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Iola Leroy; Or, Shadows Uplifted

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Title: Iola Leroy; Or, Shadows Uplifted

Author: Frances Ellen Watkins Harper


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #12352]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IOLA LEROY; OR, SHADOWS UPLIFTED ***

IOLA LEROY,

OR

SHADOWS UPLIFTED.

BY

FRANCES E.W. HARPER.




1893, Philadelphia

TO MY DAUGHTER

MARY E. HARPER,

THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED.




INTRODUCTION.


I confess when I first learned that Mrs. Harper was about to write "a
story" on some features of the Anglo-African race, growing out of what
was once popularly known as the "peculiar institution," I had my doubts
about the matter. Indeed it was far from being easy for me to think that
she was as fortunate as she might have been in selecting a subject which
would afford her the best opportunity for bringing out a work of merit
and lasting worth to the race--such a work as some of her personal
friends have long desired to see from her graphic pen. However, after
hearing a good portion of the manuscript read, and a general statement
with regard to the object in view, I admit frankly that my partial
indifference was soon swept away; at least I was willing to wait for
further developments.

Being very desirous that one of the race, so long distinguished in the
cause of freedom for her intellectual worth as Mrs. Harper has had the
honor of being, should not at this late date in life make a blunder
which might detract from her own good name, I naturally proposed to
await developments before deciding too quickly in favor of giving
encouragement to her contemplated effort.

However, I was perfectly aware of the fact that she had much material in
her possession for a most interesting book on the subject of the
condition of the colored people in the South. I know of no other woman,
white or colored, anywhere, who has come so intimately in contact with
the colored people in the South as Mrs. Harper. Since emancipation she
has labored in every Southern State in the Union, save two, Arkansas and
Texas; in the colleges, schools, churches, and the cabins not excepted,
she has found a vast field and open doors to teach and speak on the
themes of education, temperance, and good home building, industry,
morality, and the like, and never lacked for evidences of hearty
appreciation and gratitude.

Everywhere help was needed, and her heart being deeply absorbed in the
cause she willingly allowed her sympathies to impel her to perform most
heroic services.

With her it was no uncommon occurrence, in visiting cities or towns, to
speak at two, three, and four meetings a day; sometimes to promiscuous
audiences composed of everybody who would care to come.

But the kind of meetings she took greatest interest in were meetings
called exclusively for women. In this attitude she could pour out her
sympathies to them as she could not do before a mixed audience; and
indeed she felt their needs were far more pressing than any other class.

And now I am prepared to most fully indorse her story. I doubt whether
she could, if she had tried ever so much, have hit upon a subject so
well adapted to reach a large number of her friends and the public with
both entertaining and instructive matter as successfully as she has done
in this volume.

The grand and ennobling sentiments which have characterized all her
utterances in laboring for the elevation of the oppressed will not be
found missing in this book.

The previous books from her pen, which have been so very widely
circulated and admired, North and South--"Forest Leaves," "Miscellaneous
Poems," "Moses, a Story of the Nile," "Poems," and "Sketches of Southern
Life" (five in number)--these, I predict, will be by far eclipsed by
this last effort, which will, in all probability, be the crowning effort
of her long and valuable services in the cause of humanity.

While, as indicated, Mrs. Harper has done a large amount of work in the
South, she has at the same time done much active service in the
temperance cause in the North, as thousands of this class can testify.

Before the war she was engaged as a speaker by anti-slavery
associations; since then, by appointment of the Women's Christian
Temperance Union, she has held the office of "Superintendent of Colored
Work" for years. She has also held the office of one of the Directors of
the Women's Congress of the United States.

Under the auspices of these influential, earnest, and intelligent
associations, she has been seen often on their platforms with the
leading lady orators of the nation.

Hence, being widely known not only amongst her own race but likewise by
the reformers, laboring for the salvation of the intemperate and others
equally unfortunate, there is little room to doubt that the book will be
in great demand and will meet with warm congratulations from a goodly
number outside of the author's social connections.

Doubtless the thousands of colored Sunday-schools in the South, in
casting about for an interesting, moral story-book, full of practical
lessons, will not be content to be without "IOLA LEROY, OR SHADOWS
UPLIFTED."

WILLIAM STILL.




CONTENTS.


Chapter

I. The Mystery of Market Speech and Prayer Meetings

II. Contraband of War

III. Uncle Daniel's Story

IV. Arrival of the Union Army

V. Release of Iola Leroy

VI. Robert Johnson's Promotion and Religion

VII. Tom Anderson's Death

VIII. The Mystified Doctor

IX. Eugene Leroy and Alfred Lorraine

X. Shadows in the Home

XI. The Plague and the Law

XII. School-girl Notions

XIII. A Rejected Suitor

XIV. Harry Leroy

XV. Robert and his Company

XVI. After the Battle

XVII. Flames in the School-Room

XVIII. Searching for Lost Ones

XIX. Striking Contrasts

XX. A Revelation

XXI. A Home for Mother

XXII. Further Lifting of the Veil

XXIII. Delightful Reunions

XXIV. Northern Experience

XXV. An Old Friend

XXVI. Open Questions

XXVII. Diverging Paths

XXVIII. Dr. Latrobe's Mistake

XXIX. Visitors from the South

XXX. Friends in Council

XXXI. Dawning Affections

XXXII. Wooing and Wedding

XXXIII. Conclusion

Note




CHAPTER I.


MYSTERY OF MARKET SPEECH AND PRAYER-MEETING.

"Good mornin', Bob; how's butter dis mornin'?"

"Fresh; just as fresh, as fresh can be."

"Oh, glory!" said the questioner, whom we shall call Thomas Anderson,
although he was known among his acquaintances as Marster Anderson's Tom.

His informant regarding the condition of the market was Robert Johnson,
who had been separated from his mother in his childhood and reared by
his mistress as a favorite slave. She had fondled him as a pet animal,
and even taught him to read. Notwithstanding their relation as mistress
and slave, they had strong personal likings for each other.

Tom Anderson was the servant of a wealthy planter, who lived in the city
of C----, North Carolina. This planter was quite advanced in life, but
in his earlier days he had spent much of his time in talking politics in
his State and National capitals in winter, and in visiting pleasure
resorts and watering places in summer. His plantations were left to the
care of overseers who, in their turn, employed negro drivers to aid them
in the work of cultivation and discipline. But as the infirmities of age
were pressing upon him he had withdrawn from active life, and given the
management of his affairs into the hands of his sons. As Robert Johnson
and Thomas Anderson passed homeward from the market, having bought
provisions for their respective homes, they seemed to be very
light-hearted and careless, chatting and joking with each other; but
every now and then, after looking furtively around, one would drop into
the ears of the other some news of the battle then raging between the
North and South which, like two great millstones, were grinding slavery
to powder.

As they passed along, they were met by another servant, who said in
hurried tones, but with a glad accent in his voice:--

"Did you see de fish in de market dis mornin'? Oh, but dey war splendid,
jis' as fresh, as fresh kin be."

"That's the ticket," said Robert, as a broad smile overspread his face.
"I'll see you later."

"Good mornin', boys," said another servant on his way to market. "How's
eggs dis mornin'?"

"Fust rate, fust rate," said Tom Anderson. "Bob's got it down fine."

"I thought so; mighty long faces at de pos'-office dis mornin'; but I'd
better move 'long," and with a bright smile lighting up his face he
passed on with a quickened tread.

There seemed to be an unusual interest manifested by these men in the
state of the produce market, and a unanimous report of its good
condition. Surely there was nothing in the primeness of the butter or
the freshness of the eggs to change careless looking faces into such
expressions of gratification, or to light dull eyes with such gladness.
What did it mean?

During the dark days of the Rebellion, when the bondman was turning his
eyes to the American flag, and learning to hail it as an ensign of
deliverance, some of the shrewder slaves, coming in contact with their
masters and overhearing their conversations, invented a phraseology to
convey in the most unsuspected manner news to each other from the
battle-field. Fragile women and helpless children were left on the
plantations while their natural protectors were at the front, and yet
these bondmen refrained from violence. Freedom was coming in the wake of
the Union army, and while numbers deserted to join their forces, others
remained at home, slept in their cabins by night and attended to their
work by day; but under this apparently careless exterior there was an
undercurrent of thought which escaped the cognizance of their masters.
In conveying tidings of the war, if they wished to announce a victory of
the Union army, they said the butter was fresh, or that the fish and
eggs were in good condition. If defeat befell them, then the butter and
other produce were rancid or stale.

Entering his home, Robert set his basket down. In one arm he held a
bundle of papers which he had obtained from the train to sell to the
boarders, who were all anxious to hear from the seat of battle. He
slipped one copy out and, looking cautiously around, said to Linda, the
cook, in a low voice:--

"Splendid news in the papers. Secesh routed. Yankees whipped 'em out of
their boots. Papers full of it. I tell you the eggs and the butter's
mighty fresh this morning."

"Oh, sho, chile," said Linda, "I can't read de newspapers, but ole
Missus' face is newspaper nuff for me. I looks at her ebery mornin' wen
she comes inter dis kitchen. Ef her face is long an' she walks kine o'
droopy den I thinks things is gwine wrong for dem. But ef she comes out
yere looking mighty pleased, an' larffin all ober her face, an' steppin'
so frisky, den I knows de Secesh is gittin' de bes' ob de Yankees.
Robby, honey, does you really b'lieve for good and righty dat dem
Yankees is got horns?"

"Of course not."

"Well, I yered so."

"Well, you heard a mighty big whopper."

"Anyhow, Bobby, things goes mighty contrary in dis house. Ole Miss is in
de parlor prayin' for de Secesh to gain de day, and we's prayin' in de
cabins and kitchens for de Yankees to get de bes' ob it. But wasn't Miss
Nancy glad wen dem Yankees run'd away at Bull's Run. It was nuffin but
Bull's Run an' run away Yankees. How she did larff and skip 'bout de
house. An' den me thinks to myself you'd better not holler till you gits
out ob de woods. I specs 'fore dem Yankees gits froo you'll be larffin
tother side ob your mouf. While you was gone to market ole Miss com'd
out yere, her face looking as long as my arm, tellin' us all 'bout de
war and saying dem Yankees whipped our folks all to pieces. And she was
'fraid dey'd all be down yere soon. I thought they couldn't come too
soon for we. But I didn't tell her so."

"No, I don't expect you did."

"No, I didn't; ef you buys me for a fool you loses your money shore. She
said when dey com'd down yere she wanted all de men to hide, for dey'd
kill all de men, but dey wouldn't tech de women."

"It's no such thing. She's put it all wrong. Why them Yankees are our
best friends."

"Dat's jis' what I thinks. Ole Miss was jis' tryin to skeer a body. An'
when she war done she jis' set down and sniffled an' cried, an' I war so
glad I didn't know what to do. But I had to hole in. An' I made out I
war orful sorry. An' Jinny said, 'O Miss Nancy, I hope dey won't come
yere.' An' she said, 'I'se jis' 'fraid dey will come down yere and
gobble up eberything dey can lay dere hands on.' An' she jis' looked as
ef her heart war mos' broke, an' den she went inter de house. An' when
she war gone, we jis' broke loose. Jake turned somersets, and said he
warnt 'fraid ob dem Yankees; he know'd which side his brad was buttered
on. Dat Jake is a cuter. When he goes down ter git de letters he cuts up
all kines ob shines and capers. An' to look at him skylarking dere while
de folks is waitin' for dere letters, an' talkin' bout de war, yer
wouldn't think dat boy had a thimbleful of sense. But Jake's listenin'
all de time wid his eyes and his mouf wide open, an' ketchin' eberything
he kin, an' a heap ob news he gits dat way. As to Jinny, she jis'
capered and danced all ober de flore. An' I jis' had to put my han' ober
her mouf to keep ole Miss from yereing her. Oh, but we did hab a good
time. Boy, yer oughter been yere."

"And, Aunt Linda, what did you do?"

"Oh, honey, I war jis' ready to crack my sides larffin, jis' to see what
a long face Jinny puts on wen ole Miss is talkin', an' den to see dat
face wen missus' back is turned, why it's good as a circus. It's nuff to
make a horse larff."

"Why, Aunt Linda, you never saw a circus?"

"No, but I'se hearn tell ob dem, and I thinks dey mus' be mighty funny.
An' I know it's orful funny to see how straight Jinny's face looks wen
she's almos' ready to bust, while ole Miss is frettin' and fumin' 'bout
dem Yankees an' de war. But, somehow, Robby, I ralely b'lieves dat we
cullud folks is mixed up in dis fight. I seed it all in a vision. An'
soon as dey fired on dat fort, Uncle Dan'el says to me: 'Linda, we's
gwine to git our freedom.' An' I says: 'Wat makes you think so?" An' he
says: 'Dey've fired on Fort Sumter, an' de Norf is boun' to whip.'"

"I hope so," said Robert. "I think that we have a heap of friends up
there."

"Well, I'm jis' gwine to keep on prayin' an' b'lievin'."

Just then the bell rang, and Robert, answering, found Mrs. Johnson
suffering from a severe headache, which he thought was occasioned by her
worrying over the late defeat of the Confederates. She sent him on an
errand, which he executed with his usual dispatch, and returned to some
work which he had to do in the kitchen. Robert was quite a favorite with
Aunt Linda, and they often had confidential chats together.

"Bobby," she said, when he returned, "I thinks we ort ter hab a
prayer-meetin' putty soon."

"I am in for that. Where will you have it?"

"Lem me see. Las' Sunday we had it in Gibson's woods; Sunday 'fore las',
in de old cypress swamp; an' nex' Sunday we'el hab one in McCullough's
woods. Las' Sunday we had a good time. I war jis' chock full an' runnin'
ober. Aunt Milly's daughter's bin monin all summer, an' she's jis' come
throo. We had a powerful time. Eberythin' on dat groun' was jis' alive.
I tell yer, dere was a shout in de camp."

"Well, you had better look out, and not shout too much, and pray and
sing too loud, because, 'fore you know, the patrollers will be on your
track and break up your meetin' in a mighty big hurry, before you can
say 'Jack Robinson.'"

"Oh, we looks out for dat. We's got a nice big pot, dat got cracked las'
winter, but it will hole a lot o' water, an' we puts it whar we can tell
it eberything. We has our own good times. An' I want you to come Sunday
night an' tell all 'bout the good eggs, fish, and butter. Mark my words,
Bobby, we's all gwine to git free. I seed it all in a vision, as plain
as de nose on yer face."

"Well, I hope your vision will come out all right, and that the eggs
will keep and the butter be fresh till we have our next meetin'."

"Now, Bob, you sen' word to Uncle Dan'el, Tom Anderson, an' de rest ob
dem, to come to McCullough's woods nex' Sunday night. I want to hab a
sin-killin' an' debil-dribin' time. But, boy, you'd better git out er
yere. Ole Miss'll be down on yer like a scratch cat."

Although the slaves were denied unrestricted travel, and the holding of
meetings without the surveillance of a white man, yet they contrived to
meet by stealth and hold gatherings where they could mingle their
prayers and tears, and lay plans for escaping to the Union army.
Outwitting the vigilance of the patrollers and home guards, they
established these meetings miles apart, extending into several States.

Sometimes their hope of deliverance was cruelly blighted by hearing of
some adventurous soul who, having escaped to the Union army, had been
pursued and returned again to bondage. Yet hope survived all these
disasters which gathered around the fate of their unfortunate brethren,
who were remanded to slavery through the undiscerning folly of those who
were strengthening the hands which were dealing their deadliest blows at
the heart of the Nation. But slavery had cast such a glamour over the
Nation, and so warped the consciences of men, that they failed to read
aright the legible transcript of Divine retribution which was written
upon the shuddering earth, where the blood of God's poor children had
been as water freely spilled.




CHAPTER II.


CONTRABAND OF WAR.

A few evenings after this conversation between Robert and Linda, a
prayer-meeting was held. Under the cover of night a few dusky figures
met by stealth in McCullough's woods.

"Howdy," said Robert, approaching Uncle Daniel, the leader of the
prayer-meeting, who had preceded him but a few minutes.

"Thanks and praise; I'se all right. How is you, chile?"

"Oh, I'm all right," said Robert, smiling, and grasping Uncle Daniel's
hand.

"What's de news?" exclaimed several, as they turned their faces eagerly
towards Robert.

"I hear," said Robert, "that they are done sending the runaways back to
their masters."

"Is dat so?" said a half dozen earnest voices. "How did you yere it?"

"I read it in the papers. And Tom told me he heard them talking about it
last night, at his house. How did you hear it, Tom? Come, tell us all
about it."

Tom Anderson hesitated a moment, and then said:--

"Now, boys, I'll tell you all 'bout it. But you's got to be mighty mum
'bout it. It won't do to let de cat outer de bag."

"Dat's so! But tell us wat you yered. We ain't gwine to say nuffin to
nobody."

"Well," said Tom, "las' night ole Marster had company. Two big
ginerals, and dey was hoppin' mad. One ob dem looked like a turkey
gobbler, his face war so red. An' he sed one ob dem Yankee ginerals, I
thinks dey called him Beas' Butler, sed dat de slaves dat runned away
war some big name--I don't know what he called it. But it meant dat all
ob we who com'd to de Yankees should be free."

"Contraband of war," said Robert, who enjoyed the distinction of being a
good reader, and was pretty well posted about the war. Mrs. Johnson had
taught him to read on the same principle she would have taught a pet
animal amusing tricks. She had never imagined the time would come when
he would use the machinery she had put in his hands to help overthrow
the institution to which she was so ardently attached.

"What does it mean? Is it somethin' good for us?"

"I think," said Robert, a little vain of his superior knowledge, "it is
the best kind of good. It means if two armies are fighting and the
horses of one run away, the other has a right to take them. And it is
just the same if a slave runs away from the Secesh to the Union lines.
He is called a contraband, just the same as if he were an ox or a horse.
They wouldn't send the horses back, and they won't send us back."

"Is dat so?" said Uncle Daniel, a dear old father, with a look of
saintly patience on his face. "Well, chillen, what do you mean to do?"

"Go, jis' as soon as we kin git to de army," said Tom Anderson.

"What else did the generals say? And how did you come to hear them,
Tom?" asked Robert Johnson.

"Well, yer see, Marster's too ole and feeble to go to de war, but his
heart's in it. An' it makes him feel good all ober when dem big ginerals
comes an' tells him all 'bout it. Well, I war laying out on de porch
fas' asleep an' snorin' drefful hard. Oh, I war so soun' asleep dat wen
Marster wanted some ice-water he had to shake me drefful hard to wake me
up. An' all de time I war wide 'wake as he war."

"What did they say?" asked Robert, who was always on the lookout for
news from the battle-field.

"One ob dem said, dem Yankees war talkin' of puttin' guns in our han's
and settin' us all free. An' de oder said, 'Oh, sho! ef dey puts guns in
dere hands dey'll soon be in our'n; and ef dey sets em free dey wouldn't
know how to take keer ob demselves.'"

"Only let 'em try it," chorused a half dozen voices, "an' dey'll soon
see who'll git de bes' ob de guns; an' as to taking keer ob ourselves, I
specs we kin take keer ob ourselves as well as take keer ob dem."

"Yes," said Tom, "who plants de cotton and raises all de crops?"

    "'They eat the meat and give us the bones,
      Eat the cherries and give us the stones,'

"And I'm getting tired of the whole business," said Robert.

"But, Bob," said Uncle Daniel, "you've got a good owner. You don't hab
to run away from bad times and wuss a comin'."

"It isn't so good, but it might be better. I ain't got nothing 'gainst
my ole Miss, except she sold my mother from me. And a boy ain't nothin'
without his mother. I forgive her, but I never forget her, and never
expect to. But if she were the best woman on earth I would rather have
my freedom than belong to her. Well, boys, here's a chance for us just
as soon as the Union army gets in sight. What will you do?"

