Chapter XII: The Story of Estelle (2)

Ratcliff was the type of a class that spring from slavery as naturally as certain weeds spring from a certain quality of manure. He was such a man as only slavery could engender. The son of a South Carolina planter, he was bred to believe that his little State—little in respect to its white population—was yet the master State of the Union, and that his family was the master family of the State. The conclusion that he was the master man of his family, and consequently of the Union, was not distant or illogical. As soon as he could lift a pistol he was taught to fire at a mark, and to make believe it was an Abolitionist. Before he was twelve years old he had fired at and wounded a free negro, who had playfully answered an imperious order by mimicking the boy’s strut. Of this achievement the father was rather proud.

Accustomed to regard the lives and persons of slaves as subject to his irresponsible will, or to the caprices of his untrained and impure passions, he soon transferred to the laboring white man and woman the contempt he felt for the negro. We cannot have the moral sense impaired in one direction without having it warped and corrupted throughout.

Wrong feeling must, by an inexorable law, breed wrong thinking. And so Ratcliff looked upon all persons, whether white or black, who had to earn their bread by manual labor, as (in the memorable words of his friend Mr. Hammond, United States Senator from South Carolina) “Mudsills and slaves.” For the thrifty Yankee his contempt was supreme, bitter, almost frantic.

By mismanagement and extravagance his family estate was squandered, and, the father having fallen in a duel with a political adversary, Ratcliff found himself at twenty-one with expensive tastes and no money. He borrowed a few hundred dollars, went to Louisiana, and there married a woman of large property, but personally unattractive. Revengeful and unforgetting as a savage where his pride was touched, and more cruel than a wolf in his instincts, Ratcliff had always meant to requite me for the humiliation I had made him experience. He had lost trace of me soon after the incident at the theatre. No sooner had I passed him in Carondelet Street than he put detectives on my track, and my place of abode was discovered. He received such a report of my wife’s beauty as roused him to the hope of an exquisite revenge. Doubtless he found an opportunity of seeing Estelle without being seen; and on discovering in her his slave, his surprise and fury reached an ungovernable height.

Let me not dwell on the horrors of the next few days. We had made all our arrangements for departure that Saturday morning.

Estelle, in her simple habit, never looked so lovely. A little cherry-colored scarf which I had presented her was about her neck, and contrasted with the neutral tint of her robe. The carriage for our conveyance to the ship was at the door. Our light amount of luggage was put on behind. We bade our kind hostess good by. Estelle stepped in, and I was about to follow, when two policemen, each with a revolver in his hand, approached from a concealment near by, shut the carriage door, and, laying hands upon me, drew me back. At the same moment, from the opposite side of the street, Ratcliff, with two men wearing official badges, came, and, opening the opposite door of the coach, entered and took seats. So sudden were these movements, that they were over before either Estelle or I could offer any resistance.

The coachman at once drove off. An imploring shriek from Estelle was followed by a frantic effort on her part to thrust open the door of the coach. I saw her struggling in the arms of the officers, her face wild with terror, indignation, rage. Ratcliff, who had taken the seat opposite to her, put his head out of the coach, and bowed to me mockingly.

One of my stalwart captors held a pistol to my head, and cautioned me to be “asy.” For half a minute I made no resistance. I was calculating how I could best rescue Estelle. All the while I kept my eyes intently on the departing carriage.

My captors held me as if they were prepared for any struggle. But I had not been seven years on the stage without learning something of the tricks of the wrestler and the gymnast. Suddenly both policemen found their legs knocked from under them, and their heads in contact with the pavement. A pistol went off as they fell, and a bullet passed through the crown of my hat; but before they could recover their footing, I had put an eighth of a mile between us.

Where was the carriage? The street into which it had turned was intersected by another which curved on either side like the horns of a crescent. To my dismay, when I reached this curve, the carriage was not to be seen. It had turned into the street either on the right or on the left, and the curve hid it from view. Which way? I could judge nothing from the sound, for other vehicles were passing. I stopped a man, and eagerly questioned him. He did not speak English. I put my question in French. He stopped to consider,—believed the carriage had taken the left turning, but was not quite certain. I ran leftward with all my speed. Carriages were to be seen, but not one with the little trunk and valise strapped on behind. I then turned and ran down the right turning. Baffled! At fault! In the network of streets it was all conjecture. Still on I ran in the desperate hope of seeing the carriage at some cross street. But my efforts were fruitless.

