The next day was the Sabbath. The bells called the people to the different places of worship. Methodists sang, Baptists immersed and Presbyterians sprinkled and Episcopalians read their prayers while the ministers of the various sects preached that Christ died for all. Yet there were some twenty-five or thirty of us poor creatures confined in the negro pen awaiting the close of the Holy Sabbath and the dawn of another day to be again taken into the market there to be examined like so many beasts of burden. I need not tell you what anxiety we waited for the advent of another day. On Monday we were again brought out and placed in rows to be inspected and fortunately for me I was sold before we had been on the stand an hour. I was purchased by a gentleman residing in the city for a waiting maid for his wife who was just on the eve of starting for Mobile to pay a visit to an ear relation. I was then dressed to suit the situation of a maid servant and upon the whole I thought that in my new dress I looked as much the lady as my mistress. On the passage to Mobile, who should I see among the passengers but the tall long-haired man that had eyed me so closely in the slave market a few days before. His eyes were again on me and he appeared anxious to speak to me and I as reluctant to be spoken to. The first evening after leaving New Orleans, soon after twilight had let her curtain down and pinned it with a star and while I was seated on the deck of the boat near the ladies cabin, looking upon the rippled waves and the reflection of the moon upon the sea, all at once I saw the tall young man standing by my side. I immediately rose from my seat and was in the act of returning to the cabin when he in a broken accent said, Stop a moment. I wish to have a word with you. I am your friend. I stopped and looked him full in the face and he said, I saw you some days since in the slave market and I intended to have purchased you to save you from the condition of a slave. I called on Monday but you had been sold and had left the market. I inquired and learned who your purchaser was and that you had to go to Mobile, so I resolved to follow you. If you are willing I will try and buy you from your present owner and you shall be free. Although this was said in an honest and offhand manner I could not believe the man to be sincere in what he said. Why should you wish to set me free? I asked. I had an only sister, he replied, who died three years ago in France and you are so much like her that had I not known of her death I would most certainly have taken you for her. However much I may resemble your sister you are aware that I am not her and why take so much interest in one whom you never saw before. The love, said he, which I had for my sister is transferred to you. I had all long suspected that the man was a naïve and this profession of love confirmed me in my form of belief and I turned away and left him. The next day while standing in the cabin and looking through the window the French gentleman, for such he was, came to the window while walking on the guards and again commenced as on the previous evening. He took from his pocket a bit of paper and put it into my hand at the same time saying, take this, it may some day be of service to you, remember it is from a friend and left me instantly. I unfolded the paper and found it to be a $100 banknote on the United States Branch Bank at Philadelphia. My first impulse was to give it to my mistress but upon a second thought I resolved to seek an opportunity and to return the $100 to the stranger. Therefore I looked for him but in vain and had almost given up the idea of seeing him again when he passed me on the guards of the boat and walked towards the stem of the vessel. At being now dark I approached him and offered the money to him. He declined saying at the same time, I gave it to you, keep it. I do not want it, I said. Now, said he, you had better give your consent for me to purchase you and you shall go with me to France. But you cannot buy me now, I replied, for my master is in New Orleans and he purchased me not to sell but to retain in his own family. Would you rather remain with your present mistress than be free? Now, said I, then fly with me tonight. We shall be in Mobile in two hours from this, and when the passengers are going on shore you can take my arm and you can escape unobserved. The trader who brought you to New Orleans exhibited to me a certificate of your good character and one from the minister of your church to which you were attached to Virginia. And upon the faith of these assurances and the love I bear you I promise before high heaven that I will marry you as soon as it can be done. The solemn promise coupled with what had already transpired gave me confidence in the man and rash as the act may seem I determined in an instant to go with him. My mistress had been put under the charge of the captain and as it would be past ten o'clock when the steamer would land she accepted an invitation of the captain to remain on board with several other ladies till morning. I dressed myself in my best clothes and put a veil over my face and was ready on the landing of the boat. Surrounded by a number of passengers we descended the stage leading to the wharf and were soon lost in the crowd that throngs the quay. As we went on shore we encountered several persons