A Tale of the Southern States
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William Wells Brown >> A Tale of the Southern States
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Having resolved to attend a dress-ball one night, without his
master's permission, and being perplexed for suitable garments,
Sam determined to take his master's. So, dressing himself in the
doctor's clothes even to his boots and hat, off the negro started
for the city. Being well acquainted with the usual walk of the
patrols he found no difficulty in keeping out of their way. As
might have been expected, Sam was the great gun with the ladies
that night.
The next morning, Sam was back home long before his master's time
for rising, and the clothes were put in their accustomed place.
For a long time Sam had no difficulty in attiring himself for
parties; but the old proverb that "It is a long lane that has no
turning," was verified in the negro's case. One stormy night,
when the rain was descending in torrents, the doctor heard a rap at
his door. It was customary with him, when called up at night to
visit a patient, to ring for Sam. But this time, the servant was
nowhere to be found. The doctor struck a light and looked for
clothes; they too, were gone.--It was twelve o'clock, and the
doctor's clothes, hat, boots, and even his watch, were nowhere to
be found. Here was a pretty dilemma for a doctor to be in. It was
some time before the physician could fit himself out so as to mike
the visit. At last, however, he started with one of the
farm-horses, for Sam had taken the doctor's best saddle-horse. The
doctor felt sure that the, negro had robbed him, and was on his
way to Canada; but in this he was mistaken. Sam had gone to the
city to attend a ball, and had decked himself out in his master's
best suit. The physician returned before morning, and again
retired to bed but with little hope of sleep, for his thoughts
were with his servant and horse. At six o'clock, in walked Sam
with his master's clothes, and the boots neatly blacked. The
watch was placed on the shelf, and the hat in its place. Sam had
not met any of the servants, and was therefore entirely ignorant
of what had occurred during his absence.
"What have you been about, sir, and where was you last night when I
was called?" said the doctor.
"I don't know, sir. I 'spose I was asleep," replied Sam.
But the doctor was not to be so easily satisfied, after having been
put to so much trouble in hunting up another suit without the aid
of Sam. After breakfast, Sam was taken into the barn, tied up, and
severely flogged with the cat, which brought from him the truth
concerning his absence the previous night. This forever put an end
to his fine appearance at the negro parties. Had not the doctor
been one of the most indulgent of masters, he would not have
escaped with merely a severe whipping.
As a matter of course, Sam had to relate to his companions that
evening in Mr. Wilson's kitchen all his adventures as a physician
while with his old master.
CHAPTER IX
THE MAN OF HONOR.
AUGUSTINE CARDINAY, the purchaser of Marion, was from the Green
Mountains of Vermont, and his feelings were opposed to the holding
of slaves; but his young wife persuaded him in into the idea that
it was no worse to own a slave than to hire one and pay the money
to another. Hence it was that he had been induced to purchase
Marion.
Adolphus Morton, a young physician from the same State, and who had
just commenced the practice of his profession in New Orleans, was
boarding with Cardinay when Marion was brought home. The young
physician had been in New Orleans but a very few weeks, and had
seen but little of slavery. In his own mountain-home, he had been
taught that the slaves of the Southern States were negroes, and if
not from the coast of Africa, the descendants of those who had
been imported. He was unprepared to behold with composure a
beautiful white girl of sixteen in the degraded position of a
chattel slave.
The blood chilled in his young heart as he heard Cardinay tell how,
by bantering with the trader, he had bought her two hundred
dollars less than he first asked. His very looks showed that she
had the deepest sympathies of his heart.
Marion had been brought up by her mother to look after the domestic
concerns of her cottage in Virginia, and well knew how to perform
the duties imposed upon her. Mrs. Cardinay was much pleased with
her new servant, and often mentioned her good qualities in the
presence of Mr. Morton.
After eight months acquaintance with Marion, Morton's sympathies
ripened into love, which was most cordially reciprocated by the
friendless and injured child of sorrow. There was but one course
which the young man could honorably pursue, and that was to
purchase Marion and make her his lawful wife; and this he did
immediately, for he found Mr. and Mrs. Cardinay willing to second
his liberal intentions.
The young man, after purchasing Marion from Cardinay, and marrying
her, took lodgings in another part of the city. A private teacher
was called in, and the young wife was taught some of those
accomplishments so necessary for one taking a high position in
good society.