Panting and exhausted, I sought rest in a “magasin” for the sale of cigars. A little back parlor offered itself for smokers. I entered. A waiter brought in three cigars, and I threw a quarter of a dollar on the table. But I was no lover of the weed. The tobacco remained untouched. I wanted an opportunity for summoning my best thoughts.

Even if I had caught the coach, would not the chances have been against me? Clearly, yes. Further search for it, then, could be of no avail. Undoubtedly Ratcliff would take Estelle at once to his plantation, for there he could have her most completely in his power. Let that calculation be my starting-point.

How stood it in regard to myself? Did not my seizure by the policemen show that legal authority for my arrest had been procured? Probably. If imprisoned, should I not be wholly powerless to help Estelle? Obviously. Perhaps the morning newspapers would have something to say of the affair? Nothing more likely. Was it not, then, my safest course to keep still and concealed for the present? Alas, yes! Could I not trust Estelle to protect her own honor? Ay, she would protect it with her life; but the pang was in the thought that her life might be sacrificed in the work of protection.

The “magasin” was kept by Gustave Leroux, an old Frenchman, who had been a captain under Napoleon, and was in the grand army in its retreat from Moscow. A bullet had gone through his cheeks, and another had taken off part of his nose.

I must have sat with the untouched cigars before me nearly three hours. At last, supposing I was alone, I bowed my forehead on my hand, and wept. Suddenly I looked up. The old Frenchman, with his nose and cheek covered with large black patches, was standing with both hands on the table, gazing wistfully and tenderly upon me.

“What is it, my brave?” he asked in French, while tears began to fill his own eyes. I looked up. There was no resisting the benignity of that old battered face. I took the two hands which he held out to me in my own. He sat down by my side, and I told him my story.

After I had finished, he sat stroking his gray moustache with forefinger and thumb, and for ten minutes did not speak. Then he said: “I have seen this Mr. Ratcliff. A bad physiognomy! And yet what Mademoiselle Millefleurs would call a pretty fellow! Let us see. He will carry the girl to Lorain, and have her well guarded in his own house. As he has no faith in women, his policy will be to win her by fine presents, jewels, dresses, and sumptuous living. He will try that game for a full month at least. I think, if the girl is what you tell me she is, we may feel quite secure for a month. That will give us time to plan a campaign. Meanwhile you shall occupy a little room in my house, and keep as calm as you can. My dinner will be ready in ten minutes. You must try to coax an appetite, for you will want all your health and strength. _Courage, mon brave!_”

This old soldier, in his seventieth year, had done the most courageous act of his life. Out of pure charity he had married Madame Ponsard, five years his elder, an anti-Bonapartist, and who had been left a widow, destitute, and with six young parentless grandchildren. Fifty years back he had danced with her when she was a belle in Paris, and that fact was an offset for all her senile vanity and querulousness. It reconciled him, not only to receiving the lady herself, large, obese, and rubicund, and, worst of all, anti-Bonapartist, but to take her encumbrances, four girls and two boys, all with fearful appetites and sound lungs. But the old Captain was a sentimentalist; and the young life about him had rejuvenated his own. After all, there was a selfish calculation in his lovely charities; for he knew that to give was to receive in larger measure.

I accepted his offer of a shelter. The next morning he brought me a copy of the Delta. It contained this paragraph:

“We regret to learn that Mr. Julian Talbot, formerly an actor, and well known in theatrical circles, was yesterday arrested in the atrocious act of abducting a female slave of great personal beauty, belonging to the Hon. Carberry Ratcliff. The slave was recovered, but Talbot managed to escape. The officers are on his track. It is time an example was made of these sneaking Abolitionists.”

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“O insupportable, O heavy hour!” I tried to reconcile myself to delay. I stayed a whole fortnight with Leroux. At last I procured the dress of a laboring Celt, and tied up in a bundle a cheap dress that would serve for a boy. I then stuck a pipe through my hat-band, and put a shillelah under my arm. A mop-like red wig concealed a portion of my face. Lamp-black and ochre did the rest. Leroux told me I was premature in my movements, but, without heeding his expostulations, I took an affectionate leave of him and of Madame, whose heart I had won by talking French with her, and listening to her long stories of the ancient _régime_.