announcing the names of hotels, the starting of boats for the interior and vessels bound for Europe. Among these was the ship Utica, Captain Pele, bound for Havre. Now, say Mr. Devonaut, this is our chance. The ship was to sail at twelve o'clock that night at high tide and following the men who were seeking passengers we went immediately on board. Devonaut told the captain of the ship that I was his sister and for such we passed during the voyage. At the hour of twelve the Utica set sail and we were soon out at sea. The morning after we left Devonaut met me as I came from my state room and embraced me for the first time. I loved him but it was only that affection which we have for one who has done us a lasting favour. It was the love of gratitude rather than that of the heart. We were five weeks on the sea and yet the passage did not seem long for Devonaut was so kind. On our arrival at Havre we were married and came to Dunkirk and I have resided here ever since. At the close of this narrative the clock struck ten when the old man who was accustomed to retire at an early hour rose to take leave saying at this time, I hope you will remain with us tonight. Mr. Grain would fain have excused himself on the ground that they would expect him and wait at the hotel but a look from the lady told him to accept the invitation. The old man was the father of Mrs. Devonaut's deceased husband as you will no doubt long since have supposed. A fortnight from the day on which they met in the graveyard Mr. Grain and Mrs. Devonaut were joined in holy wedlock so that George and Mary who had loved each other so ardently in their younger days were now husband and wife. A celebrated writer has justly said of woman, a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world. It is there her ambition strives for empire. It is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure. She embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection. And if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless. For it is a bankruptcy of the heart. Mary had every reason to believe that she would never see George again and although she confesses that the love she bore him was never transferred to her first husband, we can scarcely find fault with her for marrying Mr. Devonaut. But the adherence of George Grain to the resolution never to marry unless to his Mary is indeed a rare instance of the fidelity of man in the matter of love. We can but blush for our country's shame when we recall to mind the fact that while George and Mary Grain in numbers of other fugitives from American slavery can receive protection from any of the governments of Europe, they cannot return to their native land without becoming slaves. Conclusion. My narrative has now come to a close. I may be asked, and no doubt shall, are the various incidents and scenes related found in truth? I answer yes. I have personally participated in many of those scenes. Some of the narratives I have derived from other sources. Many from the lips of those who, like myself, have run away from the land of bondage. Having been nearly nine years employed on Lake Erie, I had many opportunities for helping me escape for fugitives who, in return for the assistance they received, made me the depository of their sufferings and wrongs, of their relations I have made for use. To Mrs. Child of New York I am indebted for part of a short story. American abolitionist journals are another source from when some of the characters appearing in my narrative are taken. All of these combined have made up my story. Having thus acknowledged my resources, I invite the attention of my readers to the following statement from which I leave them to draw their own conclusions. It is estimated that in the United States members of the Methodist Church own 219,363 slaves. Members of the Baptist Church own 226,000 slaves. Members of the Episcopalian Church own 88,000 slaves. Members of the Presbyterian Church own 77,000 slaves. Members of all other churches own 50,000 slaves. In all, 660,563 slaves owned by members of the Christian Church in this pious democratic republic. May these facts be pondered over by British Christians, and at the next anniversaries of the various religious denominations in London may their influence be seen and felt. The religious bodies of American Christians will send their delegates to these meetings. Let British feelings be publicly manifested. Let British sympathy express itself in tender sorrow for the condition of my unhappy race. Let it be understood, unequivocally understood, that no fellowship can be held with slaveholders professing the same, common Christianity as yourselves. And until this stain from America's otherwise fair escutcheon be wiped away, let no Christian association be maintained with those who traffic in the blood and bones of those whom God has made of one flesh as ourselves. Finally, let the voice of the whole British nation be heard across the Atlantic, and throughout the length and breadth of the land of the Pilgrim Fathers be seeking their descendants as they value the common salvation which knows no distinction between the bond and the free to proclaim the year of Jubilee. Then shall the earth indeed yield her increase in God, even our own God shall bless us and all the ends of the earth shall fear him. End of Clotel by William Wells-Brown