Chapter XLI: Hopes and Fears (2)

And here, before him, within his grasp, was the author of all these barbarities and indignities! Here was the man who had ordered and superintended the scourging of one in whom all the goodness and grace that ever made womanhood lovely and adorable had met! Here was the haughty scoundrel who had thought to bind her in marriage with one of his own slaves! Here was the insolent ruffian! Here the dastard murderer! What punishment could be equal to his crimes? Death? His life so worthless for hers so precious beyond all reckoning? Oh! that would go but a small way toward paying the enormous debt!

Vance carried in a secret pocket a pistol, and wore a small sword at his side. This last weapon Ratcliff tried to grasp, but failed. Vance looked inquiringly about the room. Ratcliff felt his danger, and struggled with the energy of despair. Vance, with the easy knack of an adroit wrestler, threw him on the floor, then dragging him toward the closet, pulled from a nail a thick leather strap which hung there, having been detached from a trunk. Then hurling Ratcliff into the middle of the room, he collared him before he could rise, and brought down the blows, sharp, quick, vigorous, on face, back, shoulders, till a shriek of “murder” was wrung from the proud lips of the humbled adversary.

Suddenly, in the midst of these inflictions, Vance felt his arm arrested by a firm grasp. He disengaged himself with a start that was feline in its instant evasiveness, turned, and before him stood Peek, interposing between him and the prostrate Ratcliff.

“Stand aside, Peek,” said Vance; “I have hardly begun yet. You are the last man to intercede for this wretch.”

“Not one more blow, Mr. Vance.”

“Stand aside, I say! Come not between me and my mortal foe. Have I not for long years looked forward to this hour? Have I not toiled for it, dreamed of it, hungered for it?”

“No, Mr. Vance, I’ll not think so poorly of you as to believe you’ve done any such thing. It was to right a great wrong that you have toiled,—not to wreak a poor revenge on flesh and blood.”

“No preaching, Peek! Stand out of the way! I’d sooner forego my hope of heaven than be balked now. Away!”

“Have I ever done that which entitles me to ask a favor of you, Mr. Vance?”

“Yes; for that reason I will requite the scars you yourself bear. The scourger shall be scourged.”

“Would you not do _her_ bidding, could you hear it; and can you doubt that she would say, Forgive?”

Vance recoiled for a moment, then replied: “You have used the last appeal; but ’ will not serve. _My_ wrongs I can forgive. _Yours_ I can forgive. But _hers_, never! Once more I say, Stand aside!”

“You _shall_ not give him another blow,” said Peek.

“Shall not?”

And before he could offer any resistance Peek had been thrown to the other side of the room so as to fall backward on his hands.

Then, in a moment, Vance seemed to regret the act. He jumped forward, helped the negro up, begged his pardon, saying: “Forgive me, my dear, dear Peek! Have your own way. Do with this man as you like. Haven’t you the right? Didn’t you once save my life? Are you hurt? Do you forgive me?” And the tears sprang to Vance’s eyes.

“No harm done, Mr. Vance! But you are quick as lightning.”

“Look at me, Peek. Let me see from your face that I’m forgiven.”

And Peek turned on him such an expression, at once tender and benignant, that Vance, seeing they understood each other, was reassured.

Clara had sat all this time intently watching every movement, but too weak from agitation to interfere, even if she had been so disposed.

Ratcliff, recovering from the confusion of brain produced by the rapid blows he had endured, looked to see to whom he had been indebted for help. In all the whims of Fate, could it be there was one like this in reserve? Yes! that negro was the same he, Ratcliff, had once caused to be scourged till three men were wearied out in the labor of lashing. The fellow’s back must be all furrowed and criss-crossed with the marks got from him, Ratcliff. Yet here was the nigger, coming to the succor of his old master! The instinct of servility was stronger in him even than revenge. Who would deny, after this, what he, Ratcliff, had often asserted, “Niggers will be niggers?”

And so, instead of recognizing a godlike generosity in the act, the slave-driver saw in it only the habit of a base spirit, and the wholesome effect, upon an inferior, of that imposing quality in his, Ratcliff’s, own nature and bearing, which showed he was of the master race, and justified all his assumptions.

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Watching his opportunity Ratcliff crawled toward the billiard-room door, and, suddenly starting up, pulled it open, thinking to escape. To his dismay he encountered a large black dog of the bloodhound species, who growled and showed his teeth so viciously that Ratcliff sprang back. Following the dog appeared a young soldier, who, casting round his eyes, saw Clara, and darting to her side, seized and warmly pressed her extended hand. Overcome with amazement, Ratcliff reeled backward and sank into an arm-chair, for in the soldier he recognized Captain Onslow.