I went on board a Red River boat. One of the policemen who arrested me was present on the watch; but I stared him stupidly in the face, and passed on unsuspected.

Ratcliff was having a canal dug at Lorain for increasing the facilities of transporting cotton; and as the work was unhealthy, he engaged Irishmen for it. The killing an Irishman was no loss, but the death of a slave would be a thousand dollars out of the master’s pocket. I easily got a situation among the diggers. How my heart bounded when I first saw Ratcliff! He came in company with his superintendent, Van Buskirk, and stood near me some minutes while I handled the spade.

For hours, every night during the week, I watched the house to discover the room occupied by Estelle. On Sunday I went in the daytime. From the window of a room in the uppermost story a little cherry-colored scarf was flaunting in the breeze. I at once recognized its meaning. Some negroes were near by under a tree. I approached, and asked an ancient black fellow, who was playing on an old cracked banjo, what he would take for the instrument.

“Look yere, Paddy,” said he, “if yer tink to fool dis chile, yer’ll fine it airn’t to be did. So wood up, and put off ter wunst, or yer’ll kotch it, shoo-ah.”

“But, Daddy, I’m in right earnest,” replied I. “If you’ll sell that banjo at any price within reason, I’ll buy it.”

“It’ll take a heap more’n you kn raise ter buy dis yere banjo; so, Paddy, make tracks, and jes’ you mine how yer guv dis yere ole nigger any more ob yer sarss.”

“I’ll pay you two dollars for that banjo, Daddy. Will you take it?” said I, holding out the silver.

The old fellow looked at me incredulously; then seized the silver and thrust the banjo into my hand, uttering at the same time such an expressive “Wheugh!” as only a negro can. Then, unable to restrain himself, he broke forth: “Yah, yah, yah! Paddy’s got a bargain dis time, shoo-ah. Yah, yah, yah! Look yere, Paddy. Dat am de most sooperfinest banjo in dese parts; can’t fine de match ob it in all Noo Orleenz. Jes’ you hole on ter dem air strings, so dey won’t break in two places ter wonst, and den fire away, and yer’ll ’stonish de natives, shoo-ah. Yah, yah, yah! Takes dis ole nigg to sell a banjo. Yah! yah!”

Every man who achieves success finds his penalty in a train of parasites; and Daddy’s case was not exceptional. As he started in a bee line for his cabin, to boast of his acuteness in trade to an admiring circle, he was followed by his whole gang of witnesses.

All this time I could see Ratcliff with a party of gentlemen on his piazza. They were smoking cigars; and, judging from the noise they made, had been dining and drinking. I slipped away with the banjo under my arm.

That night I returned and played the air of “Pestal” as near to the house as I deemed it prudent to venture. I would play a minute, and then pause. I had not done this three times, when I heard Estelle’s voice from her chamber, humming these words in low but audible tones:

“Hark! methinks I hear celestial voices sing,
Soon thou shalt be free, child of misery,—
Rest and perfect joy in heaven are waiting thee;
Spirit, plume thy wings and flee!”

I struck a few notes, by way of acknowledgment, and left.

The next night I merely whistled the remembered air in token of my presence. A light appeared for a moment at the window, and then was removed. I crept up close to the house. On that side of it where Estelle was confined there were no piazzas. I had not waited two minutes when something touched my head and bobbed before my eyes. It was a little roll of paper. I detached it from the string to which it was tied; and then, taking from my pocket an old envelope, I wrote on it in the dark these words: “To-morrow night at ten o’clock down the string. If prevented, then any night after at the same hour. Love shall find a way. Forever.”

The letter which I found folded in the paper lies yet in my pocket-book, but I need not look at it in order to repeat it entire. It is in these words:—‚Î

“What shall I call thee? Dearest? But that word implies a comparative;
and whom shall I compare with thee? Most precious and most beloved? O,
that is not a tithe of it! Idol? Darling? Sweet? Pretty words, but
insufficient. Ah! life of my life, there are no superlatives in
language that can interpret to thee the unspeakable affection which
swells in my heart and moistens my eyes as I commence this letter! Can
we by words give an idea of a melody? No more can I put on paper what
my heart would be whispering to thine. Forgive the effort and the
failure.