"I'se a goin," said Tom Anderson, "jis' as soon as dem Linkum soldiers
gits in sight."

"An' I'se a gwine wid you, Tom," said another. "I specs my ole
Marster'll feel right smart lonesome when I'se gone, but I don't keer
'bout stayin' for company's sake."

"My ole Marster's room's a heap better'n his company," said Tom
Anderson, "an' I'se a goner too. Dis yer freedom's too good to be lef'
behind, wen you's got a chance to git it. I won't stop to bid ole Marse
good bye."

"What do you think," said Robert, turning to Uncle Daniel; "won't you go
with us?"

"No, chillen, I don't blame you for gwine; but I'se gwine to stay.
Slavery's done got all de marrow out ob dese poor ole bones. Ef freedom
comes it won't do me much good; we ole one's will die out, but it will
set you youngsters all up."

"But, Uncle Daniel, you're not too old to want your freedom?"

"I knows dat. I lubs de bery name of freedom. I'se been praying and
hoping for it dese many years. An' ef I warn't boun', I would go wid you
ter-morrer. I won't put a straw in your way. You boys go, and my prayers
will go wid you. I can't go, it's no use. I'se gwine to stay on de ole
place till Marse Robert comes back, or is brought back."

"But, Uncle Daniel," said Robert, "what's the use of praying for a
thing if, when it comes, you won't take it? As much as you have been
praying and talking about freedom, I thought that when the chance came
you would have been one of the first to take it. Now, do tell us why you
won't go with us. Ain't you willing?"

"Why, Robbie, my whole heart is wid you. But when Marse Robert went to
de war, he called me into his room and said to me, 'Uncle Dan'el, I'se
gwine to de war, an' I want you to look arter my wife an' chillen, an'
see dat eberything goes right on de place'. An' I promised him I'd do it,
an' I mus' be as good as my word. 'Cept de overseer, dere isn't a white
man on de plantation, an' I hear he has to report ter-morrer or be
treated as a deserter. An' der's nobody here to look arter Miss Mary an'
de chillen, but myself, an' to see dat eberything goes right. I promised
Marse Robert I would do it, an' I mus' be as good as my word."

"Well, what should you keer?" said Tom Anderson. "Who looked arter you
when you war sole from your farder and mudder, an' neber seed dem any
more, and wouldn't know dem to-day ef you met dem in your dish?"

"Well, dats neither yere nor dere. Marse Robert couldn't help what his
father did. He war an orful mean man. But he's dead now, and gone to see
'bout it. But his wife war the nicest, sweetest lady dat eber I did see.
She war no more like him dan chalk's like cheese. She used to visit de
cabins, an' listen to de pore women when de overseer used to cruelize
dem so bad, an' drive dem to work late and early. An' she used to sen'
dem nice things when they war sick, and hab der cabins whitewashed an'
lookin' like new pins, an' look arter dere chillen. Sometimes she'd try
to git ole Marse to take dere part when de oberseer got too mean. But
she might as well a sung hymns to a dead horse. All her putty talk war
like porin water on a goose's back. He'd jis' bluff her off, an' tell
her she didn't run dat plantation, and not for her to bring him any
nigger news. I never thought ole Marster war good to her. I often
ketched her crying, an' she'd say she had de headache, but I thought it
war de heartache. 'Fore ole Marster died, she got so thin an' peaked I
war 'fraid she war gwine to die; but she seed him out. He war killed by
a tree fallin' on him, an' ef eber de debil got his own he got him. I
seed him in a vision arter he war gone. He war hangin' up in a pit,
sayin' 'Oh! oh!' wid no close on. He war allers blusterin', cussin', and
swearin' at somebody. Marse Robert ain't a bit like him. He takes right
arter his mother. Bad as ole Marster war, I think she jis' lob'd de
groun' he walked on. Well, women's mighty curious kind of folks anyhow.
I sometimes thinks de wuss you treats dem de better dey likes you."

"Well," said Tom, a little impatiently, "what's yer gwine to do? Is yer
gwine wid us, ef yer gits a chance?"

"Now, jes' you hole on till I gits a chance to tell yer why I'se gwine
to stay."

"Well, Uncle Daniel, let's hear it," said Robert.

"I was jes' gwine to tell yer when Tom put me out. Ole Marster died when
Marse Robert war two years ole, and his pore mother when he war four.
When he died, Miss Anna used to keep me 'bout her jes' like I war her
shadder. I used to nuss Marse Robert jes' de same as ef I were his own
fadder. I used to fix his milk, rock him to sleep, ride him on my back,
an' nothin' pleased him better'n fer Uncle Dan'el to ride him
piggy-back."

"Well, Uncle Daniel," said Robert, "what has that got to do with your
going with us and getting your freedom?"

"Now, jes' wait a bit, and don't frustrate my mine. I seed day arter day
Miss Anna war gettin' weaker and thinner, an' she looked so sweet and
talked so putty, I thinks to myself, 'you ain't long for dis worl'.' And
she said to me one day, 'Uncle Dan'el, when I'se gone, I want you to be
good to your Marster Robert.' An' she looked so pale and weak I war
almost ready to cry. I couldn't help it. She hed allers bin mighty good
to me. An' I beliebs in praisin' de bridge dat carries me ober. She
said, 'Uncle Dan'el, I wish you war free. Ef I had my way you shouldn't
serve any one when I'm gone; but Mr. Thurston had eberything in his
power when he made his will. I war tied hand and foot, and I couldn't
help it.' In a little while she war gone--jis' faded away like a flower.
I belieb ef dere's a saint in glory, Miss Anna's dere."

"Oh, I don't take much stock in white folks' religion," said Robert,
laughing carelessly.

"The way," said Tom Anderson, "dat some of dese folks cut their cards
yere, I think dey'll be as sceece in hebben as hen's teeth. I think wen
some of dem preachers brings de Bible 'round an' tells us 'bout mindin
our marsters and not stealin' dere tings, dat dey preach to please de
white folks, an' dey frows coleness ober de meetin'."

"An' I," said Aunt Linda, "neber did belieb in dem Bible preachers. I
yered one ob dem sayin' wen he war dyin', it war all dark wid him. An'
de way he treated his house-girl, pore thing, I don't wonder dat it war
dark wid him."

"O, I guess," said Robert, "that the Bible is all right, but some of
these church folks don't get the right hang of it."

"May be dat's so," said Aunt Linda. "But I allers wanted to learn how to
read. I once had a book, and tried to make out what war in it, but ebery
time my mistus caught me wid a book in my hand, she used to whip my
fingers. An' I couldn't see ef it war good for white folks, why it
warn't good for cullud folks."

"Well," said Tom Anderson, "I belieb in de good ole-time religion. But
arter dese white folks is done fussin' and beatin' de cullud folks, I
don't want 'em to come talking religion to me. We used to hab on our
place a real Guinea man, an' once he made ole Marse mad, an' he had him
whipped. Old Marse war trying to break him in, but dat fellow war spunk
to de backbone, an' when he 'gin talkin' to him 'bout savin' his soul
an' gittin' to hebbin, he tole him ef he went to hebbin an' foun' he war
dare, he wouldn't go in. He wouldn't stay wid any such rascal as he
war."

"What became of him?" asked Robert.

"Oh, he died. But he had some quare notions 'bout religion. He thought
dat when he died he would go back to his ole country. He allers kep' his
ole Guinea name."

"What was it?"

"Potobombra. Do you know what he wanted Marster to do 'fore he died?"
continued Anderson.

"No."

"He wanted him to gib him his free papers."

"Did he do it?"

"Ob course he did. As de poor fellow war dying an' he couldn't sell him
in de oder world, he jis' wrote him de papers to yumor him. He didn't
want to go back to Africa a slave. He thought if he did, his people
would look down on him, an' he wanted to go back a free man. He war
orful weak when Marster brought him de free papers. He jis' ris up in de
bed, clutched dem in his han's, smiled, an' gasped out, 'I'se free at
las'; an' fell back on de pillar, an' he war gone. Oh, but he war
spunky. De oberseers, arter dey foun' out who he war, gin'rally gabe him
a wide birth. I specs his father war some ole Guinea king."

"Well, chillen," said Uncle Daniel, "we's kept up dis meeting long
enough. We'd better go home, and not all go one way, cause de patrollers
might git us all inter trouble, an' we must try to slip home by hook or
crook."

"An' when we meet again, Uncle Daniel can finish his story, an' be ready
to go with us," said Robert.

"I wish," said Tom Anderson, "he would go wid us, de wuss kind."




CHAPTER III.


UNCLE DANIEL'S STORY.

The Union had snapped asunder because it lacked the cohesion of justice,
and the Nation was destined to pass through the crucible of disaster and
defeat, till she was ready to clasp hands with the negro and march
abreast with him to freedom and victory.

The Union army was encamping a few miles from C----, in North Carolina.
Robert, being well posted on the condition of affairs, had stealthily
contrived to call a meeting in Uncle Daniel's cabin. Uncle Daniel's wife
had gone to bed as a sick sister, and they held a prayer-meeting by her
bedside. It was a little risky, but as Mr. Thurston did not encourage
the visits of the patrollers, and heartily detested having them prying
into his cabins, there was not much danger of molestation.

"Well, Uncle Daniel, we want to hear your story, and see if you have
made up your mind to go with us," said Robert, after he had been seated
a few minutes in Uncle Daniel's cabin.

"No, chillen, I've no objection to finishin' my story, but I ain't made
up my mind to leave the place till Marse Robert gits back."

"You were telling us about Marse Robert's mother. How did you get along
after she died?"

"Arter she war gone, ole Marster's folks come to look arter things. But
eberything war lef' to Marse Robert, an' he wouldn't do widout me. Dat
chile war allers at my heels. I couldn't stir widout him, an' when he
missed me, he'd fret an' cry so I had ter stay wid him; an' wen he went
to school, I had ter carry him in de mornin' and bring him home in de
ebenin'. An' I learned him to hunt squirrels, an' rabbits, an' ketch
fish, an' set traps for birds. I beliebs he lob'd me better dan any ob
his kin'. An' he showed me how to read."

"Well," said Tom, "ef he lob'd you so much, why didn't he set you free?"

"Marse Robert tole me, ef he died fust he war gwine ter leave me
free--dat I should neber sarve any one else."

"Oh, sho!" said Tom, "promises, like pie crusts, is made to be broken. I
don't trust none ob dem. I'se been yere dese fifteen years, an' I'se
neber foun' any troof in dem. An' I'se gwine wid dem North men soon's I
gits a chance. An' ef you knowed what's good fer you, you'd go, too."

"No, Tom; I can't go. When Marster Robert went to de front, he called me
to him an' said: 'Uncle Daniel,' an' he was drefful pale when he said
it, 'I are gwine to de war, an' I want yer to take keer of my wife an'
chillen, jis' like yer used to take keer of me wen yer called me your
little boy.' Well, dat jis' got to me, an' I couldn't help cryin', to
save my life."

"I specs," said Tom, "your tear bags must lie mighty close to your eyes.
I wouldn't cry ef dem Yankees would make ebery one ob dem go to de
front, an' stay dere foreber. Dey'd only be gittin' back what dey's been
a doin' to us."

"Marster Robert war nebber bad to me. An' I beliebs in stannin' by dem
dat stans by you. Arter Miss Anna died, I had great 'sponsibilities on
my shoulders; but I war orful lonesome, an' thought I'd like to git a
wife. But dere warn't a gal on de plantation, an' nowhere's roun', dat
filled de bill. So I jis' waited, an' 'tended to Marse Robert till he
war ole 'nough to go to college. Wen he went, he allers 'membered me in
de letters he used to write his grandma. Wen he war gone, I war
lonesomer dan eber. But, one day, I jis' seed de gal dat took de rag off
de bush. Gundover had jis' brought her from de up-country. She war putty
as a picture!" he exclaimed, looking fondly at his wife, who still bore
traces of great beauty. "She had putty hair, putty eyes, putty mouth.
She war putty all over; an' she know'd how to put on style."

"O, Daniel," said Aunt Katie, half chidingly, "how you do talk."

"Why, it's true. I 'member when you war de puttiest gal in dese diggins;
when nobody could top your cotton."

"I don't," said Aunt Katie.

"Well, I do. Now, let me go on wid my story. De fust time I seed her, I
sez to myself, 'Dat's de gal for me, an' I means to hab her ef I kin git
her.' So I scraped 'quaintance wid her, and axed her ef she would hab me
ef our marsters would let us. I warn't 'fraid 'bout Marse Robert, but I
warn't quite shore 'bout Gundover. So when Marse Robert com'd home, I
axed him, an' he larf'd an' said, 'All right,' an' dat he would speak to
ole Gundover 'bout it. He didn't relish it bery much, but he didn't
like to 'fuse Marse Robert. He wouldn't sell her, for she tended his
dairy, an' war mighty handy 'bout de house. He said, I mought marry her
an' come to see her wheneber Marse Robert would gib me a pass. I wanted
him to sell her, but he wouldn't hear to it, so I had to put up wid what
I could git. Marse Robert war mighty good to me, but ole Gundover's wife
war de meanest woman dat I eber did see. She used to go out on de
plantation an' boss things like a man. Arter I war married, I had a
baby. It war de dearest, cutest little thing you eber did see; but, pore
thing, it got sick and died. It died 'bout three o'clock; and in de
mornin', Katie, habbin her cows to milk, lef her dead baby in de cabin.
When she com'd back from milkin' her thirty cows, an' went to look for
her pore little baby, some one had been to her cabin an' took'd de pore
chile away an' put it in de groun'. Pore Katie, she didn't eben hab a
chance to kiss her baby 'fore it war buried. Ole Gundover's wife has
been dead thirty years, an' she didn't die a day too soon. An' my little
baby has gone to glory, an' is wingin' wid the angels an' a lookin' out
for us. One ob de las' things ole Gundover's wife did 'fore she died war
to order a woman whipped 'cause she com'd to de field a little late when
her husband war sick, an' she had stopped to tend him. Dat mornin' she
war taken sick wid de fever, an' in a few days she war gone out like de
snuff ob a candle. She lef' several sons, an' I specs she would almos'
turn ober in her grave ef she know'd she had ten culled granchillen
somewhar down in de lower kentry."

"Isn't it funny," said Robert, "how these white folks look down on
colored people, an' then mix up with them?"

"Marster war away when Miss 'Liza treated my Katie so mean, an' when I
tole him 'bout it, he war tearin' mad, an' went ober an' saw ole
Gundover, an' foun' out he war hard up for money, an' he bought Katie
and brought her home to lib wid me, and we's been a libin in clover eber
sence. Marster Robert has been mighty good to me. He stood by me in my
troubles, an' now his trouble's come, I'm a gwine to stan' by him. I
used to think Gundover's wife war jealous ob my Katie. She war so much
puttier. Gundover's wife couldn't tech my Katie wid a ten foot pole."

"But, Aunt Katie, you have had your trials," said Robert, now that
Daniel had finished his story; "don't you feel bitter towards these
people who are fighting to keep you in slavery?"

Aunt Katie turned her face towards the speaker. It was a thoughtful,
intelligent face, saintly and calm. A face which expressed the idea of a
soul which had been fearfully tempest tossed, but had passed through
suffering into peace. Very touching was the look of resignation and hope
which overspread her features as she replied, with the simple child-like
faith which she had learned in the darkest hour, "The Lord says, we must
forgive." And with her that thought, as coming from the lips of Divine
Love, was enough to settle the whole question of forgiveness of injuries
and love to enemies.

"Well," said Thomas Anderson, turning to Uncle Daniel, "we can't count
on yer to go wid us?"

"Boys," said Uncle Daniel, and there was grief in his voice, "I'se
mighty glad you hab a chance for your freedom; but, ez I tole yer, I
promised Marse Robert I would stay, an' I mus' be as good as my word.
Don't you youngsters stay for an ole stager like me. I'm ole an' mos'
worn out. Freedom wouldn't do much for me, but I want you all to be as
free as the birds; so, you chillen, take your freedom when you kin get
it."

"But, Uncle Dan'el, you won't say nothin' 'bout our going, will you?"
said the youngest of the company.

Uncle Daniel slowly arose. There was a mournful flash in his eye, a
tremor of emotion in his voice, as he said, "Look yere, boys, de boy dat
axed dat question war a new comer on dis plantation, but some ob you's
bin here all ob your lives; did you eber know ob Uncle Dan'el gittin'
any ob you inter trouble?"

"No, no," exclaimed a chorus of voices, "but many's de time you've held
off de blows wen de oberseer got too mean, an' cruelized us too much,
wen Marse Robert war away. An' wen he got back, you made him settle de
oberseer's hash."

"Well, boys," said Uncle Daniel, with an air of mournful dignity, "I'se
de same Uncle Dan'el I eber war. Ef any ob you wants to go, I habben't a
word to say agin it. I specs dem Yankees be all right, but I knows Marse
Robert, an' I don't know dem, an' I ain't a gwine ter throw away dirty
water 'til I gits clean."

"Well, Uncle Ben," said Robert, addressing a stalwart man whose towering
form and darkly flashing eye told that slavery had failed to put the
crouch in his shoulders or general abjectness into his demeanor, "you
will go with us, for sure, won't you?"

"Yes," spoke up Tom Anderson, "'cause de trader's done took your wife,
an' got her for his'n now."

As Ben Tunnel looked at the speaker, a spasm of agony and anger darkened
his face and distorted his features, as if the blood of some strong
race were stirring with sudden vigor through his veins. He clutched his
hands together, as if he were struggling with an invisible foe, and for
a moment he remained silent. Then suddenly raising his head, he
exclaimed, "Boys, there's not one of you loves freedom more than I do,
but--"

"But what?" said Tom. "Do you think white folks is your bes' friends?"

"I'll think so when I lose my senses."

"Well, now, I don't belieb you're 'fraid, not de way I yeard you talkin'
to de oberseer wen he war threatnin' to hit your mudder. He saw you
meant business, an' he let her alone. But, what's to hinder you from
gwine wid us?"

"My mother," he replied, in a low, firm voice. "That is the only thing
that keeps me from going. If it had not been for her, I would have gone
long ago. She's all I've got, an' I'm all she's got."

It was touching to see the sorrow on the strong face, to detect the
pathos and indignation in his voice, as he said, "I used to love Mirandy
as I love my life. I thought the sun rose and set in her. I never saw a
handsomer woman than she was. But she fooled me all over the face and
eyes, and took up with that hell-hound of a trader, Lukens; an' he gave
her a chance to live easy, to wear fine clothes, an' be waited on like a
lady. I thought at first I would go crazy, but my poor mammy did all she
could to comfort me. She would tell me there were as good fish in the
sea as were ever caught out of it. Many a time I've laid my poor head on
her lap, when it seemed as if my brain was on fire and my heart was
almost ready to burst. But in course of time I got over the worst of
it; an' Mirandy is the first an' last woman that ever fooled me. But
that dear old mammy of mine, I mean to stick by her as long as there is
a piece of her. I can't go over to the army an' leave her behind, for if
I did, an' anything should happen, I would never forgive myself."

"But couldn't you take her with you," said Robert, "the soldiers said we
could bring our women."

"It isn't that. The Union army is several miles from here, an' my poor
mammy is so skeery that, if I were trying to get her away and any of
them Secesh would overtake us, an' begin to question us, she would get
skeered almost to death, an' break down an' begin to cry, an' then the
fat would be in the fire. So, while I love freedom more than a child
loves its mother's milk, I've made up my mind to stay on the plantation.
I wish, from the bottom of my heart, I could go. But I can't take her
along with me, an' I don't want to be free and leave her behind in
slavery. I was only five years old when my master and, as I believe,
father, sold us both here to this lower country, an' we've been here
ever since. It's no use talking, I won't leave her to be run over by
everybody."