Voices were now heard on the stairs, and two men appeared. One of them was of a compact, well-built figure, and apparently about fifty years old. He was clad in a military dress, and his aspect spoke courage and decision. The individual at his side, and who seemed to be paying court to him, was a tall, gaunt figure, in the coarse uniform of the prison. He carried his cap in his hand, showing that half of his head was entirely bald, while the other half was covered with a matted mass of reddish-gray hair.

This last man, as he mounted the stairs and stood on the landing, might have been heard to say: “Kunnle Blake, you’re a high-tone gemmleman, ef you air a Yankee. You see in me, Kunnle, a victim of the damdest ongratitood. These Noo-Orleenz ’ristocrats couldn’t huv treated a nigger or an abolitioner wuss nor they’ve treated _me_. I told ’em I wuz Virginia-born; told ’em what I’d done fur thar damned Confed’racy; told ’em what a blasted good friend I’d been to the institootion; but—will you believe it?—they tuk me up on a low charge of ’propriatin’ to private use the money they giv me ter raise a company with;—they hahd me up afore a committee of close-fisted old fogies, an’ may I be shot ef they didn’t order me to be jugged, an’ half of my head to be shaved! An’ ’t was did. Damned ef it warnt! But I’ll be even with ’em, damn ’em! Ef I don’t, may I be kept ter work in a rice-swamp the rest of my days. I’ll let ’em see what it is to treat one of the Hyde blood in this ’ere way, as if he war a low-lived corn-cracker. I’ll let ’em see what thar rotten institootion’s wuth. Ef they kn afford ter make out of a born gemmleman a scarecrow like I am now, with my half-shaved scalp, jes fur ’propriatin’ a few of thar damned rags, well and good. They’ll hahv ter look round lively afore they kn find sich another friend as Delancey Hyde has been ter King Cotton,—damn him! They shall find Delancy Hyde kn unmake as well as make.”

To these wrathful words, Blake replied: “Perhaps you don’t remember me, Colonel Hyde.”

“Cuss me ef I do. Ef ever I seed you afore, ’ was so long ago that it’s clean gone out of my head.”

“Don’t you remember the policeman who made you give up the fugitive slave, Peek, that day in the lawyer’s office in New York?”

“I don’t remember nobody else!” exclaimed Hyde, jubilant at the thought of claiming one respectable man as an old acquaintance, and quite forgetting the fact that they had parted as foes. “Kunnle Blake, we must liquor together the fust chance we kn git. As for Peek, I don’t want to see a higher-toned gemmleman than Peek is, though he _is_ blacker than my boot. Will you believe it, Kunnle? That ar nigger, findin’ as how I wuz out of money, arter Kunnle Vance had tuk me out of jail, what does he do but give me twenty dollars! In good greenbacks, too! None of your sham Confed’rate trash! Ef that ain’t bein’ a high-tone gemmleman, what is? He done it too in the most-er delicate manner,—off-hand, like a born prince.”

By this time the interlocutors had entered the billiard-room. After them came a colored man and a negro. One of these was Sam, the house-servant, the other Antoine, the owner of the dog. Immediately after them came Esha and Madame Josephine. They passed Ratcliff without noticing him, and went to Clara, and almost devoured her with their kisses.

No sooner had these two moved away in this terrible procession than an oldish lady, hanging coquettishly on the arm of a man somewhat younger than herself, of a rather red face, and highly dressed, entered the room, and, apparently too much absorbed in each other to notice Ratcliff, walked on until the lady, encountering Clara, rushed at her hysterically, and shrieking, “My own precious child!” fell into her arms in the most approved melodramatic style. This lady was Mrs. Gentry, who had recently retired from school-keeping with “something handsome,” which the Vigilance Committee had been trying to get hold of for Confederate wants, but which she had managed to withhold from their grasp, until that “blessed Butler” coming, relieved her fears, and secured her in her own. The gentleman attending her was Mr. Ripper, ex-auctioneer, who, in his mellow days, finding that Jordan was a hard road to travel, had concluded to sign the temperance pledge, reform, and take care of himself. With this view, what could he do better than find some staid, respectable woman, with “a little something of her own,” with whom he could join hands on the downhill of life? As luck would have it, he was introduced to Mrs. Gentry that very evening, and he was now paying his first devoirs.

After the appearance of this couple, steps heavy and slow were heard ascending the stairs into the billiard-room; and the next moment Mr. Winslow appeared, followed by Lawyer Semmes. And, bringing up the rear of the party, and presenting in himself a fitting climax to these stunning surprises, came a large and powerful negro in military rig, bearing a musket with bayonet fixed, and displaying a small United States flag. This man was Decazes, an escaped slave belonging to Ratcliff, and for whom he had offered a reward of five hundred dollars.