“I have the freedom of the upper story of the house, and my room is
where you saw the scarf. Two strong negro women, with sinister faces,
and employed as seamstresses, watch me every time I cross the
threshold. At night I am locked in. The windows, as you may see, are
always secured by iron bars.

“Ratcliff hopes to subdue me by slow approaches. O, the unutterable
loathing which he inspires! He has placed impure books in my way. He
sends me the daintiest food and wines. I confine myself to bread,
vegetables, and cream. He cannot drug me without my knowledge. Twice
and sometimes three times a day he visits me, and, finding me firm in
my resolve, retires with a self-satisfied air which maddens me. He
evidently believes in my final submission. No! Sooner, death! on my
knees I swear it.

“Yesterday he sent splendid dresses, laces, jewels, diamonds. He
offers me a carriage, an establishment, and to settle on me enough to
make me secure for the future. How he magnifies my hate by all these
despicable baits!

“Sweet, be very prudent. While steadily maintaining towards this
wretch, whom the law calls my master, the demeanor that may best
assure him of my steadfast resolve, I take care not to arouse his
anger; for I know what you want is opportunity. He may any time be
called off suddenly to New Orleans. Be wary. Tell me what you propose.
A string shall be let down from my window to-morrow night at ten by
stealth, for I am watched. God keep thee, my husband, my beloved! How
I shudder at thought of all thy dangers! Be sure, O William, tender
and true, my heart will hold eternally one only image. Adieu!

ESTELLE.”

The next night I put her in possession of a rope and a boy’s dress, also of two files, with directions for filing apart the iron bars. I saw it would not be difficult to enable her to get out of the house. The dreadful question was, How shall we escape the search which will at once be made? For a week we exchanged letters. At last she wrote me that Ratcliff would the next day leave for New Orleans for his wife. I wrote to Estelle to be ready the ensuing night, and on a signal from me to let herself down by the rope.

These plans were successfully carried out. Disguised as a laboring boy, Estelle let herself down to the ground. Once more we clasped each other heart to heart. I had selected a moonless night for the escape. In order to baffle the scent of the bloodhounds that would be put on our track, I took to the river. In a canoe I paddled down stream some fifteen miles till daylight. There, at a little bend called La Coude, we stopped. It now occurred to me that our safest plan would be to take the next boat up the river, and return on our course instead of keeping on to the Mississippi. Our pursuers would probably look for us in any direction but that.

The Rigolette was the first boat that stopped. We went on board, and the first person we encountered was Ratcliff! He was returning, having learnt at the outset of his journey that his wife had left New Orleans the day before. Estelle was thrown off her guard by the suddenness of the meeting, and uttered a short, sharp cry of dismay which betrayed her. Poor child! She was little skilled in feigning. Ratcliff walked up to her and removed her hat.

I had seen men in a rage, but never had I witnessed such an infuriated expression as that which Ratcliff’s features now exhibited. It was wolfish, beastly, in its ferocity. His smooth pink face grew livid. Seizing Estelle roughly by the arm, he—whatever he was about to do, the operation was cut short by a blow from my fist between his eyes which felled him senseless on the deck.

The spectacle of a rich planter knocked down by an Irishman was not a common one on board the Rigolette. We were taken in custody, Estelle and I, and confined together in a state-room.

Ratcliff was badly stunned, but cold water and brandy at length restored him. At Lorain the boat stopped till Van Buskirk and half a dozen low whites, his creatures and hangers-on, could be summoned to take me in charge. Ratcliff now recognized me as his acquaintance of the theatre, and a new paroxysm of fury convulsed his features. I was searched, deprived of my money, then handcuffed; then shackled by the legs, so that I could only move by taking short steps. Estelle’s arms were pinioned behind her, and in that state she was forced into an open vehicle and conveyed to the house.

I was placed in an outbuilding near the stable, a sort of dungeon for refractory slaves. It was lighted from the roof, was unfloored, and contained neither chair nor log on which to sit. For two days and nights neither food nor drink was brought to me. With great difficulty, on account of my chain, I managed to get at a small piece of biscuit in my coat-pocket. This I ate, and, as the rain dripped through the roof, I was enabled to quench my thirst.