Dr. Morton soon obtained a large and influential practice in his
profession, and with it increased in wealth; but with all his
wealth he never owned a slave. Probably the fact that he had
raised his wife from that condition kept the hydra-headed system
continually before him. To the credit of Marion be it said, she
used every means to obtain the freedom of her mother, who had been
sold to Parson Wilson, at Natchez. Her efforts, however, had come
too late; for Agnes had died of a fever before the arrival of Dr.
Morton's agent.
Marion found in Adolphus Morton a kind and affectionate husband;
and his wish to purchase her mother, although unsuccessful, had
doubly endeared him to her. Ere a year had elapsed from the time
of their marriage, Mrs. Morton presented her husband with a lovely
daughter, who seemed to knit their hearts still closer together.
This child they named Jane; and before the expiration of the
second year, they were blessed with another daughter, whom they
named Adrika.
These children grew up to the ages of ten and eleven, and were then
sent to the North to finish their education, and receive that
refinement which young ladies cannot obtain in the Slave States.
CHAPTER X
THE QUADROON'S HOME
A few miles out of Richmond is a pleasant place, with here and
there a beautiful cottage surrounded by trees so as scarcely to be
seen. Among these was one far retired from the public roads, and
almost hidden among the trees. This was the spot that Henry
Linwood had selected for Isabella, the eldest daughter of Agnes.
The young man hired the house, furnished it, and placed his
mistress there, and for many months no one in his father's family
knew where he spent his leisure hours.
When Henry was not with her, Isabella employed herself in looking
after her little garden and the flowers that grew in front of her
cottage. The passion-flower peony, dahlia, laburnum, and other
plant, so abundant in warm climates, under the tasteful hand of
Isabella, lavished their beauty upon this retired spot, and
miniature paradise.
Although Isabella had been assured by Henry that she should be free
and that he would always consider her as his wife, she
nevertheless felt that she ought to be married and acknowledged by
him. But this was an impossibility under. the State laws, even had
the young man been disposed to do what was right in the matter.
Related as he was, however, to one of the first families in
Virginia, he would not have dared to marry a woman of so low an
origin, even had the laws been favorable.
Here, in this secluded grove, unvisited by any other except her
lover, Isabella lived for years. She had become the mother of a
lovely daughter, which its father named Clotelle. The complexion
of the child was still fairer than that of its mother. Indeed, she
was not darker than other white children, and as she grew older
she more and more resembled her father.
As time passed away, Henry became negligent of Isabella and his
child, so much so, that days and even weeks passed without their
seeing him, or knowing where he was. Becoming more acquainted with
the world, and moving continually in the society of young women of
his own station, the young man felt that Isabella was a burden to
him, and having as some would say, "outgrown his love," he longed
to free himself of the responsibility; yet every time he saw the
child, he felt that he owed it his fatherly care.
Henry had now entered into political life, and been elected to a
seat in the legislature of his native State; and in his
intercourse with his friends had become acquainted with Gertrude
Miller, the daughter of a wealthy gentleman living near Richmond.
Both Henry and Gertrude were very good-looking, and a mutual
attachment sprang up between them.
Instead of finding fault with the unfrequent visits of Henry,
Isabella always met him with a smile, and tried to make both him
and herself believe that business was the cause of his negligence.
When he was with her, she devoted every moment of her time to him,
and never failed to speak of the growth and increasing
intelligence of Clotelle.
The child had grown so large as to be able to follow its father on
his departure out to the road. But the impression made on Henry's
feelings by the devoted woman and her child was momentary. His
heart had grown hard, and his acts were guided by no fixed
principle. Henry and Gertrude had been married nearly two years
before Isabella knew anything of the event, and it was merely by
accident that she became acquainted with the facts.
One beautiful afternoon, when Isabella and Clotelle were picking
wild strawberries some two miles from their home, and near the
road-side, they observed a one-horse chaise driving past. The
mother turned her face from the carriage not wishing to be seen by
strangers, little dreaming that the chaise contained Henry and his
wife. The child, however, watched the chaise, and startled her
mother by screaming out at the top of her voice, "Papa! papa!" and
clapped her little hands for joy. The mother turned in haste to
look at the strangers, and her eyes encountered those of Henry's
pale and dejected countenance. Gertrude's eyes were on the child.