A few evenings after this interview, the Union soldiers entered the town
of C----, and established their headquarters near the home of Thomas
Anderson.

Out of the little company, almost every one deserted to the Union army,
leaving Uncle Daniel faithful to his trust, and Ben Tunnel hushing his
heart's deep aspirations for freedom in a passionate devotion to his
timid and affectionate mother.




CHAPTER IV.


ARRIVAL OF THE UNION ARMY.

A few evenings before the stampede of Robert and his friends to the
army, and as he sat alone in his room reading the latest news from the
paper he had secreted, he heard a cautious tread and a low tap at his
window. He opened the door quietly and whispered:--

"Anything new, Tom?"

"Yes."

"What is it? Come in."

"Well, I'se done bin seen dem Yankees, an' dere ain't a bit of troof in
dem stories I'se bin yerin 'bout 'em."

"Where did you see 'em?"

"Down in de woods whar Marster tole us to hide. Yesterday ole Marse sent
for me to come in de settin'-room. An' what do you think? Instead ob
makin' me stan' wid my hat in my han' while he went froo a whole
rigamarole, he axed me to sit down, an' he tole me he 'spected de
Yankees would want us to go inter de army, an' dey would put us in front
whar we'd all git killed; an' I tole him I didn't want to go, I didn't
want to git all momached up. An' den he said we'd better go down in de
woods an' hide. Massa Tom and Frank said we'd better go as quick as eber
we could. Dey said dem Yankees would put us in dere wagons and make us
haul like we war mules. Marse Tom ain't libin' at de great house jis'
now. He's keepin' bachellar's hall."

"Didn't he go to the battle?"

"No; he foun' a pore white man who war hard up for money, an' he got him
to go."

"But, Tom, you didn't believe these stories about the Yankees. Tom and
Frank can lie as fast as horses can trot. They wanted to scare you, and
keep you from going to the Union army."

"I knows dat now, but I didn't 'spect so den."

"Well, when did you see the soldiers? Where are they? And what did they
say to you?"

"Dey's right down in Gundover's woods. An' de Gineral's got his
headquarters almos' next door to our house."

"That near? Oh, you don't say so!"

"Yes, I do. An', oh, golly, ain't I so glad! I jis' stole yere to told
you all 'bout it. Yesterday mornin' I war splittin' some wood to git my
breakfas', an' I met one ob dem Yankee sogers. Well, I war so skeered,
my heart flew right up in my mouf, but I made my manners to him and
said, 'Good mornin', Massa.' He said, 'Good mornin'; but don't call me
"massa."' Dat war de fust white man I eber seed dat didn't want ter be
called 'massa,' eben ef he war as pore as Job's turkey. Den I begin to
feel right sheepish, an' he axed me ef my marster war at home, an' ef he
war a Reb. I tole him he hadn't gone to de war, but he war Secesh all
froo, inside and outside. He war too ole to go to de war, but dat he war
all de time gruntin' an' groanin', an' I 'spected he'd grunt hisself to
death."

"What did he say?"

"He said he specs he'll grunt worser dan dat fore dey get froo wid him.
Den he axed me ef I would hab some breakfas,' an' I said, 'No, t'ank
you, sir.' 'An' I war jis' as hungry as a dorg, but I war 'feared to
eat. I war 'feared he war gwine to pizen me."

"Poison you! don't you know the Yankees are our best friends?"

"Well, ef dat's so, I'se mighty glad, cause de woods is full ob dem."

"Now, Tom, I thought you had cut your eye-teeth long enough not to let
them Anderson boys fool you. Tom, you must not think because a white man
says a thing, it must be so, and that a colored man's word is no account
'longside of his. Tom, if ever we get our freedom, we've got to learn to
trust each other and stick together if we would be a people. Somebody
else can read the papers as well as Marse Tom and Frank. My ole Miss
knows I can read the papers, an' she never tries to scare me with big
whoppers 'bout the Yankees. She knows she can't catch ole birds with
chaff, so she is just as sweet as a peach to her Bobby. But as soon as I
get a chance I will play her a trick the devil never did."

"What's that?"

"I'll leave her. I ain't forgot how she sold my mother from me. Many a
night I have cried myself to sleep, thinking about her, and when I get
free I mean to hunt her up."

"Well, I ain't tole you all. De gemman said he war 'cruiting for de
army; dat Massa Linkum hab set us all free, an' dat he wanted some more
sogers to put down dem Secesh; dat we should all hab our freedom, our
wages, an' some kind ob money. I couldn't call it like he did."

"Bounty money," said Robert.

"Yes, dat's jis' what he called it, bounty money. An' I said dat I war
in for dat, teeth and toe-nails."

Robert Johnson's heart gave a great bound. Was that so? Had that army,
with freedom emblazoned on its banners, come at last to offer them
deliverance if they would accept it? Was it a bright, beautiful dream,
or a blessed reality soon to be grasped by his willing hands? His heart
grew buoyant with hope; the lightness of his heart gave elasticity to
his step and sent the blood rejoicingly through his veins. Freedom was
almost in his grasp, and the future was growing rose-tinted and
rainbow-hued. All the ties which bound him to his home were as ropes of
sand, now that freedom had come so near.

When the army was afar off, he had appeared to be light-hearted and
content with his lot. If asked if he desired his freedom, he would have
answered, very naively, that he was eating his white bread and believed
in letting well enough alone; he had no intention of jumping from the
frying-pan into the fire. But in the depths of his soul the love of
freedom was an all-absorbing passion; only danger had taught him
caution. He had heard of terrible vengeance being heaped upon the heads
of some who had sought their freedom and failed in the attempt. Robert
knew that he might abandon hope if he incurred the wrath of men whose
overthrow was only a question of time. It would have been madness and
folly for him to have attempted an insurrection against slavery, with
the words of McClellan ringing in his ears: "If you rise I shall put you
down with an iron hand," and with the home guards ready to quench his
aspirations for freedom with bayonets and blood. What could a set of
unarmed and undisciplined men do against the fearful odds which beset
their path?

Robert waited eagerly and hopefully his chance to join the Union army;
and was ready and willing to do anything required of him by which he
could earn his freedom and prove his manhood. He conducted his plans
with the greatest secrecy. A few faithful and trusted friends stood
ready to desert with him when the Union army came within hailing
distance. When it came, there was a stampede to its ranks of men ready
to serve in any capacity, to labor in the tents, fight on the fields, or
act as scouts. It was a strange sight to see these black men rallying
around the Stars and Stripes, when white men were trampling them under
foot and riddling them with bullets.




CHAPTER V.


THE RELEASE OF IOLA LEROY.

"Well, boys," said Robert to his trusted friends, as they gathered
together at a meeting in Gundover's woods, almost under the shadow of
the Union army, "how many of you are ready to join the army and fight
for your freedom."

"All ob us."

"The soldiers," continued Robert, "are camped right at the edge of the
town. The General has his headquarters in the heart of the town, and one
of the officers told me yesterday that the President had set us all
free, and that as many as wanted to join the army could come along to
the camp. So I thought, boys, that I would come and tell you. Now, you
can take your bag and baggage, and get out of here as soon as you
choose."

"We'll be ready by daylight," said Tom. "It won't take me long to pack
up," looking down at his seedy clothes, with a laugh. "I specs ole
Marse'll be real lonesome when I'm gone. An' won't he be hoppin' mad
when he finds I'm a goner? I specs he'll hate it like pizen."

"O, well," said Robert, "the best of friends must part. Don't let it
grieve you."

"I'se gwine to take my wife an' chillen," said one of the company.

"I'se got nobody but myself," said Tom; "but dere's a mighty putty
young gal dere at Marse Tom's. I wish I could git her away. Dey tells me
dey's been sellin' her all ober de kentry; but dat she's a reg'lar
spitfire; dey can't lead nor dribe her."

"Do you think she would go with us?" said Robert.

"I think she's jis' dying to go. Dey say dey can't do nuffin wid her.
Marse Tom's got his match dis time, and I'se glad ob it. I jis' glories
in her spunk."

"How did she come there?"

"Oh, Marse bought her ob de trader to keep house for him. But ef you
seed dem putty white han's ob hern you'd never tink she kept her own
house, let 'lone anybody else's."

"Do you think you can get her away?"

"I don't know; 'cause Marse Tom keeps her mighty close. My! but she's
putty. Beautiful long hair comes way down her back; putty blue eyes, an'
jis' ez white ez anybody's in dis place. I'd jis' wish you could see her
yoresef. I heerd Marse Tom talkin' 'bout her las' night to his brudder;
tellin' him she war mighty airish, but he meant to break her in."

An angry curse rose to the lips of Robert, but he repressed it and
muttered to himself, "Graceless scamp, he ought to have his neck
stretched." Then turning to Tom, said:--

"Get her, if you possibly can, but you must be mighty mum about it."

"Trus' me for dat," said Tom.

Tom was very anxious to get word to the beautiful but intractable girl
who was held in durance vile by her reckless and selfish master, who had
tried in vain to drag her down to his own low level of sin and shame.
But all Tom's efforts were in vain. Finally he applied to the Commander
of the post, who immediately gave orders for her release. The next day
Tom had the satisfaction of knowing that Iola Leroy had been taken as a
trembling dove from the gory vulture's nest and given a place of
security. She was taken immediately to the General's headquarters. The
General was much impressed by her modest demeanor, and surprised to see
the refinement and beauty she possessed. Could it be possible that this
young and beautiful girl had been a chattel, with no power to protect
herself from the highest insults that lawless brutality could inflict
upon innocent and defenseless womanhood? Could he ever again glory in
his American citizenship, when any white man, no matter how coarse,
cruel, or brutal, could buy or sell her for the basest purposes? Was it
not true that the cause of a hapless people had become entangled with
the lightnings of heaven, and dragged down retribution upon the land?

The field hospital was needing gentle, womanly ministrations, and Iola
Leroy, released from the hands of her tormentors, was given a place as
nurse; a position to which she adapted herself with a deep sense of
relief. Tom was doubly gratified at the success of his endeavors, which
had resulted in the rescue of the beautiful young girl and the
discomfiture of his young master who, in the words of Tom, "was mad
enough to bite his head off" (a rather difficult physical feat).

Iola, freed from her master's clutches, applied herself readily to her
appointed tasks. The beautiful, girlish face was full of tender
earnestness. The fresh, young voice was strangely sympathetic, as if
some great sorrow had bound her heart in loving compassion to every
sufferer who needed her gentle ministrations.

Tom Anderson was a man of herculean strength and remarkable courage.
But, on account of physical defects, instead of enlisting as a soldier,
he was forced to remain a servant, although he felt as if every nerve in
his right arm was tingling to strike a blow for freedom. He was well
versed in the lay of the country, having often driven his master's
cotton to market when he was a field hand. After he became a coachman,
he had become acquainted with the different roads and localities of the
country. Besides, he had often accompanied his young masters on their
hunting and fishing expeditions. Although he could not fight in the
army, he proved an invaluable helper. When tents were to be pitched,
none were more ready to help than he. When burdens were to be borne,
none were more willing to bend beneath them than Thomas Anderson. When
the battle-field was to be searched for the wounded and dying, no hand
was more tender in its ministrations of kindness than his. As a general
factotum in the army, he was ever ready and willing to serve anywhere
and at any time, and to gather information from every possible source
which could be of any service to the Union army. As a Pagan might
worship a distant star and wish to call it his own, so he loved Iola.
And he never thought he could do too much for the soldiers who had
rescued her and were bringing deliverance to his race.

"What do you think of Miss Iola?" Robert asked him one day, as they were
talking together.

"I jis' think dat she's splendid. Las' week I had to take some of our
pore boys to de hospital, an' she war dere, lookin' sweet an' putty ez
an angel, a nussin' dem pore boys, an' ez good to one ez de oder. It
looks to me ez ef dey ralely lob'd her shadder. She sits by 'em so
patient, an' writes 'em sech nice letters to der frens, an' yit she
looks so heart-broke an' pitiful, it jis' gits to me, an' makes me mos'
ready to cry. I'm so glad dat Marse Tom had to gib her up. He war too
mean to eat good victuals."

"He ought," said Robert, "to be made to live on herrings' heads and cold
potatoes. It makes my blood boil just to think that he was going to have
that lovely looking young girl whipped for his devilment. He ought to be
ashamed to hold up his head among respectable people."

"I tell you, Bob, de debil will neber git his own till he gits him. When
I seed how he war treating her I neber rested till I got her away. He
buyed her, he said, for his housekeeper; as many gals as dere war on de
plantation, why didn't he git one ob dem to keep house, an' not dat nice
lookin' young lady? Her han's look ez ef she neber did a day's work in
her life. One day when he com'd down to breakfas,' he chucked her under
de chin, an' tried to put his arm roun' her waist. But she jis' frew it
off like a chunk ob fire. She looked like a snake had bit her. Her eyes
fairly spit fire. Her face got red ez blood, an' den she turned so pale
I thought she war gwine to faint, but she didn't, an' I yered her say,
'I'll die fust.' I war mad 'nough to stan' on my head. I could hab
tore'd him all to pieces wen he said he'd hab her whipped."

"Did he do it?"

"I don't know. But he's mean 'nough to do enythin'. Why, dey say she
war sole seben times in six weeks, 'cause she's so putty, but dat she
war game to de las'."

"Well, Tom," said Robert, "getting that girl away was one of the best
things you ever did in your life."

"I think so, too. Not dat I specs enytin' ob it. I don't spose she would
think ob an ugly chap like me; but it does me good to know dat Marse Tom
ain't got her."




CHAPTER VI.


ROBERT JOHNSON'S PROMOTION AND RELIGION.

Robert Johnson, being able to meet the army requirements, was enlisted
as a substitute to help fill out the quota of a Northern regiment. With
his intelligence, courage, and prompt obedience, he rose from the ranks
and became lieutenant of a colored company. He was daring, without being
rash; prompt, but not thoughtless; firm, without being harsh. Kind and
devoted to the company he drilled, he soon won the respect of his
superior officers and the love of his comrades.

"Johnson," said a young officer, Captain Sybil, of Maine, who had become
attached to Robert, "what is the use of your saying you're a colored
man, when you are as white as I am, and as brave a man as there is among
us. Why not quit this company, and take your place in the army just the
same as a white man? I know your chances for promotion would be better."

"Captain, you may doubt my word, but to-day I would rather be a
lieutenant in my company than a captain in yours."

"I don't understand you."

"Well, Captain, when a man's been colored all his life it comes a little
hard for him to get white all at once. Were I to try it, I would feel
like a cat in a strange garret. Captain, I think my place is where I am
most needed. You do not need me in your ranks, and my company does.
They are excellent fighters, but they need a leader. To silence a
battery, to capture a flag, to take a fortification, they will rush into
the jaws of death."

"Yes, I have often wondered at their bravery."

"Captain, these battles put them on their mettle. They have been so long
taught that they are nothing and nobody, that they seem glad to prove
they are something and somebody."

"But, Johnson, you do not look like them, you do not talk like them. It
is a burning shame to have held such a man as you in slavery."

"I don't think it was any worse to have held me in slavery than the
blackest man in the South."

"You are right, Johnson. The color of a man's skin has nothing to do
with the possession of his rights."

"Now, there is Tom Anderson," said Robert, "he is just as black as black
can be. He has been bought and sold like a beast, and yet there is not a
braver man in all the company. I know him well. He is a noble-hearted
fellow. True as steel. I love him like a brother. And I believe Tom
would risk his life for me any day. He don't know anything about his
father or mother. He was sold from them before he could remember. He can
read a little. He used to take lessons from a white gardener in
Virginia. He would go between the hours of 9 P.M. and 4 A.M. He got a
book of his own, tore it up, greased the pages, and hid them in his hat.
Then if his master had ever knocked his hat off he would have thought
them greasy papers, and not that Tom was carrying his library on his
head. I had another friend who lived near us. When he was nineteen
years old he did not know how many letters there were in the ABC's. One
night, when his work was done, his boss came into his cabin and saw him
with a book in his hand. He threatened to give him five hundred lashes
if he caught him again with a book, and said he hadn't work enough to
do. He was getting out logs, and his task was ten logs a day. His
employer threatened to increase it to twelve. He said it just harassed
him; it set him on fire. He thought there must be something good in that
book if the white man didn't want him to learn. One day he had an errand
in the kitchen, and he heard one of the colored girls going over the
ABC's. Here was the key to the forbidden knowledge. She had heard the
white children saying them, and picked them up by heart, but did not
know them by sight. He was not content with that, but sold his cap for a
book and wore a cloth on his head instead. He got the sounds of the
letters by heart, then cut off the bark of a tree, carved the letters on
the smooth inside, and learned them. He wanted to learn how to write. He
had charge of a warehouse where he had a chance to see the size and form
of letters. He made the beach of the river his copybook, and thus he
learned to write. Tom never got very far with his learning, but I used
to get the papers and tell him all I knew about the war."

"How did you get the papers?"

"I used to have very good privileges for a slave. All of our owners were
not alike. Some of them were quite clever, and others were worse than
git out. I used to get the morning papers to sell to the boarders and
others, and when I got them I would contrive to hide a paper, and let
some of the fellow-servants know how things were going on. And our
owners thought we cared nothing about what was going on."

"How was that? I thought you were not allowed to hold meetings unless a
white man were present."

"That was so. But we contrived to hold secret meetings in spite of their
caution. We knew whom we could trust. My ole Miss wasn't mean like some
of them. She never wanted the patrollers around prowling in our cabins,
and poking their noses into our business. Her husband was an awful
drunkard. He ran through every cent he could lay his hands on, and she
was forced to do something to keep the wolf from the door, so she set up
a boarding-house. But she didn't take in Tom, Dick, and Harry. Nobody
but the big bugs stopped with her. She taught me to read and write, and
to cast up accounts. It was so handy for her to have some one who could
figure up her accounts, and read or write a note, if she were from home
and wanted the like done. She once told her cousin how I could write and
figure up. And what do you think her cousin said?"

"'Pleased,' I suppose, 'to hear it.'"

"Not a bit of it. She said, if I belonged to her, she would cut off my
thumbs; her husband said, 'Oh, then he couldn't pick cotton.' As to my
poor thumbs, it did not seem to be taken into account what it would cost
me to lose them. My ole Miss used to have a lot of books. She would let
me read any one of them except a novel. She wanted to take care of my
soul, but she wasn't taking care of her own."

"Wasn't she religious?"

"She went for it. I suppose she was as good as most of them. She said
her prayers and went to church, but I don't know that that made her any
better. I never did take much stock in white folks' religion."

"Why, Robert, I'm afraid you are something of an infidel."

"No, Captain, I believe in the real, genuine religion. I ain't got much
myself, but I respect them that have. We had on our place a dear, old
saint, named Aunt Kizzy. She was a happy soul. She had seen hard times,
but was what I call a living epistle. I've heard her tell how her only
child had been sold from her, when the man who bought herself did not
want to buy her child. Poor little fellow! he was only two years old. I
asked her one day how she felt when her child was taken away. 'I felt,'
she said, 'as if I was going to my grave. But I knew if I couldn't get
justice here, I could get it in another world.'"

"That was faith," said Captain Sybil, as if speaking to himself, "a
patient waiting for death to redress the wrongs of life."

"Many a time," continued Robert, "have I heard her humming to herself in
the kitchen and saying, 'I has my trials, ups and downs, but it won't
allers be so. I specs one day to wing and wing wid de angels,
Hallelujah! Den I specs to hear a voice sayin', "Poor ole Kizzy, she's
done de bes' she kin. Go down, Gabriel, an' tote her in." Den I specs to
put on my golden slippers, my long white robe, an' my starry crown, an'
walk dem golden streets, Hallelujah!' I've known that dear, old soul to
travel going on two miles, after her work was done, to have some one
read to her. Her favorite chapter began with, 'Let not your heart be
troubled, ye believe in God, believe also in Me.'"