On the third day two men led me out to an adjoining building, and down-stairs into a cellar. As we entered, the first object I beheld sent such a shock of horror to my heart that I wonder how I survived it. Tied to a post, and stripped naked to her hips, her head drooping, her breast heaving, her back scored by the lash and bleeding, stood Estelle. Near by, leaning on a cotton-bale, was Ratcliff smoking a cigar. Seated on a block, his back resting against the wall, with one leg over the other, was a white man, holding a cowskin, and apparently resting from his arduous labors as woman-whipper. Forgetting my shackles, and uttering some inarticulate cry of anguish, I strove to rush upon Ratcliff, but fell to the ground, exciting his derision and that of his creatures, the miserable “mean” whites, the essence of whose manhood familiarity with slavery had unmoulded till they had become bestial in their feelings.

Estelle, roused by my voice, turned on me eyes lighted up by an affection which no bodily agony could for one moment enfeeble, and said, gaspingly: “My own husband! You see I keep my oath!”

“Husband indeed! We’ll see about that,” sneered Ratcliff. “Fool! do you imagine that a marriage contracted by a slave without the consent of the master has any validity, moral or legal?”

I turned to him, and uttered—I know not what. The frenzy which seized me lifted me out of my normal state of thought, and by no effort of reminiscence have I ever since been able to recall what I said.

I only remember that Ratcliff, with mock applause, clapped his hands and cried, “Capital!” Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he remarked: “There is yet one little ceremony more to be gone through with. Bring in the bridegroom.”

What new atrocity was this?

A moment afterwards a young, lusty, stout, and not ill-looking negro, fantastically dressed, was led in with mock ceremony, by one of the mean whites, a whiskey-wasted creature named Lovell. I looked eagerly in the face of the negro, who bowed and smirked in a manner to excite roars of laughter on the part of Ratcliff and his minions.

“Well, boy, are you ready to take her for better or for worse?” asked the haughty planter.

The negro bowed obsequiously, and, jerking off his hat, scratched his wool, and, with a laugh, replied: “’Scuze me, massa, but dis nigger can’t see his wife dat is to be ’xposed in dis onhan’some mahnner to de eyes of de profane. If Massa Ratcliff hab no ’jection, I’ll jes’ put de shawl on de bride’s back. Yah, yah, yah!”

“O, make yourself as gallant as you please now,” said the planter, laughing. “Let’s see you begin to play the bridegroom.”

Gracious heavens! Was I right in my surmises? Under all his harlequin grimaces and foolery, this negro, to my quickened penetration, seemed to be crowding back, smothering, disguising, some intense emotion. His laugh was so extravagantly African, that it struck me as imitative in its exaggeration. I had heard a laugh much like it from the late Jim Crow Rice on the stage. Was the negro playing a part?

He approached Estelle, cut the thongs that bound her to the post, threw her shawl over her shoulders, and then, falling on one knee, put both hands on his heart, and rolled up his eyes much after the manner of Bombastes Furioso making love to Distaffina. The Ratcliffites were in ecstasies at the burlesque. Then, rising to his feet, the negro affectedly drew nearer to Estelle, and, putting up his hand, whispered, first in one of her ears, then in the other. I could see a change, sudden, but instantly checked, in her whole manner. Her lips moved. She must have murmured something in reply.

“Look here, Peek, you rascal,” cried Ratcliff, “we must have the benefit of your soft words. What have you been saying to her?”

“I’ze been tellin’ her,” said the negro, with tragic gesticulation, pointing to himself and then at me, “to look fust on dis yere pikter, den on dat. Wheugh!”

Still affecting the buffoon, he came up to me, presenting his person so that his face was visible only to myself. There was a divine pity in his eyes, and in the whole expression of his face the guaranty of a high and holy resolve. “She will trust me,” he whispered. “Do you the same.”

To the spectators he appeared to be mocking me with grimace. To me he seemed an angel of deliverance.

“Now, Peek, to business!” said Ratcliff. “You swear, do you, to make this woman your wife in fact as well as in name; do you understand me, Peek?”

“Yes, massa, I understan’.”

“You swear to guard her well, and never to let that white scoundrel yonder come near or touch her?”

“Yes, massa, I swar ter all dat, an’ ebber so much more. He’ll kotch what he can’t carry if he goes fur to come nare my wife.”

“Kiss the book on it,” said Ratcliff, handing him a Bible.

“Yes, massa, as many books as you please,” replied Peek, doing as he was bidden.

“Then, by my authority as owner of you two slaves, and as justice of the peace, I pronounce you, in presence of these witnesses, man and wife,” said Ratcliff. “Why the hell, Peek, don’t you kiss the bride?”