The swiftness with which Henry drove by could not hide from his
wife the striking resemblance of the child to himself. The young
wife had heard the child exclaim "Papa! papa!" and she immediately
saw by the quivering of his lips and the agitation depicted in his
countenance, that all was not right.
"Who is that woman? and why did that child call you papa?" she
inquired, with a trembling voice.
Henry was silent; he knew not what to say, and without another word
passing between them, they drove home.
On reaching her room, Gertrude buried her face in her handkerchief
and wept. She loved Henry, and when she had heard from the lips
of her companions how their husbands had proved false, she felt
that he was an exception, and fervently thanked God that she had
been so blessed.
When Gertrude retired to her bed that night, the sad scene of the
day followed her. The beauty of Isabella, with her flowing curls,
and the look of the child, so much resembling the man whom she so
dearly loved, could not be forgotten; and little Clotelle's
exclamation of "Papa! Papa" rang in her ears during the whole
night.
The return of Henry at twelve o'clock did not increase her
happiness. Feeling his guilt, he had absented himself from the
house since his return from the ride.
CHAPTER XI
TO-DAY A MISTRESS, TO-MORROW A SLAVE
THE night was dark, the rain, descended in torrents from the black
and overhanging clouds, and the thunder, accompanied with vivid
flashes of lightning, resounded fearfully, as Henry Linwood
stepped from his chaise and entered Isabella's cottage.
More than a fortnight had elapsed since the accidental. meeting,
and Isabella was in doubt as to who the lady was that Henry was
with in the carriage. Little, however, did she think that it was
his wife. With a smile, Isabella met the young man as he entered
her little dwelling. Clotelle had already gone to bed, but her
father's voice roused her from her sleep, and she was soon
sitting on his knee.
The pale and agitated countenance of Henry betrayed his uneasiness,
but Isabella's mild and laughing allusion to the incident of their
meeting him on the day of his pleasure-drive, and her saying, "I
presume, dear Henry, that the lady was one of your relatives," led
him to believe that she was still in ignorance of his marriage.
She was, in fact, ignorant who the lady was who accompanied the
man she loved on that eventful day. He, aware of this, now acted
more like himself, and passed the thing off as a joke. At heart,
however, Isabella felt uneasy, and this uneasiness would at times
show itself to the young man. At last, and with a great effort,
she said,--
"Now, dear Henry, if I am in the way of your future happiness, say
so, and I will release you from any promises that you have made
me. I know there is no law by which I can hold you, and if there
was, I would not resort to it. You are as dear to me as ever, and
my thoughts shall always be devoted to you. It would be a great
sacrifice for me to give you up to another, but if it be your
desire, as great as the sacrifice is, I will make it. Send me and
your child into a Free State if we are in your way."
Again and again Linwood assured her that no woman possessed his
love but her. Oh, what falsehood. and deceit man can put on when
dealing with woman's love!
The unabated storm kept Henry from returning home until after the
clock had struck two, and as he drew near his residence he saw his
wife standing at the window. Giving his horse in charge of the
servant who was waiting, he entered the house, and found his wife
in tears. Although he had never satisfied Gertrude as to who the
quadroon woman and child were, he had kept her comparatively easy
by his close attention to her, and by telling her that she was
mistaken in regard to the child's calling him "papa." His absence
that night, however, without any apparent cause, had again
aroused the jealousy of Gertrude; but Henry told her that he had
been caught in the rain while out, which prevented his sooner
returning, and she, anxious to believe him, received the story as
satisfactory.
Somewhat heated with brandy, and wearied with much loss of sleep,
Linwood fell into a sound slumber as soon as he retired. Not so
with Gertrude. That faithfulness which has ever distinguished her
sex, and the anxiety with which she watched all his movements,
kept the wife awake while the husband slept. His sleep, though
apparently sound, was nevertheless uneasy. Again and again she
heard him pronounce the name of Isabella, and more than once she
heard him say, "I am not married; I will never marry while you
live." Then he would speak the name of Clotelle and say, "My dear
child, how I love you!"