Ratcliff had half-risen from his chair, holding on to the arms with both hands for support. His countenance, laced by the leathern blows he had received, his left eye blue and swollen, every feature distorted with consternation, rage, and astonishment, he presented such a picture of baffled tyranny as photography alone could do justice to. Was it delirium,—was it some harrowing dream,—under which he was suffering? That flag! What did it mean?

“Semmes!” he exclaimed, “what has happened? Where do these Yankees come from?”

“Possible? Haven’t you heard the news?” returned the lawyer. “Farragut and Butler have possession of New Orleans. What have you been doing with yourself the last three days?”

“Butler?” exclaimed Ratcliff, astounded and incredulous,—“Picayune Butler?—the contemptible swell-head,—the pettifogging—”

Semmes walked away, as if choosing not to be implicated in any treasonable talk.

Suddenly recognizing Winslow, Ratcliff impotently shook his fists and darted at him an expression of malignant and vindictive hate.

Could it be? New Orleans in the hands of the Vandals,—the “miserable miscreants,”—the “hyenas,” as President Davis and Robert Toombs were wont to stigmatize the whole people of the North? Where was the great ram that was to work such wonders? Where were the Confederate gunboats? Were not Forts Jackson and St. Philip impregnable? Could not the Chalamette batteries sink any Yankee fleet that floated? Had not the fire-eaters,—the last-ditch men,—resolved that New Orleans should be laid in ashes before the detested flag, emblematic of Yankee rule, should wave from the public buildings? And here was a black rascal in uniform, flaunting that flag in the very face of one of the foremost of the chivalry! Let the universe slide after this! Let chaos return!

The company drifted in groups of two and three through the suite of rooms. Sam disappeared suddenly. The women were in the front room. Ratcliff, supposing that he was unnoticed, rose to escape. But Victor the hound, was on hand. He had been lying partly under the bed, with his muzzle out and resting on his fore paws, affecting to be asleep, but really watching the man whom his subtle instincts had told him was the game for which he was responsible; and now the beast darted up with an imperious bark, and Ratcliff, furious, but helpless, sank back on his seat.

Colonel Delancy Hyde approached, with the view of making himself agreeable.

“Squire Ratcliff,” said he, “you seem to be in a dam bad way. Kin I do anything fur yer? Any niggers you want kotched, Squire? Niggers is mighty onsartin property jes now, Squire. Gen’ral Butler swars he’ll have a black regiment all uniformed afore the Fourth of July comes round. Wouldn’t give much fer yer Red River gangs jes now, Squire! Reckon they’ll be findin’ thar way to Gen’ral Butler’s head-quarters, sure.”

Ratcliff cowered and groaned in spirit as he thought of the immense sums which, in his confidence in the success of the Rebellion, he had been investing in slaves. Unless he could run his gangs off to Texas, he would be ruined.

“Look at me, Squire,” continued the Colonel; “I’m Kunnle Delancy Hyde,—Virginia born, be Gawd; but, fur all that, I might jest as well been born in hell, fur any gratitude you cust ’ristocrats would show me. Yes, you’re one on ’em. Here I’ve been drudgin’ the last thirty years in the nigger-ketchin’ business, and see my reward,—a half-shaved scalp, an’ be damned to yer! But my time’s comin’. Now Kunnle Delancy Hyde tries a new tack. Instead of ketchin’ niggers, he’s goin’ to free ’em; and whar he kotched one he’ll free a thousand. Lou’siana’s bound to be a free State. All Cotton-dom’s bound to be free. Uncle Sam shall have black regiments afore Sumter soon. Only the freedom of every nigger in the land kn wipe out the wrongs of Delancy Hyde,—kn avenge his half-shaved scalp!”

Here the appearance of Sam, the house-servant, with a large salver containing a pitcher, a sugar-bowl, a decanter, tumblers, and several bottles, put a stop to the Colonel’s eloquence, and drew him away as the loadstone draws the needle.

Onslow came near to Ratcliff, looked him in the face contemptuously, and turned away without acknowledging the acquaintance. After him reappeared Ripper and Mrs. Gentry, arm-in-arm, the lady with her hands clasped girlishly, and her shoulder pressed closely up against that of the auctioneer. It was evident she was going, going, if not already gone. Ripper put up his eye-glass, and, carelessly nodding, remarked, “Such is life, Ratcliff!” (Ratcliff! The beggar presumed to call him Ratcliff!) The couple passed on, the lady exclaiming so that the observation should not be lost on the ears for which it was intended,—“I always said he would be come up with!”

Semmes now happening to pass by, Ratcliff, deeply agitated, but affecting equanimity, said: “How is it, Semmes? Are you going to help me out of this miserable scrape?”

“Our relations must end here, Mr. Ratcliff,” replied the lawyer.