“O, you jes’ leeb dis chile alone for dat air, Massa Ratcliff,” replied the negro; and, concealing his mouth by both hands, he simulated a kiss.

“Now attend to Mrs. Peek while another little ceremony takes place,” said Ratcliff.

At a given signal I was stripped of my coat, waistcoat, and shirt, then dragged to the whipping-post, and bound to it. I could see Estelle, her face of a mortal paleness, her body writhing as if in an agony. The first lash that descended on my bare flesh seemed to rive her very heart-strings, for she uttered a loud shriek, and was borne out senseless in the negro’s arms.

“All right!” said Ratcliff. “We shall soon have half a dozen little Peeks toddling about. Proceed. Vickery.”

A hundred lashes, each tearing or laying bare the flesh, were inflicted; but after the first, all sensibility to pain was lost in the intensity of my emotions. Had I been changed into a statue of bronze I could not have been more impenetrable to pain.

“Now, sir,” said the slave lord, coming up to me, “you see what it is to cross the path of Carberry Ratcliff. The next time you venture on it, you won’t get off so easy.”

Then, turning to Vickery, he said: “I promised the boys they should have a frolic with him, and see him safely launched. They have been longing for a shy at an Abolitionist. So unshackle him, and let him slide.”

My handcuffs and shackles were taken off. My first impulse on being freed, was to spring upon Ratcliff and strangle him. I could have done it. Though I stood in a pool of my own blood, a preternatural energy filled my veins, and I stepped forth as if just refreshed by sleep. But the thought of Estelle checked the vindictive impulse. A rope was now put about my neck, so that the two ends could be held by my conductors. In this state I was led up-stairs out of the building, and beyond the immediate enclosure of the grounds about the house to a sort of trivium, where some fifty or sixty “mean whites” and a troop of boys of all colors were assembled round a tent in which a negro was dealing out whiskey gratis to the company. Near by stood a kettle sending forth a strong odor of boiling tar. A large sack, the gaping mouth of which showed it was filled with feathers, lay on the ground.

There was a yell of delight from the assembly as soon as I appeared. Half naked as I was, I was dragged forward into their midst, and tied to a tree near the kettle. I could see, at a distance of about a quarter of a mile, Ratcliff promenading his piazza.

There was a dispute among the “chivalry” whether I should be stripped of the only remaining article of dress, my pantaloons, before being “fitted to a new suit.” The consideration that there might be ladies among the distant spectators finally operated in my favor. A brush, similar to that used in whitewashing, was now thrust into the bituminous liquid; and an illustration of one of “our institutions, sir,” was entered upon with enthusiasm. Lovell was the chief operator. The brush was first thrust into my face till eyelids, eyebrows, and hair were glued by the nauseous adhesion. Then it was vigorously applied to the bleeding seams on my back, and the intolerable anguish almost made me faint. My entire person at length being thickly smeared, the bag of feathers was lifted over me by two men and its contents poured out over the tarred surface.

I will not pain you, my friends, by suggesting to your imagination all that there is of horrible, agonizing, and disgusting in this operation, which men, converted into fiends by the hardening influences of slavery, have inflicted on so many hundreds of imprudent or suspected persons from the Northern States. I see in it all now, so far as I was concerned, a Providential martyrdom to awake me to a sense of what slavery does for the education of white men.

O, ye palliators of the “institution”!—Northern men with Southern principles,—ministers of religion who search the Scriptures to find excuses for the Devil’s own work,—and ye who think that any system under which money is made must be right, and of God’s appointment,—who hate any agitation which is likely to diminish the dividends from your cotton-mills or the snug profits from your Southern trade,—come and learn what it is to be tarred and feathered for profaning, by thought or act, or by suspected thought or act, that holy of holies called slavery!

After the feathers had been applied, a wag among my tormentors fixed to my neck and arms pieces of an old sheet stretched on whalebone to imitate a pair of wings. This spectacle afforded to the spectators the climax of their exhilaration and delight. I was then led by a rope to the river’s side and put on an old rickety raft where I had to use constant vigilance to keep the loose planks from disparting. Two men in a boat towed me out into the middle of the stream, and then, amid mock cheers, I was left to drift down with the current or drown, just as the chances might hold in regard to my strength.