After a sleepless night, Gertrude arose from her couch, resolved
that she would reveal the whole matter to her mother. Mrs. Miller
was a woman of little or no feeling, proud, peevish, and
passionate, thus making everybody miserable that came near her;
and when she disliked any one, her hatred knew no bounds. This
Gertrude knew; and had she not considered it her duty, she would
have kept the secret locked in her own heart.
During the day, Mrs. Linwood visited her mother and told her all
that had happened. The mother scolded the daughter for not having
informed her sooner, and immediately determined to find out who
the woman and child were that Gertrude had met on the day of her
ride. Three days were spent by Mrs. Miller in this endeavor, but
without success.
Four weeks had elapsed, and the storm of the old lady's temper had
somewhat subsided, when, one evening, as she was approaching her
daughter's residence, she saw Henry walking, in the direction of
where the quadroon was supposed to reside. Feeling satisfied that
the young man had not seen her, the old women at once resolved to
follow him. Linwood's boots squeaked so loudly that Mrs. Miller
had no difficulty in following him without being herself observed.
After a walk of about two miles, the young man turned into a narrow
and unfrequented road, and soon entered the cottage occupied by
Isabella. It was a fine starlight night, and the moon was just
rising when they got to their journey's end. As usual, Isabella
met Henry with a smile, and expressed her fears regarding his
health.
Hours passed, and still old Mrs. Miller remained near the house,
determined to know who lived there. When she undertook to ferret
out anything, she bent her whole energies to it. As Michael
Angelo, who subjected all things to his pursuit and the idea he
had formed of it, painted the crucifixion by the side of a
writhing slave and would have broken up the true cross for
pencils, so Mrs. Miller would have entered the sepulchre, if she
could have done it, in search of an object she wished to find.
The full moon had risen, and was pouring its beams upon surrounding
objects as Henry stepped from Isabella's door, and looking at his
watch, said,--
"I must go, dear; it is now half-past ten."
Had little Clotelle been awake, she too would have been at the
door. As Henry walked to the gate, Isabella followed with her left
hand locked in his. Again he looked at his watch, and said, "I
must go."
"It is more than a year since you staid all night," murmured
Isabella, as he folded her convulsively in his arms, and pressed
upon her beautiful lips a parting kiss.
He was nearly out of sight when, with bitter sobs, the quadroon
retraced her steps to the door of the cottage. Clotelle had in the
mean time awoke, and now inquired of her mother how long her
father had been gone. At that instant, a knock was heard at the
door, and supposing that it was Henry returning for something he
had forgotten, as he frequently did, Isabella flew to let him in.
To her amazement, however, a strange woman stood in the door.
"Who are you that comes here at this late hour?" demanded the
half-frightened Isabella.
Without making any reply, Mrs. Miller pushed the quadroon aside,
and entered the house.
"What do you want here?" again demanded Isabella.
"I am in search of you," thundered the maddened Mrs. Miller; but
thinking that her object would be better served by seeming to be
kind, she assumed a different tone of voice, and began talking in
a pleasing manner.
In this way, she succeeded in finding out the connection existing
between Linwood and Isabella, and after getting all she could out
of the unsuspecting woman, she informed her that the man she so
fondly loved had been married for more than two years. Seized with
dizziness, the poor, heart-broken woman fainted and fell upon the
floor. How long she remained there she could not tell; but when
she returned to consciousness, the strange woman was gone, and her
child was standing by her side. When she was so far recovered as to
regain her feet, Isabella went to the door, and even into the
yard, to see if the old woman was not somewhere about.
As she stood there, the full moon cast its bright rays over her
whole person, giving her an angelic appearance and imparting to
her flowing hair a still more golden hue. Suddenly another change
came over her features, and her full red lips trembled as with
suppressed emotion. The muscles around her faultless mouth became
convulsed, she gasped for breath, and exclaiming, "Is it possible
that man can be so false!" again fainted.
Clotelle stood and bathed her mother's temples with cold water
until she once more revived.
Although the laws of Virginia forbid the education of slaves, Agnes
had nevertheless employed an old free negro to teach her two
daughters to read and write. After being separated from her mother
and sister, Isabella turned her attention to the subject of
Christianity, and received that consolation from the Bible which
is never denied to the children of God. This was now her last
hope, for her heart was torn with grief and filled with all the
bitterness of disappointment.