“So much the better,” said Ratcliff; “it will spare my standing the swindle you call professional charges on your books.”

“Don’t be under a misapprehension, my poor friend,” returned Semmes. “I have laid an attachment on your deposits in the Lafayette Bank. They will just satisfy my claim.”

And taking a pinch of snuff the lawyer walked unconcernedly away. “O that I had my revolver here!” thought Ratcliff, with an inward groan.

But here was Madame Josephine. Here was at least _one_ friend left to him. Of her attachment, under any change of fortune, he felt assured. Her own means, not insignificant, might now suffice for the rehabilitation of his affairs. She drew near, her face radiant with the satisfaction she had felt in the recovery of Clara. She drew near, and Ratcliff caught her eye, and rising and putting out his hands, as if for an embrace, murmured, in a confidential whisper, “Josephine, dearest, come to me!”

She frowned indignantly, threw back her arm with one scornful and repelling sweep, and simply ejaculating, “No more!” moved away from him, and took the proffered arm of the trustee of her funds, the venerable Winslow.

The party now passed away from Ratcliff, and out of the two rooms; most of them going down-stairs to the carriages that waited in the street to bear them to the St. Charles Hotel, over whose cupola the Stars and Stripes were gloriously fluttering in the starlight.

Ratcliff found himself alone with the ever-watchful bloodhound. Suddenly a whistle was heard, and Victor started up and trotted down-stairs. Ratcliff rose to quit the apartment. All at once the stalwart negro, lately his slave, in uniform, and bearing a musket, with the old flag, stood before him.

“Follow me,” said the man, with the dignity of a true soldier.

“Where to?”

“To the lock-up, to wait General Butler’s orders.”

On a pallet of straw that night Ratcliff had an opportunity of revolving in solitude the events of the day. In the miscarriage of his schemes, in the downfall of his hopes, and in the humbling of his pride, he experienced a hell worse than the imagination of the theologian ever conceived. What pangs can equal those of the merciless tyrant when he tumbles into the place of his victims and has to endure, in unstinted measure, the stripes and indignities he has been wont to inflict so unsparingly on others!

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Footnote 43:

This yoke was on exhibition several months at Williams and Everett’s,
Washington Street, Boston, it having been sent by Governor Andrew with
a letter, the original of which we have before us while we write. It
bears date September 10th, 1863. It says of this yoke (which we have
held in our hands), that it “was cut from the neck of a slave girl”
who had worn it “for three weary months. An officer of Massachusetts
Volunteers, whose letter I enclose to you, sent me this memento,” &c.
That officer’s original letter, signed S. Tyler Read, Captain Third
Massachusetts Cavalry, is also before us. He writes to the Governor of
Massachusetts, that, having been sent with a detachment of troops down
the river to search suspected premises on the plantation of Madame
Coutreil, his attention was attracted by a small house, closed
tightly, and about nine or ten feet square. “I demanded,” writes
Captain Read, “the keys, and after unlocking double doors found myself
in the entrance of a dark and loathsome dungeon. ‘In Heaven’s name,
what have you here?’ I exclaimed to the slave mistress. ‘O, only a
little girly—_she runned away!_’ I peered into the darkness, and was
able to discover, sitting at one end of the room upon a low stool, a
girl about eighteen years of age. _She had this iron torture riveted
about her neck, where it had rusted through the skin, and lay
corroding apparently upon the flesh._ Her head was bowed upon her
hands, and she was almost insensible from emaciation and immersion in
the foul air of her dungeon. She was quite white.... I had the girl
taken to the city, where this torture was removed from her neck by a
blacksmith, who cut the rivet, and she was subsequently made free by
military authority.”

See in the Atlantic Monthly (July, 1863) a paper entitled “Our
General,” from the pen of one who served as Deputy Provost Marshal in
New Orleans. His facts are corroborated both by General Butler and
Governor Shepley, who took pains to authenticate them. A girl, “a
perfect blonde, her hair of a very pretty, light shade of brown, and
perfectly straight,” had been publicly whipped by her master (who was
also her father), and then “forced to marry a colored man.” We spare
our readers the mention of the most loathsome fact in the narrative.

Another case is stated by the same writer. A mulatto girl, the slave
of one Landry, was brought to General Butler. She had been brutally
scourged by her master. He confessed to the castigation, but pleaded
that she had tried to get her freedom. The poor girl’s back had been
flayed “until the quivering flesh resembled a fresh beefsteak scorched
on a gridiron.” It was declared by influential citizens, who
interceded for him, that Landry was (we quote the recorded words) “not
only a _high-toned gentleman_, but a person of unusual amiability of
character.” General Butler freed the girl, and compelled the
high-toned Landry to pay over to her the sum of five hundred dollars.