Two thoughts sustained me; one Estelle, the other Ratcliff. But for these, with all my youth and power of endurance, I should have sunk and died under my sufferings. For nearly an hour I remained within sight of the mocking, hooting crowd, who were especially amused at my efforts to save myself from immersion by keeping the pieces of my raft together. At length it was floated against a shallow where some brushwood and loose sticks had formed a sort of dam. The sun was sinking through wild, ragged clouds in the west. My tormentors had all gradually disappeared. For the last thirty-six hours I had eaten nothing but a cracker. My eyes were clogged with tar. My efforts in keeping the raft together had been exhaustive. No sooner was I in a place of seeming safety than my strength failed me all at once. I could no longer sit upright. The wind freshened and the waves poured over me, almost drowning me at times. Thicker vapors began to darken the sky. A storm was rising. Night came down frowningly. The planks slipped from under me. I could not lift an arm to stop them. I tried to seize the brushwood heaped on the sand-bar, but it was easily detached, and offered me no security. I seemed to be sinking in the ooze of the river’s bottom. The spray swept over me in ever-increasing volume. I was on the verge of unconsciousness.

Suddenly I roused myself, and grasped the last plank of my raft. I had heard a cry. I listened. The cry was repeated,—a loud halloo, as if from some one afloat in an approaching skiff. I could see nothing, but I lifted my head as well as I could, and cried out, “Here!” Again the halloo, and this time it sounded nearer. I threw my whole strength into one loud shriek of “Here!” and then sank exhausted. A rush of waves swept over me, and my consciousness was suspended.

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When I came to my senses, I lay on a small cot-bedstead in a hut. A negro, whom I at once recognized as the man called Peek, was rubbing my face and limbs with oil and soap. A smell of alcohol and other volatile liquids pervaded the apartment. Much of my hair had been cut off in the effort to rid it of the tar.

“Estelle,—where is she?” were my first words.

“You shall see her soon,” replied the negro. “But you must get a little strength first.”

He spoke in the tones, and used the language, of an educated person. He brought me a little broth and rice, which I swallowed eagerly. I tried to rise, but the pain from the gashes left by the scourge on my back was excruciating.

“Take me to my wife,” I murmured.

He lifted me in his arms and carried me to the open door of an adjoining cabin. Here on a mattress lay Estelle. A colored woman of remarkable aspect, and with straight black hair, was kneeling by her side. This woman Peek addressed as Esha. The little plain gold cross which Estelle used to wear on the ribbon round her neck was now made to serve as the emblem of one of the last sacraments of her religion. At her request, Esha held it, pinned to the ribbon, before her eyes. On a rude table near by, two candles were burning. Estelle’s hands were clasped upon her bosom, and she lay intently regarding the cross, while her lips moved in prayer.

“Try to lib, darlin’,” interrupted Esha; “try to lib,—dat’s a good darlin’! Only try, an’ yer kn do it easy.”

Estelle took the little cross in her hand and kissed it, then said to Esha, “Give this, with a lock of my hair, to—”

Before she could pronounce my name, I rallied my strength, and, with an irrepressible cry of grief, quitted Peek’s support, and rushed to her side. I spoke her name. I took her dear head in my hands. She turned on me eyes beaming with an immortal affection. A celestial smile irradiated her face. Her lips pouted as if pleading for a kiss. I obeyed the invitation, and she acknowledged my compliance by an affirmative motion of the head; a motion that was playful even in that supreme moment.

“My own darling!” she murmured; “I knew you would come. O my poor, suffering darling!”

Then, with a sudden effort, she threw her arms about my neck, and, drawing me closer down to her bosom, said, in sweet, low tones of tenderness: “Love me still as among the living. I do not die. The body dies. I do not die. Love cannot die. Who believes in death, never loved. You may not see _me_, but I shall see _you_. So be a good boy. Do good to all. Love all; so shall you love me the better. I do not part with my love. I take it where it will grow and grow, so as to be all the more fit to welcome my darling. Carrying my love, I carry my heaven with me. It would not be heaven without my love. I have been with my father and mother. So beautiful they are! And such music I have heard! There! Lay your cheek on my bare bosom. So! You do not hurt me. Closer! closer! _Carissime Jesu, nunc libera me!_”[19]

Thus murmuring a line from a Latin poem which she had learnt in the convent where her childhood was passed, her pure spirit, without a struggle or a throe of pain, disentangled itself from its lovely mortal mould, and rose into the purer ether of the immortal life.