"I have been deeply impressed," said Captain Sybil, "with the child-like
faith of some of these people. I do not mean to say that they are
consistent Christians, but I do think that this faith has in a measure
underlain the life of the race. It has been a golden thread woven amid
the sombre tissues of their lives. A ray of light shimmering amid the
gloom of their condition. And what would they have been without it?"

"I don't know. But I know what she was with it. And I believe if there
are any saints in glory, Aunt Kizzy is one of them."

"She is dead, then?"

"Yes, went all right, singing and rejoicing until the last,
'Troubles over, troubles over, and den my troubles will be over. We'll
walk de golden streets all 'roun' in de New Jerusalem.' Now, Captain,
that's the kind of religion that I want. Not that kind which could ride
to church on Sundays, and talk so solemn with the minister about heaven
and good things, then come home and light down on the servants like a
thousand of bricks. I have no use for it. I don't believe in it. I never
did and I never will. If any man wants to save my soul he ain't got to
beat my body. That ain't the kind of religion I'm looking for. I ain't
got a bit of use for it. Now, Captain, ain't I right?"

"Well, yes, Robert, I think you are more than half right. You ought to
know my dear, old mother who lives in Maine. We have had colored company
at our house, and I never saw her show the least difference between her
colored and white guests. She is a Quaker preacher, and don't believe
in war, but when the rest of the young men went to the front, I wanted
to go also. So I thought it all over, and there seemed to be no way out
of slavery except through the war. I had been taught to hate war and
detest slavery. Now the time had come when I could not help the war, but
I could strike a blow for freedom. So I told my mother I was going to
the front, that I expected to be killed, but I went to free the slave.
It went hard with her. But I thought that I ought to come, and I believe
my mother's prayers are following me."

"Captain," said Robert, rising, "I am glad that I have heard your story.
I think that some of these Northern soldiers do two things--hate slavery
and hate niggers."

"I am afraid that is so with some of them. They would rather be whipped
by Rebels than conquer with negroes. Oh, I heard a soldier," said
Captain Sybil, "say, when the colored men were being enlisted, that he
would break his sword and resign. But he didn't do either. After Colonel
Shaw led his charge at Fort Wagner, and died in the conflict, he got
bravely over his prejudices. The conduct of the colored troops there and
elsewhere has done much to turn public opinion in their favor. I suppose
any white soldier would rather have his black substitute receive the
bullets than himself."




CHAPTER VII.


TOM ANDERSON'S DEATH.

"Where is Tom?" asked Captain Sybil; "I have not seen him for several
hours."

"He's gone down the sound with some of the soldiers," replied Robert.
"They wanted Tom to row them."

"I am afraid those boys will get into trouble, and the Rebs will pick
them off," responded Sybil.

"O, I hope not," answered Robert.

"I hope not, too; but those boys are too venturesome."

"Tom knows the lay of the land better than any of us," said Robert. "He
is the most wide-awake and gamiest man I know. I reckon when the war is
over Tom will be a preacher. Did you ever hear him pray?"

"No; is he good at that?"

"First-rate," continued Robert. "It would do you good to hear him. He
don't allow any cursing and swearing when he's around. And what he says
is law and gospel with the boys. But he's so good-natured; and they
can't get mad at him."

"Yes, Robert, there is not a man in our regiment I would sooner trust
than Tom. Last night, when he brought in that wounded scout, he couldn't
have been more tender if he had been a woman. How gratefully the poor
fellow looked in Tom's face as he laid him down so carefully and
staunched the blood which had been spurting out of him. Tom seemed to
know it was an artery which had been cut, and he did just the right
thing to stop the bleeding. He knew there wasn't a moment to be lost. He
wasn't going to wait for the doctor. I have often heard that colored
people are ungrateful, but I don't think Tom's worst enemy would say
that about him."

"Captain," said Robert, with a tone of bitterness in his voice, "what
had we to be grateful for? For ages of poverty, ignorance, and slavery?
I think if anybody should be grateful, it is the people who have
enslaved us and lived off our labor for generations. Captain, I used to
know a poor old woman who couldn't bear to hear any one play on the
piano."

"Is that so? Why, I always heard that colored people were a musical
race."

"So we are; but that poor woman's daughter was sold, and her mistress
took the money to buy a piano. Her mother could never bear to hear a
sound from it."

"Poor woman!" exclaimed Captain Sybil, sympathetically; "I suppose it
seemed as if the wail of her daughter was blending with the tones of the
instrument. I think, Robert, there is a great deal more in the colored
people than we give them credit for. Did you know Captain Sellers?"

"The officer who escaped from prison and got back to our lines?" asked
Robert.

"Yes. Well, he had quite an experience in trying to escape. He came to
an aged couple, who hid him in their cabin and shared their humble food
with him. They gave him some corn-bread, bacon, and coffee which he
thought was made of scorched bran. But he said that he never ate a meal
that he relished more than the one he took with them. Just before he
went they knelt down and prayed with him. It seemed as if his very hair
stood on his head, their prayer was so solemn. As he was going away the
man took some shingles and nailed them on his shoes to throw the
bloodhounds off his track. I don't think he will ever cease to feel
kindly towards colored people. I do wonder what has become of the boys?
What can keep them so long?"

Just as Captain Sybil and Robert were wondering at the delay of Tom and
the soldiers they heard the measured tread of men who were slowly
bearing a burden. They were carrying Tom Anderson to the hospital,
fearfully wounded, and nigh to death. His face was distorted, and the
blood was streaming from his wounds. His respiration was faint, his
pulse hurried, as if life were trembling on its frailest cords.

Robert and Captain Sybil hastened at once towards the wounded man. On
Robert's face was a look of intense anguish, as he bent pityingly over
his friend.

"O, this is dreadful! How did it happen?" cried Robert.

Captain Sybil, pressing anxiously forward, repeated Robert's question.

"Captain," said one of the young soldiers, advancing and saluting his
superior officer, "we were all in the boat when it struck against a mud
bank, and there was not strength enough among us to shove her back into
the water. Just then the Rebels opened fire upon us. For awhile we lay
down in the boat, but still they kept firing. Tom took in the whole
situation, and said: 'Someone must die to get us out of this. I
mought's well be him as any. You are soldiers and can fight. If they
kill me, it is nuthin'.' So Tom leaped out to shove the boat into the
water. Just then the Rebel bullets began to rain around him. He received
seven or eight of them, and I'm afraid there is no hope for him."

"O, Tom, I wish you hadn't gone. O, Tom! Tom!" cried Robert, in tones of
agony.

A gleam of grateful recognition passed over the drawn features of Tom,
as the wail of his friend fell on his ear. He attempted to speak, but
the words died upon his lips, and he became unconscious.

"Well," said Captain Sybil, "put him in one of the best wards. Give him
into Miss Leroy's care. If good nursing can win him back to life, he
shall not want for any care or pains that she can bestow. Send
immediately for Dr. Gresham."

Robert followed his friend into the hospital, tenderly and carefully
helped to lay him down, and remained awhile, gazing in silent grief upon
the sufferer. Then he turned to go, leaving him in the hands of Iola,
but hoping against hope that his wounds would not be fatal.

With tender devotion Iola watched her faithful friend. He recognized her
when restored to consciousness, and her presence was as balm to his
wounds. He smiled faintly, took her hand in his, stroked it tenderly,
looked wistfully into her face, and said, "Miss Iola, I ain't long fer
dis! I'se 'most home!"

"Oh, no," said Iola, "I hope that you will soon get over this trouble,
and live many long and happy days."

"No, Miss Iola, it's all ober wid me. I'se gwine to glory; gwine to
glory; gwine to ring dem charmin' bells. Tell all de boys to meet me in
heben; dat dey mus' 'list in de hebenly war."

"O, Mr. Tom," said Iola, tenderly, "do not talk of leaving me. You are
the best friend I have had since I was torn from my mother. I should be
so lonely without you."

"Dere's a frien' dat sticks closer dan a brudder. He will be wid yer in
de sixt' trial, an' in de sebbent' he'll not fo'sake yer."

"Yes," answered Iola, "I know that. He is all our dependence. But I
can't help grieving when I see you suffering so. But, dear friend, be
quiet, and try to go to sleep."

"I'll do enythin' fer yer, Miss Iola."

Tom closed his eyes and lay quiet. Tenderly and anxiously Iola watched
over him as the hours waned away. The doctor came, shook his head
gravely, and, turning to Iola, said, "There is no hope, but do what you
can to alleviate his sufferings."

As Iola gazed upon the kind but homely features of Tom, she saw his eyes
open and an unexpressed desire upon his face.

Tenderly and sadly bending over him, with tears in her dark, luminous
eyes, she said, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," said Tom, with laboring breath; "let me hole yore han', an' sing
'Ober Jordan inter glory' an' 'We'll anchor bye and bye.'"

Iola laid her hand gently in the rough palm of the dying man, and, with
a tremulous voice, sang the parting hymns.

Tenderly she wiped the death damps from his dusky brow, and imprinted
upon it a farewell kiss. Gratitude and affection lit up the dying eye,
which seemed to be gazing into the eternities. Just then Robert entered
the room, and, seating himself quietly by Tom's bedside, read the death
signs in his face.

"Good-bye, Robert," said Tom, "meet me in de kingdom." Suddenly a look
of recognition and rapture lit up his face, and he murmured, "Angels,
bright angels, all's well, all's well!"

Slowly his hand released its pressure, a peaceful calm overspread his
countenance, and without a sigh or murmur Thomas Anderson, Iola's
faithful and devoted friend, passed away, leaving the world so much
poorer for her than it was before. Just then Dr. Gresham, the hospital
physician, came to the bedside, felt for the pulse which would never
throb again, and sat down in silence by the cot.

"What do you think, Doctor," said Iola, "has he fainted?"

"No," said the doctor, "poor fellow! he is dead."

Iola bowed her head in silent sorrow, and then relieved the anguish of
her heart by a flood of tears. Robert rose, and sorrowfully left the
room.

Iola, with tearful eyes and aching heart, clasped the cold hands over
the still breast, closed the waxen lid over the eye which had once
beamed with kindness or flashed with courage, and then went back, after
the burial, to her daily round of duties, feeling the sad missing of
something from her life.




CHAPTER VIII.


THE MYSTIFIED DOCTOR.

"Colonel," said Dr. Gresham to Col. Robinson, the commander of the post,
"I am perfectly mystified by Miss Leroy."

"What is the matter with her?" asked Col. Robinson. "Is she not faithful
to her duties and obedient to your directions?"

"Faithful is not the word to express her tireless energy and devotion to
her work," responded Dr. Gresham. "She must have been a born nurse to
put such enthusiasm into her work."

"Why, Doctor, what is the matter with you? You talk like a lover."

A faint flush rose to the cheek of Dr. Gresham as he smiled, and said,
"Oh! come now, Colonel, can't a man praise a woman without being in love
with her?"

"Of course he can," said Col. Robinson; "but I know where such
admiration is apt to lead. I've been there myself. But, Doctor, had you
not better defer your love-making till you're out of the woods?"

"I assure you, Colonel, I am not thinking of love or courtship. That is
the business of the drawing-room, and not of the camp. But she did
mystify me last night."

"How so?" asked Col. Robinson.

"When Tom was dying," responded the doctor, "I saw that beautiful and
refined young lady bend over and kiss him. When she found that he was
dead, she just cried as if her heart was breaking. Well, that was a new
thing to me. I can eat with colored people, walk, talk, and fight with
them, but kissing them is something I don't hanker after."

"And yet you saw Miss Leroy do it?"

"Yes; and that puzzles me. She is one of the most refined and lady-like
women I ever saw. I hear she is a refugee, but she does not look like
the other refugees who have come to our camp. Her accent is slightly
Southern, but her manner is Northern. She is self-respecting without
being supercilious; quiet, without being dull. Her voice is low and
sweet, yet at times there are tones of such passionate tenderness in it
that you would think some great sorrow has darkened and overshadowed her
life. Without being the least gloomy, her face at times is pervaded by
an air of inexpressible sadness. I sometimes watch her when she is not
aware that I am looking at her, and it seems as if a whole volume was
depicted on her countenance. When she smiles, there is a longing in her
eyes which is never satisfied. I cannot understand how a Southern lady,
whose education and manners stamp her as a woman of fine culture and
good breeding, could consent to occupy the position she so faithfully
holds. It is a mystery I cannot solve. Can you?"

"I think I can," answered Col. Robinson.

"Will you tell me?" queried the doctor.

"Yes, on one condition."

"What is it?"

"Everlasting silence."

"I promise," said the doctor. "The secret between us shall be as deep as
the sea."

"She has not requested secrecy, but at present, for her sake, I do not
wish the secret revealed. Miss Leroy was a slave."

"Oh, no," said Dr. Gresham, starting to his feet, "it can't be so! A
woman as white as she a slave?"

"Yes, it is so," continued the Colonel. "In these States the child
follows the condition of its mother. This beautiful and accomplished
girl was held by one of the worst Rebels in town. Tom told me of it and
I issued orders for her release."

"Well, well! Is that so?" said Dr. Gresham, thoughtfully stroking his
beard. "Wonders will never cease. Why, I was just beginning to think
seriously of her."

"What's to hinder your continuing to think?" asked Col. Robinson.

"What you tell me changes the whole complexion of affairs," replied the
doctor.

"If that be so I am glad I told you before you got head over heels in
love."

"Yes," said Dr. Gresham, absently.

Dr. Gresham was a member of a wealthy and aristocratic family, proud of
its lineage, which it could trace through generations of good blood to
its ancestral isle. He had become deeply interested in Iola before he
had heard her story, but after it had been revealed to him he tried to
banish her from his mind; but his constant observation of her only
increased his interest and admiration. The deep pathos of her story, the
tenderness of her ministrations, bestowed alike on black and white, and
the sad loneliness of her condition, awakened within him a desire to
defend and protect her all through her future life. The fierce clashing
of war had not taken all the romance out of his nature. In Iola he saw
realized his ideal of the woman whom he was willing to marry. A woman,
tender, strong, and courageous, and rescued only by the strong arm of
his Government from a fate worse than death. She was young in years, but
old in sorrow; one whom a sad destiny had changed from a light-hearted
girl to a heroic woman. As he observed her, he detected an undertone of
sorrow in her most cheerful words, and observed a quick flushing and
sudden paling of her cheek, as if she were living over scenes that were
thrilling her soul with indignation or chilling her heart with horror.
As nurse and physician, Iola and Dr. Gresham were constantly thrown
together. His friends sent him magazines and books, which he gladly
shared with her. The hospital was a sad place. Mangled forms, stricken
down in the flush of their prime and energy; pale young corpses,
sacrificed on the altar of slavery, constantly drained on her
sympathies. Dr. Gresham was glad to have some reading matter which might
divert her mind from the memories of her mournful past, and also furnish
them both with interesting themes of conversation in their moments of
relaxation from the harrowing scenes through which they were constantly
passing. Without any effort or consciousness on her part, his friendship
ripened into love. To him her presence was a pleasure, her absence a
privation; and her loneliness drew deeply upon his sympathy. He would
have merited his own self-contempt if, by word or deed, he had done
anything to take advantage of her situation. All the manhood and
chivalry of his nature rose in her behalf, and, after carefully
revolving the matter, he resolved to win her for his bride, bury her
secret in his Northern home, and hide from his aristocratic relations
all knowledge of her mournful past. One day he said to Iola:--

"This hospital life is telling on you. Your strength is failing, and
although you possess a wonderful amount of physical endurance, you must
not forget that saints have bodies and dwell in tabernacles of clay,
just the same as we common mortals."

"Compliments aside," she said, smiling; "what are you driving at,
Doctor?"

"I mean," he replied, "that you are running down, and if you do not quit
and take some rest you will be our patient instead of our nurse. You'd
better take a furlough, go North, and return after the first frost."

"Doctor, if that is your only remedy," replied Iola, "I am afraid that I
am destined to die at my post. I have no special friends in the North,
and no home but this in the South. I am homeless and alone."

There was something so sad, almost despairing in her tones, in the
drooping of her head, and the quivering of her lip, that they stirred
Dr. Gresham's heart with sudden pity, and, drawing nearer to her, he
said, "Miss Leroy, you need not be all alone. Let me claim the privilege
of making your life bright and happy. Iola, I have loved you ever since
I have seen your devotion to our poor, sick boys. How faithfully you, a
young and gracious girl, have stood at your post and performed your
duties. And now I ask, will you not permit me to clasp hands with you
for life? I do not ask for a hasty reply. Give yourself time to think
over what I have proposed."




CHAPTER IX.


EUGENE LEROY AND ALFRED LORRAINE.

Nearly twenty years before the war, two young men, of French and Spanish
descent, sat conversing on a large verandah which surrounded an ancient
home on the Mississippi River. It was French in its style of
architecture, large and rambling, with no hint of modern improvements.

The owner of the house was the only heir of a Creole planter. He had
come into possession of an inheritance consisting of vast baronial
estates, bank stock, and a large number of slaves. Eugene Leroy, being
deprived of his parents, was left, at an early age, to the care of a
distant relative, who had sent him to school and college, and who
occasionally invited him to spend his vacations at his home. But Eugene
generally declined his invitations, as he preferred spending his
vacations at the watering places in the North, with their fashionable
and not always innocent gayeties. Young, vivacious, impulsive, and
undisciplined, without the restraining influence of a mother's love or
the guidance of a father's hand, Leroy found himself, when his college
days were over, in the dangerous position of a young man with vast
possessions, abundant leisure, unsettled principles, and uncontrolled
desires. He had no other object than to extract from life its most
seductive draughts of ease and pleasure. His companion, who sat opposite
him on the verandah, quietly smoking a cigar, was a remote cousin, a
few years older than himself, the warmth of whose Southern temperament
had been modified by an infusion of Northern blood.

Eugene was careless, liberal, and impatient of details, while his
companion and cousin, Alfred Lorraine, was selfish, eager, keen, and
alert; also hard, cold, methodical, and ever ready to grasp the main
chance. Yet, notwithstanding the difference between them, they had
formed a warm friendship for each other.

"Alfred," said Eugene, "I am going to be married."

Lorraine opened his eyes with sudden wonder, and exclaimed: "Well,
that's the latest thing out! Who is the fortunate lady who has bound you
with her silken fetters? Is it one of those beautiful Creole girls who
were visiting Augustine's plantation last winter? I watched you during
our visit there and thought that you could not be proof against their
attractions. Which is your choice? It would puzzle me to judge between
the two. They had splendid eyes, dark, luminous, and languishing; lovely
complexions and magnificent hair. Both were delightful in their manners,
refined and cultured, with an air of vivacity mingled with their repose
of manner which was perfectly charming. As the law only allows us one,
which is your choice? Miss Annette has more force than her sister, and
if I could afford the luxury of a wife she would be my choice."

"Ah, Alf," said Eugene, "I see that you are a practical business man. In
marrying you want a wife to assist you as an efficient plantation
mistress. One who would tolerate no waste in the kitchen and no disorder
in the parlor."

"Exactly so," responded Lorraine; "I am too poor to marry a mere parlor
ornament. You can afford to do it; I cannot."

"Nonsense, if I were as poor as a church mouse I would marry the woman I
love."

"Very fine sentiments," said Lorraine, "and were I as rich as you I
would indulge in them also. You know, when my father died I had great
expectations. We had always lived in good style, and I never thought for
a moment he was not a rich man, but when his estate was settled I found
it was greatly involved, and I was forced to face an uncertain future,
with scarcely a dollar to call my own. Land, negroes, cattle, and horses
all went under the hammer. The only thing I retained was the education I
received at the North; that was my father's best investment, and all my
stock in trade. With that only as an outfit, it would be madness for me
to think of marrying one of those lovely girls. They remind me of
beautiful canary birds, charming and pretty, but not fitted for the wear
and tear of plantation life. Well, which is your choice?"