The night passed away, but without sleep to poor Isabella. At the
dawn of day, she tried to make herself believe that the whole of
the past night was a dream, and determined to be satisfied with
the explanation which Henry should give on his next visit.
CHAPTER XII
THE MOTHER-IN-LAW.
When Henry returned home, he found his wife seated at the window,
awaiting his approach. Secret grief was gnawing at her heart. Her
sad, pale cheeks and swollen eyes showed too well that agony, far
deeper than her speech portrayed, filled her heart. A dull and
death-like silence prevailed on his entrance. His pale face and
brow, dishevelled hair, and the feeling that he manifested on
finding Gertrude still up, told Henry in plainer words than she
could have used that his wife, was aware that her love had never
been held sacred by him. The window-blinds were still unclosed,
and the full-orbed moon shed her soft refulgence over the
unrivalled scene, and gave it a silvery lustre which sweetly
harmonized with the silence of the night. The clock's iron tongue,
in a neighboring belfry, proclaimed the hour of twelve, as the
truant and unfaithful husband seated himself by the side of his
devoted and loving wife, and inquired if she was not well.
"I am, dear Henry," replied Gertrude; "but I fear you are not. If
well in body, I fear you are not at peace in mind."
"Why?" inquired he.
"Because," she replied, "you are so pale and have such a wild look
in your eyes."
Again he protested his innocence, and vowed she was the only woman
who had any claim upon his heart. To behold one thus playing upon
the feelings of two lovely women is enough to make us feel that
evil must at last bring its own punishment.
Henry and Gertrude had scarcely risen from the breakfast-table next
morning ere old Mrs. Miller made her appearance. She immediately
took her daughter aside, and informed her of her previous night's
experience, telling her how she had followed Henry to Isabella's
cottage, detailing the interview with the quadroon, and her late
return home alone. The old woman urged her daughter to demand that
the quadroon and her child be at once sold to the negro
speculators and taken out of the State, or that Gertrude herself
should separate from Henry.
"Assert your rights, my dear. Let no one share a heart that justly
belongs to you," said Mrs. Miller, with her eyes flashing fire.
"Don't sleep this night, my child, until that wench has been
removed from that cottage; and as for the child, hand that over to
me,--I saw at once that it was Henry's."
During these remarks, the old lady was walking up and down the room
like a caged lioness. She had learned from Isabella that she had
been purchased by Henry, and the innocence of the injured quadroon
caused her to acknowledge that he was the father of her child. Few
women could have taken such a matter in hand and carried it
through with more determination and success than old Mrs. Miller.
Completely inured in all the crimes and atrocities connected with
the institution of slavery, she was also aware that, to a greater
or less extent, the slave women shared with their mistress the
affections of their master. This caused her to look with a
suspicious eye on every good-looking negro woman that she saw.
While the old woman was thus lecturing her daughter upon her rights
and duties, Henry, unaware of what was transpiring, had left the
house and gone to his office. As soon as the old woman found that
he was gone, she said,--
"I will venture anything that he is on his way to see that wench
again. I'll lay my life on it."
The entrance, however, of little Marcus, or Mark, as he was
familiarly called, asking for Massa Linwood's blue bag, satisfied
her that her son-in-law was at his office. Before the old lady
returned home, it was agreed that Gertrude should come to her
mother's to tea that evening, and Henry with her, and that Mrs.
Miller should there charge the young husband with inconstancy to
her daughter, and demand the removal of Isabella.
With this understanding, the old woman retraced her steps to her
own dwelling.
Had Mrs. Miller been of a different character and not surrounded by
slavery, she could scarcely have been unhappy in such a home as
hers. Just at the edge of the city, and sheltered by large
poplar-trees was the old homestead in which she resided. There was
a splendid orchard in the rear of the house, and the old
weather-beaten sweep, with "the moss-covered bucket" at its end,
swung majestically over the deep well. The garden was scarcely to
be equalled. Its grounds were laid out in excellent taste, and
rare exotics in the greenhouse made it still more lovely.
It was a sweet autumn evening, when the air breathed through the
fragrant sheaves of grain, and the setting sun, with his golden
kisses, burnished the rich clusters of purple grapes, that Henry
and Gertrude were seen approaching the house on foot; it was
nothing more than a pleasant walk. Oh, how Gertrude's heart beat
as she seated herself, on their arrival!
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