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I afterwards learnt that Ratcliff, finding Estelle inexorable in her rejection of his foul proffers, was wrought to such a pitch of rage that he swore, unless she relented, she should be married to a negro slave. He told her he had a smart nigger he had recently bought in New Orleans, a fellow named Peek, who should be her husband. Goaded to desperation by his infamous threats, Estelle had replied, “Better even a negro than a Ratcliff!” This reply had stung him to a degree that was quite intolerable.

To be not only thwarted by a female slave, but insulted,—he, a South Carolinian, a man born to command,—a man with such a figure and such a face rejected for a strolling actor,—a vagabond, a fellow, too, who had knocked him down,—what slave-owner would tamely submit to such mortification! He brooded on the insult till his cruel purpose took shape and consistency in his mind; and it was finally carried out in the way I have described.

It may seem almost incredible to you who are from the North, that any man not insane should be guilty of such atrocities. But Mr. Onslow need not be told that slavery educates men—men, too, of a certain refinement—to deeds even more cowardly and fiendish. Do not imagine that the tyrant who would not scruple to put a black skin under the lash, would hesitate in regard to a white; and the note-book of many an overseer will show that of the whippings inflicted under slavery, more than one third are of women.[20]

For three weeks I was under Peek’s care. Thanks to his tenderness and zeal, my wounds were healed, my strength was restored. Early in December I parted from him and returned to New Orleans. I went to my old friends, the Leroux. They did not recognize me at first, so wasted was I by suffering. Madame forgot her own troubles in mine, and welcomed me with a mother’s affection. The grandchildren subdued their riotous mirth, and trod softly lest they should disturb me. The old Captain wept and raved over my story, and uttered more _sacr-r-r-rés_ in a given time than I supposed even a Frenchman’s volubility could accomplish. I bade these kind friends good by, and went northward.

In Cincinnati and other cities I resumed my old vocation as a play-actor. In two years, having laid up twenty-five hundred dollars, I returned to the Red River country to secure the freedom of the slave to whom I owed my life. He had changed masters. It had got to Ratcliff’s ears that Peek had cheated him in sparing Estelle and rescuing me. He questioned Peek on the subject. Peek, throwing aside all his habitual caution, had declared, in regard to Estelle, that if she had been the Virgin Mary he could not have treated her with more reverence; that he had saved my life, and restored me to her arms. Then, shaking his fist at Ratcliff, he denounced him as a murderer and a coward. The result was, that Peek, after having been put through such a scourging as few men could endure and survive, had been sold to a Mr. Barnwell in Texas.

I followed Peek to his new abode, and proposed either to buy and free him, or to aid him to escape. He bade me save my money for those who could not help themselves. He meant to be free, but did not mean to pay for that which was his by right. At that time he was investigating certain strange occurrences produced by some invisible agency that claimed to be spiritual. He must remain where he was a while longer. I was under no serious obligations to him, he said. He had simply done his duty.

We parted. I tried to find the woman Esha, who had been kind to my wife, but she had been sold no one knew to whom. I went to New Orleans, and assuming, by legislative permission, the name of William Vance, I entered into cotton speculations.

My features had been so changed by suffering, that few recognized me. My operations were bold and successful. In four years I had accumulated a little fortune. Occasionally I would meet Ratcliff. Once I had him completely in my power. He was in the passage-way leading to my office. I could have dragged him in and——

No! The revenge seemed too poor and narrow. I craved something huge and general. The mere punishing of an _individual_ was too puny an expenditure of my hoarded vengeance. But to strike at the “institution” which had spawned this and similar monsters, that would be some small satisfaction.

Closing up my affairs in New Orleans, I entered upon that career which has gained me such notoriety in the Southwest. I have run off many thousand slaves, worth in the aggregate many millions of dollars. My theatrical experience has made me a daring expert in disguising myself. At one time I am a mulatto with a gash across my face; at another time, an old man; at another, a mean whiskey-swilling hanger-on of the chivalry. My task is only just begun. It is not till we have given slavery its immedicable wound, or rather till it has itself committed suicide in the house of its friends, that I shall be ready to say, _Nunc dimittas, domi-ne!_[21]