"Neither," replied Eugene.

"Then, is it that magnificent looking widow from New Orleans, whom we
met before you had that terrible spell of sickness and to whom you
appeared so devoted?"

"Not at all. I have not heard from her since that summer. She was
fascinating and handsome, but fearfully high strung."

"Were you afraid of her?"

"No; but I valued my happiness too much to trust it in her hands."

"Sour grapes!" said Lorraine.

"No! but I think that slavery and the lack of outside interests are
beginning to tell on the lives of our women. They lean too much on their
slaves, have too much irresponsible power in their hands, are narrowed
and compressed by the routine of plantation life and the lack of
intellectual stimulus."

"Yes, Eugene, when I see what other women are doing in the fields of
literature and art, I cannot help thinking an amount of brain power has
been held in check among us. Yet I cannot abide those Northern women,
with their suffrage views and abolition cant. They just shock me."

"But your mother was a Northern woman," said Eugene.

"Yes; but she got bravely over her Northern ideas. As I remember her,
she was just as much a Southerner as if she had been to the manor born.
She came here as a school-teacher, but soon after she came she married
my father. He was easy and indulgent with his servants, and held them
with a very loose rein. But my mother was firm and energetic. She made
the niggers move around. No shirking nor dawdling with her. When my
father died, she took matters in hand, but she only outlived him a few
months. If she had lived I believe that she would have retrieved our
fortune. I know that she had more executive ability than my father. He
was very squeamish about selling his servants, but she would have put
every one of them in her pocket before permitting them to eat her out of
house and home. But whom _are_ you going to marry?"

"A young lady who graduates from a Northern seminary next week,"
responded Eugene.

"I think you are very selfish," said Lorraine. "You might have invited
a fellow to go with you to be your best man."

"The wedding is to be strictly private. The lady whom I am to marry has
negro blood in her veins."

"The devil she has!" exclaimed Lorraine, starting to his feet, and
looking incredulously on the face of Leroy. "Are you in earnest? Surely
you must be jesting."

"I am certainly in earnest," answered Eugene Leroy. "I mean every word I
say."

"Oh, it can't be possible! Are you mad?" exclaimed Lorraine.

"Never was saner in my life."

"What under heaven could have possessed you to do such a foolish thing?
Where did she come from."

"Right here, on this plantation. But I have educated and manumitted her,
and I intend marrying her."

"Why, Eugene, it is impossible that you can have an idea of marrying one
of your slaves. Why, man, she is your property, to have and to hold to
all intents and purposes. Are you not satisfied with the power and
possession the law gives you?"

"No. Although the law makes her helpless in my hands, to me her
defenselessness is her best defense."

"Eugene, we have known each other all of our lives, and, although I have
always regarded you as eccentric, I never saw you so completely off your
balance before. The idea of you, with your proud family name, your vast
wealth in land and negroes, intending to marry one of them, is a mystery
I cannot solve. Do explain to me why you are going to take this
extremely strange and foolish step."

"You never saw Marie?"

"No; and I don't want to."

"She is very beautiful. In the North no one would suspect that she has
one drop of negro blood in her veins, but here, where I am known, to
marry her is to lose caste. I could live with her, and not incur much if
any social opprobrium. Society would wink at the transgression, even if
after she had become the mother of my children I should cast her off and
send her and them to the auction block."

"Men," replied Lorraine, "would merely shrug their shoulders; women
would say you had been sowing your wild oats. Your money, like charity,
would cover a multitude of faults."

"But if I make her my lawful wife and recognize her children as my
legitimate heirs, I subject myself to social ostracism and a senseless
persecution. We Americans boast of freedom, and yet here is a woman whom
I love as I never loved any other human being, but both law and public
opinion debar me from following the inclination of my heart. She is
beautiful, faithful, and pure, and yet all that society will tolerate is
what I would scorn to do."

"But has not society the right to guard the purity of its blood by the
rigid exclusion of an alien race?"

"Excluding it! How?" asked Eugene.

"By debarring it from social intercourse."

"Perhaps it has," continued Eugene, "but should not society have a
greater ban for those who, by consorting with an alien race, rob their
offspring of a right to their names and to an inheritance in their
property, and who fix their social status among an enslaved and outcast
race? Don't eye me so curiously; I am not losing my senses."

"I think you have done that already," said Lorraine. "Don't you know
that if she is as fair as a lily, beautiful as a houri, and chaste as
ice, that still she is a negro?"

"Oh, come now; she isn't much of a negro."

"It doesn't matter, however. One drop of negro blood in her veins curses
all the rest."

"I know it," said Eugene, sadly, "but I have weighed the consequences,
and am prepared to take them."

"Well, Eugene, your course is _so_ singular! I do wish that you would
tell me why you take this unprecedented step?"

Eugene laid aside his cigar, looked thoughtfully at Lorraine, and said,
"Well, Alfred, as we are kinsmen and life-long friends, I will not
resent your asking my reason for doing that which seems to you the
climax of absurdity, and if you will have the patience to listen I will
tell you."

"Proceed, I am all attention."

"My father died," said Eugene, "as you know, when I was too young to
know his loss or feel his care and, being an only child, I was petted
and spoiled. I grew up to be wayward, self-indulgent, proud, and
imperious. I went from home and made many friends both at college and in
foreign lands. I was well supplied with money and, never having been
forced to earn it, was ignorant of its value and careless of its use. My
lavish expenditures and liberal benefactions attracted to me a number
of parasites, and men older than myself led me into the paths of vice,
and taught me how to gather the flowers of sin which blossom around the
borders of hell. In a word, I left my home unwarned and unarmed against
the seductions of vice. I returned an initiated devotee to debasing
pleasures. Years of my life were passed in foreign lands; years in which
my soul slumbered and seemed pervaded with a moral paralysis; years, the
memory of which fills my soul with sorrow and shame. I went to the
capitals of the old world to see life, but in seeing life I became
acquainted with death, the death of true manliness and self-respect. You
look astonished; but I tell you, Alf, there is many a poor clod-hopper,
on whom are the dust and grime of unremitting toil, who feels more
self-respect and true manliness than many of us with our family
prestige, social position, and proud ancestral halls. After I had lived
abroad for years, I returned a broken-down young man, prematurely old,
my constitution a perfect wreck. A life of folly and dissipation was
telling fearfully upon me. My friends shrank from me in dismay. I was
sick nigh unto death, and had it not been for Marie's care I am certain
that I should have died. She followed me down to the borders of the
grave, and won me back to life and health. I was slow in recovering and,
during the time, I had ample space for reflection, and the past unrolled
itself before me. I resolved, over the wreck and ruin of my past life,
to build a better and brighter future. Marie had a voice of remarkable
sweetness, although it lacked culture. Often when I was nervous and
restless I would have her sing some of those weird and plaintive
melodies which she had learned from the plantation negroes. Sometimes I
encouraged her to talk, and I was surprised at the native vigor of her
intellect. By degrees I became acquainted with her history. She was all
alone in the world. She had no recollection of her father, but
remembered being torn from her mother while clinging to her dress. The
trader who bought her mother did not wish to buy her. She remembered
having a brother, with whom she used to play, but she had been separated
from him also, and since then had lost all trace of them. After she was
sold from her mother she became the property of an excellent old lady,
who seems to have been very careful to imbue her mind with good
principles; a woman who loved purity, not only for her own daughters,
but also for the defenseless girls in her home. I believe it was the
lady's intention to have freed Marie at her death, but she died
suddenly, and, the estate being involved, she was sold with it and fell
into the hands of my agent. I became deeply interested in her when I
heard her story, and began to pity her."

"And I suppose love sprang from pity."

"I not only pitied her, but I learned to respect her. I had met with
beautiful women in the halls of wealth and fashion, both at home and
abroad, but there was something in her different from all my experience
of womanhood."

"I should think so," said Lorraine, with a sneer; "but I should like to
know what it was."

"It was something such as I have seen in old cathedrals, lighting up the
beauty of a saintly face. A light which the poet tells was never seen on
land or sea. I thought of this beautiful and defenseless girl adrift in
the power of a reckless man, who, with all the advantages of wealth and
education, had trailed his manhood in the dust, and she, with simple,
childlike faith in the Unseen, seemed to be so good and pure that she
commanded my respect and won my heart. In her presence every base and
unholy passion died, subdued by the supremacy of her virtue."

"Why, Eugene, what has come over you? Talking of the virtue of these
quadroon girls! You have lived so long in the North and abroad, that you
seem to have lost the cue of our Southern life. Don't you know that
these beautiful girls have been the curse of our homes? You have no idea
of the hearts which are wrung by their presence."

"But, Alfred, suppose it is so. Are they to blame for it? What can any
woman do when she is placed in the hands of an irresponsible master;
when she knows that resistance is vain? Yes, Alfred, I agree with you,
these women are the bane of our Southern civilization; but they are the
victims and we are the criminals."

"I think from the airs that some of them put on when they get a chance,
that they are very willing victims."

"So much the worse for our institution. If it is cruel to debase a
hapless victim, it is an increase of cruelty to make her contented with
her degradation. Let me tell you, Alf, you cannot wrong or degrade a
woman without wronging or degrading yourself."

"What is the matter with you, Eugene? Are you thinking of taking
priest's orders?"

"No, Alf," said Eugene, rising and rapidly pacing the floor, "you may
defend the system as much as you please, but you cannot deny that the
circumstances it creates, and the temptations it affords, are sapping
our strength and undermining our character."

"That may be true," said Lorraine, somewhat irritably, "but you had
better be careful how you air your Northern notions in public."

"Why so?"

"Because public opinion is too sensitive to tolerate any such
discussions."

"And is not that a proof that we are at fault with respect to our
institutions?"

"I don't know. I only know we are living in the midst of a magazine of
powder, and it is not safe to enter it with a lighted candle."

"Let me proceed with my story," continued Eugene. "During the long
months in which I was convalescing, I was left almost entirely to the
companionship of Marie. In my library I found a Bible, which I began to
read from curiosity, but my curiosity deepened into interest when I saw
the rapt expression on Marie's face. I saw in it a loving response to
sentiments to which I was a stranger. In the meantime my conscience was
awakened, and I scorned to take advantage of her defenselessness. I felt
that I owed my life to her faithful care, and I resolved to take her
North, manumit, educate, and marry her. I sent her to a Northern
academy, but as soon as some of the pupils found that she was colored,
objections were raised, and the principal was compelled to dismiss her.
During my search for a school I heard of one where three girls of mixed
blood were pursuing their studies, every one of whom would have been
ignominiously dismissed had their connection with the negro race been
known. But I determined to run no risks. I found a school where her
connection with the negro race would be no bar to her advancement. She
graduates next week, and I intend to marry her before I return home. She
was faithful when others were faithless, stood by me when others
deserted me to die in loneliness and neglect, and now I am about to
reward her care with all the love and devotion it is in my power to
bestow. That is why I am about to marry my faithful and devoted nurse,
who snatched me from the jaws of death. Now that I have told you my
story, what say you?"

"Madness and folly inconceivable!" exclaimed Lorraine.

"What to you is madness and folly is perfect sanity with me. After all,
Alf, is there not an amount of unreason in our prejudices?"

"That may be true; but I wasn't reasoned into it, and I do not expect to
be reasoned out of it."

"Will you accompany me North?"

"No; except to put you in an insane asylum. You are the greatest crank
out," said Lorraine, thoroughly disgusted.

"No, thank you; I'm all right. I expect to start North to-morrow. You
had better come and go."

"I would rather follow you to your grave," replied Lorraine, hotly,
while an expression of ineffable scorn passed over his cold, proud face.




CHAPTER X.


SHADOWS IN THE HOME.

On the next morning after this conversation Leroy left for the North, to
attend the commencement and witness the graduation of his ward. Arriving
in Ohio, he immediately repaired to the academy and inquired for the
principal. He was shown into the reception-room, and in a few moments
the principal entered.

"Good morning," said Leroy, rising and advancing towards him; "how is my
ward this morning?"

"She is well, and has been expecting you. I am glad you came in time for
the commencement. She stands among the foremost in her class."

"I am glad to hear it. Will you send her this?" said Leroy, handing the
principal a card. The principal took the card and immediately left the
room.

Very soon Leroy heard a light step, and looking up he saw a radiantly
beautiful woman approaching him.

"Good morning, Marie," he said, greeting her cordially, and gazing upon
her with unfeigned admiration. "You are looking very handsome this
morning."

"Do you think so?" she asked, smiling and blushing. "I am glad you are
not disappointed; that you do not feel your money has been spent in
vain."

"Oh, no, what I have spent on your education has been the best
investment I ever made."

"I hope," said Marie, "you may always find it so. But Mas----"

"Hush!" said Leroy, laying his hand playfully on her lips; "you are
free. I don't want the dialect of slavery to linger on your lips. You
must not call me that name again."

"Why not?"

"Because I have a nearer and dearer one by which I wish to be called."

Leroy drew her nearer, and whispered in her ear a single word. She
started, trembled with emotion, grew pale, and blushed painfully. An
awkward silence ensued, when Leroy, pressing her hand, exclaimed: "This
is the hand that plucked me from the grave, and I am going to retain it
as mine; mine to guard with my care until death us do part."

Leroy looked earnestly into her eyes, which fell beneath his ardent
gaze. With admirable self-control, while a great joy was thrilling her
heart, she bowed her beautiful head and softly repeated, "Until death us
do part."

Leroy knew Southern society too well to expect it to condone his offense
against its social customs, or give the least recognition to his wife,
however cultured, refined, and charming she might be, if it were known
that she had the least infusion of negro blood in her veins. But he was
brave enough to face the consequences of his alliance, and marry the
woman who was the choice of his heart, and on whom his affections were
centred.

After Leroy had left the room, Marie sat awhile thinking of the
wonderful change that had come over her. Instead of being a lonely slave
girl, with the fatal dower of beauty, liable to be bought and sold,
exchanged, and bartered, she was to be the wife of a wealthy planter; a
man in whose honor she could confide, and on whose love she could lean.

Very interesting and pleasant were the commencement exercises in which
Marie bore an important part. To enlist sympathy for her enslaved race,
and appear to advantage before Leroy, had aroused all of her energies.
The stimulus of hope, the manly love which was environing her life,
brightened her eye and lit up the wonderful beauty of her countenance.
During her stay in the North she had constantly been brought in contact
with anti-slavery people. She was not aware that there was so much
kindness among the white people of the country until she had tested it
in the North. From the anti-slavery people in private life she had
learned some of the noblest lessons of freedom and justice, and had
become imbued with their sentiments. Her theme was "American
Civilization, its Lights and Shadows."

Graphically she portrayed the lights, faithfully she showed the shadows
of our American civilization. Earnestly and feelingly she spoke of the
blind Sampson in our land, who might yet shake the pillars of our great
Commonwealth. Leroy listened attentively. At times a shadow of annoyance
would overspread his face, but it was soon lost in the admiration her
earnestness and zeal inspired. Like Esther pleading for the lives of her
people in the Oriental courts of a despotic king, she stood before the
audience, pleading for those whose lips were sealed, but whose condition
appealed to the mercy and justice of the Nation. Strong men wiped the
moisture from their eyes, and women's hearts throbbed in unison with the
strong, brave words that were uttered in behalf of freedom for all and
chains for none. Generous applause was freely bestowed, and beautiful
bouquets were showered upon her. When it was known that she was to be
the wife of her guardian, warm congratulations were given, and earnest
hopes expressed for the welfare of the lonely girl, who, nearly all her
life, had been deprived of a parent's love and care. On the eve of
starting South Leroy procured a license, and united his destiny with the
young lady whose devotion in the darkest hour had won his love and
gratitude.

In a few days Marie returned as mistress to the plantation from which
she had gone as a slave. But as unholy alliances were common in those
days between masters and slaves, no one took especial notice that Marie
shared Leroy's life as mistress of his home, and that the family silver
and jewelry were in her possession. But Leroy, happy in his choice,
attended to the interests of his plantation, and found companionship in
his books and in the society of his wife. A few male companions visited
him occasionally, admired the magnificent beauty of his wife, shook
their heads, and spoke of him as being very eccentric, but thought his
marriage the great mistake of his life. But none of his female friends
ever entered his doors, when it became known that Marie held the
position of mistress of his mansion, and presided at his table. But she,
sheltered in the warm clasp of loving arms, found her life like a joyous
dream.

Into that quiet and beautiful home three children were born, unconscious
of the doom suspended over their heads.

"Oh, how glad I am," Marie would often say, "that these children are
free. I could never understand how a cultured white man could have his
own children enslaved. I can understand how savages, fighting with each
other, could doom their vanquished foes to slavery, but it has always
been a puzzle to me how a civilized man could drag his own children,
bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, down to the position of social
outcasts, abject slaves, and political pariahs."

"But, Marie," said Eugene, "all men do not treat their illegitimate
children in the manner you describe. The last time I was in New Orleans
I met Henri Augustine at the depot, with two beautiful young girls. At
first I thought that they were his own children, they resembled him so
closely. But afterwards I noticed that they addressed him as 'Mister.'
Before we parted he told me that his wife had taken such a dislike to
their mother that she could not bear to see them on the place. At last,
weary of her dissatisfaction, he had promised to bring them to New
Orleans and sell them. Instead, he was going to Ohio to give them their
freedom, and make provision for their future."

"What a wrong!" said Marie.

"Who was wronged?" said Leroy, in astonishment.

"Every one in the whole transaction," answered Marie. "Your friend
wronged himself by sinning against his own soul. He wronged his wife by
arousing her hatred and jealousy through his unfaithfulness. He wronged
those children by giving them the _status_ of slaves and outcasts. He
wronged their mother by imposing upon her the burdens and cares of
maternity without the rights and privileges of a wife. He made her crown
of motherhood a circlet of shame. Under other circumstances she might
have been an honored wife and happy mother. And I do think such men
wrong their own legitimate children by transmitting to them a weakened
moral fibre."

"Oh, Marie, you have such an uncomfortable way of putting things. You
make me feel that we have done those things which we ought not to have
done, and have left undone those things which we ought to have done."

"If it annoys you," said Marie, "I will stop talking."

"Oh, no, go on," said Leroy, carelessly; and then he continued more
thoughtfully, "I know a number of men who have sent such children North,
and manumitted, educated, and left them valuable legacies. We are all
liable to err, and, having done wrong, all we can do is to make
reparation."

"My dear husband, this is a wrong where reparation is impossible.
Neither wealth nor education can repair the wrong of a dishonored birth.
There are a number of slaves in this section who are servants to their
own brothers and sisters; whose fathers have robbed them not simply of
liberty but of the right of being well born. Do you think these things
will last forever?"

"I suppose not. There are some prophets of evil who tell us that the
Union is going to dissolve. But I know it would puzzle their brains to
tell where the crack will begin. I reckon we'll continue to jog along as
usual. 'Cotton fights, and cotton conquers for American slavery.'"

Even while Leroy dreamed of safety the earthquake was cradling its fire;
the ground was growing hollow beneath his tread; but his ear was too
dull to catch the sound; his vision too blurred to read the signs of the
times.

"Marie," said Leroy, taking up the thread of the discourse, "slavery is
a sword that cuts both ways. If it wrongs the negro, it also curses the
white man. But we are in it, and what can we do?"

"Get out of it as quickly as possible."

"That is easier said than done. I would willingly free every slave on my
plantation if I could do so without expatriating them. Some of them have
wives and children on other plantations, and to free them is to separate
them from their kith and kin. To let them remain here as a free people
is out of the question. My hands are tied by law and custom."

"Who tied them?" asked Marie.

"A public opinion, whose meshes I cannot break. If the negro is the
thrall of his master, we are just as much the thralls of public
opinion."

"Why do you not battle against public opinion, if you think it is
wrong?"

"Because I have neither the courage of a martyr, nor the faith of a
saint; and so I drift along, trying to make the condition of our slaves
as comfortable as I possibly can. I believe there are slaves on this
plantation whom the most flattering offers of freedom would not entice
away."

"I do not think," said Marie, "that some of you planters understand your
own slaves. Lying is said to be the vice of slaves. The more intelligent
of them have so learned to veil their feelings that you do not see the
undercurrent of discontent beneath their apparent good humor and
jollity. The more discontented they are, the more I respect them. To me
a contented slave is an abject creature. I hope that I shall see the
day when there will not be a slave in the land. I hate the whole thing
from the bottom of my heart."

"Marie, your Northern education has unfitted you for Southern life. You
are free, yourself, and so are our children. Why not let well enough
alone?"

"Because I love liberty, not only for myself but for every human being.
Think how dear these children are to me; and then for the thought to be
forever haunting me, that if you were dead they could be turned out of
doors and divided among your relatives. I sometimes lie awake at night
thinking of how there might be a screw loose somewhere, and, after all,
the children and I might be reduced to slavery."

"Marie, what in the world is the matter with you? Have you had a
presentiment of my death, or, as Uncle Jack says, 'hab you seed it in a
vision?'"

"No, but I have had such sad forebodings that they almost set me wild.
One night I dreamt that you were dead; that the lawyers entered the
house, seized our property, and remanded us to slavery. I never can be
satisfied in the South with such a possibility hanging over my head."

"Marie, dear, you are growing nervous. Your imagination is too active.
You are left too much alone on this plantation. I hope that for your own
and the children's sake I will be enabled to arrange our affairs so as
to find a home for you where you will not be doomed to the social
isolation and ostracism that surround you here."

"I don't mind the isolation for myself, but the children. You have
enjoined silence on me with respect to their connection with the negro
race, but I do not think we can conceal it from them very long. It will
not be long before Iola will notice the offishness of girls of her own
age, and the scornful glances which, even now, I think, are leveled at
her. Yesterday Harry came crying to me, and told me that one of the
neighbor's boys had called him 'nigger.'"

A shadow flitted over Leroy's face, as he answered, somewhat soberly,
"Oh, Marie, do not meet trouble half way. I have manumitted you, and the
children will follow your condition. I have made you all legatees of my
will. Except my cousin, Alfred Lorraine, I have only distant relatives,
whom I scarcely know and who hardly know me."

"Your cousin Lorraine? Are you sure our interests would be safe in his
hands?"

"I think so; I don't think Alfred would do anything dishonorable."

"He might not with his equals. But how many men would be bound by a
sense of honor where the rights of a colored woman are in question? Your
cousin was bitterly opposed to our marriage, and I would not trust any
important interests in his hands. I do hope that in providing for our
future you will make assurance doubly sure."

"I certainly will, and all that human foresight can do shall be done for
you and our children."

"Oh," said Marie, pressing to her heart a beautiful child of six
summers, "I think it would almost make me turn over in my grave to know
that every grace and charm which this child possesses would only be so
much added to her value as an article of merchandise."

As Marie released the child from her arms she looked wonderingly into
her mother's face and clung closely to her, as if to find refuge from
some unseen evil. Leroy noticed this, and sighed unconsciously, as an
expression of pain flitted over his face.

"Now, Marie," he continued, "stop tormenting yourself with useless
fears. Although, with all her faults, I still love the South, I will
make arrangements either to live North or go to France. There life will
be brighter for us all. Now, Marie, seat yourself at the piano and
sing:--

    'Sing me the songs that to me were so dear,
            Long, long ago.
     Sing me the songs I delighted to hear,
            Long, long ago."

As Marie sang the anxiety faded from her face, a sense of security stole
over her, and she sat among her loved ones a happy wife and mother. What
if no one recognized her on that lonely plantation! Her world was,
nevertheless, there. The love and devotion of her husband brightened
every avenue of her life, while her children filled her home with music,
mirth, and sunshine.

Marie had undertaken their education, but she could not give them the
culture which comes from the attrition of thought, and from contact with
the ideas of others. Since her school-days she had read extensively and
thought much, and in solitude her thoughts had ripened. But for her
children there were no companions except the young slaves of the
plantation, and she dreaded the effect of such intercourse upon their
lives and characters.

Leroy had always been especially careful to conceal from his children
the knowledge of their connection with the negro race. To Marie this
silence was oppressive.

One day she said to him, "I see no other way of finishing the education
of these children than by sending them to some Northern school."

"I have come," said Leroy, "to the same conclusion. We had better take
Iola and Harry North and make arrangements for them to spend several
years in being educated. Riches take wings to themselves and fly away,
but a good education is an investment on which the law can place no
attachment. As there is a possibility of their origin being discovered,
I will find a teacher to whom I can confide our story, and upon whom I
can enjoin secrecy. I want them well fitted for any emergency in life.
When I discover for what they have the most aptitude I will give them
especial training in that direction."

A troubled look passed over the face of Marie, as she hesitatingly said:
"I am so afraid that you will regret our marriage when you fully realize
the complications it brings."

"No, no," said Leroy, tenderly, "it is not that I regret our marriage,
or feel the least disdain for our children on account of the blood in
their veins; but I do not wish them to grow up under the contracting
influence of this race prejudice. I do not wish them to feel that they
have been born under a proscription from which no valor can redeem them,
nor that any social advancement or individual development can wipe off
the ban which clings to them. No, Marie, let them go North, learn all
they can, aspire all they may. The painful knowledge will come all too
soon. Do not forestall it. I want them simply to grow up as other
children; not being patronized by friends nor disdained by foes."

"My dear husband, you may be perfectly right, but are you not preparing
our children for a fearful awakening? Are you not acting on the plan,
'After me the deluge?'"

"Not at all, Marie. I want our children to grow up without having their
self-respect crushed in the bud. You know that the North is not free
from racial prejudice."

"I know it," said Marie, sadly, "and I think one of the great mistakes
of our civilization is that which makes color, and not character, a
social test."

"I think so, too," said Leroy. "The strongest men and women of a
down-trodden race may bare their bosoms to an adverse fate and develop
courage in the midst of opposition, but we have no right to subject our
children to such crucial tests before their characters are formed. For
years, when I lived abroad, I had an opportunity to see and hear of men
of African descent who had distinguished themselves and obtained a
recognition in European circles, which they never could have gained in
this country. I now recall the name of Ira Aldridge, a colored man from
New York City, who was covered with princely honors as a successful
tragedian. Alexander Dumas was not forced to conceal his origin to
succeed as a novelist. When I was in St. Petersburg I was shown the
works of Alexander Sergevitch, a Russian poet, who was spoken of as the
Byron of Russian literature, and reckoned one of the finest poets that
Russia has produced in this century. He was also a prominent figure in
fashionable society, and yet he was of African lineage. One of his
paternal ancestors was a negro who had been ennobled by Peter the
Great. I can't help contrasting the recognition which these men had
received with the treatment which has been given to Frederick Douglass
and other intelligent colored men in this country. With me the wonder is
not that they have achieved so little, but that they have accomplished
so much. No, Marie, we will have our children educated without being
subjected to the depressing influences of caste feeling. Perhaps by the
time their education is finished I will be ready to wind up my affairs
and take them abroad, where merit and ability will give them entrance
into the best circles of art, literature, and science."

After this conversation Leroy and his wife went North, and succeeded in
finding a good school for their children. In a private interview he
confided to the principal the story of the cross in their blood, and,
finding him apparently free from racial prejudice, he gladly left the
children in his care. Gracie, the youngest child, remained at home, and
her mother spared no pains to fit her for the seminary against the time
her sister should have finished her education.




CHAPTER XI.


THE PLAGUE AND THE LAW.

Years passed, bringing no special change to the life of Leroy and his
wife. Shut out from the busy world, its social cares and anxieties,
Marie's life flowed peacefully on. Although removed by the protecting
care of Leroy from the condition of servitude, she still retained a deep
sympathy for the enslaved, and was ever ready to devise plans to
ameliorate their condition.

Leroy, although in the midst of slavery, did not believe in the
rightfulness of the institution. He was in favor of gradual
emancipation, which would prepare both master and slave for a moral
adaptation to the new conditions of freedom. While he was willing to
have the old rivets taken out of slavery, politicians and planters were
devising plans to put in new screws. He was desirous of having it ended
in the States; they were clamorous to have it established in the
Territories.

But so strong was the force of habit, combined with the feebleness of
his moral resistance and the nature of his environment, that instead of
being an athlete, armed for a glorious strife, he had learned to drift
where he should have steered, to float with the current instead of nobly
breasting the tide. He conducted his plantation with as much lenity as
it was possible to infuse into a system darkened with the shadow of a
million crimes.

Leroy had always been especially careful not to allow his children to
spend their vacations at home. He and Marie generally spent that time
with them at some summer resort.

"I would like," said Marie, one day, "to have our children spend their
vacations at home. Those summer resorts are pleasant, yet, after all,
there is no place like home. But," and her voice became tremulous, "our
children would now notice their social isolation and inquire the cause."
A faint sigh arose to the lips of Leroy, as she added: "Man is a social
being; I've known it to my sorrow."

There was a tone of sadness in Leroy's voice, as he replied: "Yes,
Marie, let them stay North. We seem to be entering on a period fraught
with great danger. I cannot help thinking and fearing that we are on the
eve of a civil war."

"A civil war!" exclaimed Marie, with an air of astonishment. "A civil
war about what?"

"Why, Marie, the thing looks to me so wild and foolish I hardly know how
to explain. But some of our leading men have come to the conclusion that
North and South had better separate, and instead of having one to have
two independent governments. The spirit of secession is rampant in the
land. I do not know what the result will be, and I fear it will bode no
good to the country. Between the fire-eating Southerners and the
meddling Abolitionists we are about to be plunged into a great deal of
trouble. I fear there are breakers ahead. The South is dissatisfied with
the state of public opinion in the North. We are realizing that we are
two peoples in the midst of one nation. William H. Seward has
proclaimed that the conflict between freedom and slavery is
irrepressible, and that the country cannot remain half free and half
slave."

"How will _you_ go?" asked Marie.

"My heart is with the Union. I don't believe in secession. There has
been no cause sufficient to justify a rupture. The North has met us time
and again in the spirit of concession and compromise. When we wanted the
continuance of the African slave trade the North conceded that we should
have twenty years of slave-trading for the benefit of our plantations.
When we wanted more territory she conceded to our desires and gave us
land enough to carve out four States, and there yet remains enough for
four more. When we wanted power to recapture our slaves when they fled
North for refuge, Daniel Webster told Northerners to conquer their
prejudices, and they gave us the whole Northern States as a hunting
ground for our slaves. The Presidential chair has been filled the
greater number of years by Southerners, and the majority of offices has
been shared by our men. We wanted representation in Congress on a basis
which would include our slaves, and the North, whose suffrage represents
only men, gave us a three-fifths representation for our slaves, whom we
count as property. I think the step will be suicidal. There are
extremists in both sections, but I hope, between them both, wise
counsels and measures will prevail."

Just then Alfred Lorraine was ushered into the room. Occasionally he
visited Leroy, but he always came alone. His wife was the only daughter
of an enterprising slave-trader, who had left her a large amount of
property.

Her social training was deficient, her education limited, but she was
too proud of being a pure white woman to enter the home of Leroy, with
Marie as its presiding genius. Lorraine tolerated Marie's presence as a
necessary evil, while to her he always seemed like a presentiment of
trouble. With his coming a shadow fell upon her home, hushing its music
and darkening its sunshine. A sense of dread oppressed her. There came
into her soul an intuitive feeling that somehow his coming was fraught
with danger. When not peering around she would often catch his eyes bent
on her with a baleful expression.

Leroy and his cousin immediately fell into a discussion on the condition
of the country. Lorraine was a rank Secessionist, ready to adopt the
most extreme measures of the leaders of the movement, even to the
reopening of the slave trade. Leroy thought a dissolution of the Union
would involve a fearful expenditure of blood and treasure for which,
before the eyes of the world, there could be no justification. The
debate lasted late into the night, leaving both Lorraine and Leroy just
as set in their opinions as they were before they began. Marie listened
attentively awhile, then excused herself and withdrew.

After Lorraine had gone Marie said: "There is something about your
cousin that fills me with nameless dread. I always feel when he enters
the room as if some one were walking over my grave. I do wish he would
stay at home."

"I wish so, too, since he disturbs you. But, Marie, you are growing
nervous. How cold your hands are. Don't you feel well?"

"Oh, yes; I am only a little faint. I wish he would never come. But, as
he does, I must make the best of it."

"Yes, Marie, treat him well for my sake. He is the only relative I have
who ever darkens our doors."

"I have no faith in his friendship for either myself or my children. I
feel that while he makes himself agreeable to you he hates me from the
bottom of his heart, and would do anything to get me out of the way. Oh,
I am _so_ glad I am your lawful wife, and that you married me before you
brought me back to this State! I believe that if you were gone he
wouldn't have the least scruple against trying to prove our marriage
invalid and remanding us to slavery."

Leroy looked anxiously and soberly at his wife, and said: "Marie, I do
not think so. Your life is too lonely here. Write your orders to New
Orleans, get what you need for the journey, and let us spend the summer
somewhere in the North."

Just then Marie's attention was drawn to some household matters, and it
was a short time before she returned.

"Tom," continued Leroy, "has just brought the mail, and here is a letter
from Iola."

Marie noticed that he looked quite sober as he read, and that an
expression of vexation was lingering on his lips.

"What is the matter?" asked Marie.

"Nothing much; only a tempest in a teapot. The presence of a colored
girl in Mr. Galen's school has caused a breeze of excitement. You know
Mr. Galen is quite an Abolitionist, and, being true to his principles,
he could not consistently refuse when a colored woman applied for her
daughter's admission. Of course, when he took her he was compelled to
treat her as any other pupil. In so doing he has given mortal offense to
the mother of two Southern boys. She has threatened to take them away if
the colored girl remains."

"What will he do about it?" asked Marie, thoughtfully.

"Oh, it is a bitter pill, but I think he will have to swallow it. He is
between two fires. He cannot dismiss her from the school and be true to
his Abolition principles; yet if he retains her he will lose his
Southern customers, and I know he cannot afford to do that."

"What does Iola say?"

"He has found another boarding place for her, but she is to remain in
the school. He had to throw that sop to the whale."

"Does she take sides against the girl?"

"No, I don't think she does. She says she feels sorry for her, and that
she would hate to be colored. 'It is so hard to be looked down on for
what one can't help.'"

"Poor child! I wish we could leave the country. I never would consent to
her marrying any one without first revealing to him her connection with
the negro race. This is a subject on which I am not willing to run any
risks."

"My dear Marie, when you shall have read Iola's letter you will see it
is more than a figment of my imagination that has made me so loth to
have our children know the paralyzing power of caste."

Leroy, always liberal with his wife and children, spared neither pains
nor expense to have them prepared for their summer outing. Iola was to
graduate in a few days. Harry was attending a school in the State of
Maine, and his father had written to him, apprising him of his intention
to come North that season. In a few days Leroy and his wife started
North, but before they reached Vicksburg they were met by the
intelligence that the yellow fever was spreading in the Delta, and that
pestilence was breathing its bane upon the morning air and distilling
its poison upon the midnight dews.

"Let us return home," said Marie.

"It is useless," answered Leroy. "It is nearly two days since we left
home. The fever is spreading south of us with fearful rapidity. To
return home is to walk into the jaws of death. It was my intention to
have stopped at Vicksburg, but now I will go on as soon as I can make
the connections."

Early next morning Leroy and his wife started again on their journey.
The cars were filled with terror-stricken people who were fleeing from
death, when death was everywhere. They fled from the city only to meet
the dreaded apparition in the country. As they journeyed on Leroy grew
restless and feverish. He tried to brace himself against the infection
which was creeping slowly but insidiously into his life, dulling his
brain, fevering his blood, and prostrating his strength. But vain were
all his efforts. He had no armor strong enough to repel the invasion of
death. They stopped at a small town on the way and obtained the best
medical skill and most careful nursing, but neither skill nor art
availed. On the third day death claimed Leroy as a victim, and Marie
wept in hopeless agony over the grave of her devoted husband, whose sad
lot it was to die from home and be buried among strangers.

But before he died he placed his will in Marie's hands, saying: "I have
left you well provided for. Kiss the children for me and bid them
good-bye."

He tried to say a parting word to Gracie, but his voice failed, and he
fainted into the stillness of death. A mortal paleness overspread his
countenance, on which had already gathered the shadows that never
deceive. In speechless agony Marie held his hand until it released its
pressure in death, and then she stood alone beside her dead, with all
the bright sunshine of her life fading into the shadows of the grave.
Heart-broken and full of fearful forebodings, Marie left her cherished
dead in the quiet village of H---- and returned to her death-darkened
home.

It was a lovely day in June, birds were singing their sweetest songs,
flowers were breathing their fragrance on the air, when Mam Liza,
sitting at her cabin-door, talking with some of the house servants, saw
a carriage approaching, and wondered who was coming.

"I wonder," she said, excitedly, "whose comin' to de house when de folks
is done gone."

But her surprise was soon changed to painful amazement, when she saw
Marie, robed in black, alighting from the carriage, and holding Gracie
by the hand. She caught sight of the drooping head and grief-stricken
face, and rushed to her, exclaiming:--

"Whar's Marse Eugene?"

"Dead," said Marie, falling into Mammy Liza's arms, sobbing out, "dead!
_ died_ of yellow fever."

A wild burst of sorrow came from the lips of the servants, who had
drawn near.

"Where is he?" said Mam Liza, speaking like one suddenly bewildered.

"He is buried in H----. I could not bring him home," said Marie.

"My pore baby," said Mam Liza, with broken sobs. "I'se drefful sorry. My
heart's most broke into two." Then, controlling herself, she dismissed
the servants who stood around, weeping, and led Marie to her room.

"Come, honey, lie down an' lem'me git yer a cup ob tea."

"Oh, no; I don't want anything," said Marie, wringing her hands in
bitter agony.

"Oh, honey," said Mam Liza, "yer musn't gib up. Yer knows whar to put
yer trus'. Yer can't lean on de arm of flesh in dis tryin' time."
Kneeling by the side of her mistress she breathed out a prayer full of
tenderness, hope, and trust.

Marie grew calmer. It seemed as if that earnest, trustful prayer had
breathed into her soul a feeling of resignation.

Gracie stood wonderingly by, vainly trying to comprehend the great
sorrow which was overwhelming the life of her mother.

After the first great burst of sorrow was over, Marie sat down to her
desk and wrote a letter to Iola, informing her of her father's death. By
the time she had finished it she grew dizzy and faint, and fell into a
swoon. Mammy Liza tenderly laid her on the bed, and helped restore her
to consciousness.

Lorraine, having heard of his cousin's death, came immediately to see
Marie. She was too ill to have an interview with him, but he picked up
the letter she had written and obtained Iola's address.

Lorraine made a careful investigation of the case, to ascertain whether
Marie's marriage was valid. To his delight he found there was a flaw in
the marriage and an informality in the manumission. He then determined
to invalidate Marie's claim, and divide the inheritance among Leroy's
white relations. In a short time strangers, distant relatives of her
husband, became frequent visitors at the plantation, and made themselves
offensively familiar. At length the dreadful storm burst.

Alfred Lorraine entered suit for his cousin's estate, and for the
remanding of his wife and children to slavery. In a short time he came
armed with legal authority, and said to Marie:--

"I have come to take possession of these premises."

"By what authority?" she gasped, turning deathly pale. He hesitated a
moment, as if his words were arrested by a sense of shame.

"By what authority?" she again demanded.

"By the authority of the law," answered Lorraine, "which has decided
that Leroy's legal heirs are his white blood relations, and that your
marriage is null and void."

"But," exclaimed Marie, "I have our marriage certificate. I was Leroy's
lawful wife."

"Your marriage certificate is not worth the paper it is written on."

"Oh, you must be jesting, cruelly jesting. It can't be so."

"Yes; it is so. Judge Starkins has decided that your manumission is
unlawful; your marriage a bad precedent, and inimical to the welfare of
society; and that you and your children are remanded to slavery."

Marie stood as one petrified. She seemed a statue of fear and despair.
She tried to speak, reached out her hand as if she were groping in the
dark, turned pale as death as if all the blood in her veins had receded
to her heart, and, with one heart-rending cry of bitter agony, she fell
senseless to the floor. Her servants, to whom she had been so kind in
her days of prosperity, bent pityingly over her, chafed her cold hands,
and did what they could to restore her to consciousness. For awhile she
was stricken with brain fever, and her life seemed trembling on its
frailest cord.

Gracie was like one perfectly dazed. When not watching by her mother's
bedside she wandered aimlessly about the house, growing thinner day by
day. A slow fever was consuming her life. Faithfully and carefully Mammy
Liza watched over her, and did all she could to bring smiles to her lips
and light to her fading eyes, but all in vain. Her only interest in life
was to sit where she could watch her mother as she tossed to and fro in
delirium, and to wonder what had brought the change in her once happy
home. Finally she, too, was stricken with brain fever, which intervened
as a mercy between her and the great sorrow that was overshadowing her
young life. Tears would fill the servants' eyes as they saw the dear
child drifting from them like a lovely vision, too bright for earth's
dull cares and weary, wasting pain.




CHAPTER XII.


SCHOOL-GIRL NOTIONS.

During Iola's stay in the North she found a strong tide of opposition
against slavery. Arguments against the institution had entered the
Church and made legislative halls the arenas of fierce debate. The
subject had become part of the social converse of the fireside, and had
enlisted the best brain and heart of the country. Anti-slavery
discussions were pervading the strongest literature and claiming, a
place on the most popular platforms.

Iola, being a Southern girl and a slave-holder's daughter, always
defended slavery when it was under discussion.

"Slavery can't be wrong," she would say, "for my father is a
slave-holder, and my mother is as good to our servants as she can be. My
father often tells her that she spoils them, and lets them run over her.
I never saw my father strike one of them. I love my mammy as much as I
do my own mother, and I believe she loves us just as if we were her own
children. When we are sick I am sure that she could not do anything more
for us than she does."

"But, Iola," responded one of her school friends, "after all, they are
not free. Would you be satisfied to have the most beautiful home, the
costliest jewels, or the most elegant wardrobe if you were a slave?"

"Oh, the cases are not parallel. Our slaves do not want their freedom.
They would not take it if we gave it to them."

"That is not the case with them all. My father has seen men who have
encountered almost incredible hardships to get their freedom. Iola, did
you ever attend an anti-slavery meeting?"

"No; I don't think these Abolitionists have any right to meddle in our
affairs. I believe they are prejudiced against us, and want to get our
property. I read about them in the papers when I was at home. I don't
want to hear my part of the country run down. My father says the slaves
would be very well contented if no one put wrong notions in their
heads."

"I don't know," was the response of her friend, "but I do not think that
that slave mother who took her four children, crossed the Ohio River on
the ice, killed one of the children and attempted the lives of the other
two, was a contented slave. And that other one, who, running away and
finding herself pursued, threw herself over the Long Bridge into the
Potomac, was evidently not satisfied. I do not think the numbers who are
coming North on the Underground Railroad can be very contented. It is
not natural for people to run away from happiness, and if they are so
happy and contented, why did Congress pass the Fugitive Slave Bill?"

"Well, I don't think," answered Iola, "any of our slaves would run away.
I know mamma don't like slavery very much. I have often heard her say
that she hoped the time would come when there would not be a slave in
the land. My father does not think as she does. He thinks slavery is not
wrong if you treat them well and don't sell them from their families. I
intend, after I have graduated, to persuade pa to buy a house in New
Orleans, and spend the winter there. You know this will be my first
season out, and I hope that you will come and spend the winter with me.
We will have such gay times, and you will so fall in love with our sunny
South that you will never want to come back to shiver amid the snows and
cold of the North. I think one winter in the South would cure you of
your Abolitionism."

"Have you seen her yet?"

This question was asked by Louis Bastine, an attorney who had come North
in the interests of Lorraine. The scene was the New England village
where Mr. Galen's academy was located, and which Iola was attending.
This question was addressed to Camille Lecroix, Bastine's intimate
friend, who had lately come North. He was the son of a planter who lived
near Leroy's plantation, and was familiar with Iola's family history.
Since his arrival North, Bastine had met him and communicated to him his
intentions.

"Yes; just caught a glimpse of her this morning as she was going down
the street," was Camille's reply.

"She is a most beautiful creature," said Louis Bastine. "She has the
proud poise of Leroy, the most splendid eyes I ever saw in a woman's
head, lovely complexion, and a glorious wealth of hair. She would bring
$2000 any day in a New Orleans market."

"I always feel sorry," said Camille, "when I see one of those Creole
girls brought to the auction block. I have known fathers who were deeply
devoted to their daughters, but who through some reverse of fortune were
forced to part with them, and I always think the blow has been equally
terrible on both sides. I had a friend who had two beautiful daughters
whom he had educated in the North. They were cultured, and really belles
in society. They were entirely ignorant of their lineage, but when their
father died it was discovered that their mother had been a slave. It was
a fearful blow. They would have faced poverty, but the knowledge of
their tainted blood was more than they could bear."

"What became of them?"

"They both died, poor girls. I believe they were as much killed by the
blow as if they had been shot. To tell you the truth, Bastine, I feel
sorry for this girl. I don't believe she has the least idea of her negro
blood."

"No, Leroy has been careful to conceal it from her," replied Bastine.

"Is that so?" queried Camille. "Then he has made a great mistake."

"I can't help that," said Bastine; "business is business."

"How can you get her away?" asked Camille. "You will have to be very
cautious, because if these pesky Abolitionists get an inkling of what
you're doing they will balk your game double quick. And when you come to
look at it, isn't it a shame to attempt to reduce that girl to slavery?
She is just as white as we are, as good as any girl in the land, and
better educated than thousands of white girls. A girl with her apparent
refinement and magnificent beauty, were it not for the cross in her
blood, I would be proud to introduce to our set. She would be the
sensation of the season. I believe to-day it would be easier for me to
go to the slums and take a young girl from there, and have her
introduced as my wife, than to have society condone the offense if I
married that lovely girl. There is not a social circle in the South that
would not take it as a gross insult to have her introduced into it."

"Well," said Bastine, "my plan is settled. Leroy has never allowed her
to spend her vacations at home. I understand she is now very anxious to
get home, and, as Lorraine's attorney, I have come on his account to
take her home."

"How will you do it?"

"I shall tell her her father is dangerously ill, and desires her to come
as quickly as possible."

"And what then?"

"Have her inventoried with the rest of the property."

"Don't she know that her father is dead?"

"I think not," said Bastine. "She is not in mourning, but appeared very
light-hearted this morning, laughing and talking with two other girls. I
was struck with her great beauty, and asked a gentleman who she was. He
said, 'Miss Leroy, of Mississippi.' I think Lorraine has managed the
affair so as to keep her in perfect ignorance of her father's death. I
don't like the job, but I never let sentiment interfere with my work."

Poor Iola! When she said slavery was not a bad thing, little did she
think that she was destined to drink to its bitter dregs the cup she was
so ready to press to the lips of others.

"How do you think she will take to her situation?" asked Camille.

"O, I guess," said Bastine, "she will sulk and take it pretty hard at
first; but if she is managed right she will soon get over it. Give her
plenty of jewelry, fine clothes, and an easy time."

"All this business must be conducted with the utmost secrecy and speed.
Her mother could not have written to her, for she has been suffering
with brain fever and nervous prostration since Leroy's death. Lorraine
knows her market value too well, and is too shrewd to let so much
property pass out of his hands without making an effort to retain it."

"Has she any brothers or sisters?"

"Yes, a brother," replied Bastine; "but he is at another school, and I
have no orders from Lorraine in reference to him. If I can get the girl
I am willing to let well enough alone. I dread the interview with the
principal more than anything else. I am afraid he will hem and haw, and
have his doubts. Perhaps, when he sees my letters and hears my story, I
can pull the wool over his eyes."

"But, Louis, this is a pitiful piece of business. I should hate to be
engaged in it."

A deep flush of shame overspread for a moment the face of Lorraine's
attorney, as he replied: "I don't like the job, but I have undertaken
it, and must go through with it."

"I see no '_must_' about it. Were I in your place I would wash my hands
of the whole business."

"I can't afford it," was Bastine's hard, business-like reply. On the
next morning after this conversation between these two young men, Louis
Bastine presented himself to the principal of the academy, with the
request that Iola be permitted to leave immediately to attend the
sick-bed of her father, who was dangerously ill. The principal
hesitated, but while he was deliberating, a telegram, purporting to come
from Iola's mother, summoned Iola to her father's bedside without delay.
The principal, set at rest in regard to the truthfulness of the
dispatch, not only permitted but expedited her departure.

Iola and Bastine took the earliest train, and traveled without pausing
until they reached a large hotel in a Southern city. There they were
obliged to wait a few hours until they could resume their journey, the
train having failed to make connection. Iola sat in a large, lonely
parlor, waiting for the servant to show her to a private room. She had
never known a great sorrow. Never before had the shadows of death
mingled with the sunshine of her life.

Anxious, travel-worn, and heavy-hearted, she sat in an easy chair, with
nothing to divert her from the grief and anxiety which rendered every
delay a source of painful anxiety.

"Oh, I hope that he will be alive and growing better!" was the thought
which kept constantly revolving in her mind, until she fell asleep. In
her dreams she was at home, encircled in the warm clasp of her father's
arms, feeling her mother's kisses lingering on her lips, and hearing the
joyous greetings of the servants and Mammy Liza's glad welcome as she
folded her to her heart. From this dream of bliss she was awakened by a
burning kiss pressed on her lips, and a strong arm encircling her.
Gazing around and taking in the whole situation, she sprang from her
seat, her eyes flashing with rage and scorn, her face flushed to the
roots of her hair, her voice shaken with excitement, and every nerve
trembling with angry emotion.

"How dare you do such a thing! Don't you know if my father were here he
would crush you to the earth?"

"Not so fast, my lovely tigress," said Bastine, "your father knew what
he was doing when he placed you in my charge."

"My father made a great mistake, if he thought he had put me in charge
of a gentleman."

"I am your guardian for the present," replied Bastine. "I am to see you
safe home, and then my commission ends."

"I wish it were ended now," she exclaimed, trembling with anger and
mortification. Her voice was choked by emotion, and broken by smothered
sobs. Louis Bastine thought to himself, "she is a real spitfire, but
beautiful even in her wrath."

During the rest of her journey Iola preserved a most freezing reserve
towards Bastine. At length the journey was ended. Pale and anxious she
rode up the avenue which led to her home.

A strange silence pervaded the place. The servants moved sadly from
place to place, and spoke in subdued tones. The windows were heavily
draped with crape, and a funeral air pervaded the house.

Mammy Liza met her at the door, and, with streaming eyes and convulsive
sobs, folded her to her heart, as Iola exclaimed, in tones of hopeless
anguish:--

"Oh, papa's dead!"

"Oh, my pore baby!" said mammy, "ain't you hearn tell 'bout it? Yore
par's dead, an' your mar's bin drefful sick. She's better now."

Mam Liza stepped lightly into Mrs. Leroy's room, and gently apprised her
of Iola's arrival. In a darkened room lay the stricken mother, almost
distracted by her late bereavement.

"Oh, Iola," she exclaimed, as her daughter entered, "is this you? I am
so sorry you came."

Then, burying her head in Iola's bosom, she wept convulsively. "Much as
I love you," she continued, between her sobs, "and much as I longed to
see you, I am sorry you came."

"Why, mother," replied Iola, astonished, "I received your telegram last
Wednesday, and I took the earliest train I could get."

"My dear child, I never sent you a telegram. It was a trick to bring you
down South and reduce you to slavery."

Iola eyed her mother curiously. What did she mean? Had grief dethroned
her reason? Yet her eye was clear, her manner perfectly rational.

Marie saw the astounded look on Iola's face, and nerving herself to the
task, said: "Iola, I must tell you what your father always enjoined me
to be silent about. I did not think it was the wisest thing, but I
yielded to his desires. I have negro blood in my veins. I was your
father's slave before I married him. His relatives have set aside his
will. The courts have declared our marriage null and void and my
manumission illegal, and we are all to be remanded to slavery."

An expression of horror and anguish swept over Iola's face, and, turning
deathly pale, she exclaimed, "Oh, mother, it can't be so! you must be
dreaming!"

"No, my child; it is a terrible reality."

Almost wild with agony, Iola paced the floor, as the fearful truth broke
in crushing anguish upon her mind. Then bursting into a paroxysm of
tears succeeded by peals of hysterical laughter, said:--

"I used to say that slavery is right. I didn't know what I was talking
about." Then growing calmer, she said, "Mother, who is at the bottom of
this downright robbery?"

"Alfred Lorraine; I have always dreaded that man, and what I feared has
come to pass. Your father had faith in him; I never had."

"But, mother, could we not contest his claim. You have your marriage
certificate and papa's will."

"Yes, my dear child, but Judge Starkins has decided that we have no
standing in the court, and no testimony according to law."

"Oh, mother, what can I do?"

"Nothing, my child, unless you can escape to the North."

"And leave you?"

"Yes."

"Mother, I will never desert you in your hour of trial. But can nothing
be done? Had father no friends who would assist us?"

"None that I know of. I do not think he had an acquaintance who approved
of our marriage. The neighboring planters have stood so aloof from me
that I do not know where to turn for either help or sympathy. I believe
it was Lorraine who sent the telegram. I wrote to you as soon as I could
after your father's death, but fainted just as I finished directing the
letter. I do not think he knows where your brother is, and, if possible,
he must not know. If you can by any means, _do_ send a letter to Harry
and warn him not to attempt to come home. I don't know how you will
succeed, for Lorraine has us all under surveillance. But it is according
to law."

"What law, mother?"

"The law of the strong against the weak."

"Oh, mother, it seems like a dreadful dream, a fearful nightmare! But I
cannot shake it off. Where is Gracie?"

"The dear child has been running down ever since her papa's death. She
clung to me night and day while I had the brain fever, and could not be
persuaded to leave me. She hardly ate anything for more than a week. She
has been dangerously ill for several days, and the doctor says she
cannot live. The fever has exhausted all her rallying power, and yet,
dear as she is to me, I would rather consign her to the deepest grave
than see her forced to be a slave."

"So would I. I wish I could die myself."

"Oh, Iola, do not talk so. Strive to be a Christian, to have faith in
the darkest hour. Were it not for my hope of heaven I couldn't stand all
this trouble."

"Mother, are these people Christians who made these laws which are
robbing us of our inheritance and reducing us to slavery? If this is
Christianity I hate and despise it. Would the most cruel heathen do
worse?"

"My dear child, I have not learned my Christianity from them. I have
learned it at the foot of the cross, and from this book," she said,
placing a New Testament in Iola's hands. "Some of the most beautiful
lessons of faith and trust I have ever learned were from among our lowly
people in their humble cabins."

"Mamma!" called a faint voice from the adjoining room. Marie
immediately arose and went to the bedside of her sick child, where Mammy
Liza was holding her faithful vigils. The child had just awakened from a
fitful sleep.

"I thought," she said, "that I heard Iola's voice. Has she come?"

"Yes, darling; do you want to see her?"

"Oh, yes," she said, as a bright smile broke over her dying features.

Iola passed quickly into the room. Gracie reached out her thin,
bloodless hand, clasped Iola's palm in hers, and said: "I am so glad you
have come. Dear Iola, stand by mother. You and Harry are all she has. It
is not hard to die. You and mother and Harry must meet me in heaven."

Swiftly the tidings went through the house that Gracie was dying. The
servants gathered around her with tearful eyes, as she bade them all
good-bye. When she had finished, and Mammy had lowered the pillow, an
unwonted radiance lit up her eye, and an expression of ineffable
gladness overspread her face, as she murmured: "It is beautiful, so
beautiful!" Fainter and fainter grew her voice, until, without a
struggle or sigh, she passed away beyond the power of oppression and
prejudice.




CHAPTER XIII.


A REJECTED SUITOR.

Very unexpected was Dr. Gresham's proposal to Iola. She had heartily
enjoyed his society and highly valued his friendship, but he had never
been associated in her mind with either love or marriage. As he held her
hand in his a tell-tale flush rose to her cheek, a look of grateful
surprise beamed from her eye, but it was almost immediately succeeded by
an air of inexpressible sadness, a drooping of her eyelids, and an
increasing pallor of her cheek. She withdrew her hand from his, shook
her head sadly, and said:--

"No, Doctor; that can never be. I am very grateful to you for your
kindness. I value your friendship, but neither gratitude nor friendship
is love, and I have nothing more than those to give."

"Not at present," said Dr. Gresham; "but may I not hope your friendship
will ripen into love?"

"Doctor, I could not promise. I do not think that I should. There are
barriers between us that I cannot pass. Were you to know them I think
you would say the same."

Just then the ambulance brought in a wounded scout, and Iola found
relief from the wounds of her own heart in attending to his.

Dr. Gresham knew the barrier that lay between them. It was one which his
love had surmounted. But he was too noble and generous to take advantage
of her loneliness to press his suit. He had lived in a part of the
country where he had scarcely ever seen a colored person, and around the
race their misfortunes had thrown a halo of romance. To him the negro
was a picturesque being, over whose woes he had wept when a child, and
whose wrongs he was ready to redress when a man. But when he saw the
lovely girl who had been rescued by the commander of the post from the
clutches of slavery, all the manhood and chivalry in his nature arose in
her behalf, and he was ready to lay on the altar of her heart his first
grand and overmastering love. Not discouraged by her refusal, but
determined to overcome her objections, Dr. Gresham resolved that he
would abide his time.

Iola was not indifferent to Dr. Gresham. She admired his manliness and
respected his character. He was tall and handsome, a fine specimen of
the best brain and heart of New England. He had been nurtured under
grand and ennobling influences. His father was a devoted Abolitionist.
His mother was kind-hearted, but somewhat exclusive and aristocratic.
She would have looked upon his marriage with Iola as a mistake and
feared that such an alliance would hurt the prospects of her daughters.

During Iola's stay in the North, she had learned enough of the racial
feeling to influence her decision in reference to Dr. Gresham's offer.
Iola, like other girls, had had her beautiful day-dreams before she was
rudely awakened by the fate which had dragged her into the depths of
slavery. In the chambers of her imagery were pictures of noble deeds; of
high, heroic men, knightly, tender, true, and brave. In Dr. Gresham she
saw the ideal of her soul exemplified. But in her lonely condition,
with all its background of terrible sorrow and deep abasement, she had
never for a moment thought of giving or receiving love from one of that
race who had been so lately associated in her mind with horror,
aversion, and disgust. His kindness to her had been a new experience.
His companionship was an unexpected pleasure. She had learned to enjoy
his presence and to miss him when absent, and when she began to question
her heart she found that unconsciously it was entwining around him.

"Yes," she said to herself, "I do like him; but I can never marry him.
To the man I marry my heart must be as open as the flowers to the sun. I
could not accept his hand and hide from him the secret of my birth; and
I could not consent to choose the happiest lot on earth without first
finding my poor heart-stricken and desolate mother. Perhaps some day I
may have the courage to tell him my sad story, and then make my heart
the sepulchre in which to bury all the love which might have gladdened
and brightened my whole life."

During the sad and weary months which ensued while the war dragged its
slow length along, Dr. Gresham and Iola often met by the bedsides of the
wounded and dying, and sometimes he would drop a few words at which her
heart would beat quicker and her cheek flush more vividly. But he was so
kind, tender, and respectful, that Iola had no idea he knew her race
affiliations. She knew from unmistakable signs that Dr. Gresham had
learned to love her, and that he had power to call forth the warmest
affection of her soul; but she fought with her own heart and repressed
its rising love. She felt that it was best for his sake that they should
not marry. When she saw the evidences of his increasing love she
regretted that she had not informed him at the first of the barrier that
lay between them; it might have saved him unnecessary suffering.
Thinking thus, Iola resolved, at whatever cost of pain it might be to
herself, to explain to Dr. Gresham what she meant by the insurmountable
barrier. Iola, after a continuous strain upon her nervous system for
months, began to suffer from general debility and nervous depression.
Dr. Gresham saw the increasing pallor on Iola's cheek and the loss of
buoyancy in her step. One morning, as she turned from the bed of a young
soldier for whom she had just written a letter to his mother, there was
such a look of pity and sorrow on her face that Dr. Gresham's whole
heart went out in sympathy for her, and he resolved to break the silence
he had imposed upon himself.

"Iola," he said, and there was a depth of passionate tenderness in his
voice, a volume of unexpressed affection in his face, "you are wronging
yourself. You are sinking beneath burdens too heavy for you to bear. It
seems to me that besides the constant drain upon your sympathies there
is some great sorrow preying upon your life; some burden that ought to
be shared." He gazed upon her so ardently that each cord of her heart
seemed to vibrate, and unbidden tears sprang to her lustrous eyes, as
she said, sadly:--

"Doctor, you are right."

"Iola, my heart is longing to lift those burdens from your life. Love,
like faith, laughs at impossibilities. I can conceive of no barrier too
high for my love to surmount. Consent to be mine, as nothing else on
earth is mine."

"Doctor, you know not what you ask," replied Iola. "Instead of coming
into this hospital a self-sacrificing woman, laying her every gift and
advantage upon the altar of her country, I came as a rescued slave, glad
to find a refuge from a fate more cruel than death; a fate from which I
was rescued by the intervention of my dear dead friend, Thomas Anderson.
I was born on a lonely plantation on the Mississippi River, where the
white population was very sparse. We had no neighbors who ever visited
us; no young white girls with whom I ever played in my childhood; but,
never having enjoyed such companionship, I was unconscious of any sense
of privation. Our parents spared no pains to make the lives of their
children (we were three) as bright and pleasant as they could. Our home
was so happy. We had a large number of servants, who were devoted to us.
I never had the faintest suspicion that there was any wrongfulness in
slavery, and I never dreamed of the dreadful fate which broke in a storm
of fearful anguish over our devoted heads. Papa used to take us to New
Orleans to see the Mardi Gras, and while there we visited the theatres
and other places of amusement and interest. At home we had books,
papers, and magazines to beguile our time. Perfectly ignorant of my
racial connection, I was sent to a Northern academy, and soon made many
friends among my fellow-students. Companionship with girls of my own age
was a new experience, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I spent several years
in New England, and was busily preparing for my commencement exercises
when my father was snatched away--died of yellow fever on his way North
to witness my graduation. Through a stratagem, I was brought hurriedly
from the North, and found that my father was dead; that his nearest
kinsman had taken possession of our property; that my mother's marriage
had been declared illegal, because of an imperceptible infusion of negro
blood in her veins; and that she and her children had been remanded to
slavery. I was torn from my mother, sold as a slave, and subjected to
cruel indignities, from which I was rescued and a place given to me in
this hospital. Doctor, I did not choose my lot in life, but I have no
other alternative than to accept it. The intense horror and agony I felt
when I was first told the story are over. Thoughts and purposes have
come to me in the shadow I should never have learned in the sunshine. I
am constantly rousing myself up to suffer and be strong. I intend, when
this conflict is over, to cast my lot with the freed people as a helper,
teacher, and friend. I have passed through a fiery ordeal, but this
ministry of suffering will not be in vain. I feel that my mind has
matured beyond my years. I am a wonder to myself. It seems as if years
had been compressed into a few short months. In telling you this, do you
not, can you not, see that there is an insurmountable barrier between
us?"

"No, I do not," replied Dr. Gresham. "I love you for your own sake. And
with this the disadvantages of birth have nothing to do."

"You say so now, and I believe that you are perfectly sincere. Today
your friendship springs from compassion, but, when that subsides, might
you not look on me as an inferior?"

"Iola, you do not understand me. You think too meanly of me. You must
not judge me by the worst of my race. Surely our country has produced a
higher type of manhood than the men by whom you were tried and tempted."

"Tried, but not tempted," said Iola, as a deep flush overspread her
face; "I was never tempted. I was sold from State to State as an article
of merchandise. I had outrages heaped on me which might well crimson the
cheek of honest womanhood with shame, but I never fell into the clutches
of an owner for whom I did not feel the utmost loathing and intensest
horror. I have heard men talk glibly of the degradation of the negro,
but there is a vast difference between abasement of condition and
degradation of character. I was abased, but the men who trampled on me
were the degraded ones."

"But, Iola, you must not blame all for what a few have done."

"A few have done? Did not the whole nation consent to our abasement?"
asked Iola, bitterly.

"No, Miss Iola, we did not all consent to it. Slavery drew a line of
cleavage in this country. Although we were under one government we were
farther apart in our sentiments than if we had been divided by lofty
mountains and separated by wide seas. And had not Northern sentiment
been brought to bear against the institution, slavery would have been
intact until to-day."

"But, Doctor, the negro is under a social ban both North and South. Our
enemies have the ear of the world, and they can depict us just as they
please."

"That is true; but the negro has no other alternative than to make
friends of his calamities. Other men have plead his cause, but out of
the race must come its own defenders. With them the pen must be
mightier than the sword. It is the weapon of civilization, and they must
use it in their own defense. We cannot tell what is in them until they
express themselves."

"Yes, and I think there is a large amount of latent and undeveloped
ability in the race, which they will learn to use for their own benefit.
This my hospital experience has taught me."

"But," said Dr. Gresham, "they must learn to struggle, labor, and
achieve. By facts, not theories, they will be judged in the future. The
Anglo-Saxon race is proud, domineering, aggressive, and impatient of a
rival, and, as I think, has more capacity for dragging down a weaker
race than uplifting it. They have been a conquering and achieving
people, marvelous in their triumphs of mind over matter. They have
manifested the traits of character which are developed by success and
victory."

"And yet," said Iola, earnestly, "I believe the time will come when the
civilization of the negro will assume a better phase than you
Anglo-Saxons possess. You will prove unworthy of your high vantage
ground if you only use your superior ability to victimize feebler races
and minister to a selfish greed of gold and a love of domination."

"But, Iola," said Dr. Gresham, a little impatiently, "what has all this
to do with our marriage? Your complexion is as fair as mine. What is to
hinder you from sharing my Northern home, from having my mother to be
your mother?" The tones of his voice grew tender, as he raised his eyes
to Iola's face and anxiously awaited her reply.

"Dr. Gresham," said Iola, sadly, "should the story of my life be
revealed to your family, would they be willing to ignore all the
traditions of my blood, forget all the terrible humiliations through
which I have passed? I have too much self-respect to enter your home
under a veil of concealment. I have lived in New England. I love the
sunshine of her homes and the freedom of her institutions. But New
England is not free from racial prejudice, and I would never enter a
family where I would be an unwelcome member."

"Iola, dear, you have nothing to fear in that direction."

"Doctor," she said, and a faint flush rose to her cheek, "suppose we
should marry, and little children in after years should nestle in our
arms, and one of them show unmistakable signs of color, would you be
satisfied?"

She looked steadfastly into his eyes, which fell beneath her
truth-seeking gaze. His face flushed as if the question had suddenly
perplexed him. Iola saw the irresolution on his face, and framed her
answer accordingly.

"Ah, I see," she said, "that you are puzzled. You had not taken into
account what might result from such a marriage. I will relieve you from
all embarrassment by simply saying I cannot be your wife. When the war
is over I intend to search the country for my mother. Doctor, were you
to give me a palace-like home, with velvet carpets to hush my tread, and
magnificence to surround my way, I should miss her voice amid all other
tones, her presence amid every scene. Oh, you do not know how hungry my
heart is for my mother! Were I to marry you I would carry an aching
heart into your home and dim its brightness. I have resolved never to
marry until I have found my mother. The hope of finding her has colored
all my life since I regained my freedom. It has helped sustain me in the
hour of fearful trial. When I see her I want to have the proud
consciousness that I bring her back a heart just as loving, faithful,
and devoted as the last hour we parted."

"And is this your final answer?"

"It is. I have pledged my life to that resolve, and I believe time and
patience will reward me."

There was a deep shadow of sorrow and disappointment on the face of Dr.
Gresham as he rose to leave. For a moment he held her hand as it lay
limp in his own. If she wavered in her determination it was only for a
moment. No quivering of her lip or paling of her cheek betrayed any
struggle of her heart. Her resolve was made, and his words were
powerless to swerve her from the purpose of her soul.

After Dr. Gresham had gone Iola went to her room and sat buried in
thought. It seemed as if the fate of Tantalus was hers, without his
crimes. Here she was lonely and heart-stricken, and unto her was
presented the offer of love, home, happiness, and social position; the
heart and hand of a man too noble and generous to refuse her
companionship for life on account of the blood in her veins. Why should
she refuse these desirable boons? But, mingling with these beautiful
visions of manly love and protecting care she saw the anguish of her
heart-stricken mother and the pale, sweet face of her dying sister, as
with her latest breath she had said, "Iola, stand by mamma!"

"No, no," she said to herself; "I was right to refuse Dr. Gresham. How
dare I dream of happiness when my poor mamma's heart may be slowly
breaking? I should be ashamed to live and ashamed to die were I to
choose a happy lot for myself and leave poor mamma to struggle alone. I
will never be satisfied till I get tidings of her. And when I have found
her I will do all I can to cheer and brighten the remnant of her life."




CHAPTER XIV.


HARRY LEROY.

It was several weeks after Iola had written to her brother that her
letter reached him. The trusty servant to whom she delivered it watched
his opportunity to mail it. At last he succeeded in slipping it into
Lorraine's mail and dropping them all into the post office together.
Harry was studying at a boys' academy in Maine. His father had given
that State the preference because, while on a visit there, he had been
favorably impressed with the kindness and hospitality of the people. He
had sent his son a large sum of money, and given him permission to spend
awhile with some school-chums till he was ready to bring the family
North, where they could all spend the summer together. Harry had
returned from his visit, and was looking for letters and remittances
from home, when a letter, all crumpled, was handed him by the principal
of the academy. He recognized his sister's handwriting and eagerly
opened the letter. As he read, he turned very pale; then a deep flush
overspread his face and an angry light flashed from his eyes. As he read
on, his face became still paler; he gasped for breath and fell into a
swoon. Appalled at the sudden change which had swept over him like a
deadly sirocco, the principal rushed to the fallen boy, picked up the
missive that lay beside him, and immediately rang for help and
dispatched for the doctor. The doctor came at once and was greatly
puzzled. Less than an hour before, he had seen him with a crowd of
merry, laughter-loving boys, apparently as light-hearted and joyous as
any of them; now he lay with features drawn and pinched, his face deadly
pale, as if some terrible suffering had sent all the blood in his veins
to stagnate around his heart. Harry opened his eyes, shuddered, and
relapsed into silence. The doctor, all at sea in regard to the cause of
the sudden attack, did all that he could to restore him to consciousness
and quiet the perturbation of his spirit. He succeeded, but found he was
strangely silent. A terrible shock had sent a tremor through every
nerve, and the doctor watched with painful apprehension its effect upon
his reason. Giving him an opiate and enjoining that he should be kept
perfectly quiet, the doctor left the room, sought the principal, and
said:--

"Mr. Bascom, here is a case that baffles my skill. I saw that boy pass
by my window not more than half an hour ago, full of animation, and now
he lies hovering between life and death. I have great apprehension for
his reason. Can you throw any light on the subject?"

Mr. Bascom hesitated.

"I am not asking you as a matter of idle curiosity, but as a physician.
I must have all the light I can get in making my diagnosis of the case."

The principal arose, went to his desk, took out the letter which he had
picked up from the floor, and laid it in the physician's hand. As the
doctor read, a look of indignant horror swept over his face. Then he
said: "Can it be possible! I never suspected such a thing. It must be a
cruel, senseless hoax."

"Doctor," said Mr. Bascom, "I have been a life-long Abolitionist and
have often read of the cruelties and crimes of American slavery, but
never before did I realize the low moral tone of the social life under
which such shameless cruelties could be practiced on a defenseless widow
and her orphaned children. Let me read the letter again. Just look at
it, all tear-blotted and written with a trembling hand:--


    'DEAR BROTHER:--I have dreadful news for you and I hardly know how
    to tell it. Papa and Gracie are both dead. He died of yellow fever.
    Mamma is almost distracted. Papa's cousin has taken possession of
    our property, and instead of heirs we are chattels. Mamma has
    explained the whole situation to me. She was papa's slave before she
    married. He loved her, manumitted, educated, and married her. When
    he died Mr. Lorraine entered suit for his property and Judge
    Starkins has decided in his favor. The decree of the court has made
    their marriage invalid, robbed us of our inheritance, and remanded
    us all to slavery. Mamma is too wretched to attempt to write
    herself, but told me to entreat you not to attempt to come home. You
    can do us no good, and that mean, cruel Lorraine may do you much
    harm. Don't attempt, I beseech you, to come home. Show this letter
    to Mr. Bascom and let him advise you what to do. But don't, for our
    sake, attempt to come home.

    'Your heart-broken sister,

    'IOLA LEROY.'"


"This," said the doctor, "is a very awkward affair. The boy is too ill
to be removed. It is doubtful if the nerves which have trembled with
such fearful excitement will ever recover their normal condition. It is
simply a work of mercy to watch over him with the tenderest care."

Fortunately for Harry he had fallen into good hands, and the most tender
care and nursing were bestowed upon him. For awhile Harry was strangely
silent, never referring to the terrible misfortune which had so suddenly
overshadowed his life. It seemed as if the past were suddenly blotted
out of his memory. But he was young and of an excellent constitution,
and in a few months he was slowly recovering.

"Doctor," said he one day, as the physician sat at his bedside, "I seem
to have had a dreadful dream, and to have dreamt that my father was
dead, and my mother and sister were in terrible trouble, but I could not
help them. Doctor, was it a dream, or was it a reality? It could not
have been a dream, for when I fell asleep the grass was green and the
birds were singing, but now the winds are howling and the frost is on
the ground. Doctor, tell me how it is? How long have I been here?"

Sitting by his bedside, and taking his emaciated hand in his, the doctor
said, in a kind, fatherly tone: "My dear boy, you have been very ill,
and everything depends on your keeping quiet, very quiet."

As soon as he was strong enough the principal gave him his letter to
read.

"But, Mr. Bascom," Harry said, "I do not understand this. It says my
mother and father were legally married. How could her marriage be set
aside and her children robbed of their inheritance? This is not a
heathen country. I hardly think barbarians would have done any worse;
yet this is called a Christian country."

"Christian in name," answered the principal. "When your father left you
in my care, knowing that I was an Abolitionist, he confided his secret
to me. He said that life was full of vicissitudes, and he wished you to
have a good education. He wanted you and your sister to be prepared for
any emergency. He did not wish you to know that you had negro blood in
your veins. He knew that the spirit of caste pervaded the nation, North
and South, and he was very anxious to have his children freed from its
depressing influences. He did not intend to stay South after you had
finished your education."

"But," said Harry, "I cannot understand. If my mother was lawfully
married, how could they deprive her of her marital rights?"

"When Lorraine," continued Mr. Bascom, "knew your father was dead, all
he had to do was to find a flaw in her manumission, and, of course, the
marriage became illegal. She could not then inherit property nor
maintain her freedom; and her children followed her condition."

Harry listened attentively. Things which had puzzled him once now became
perfectly clear. He sighed heavily, and, turning to the principal, said:
"I see things in a new light. Now I remember that none of the planters'
wives ever visited my mother; and we never went to church except when my
father took us to the Cathedral in New Orleans. My father was a
Catholic, but I don't think mamma is."

"Now, Harry," said the principal, "life is before you. If you wish to
stay North, I will interest friends in your behalf, and try to get you a
situation. Going South is out of the question. It is probable that by
this time your mother and sister are removed from their home. You are
powerless to fight against the law that enslaved them. Should you fall
into the clutches of Lorraine, he might give you a great deal of
trouble. You would be pressed into the Confederate service to help them
throw up barricades, dig trenches, and add to the strength of those who
enslaved your mother and sister."

"Never! never!" cried Harry. "I would rather die than do it! I should
despise myself forever if I did."

"Numbers of our young men," said Mr. Bascom, "have gone to the war which
is now raging between North and South. You have been sick for several
months, and much has taken place of which you are unaware. Would you
like to enlist?"

"I certainly would; not so much for the sake of fighting for the
Government, as with the hope of finding my mother and sister, and
avenging their wrongs. I should like to meet Lorraine on the
battle-field."

"What kind of a regiment would you prefer, white or colored?"

Harry winced when the question was asked. He felt the reality of his
situation as he had not done before. It was as if two paths had suddenly
opened before him, and he was forced to choose between them. On one side
were strength, courage, enterprise, power of achievement, and memories
of a wonderful past. On the other side were weakness, ignorance,
poverty, and the proud world's social scorn. He knew nothing of colored
people except as slaves, and his whole soul shrank from equalizing
himself with them. He was fair enough to pass unchallenged among the
fairest in the land, and yet a Christless prejudice had decreed that he
should be a social pariah. He sat, thoughtful and undecided, as if a
great struggle were going on in his mind. Finally the principal said, "I
do not think that you should be assigned to a colored regiment because
of the blood in your veins, but you will have, in such a regiment,
better facilities for finding your mother and sister."

"You are right, Mr. Bascom. To find my mother and sister I call no task
too heavy, no sacrifice too great."

Since Harry had come North he had learned to feel profound pity for the
slave. But there is a difference between looking on a man as an object
of pity and protecting him as such, and being identified with him and
forced to share his lot. To take his place with them on the arena of
life was the test of his life, but love was stronger than pride.

His father was dead. His mother and sister were enslaved by a mockery of
justice. It was more than a matter of choice where he should stand on
the racial question. He felt that he must stand where he could strike
the most effective blow for their freedom. With that thought strong in
his mind, and as soon as he recovered, he went westward to find a
colored regiment. He told the recruiting officer that he wished to be
assigned to a colored regiment.

"Why do you wish that," said the officer, looking at Harry with an air
of astonishment.

"Because I am a colored man."

The officer look puzzled. It was a new experience. He had seen colored
men with fair complexions anxious to lose their identity with the
colored race and pose as white men, but here was a man in the flush of
his early manhood, to whom could come dreams of promotion from a simple
private to a successful general, deliberately turning his back upon
every gilded hope and dazzling opportunity, to cast his lot with the
despised and hated negro.

"I do not understand you," said the officer. "Surely you are a white
man, and, as such, I will enlist you in a white regiment."

"No," said Harry, firmly, "I am a colored man, and unless I can be
assigned to a colored regiment I am not willing to enter the army."

"Well," said the officer, "you are the d----d'st fool I ever saw--a man
as white as you are turning his back upon his chances of promotion! But
you can take your choice."

So Harry was permitted to enter the army. By his promptness and valor he
soon won the hearts of his superior officers, and was made drill
sergeant. Having nearly all of his life been used to colored people, and
being taught by his mother to be kind and respectful to them, he was
soon able to gain their esteem. He continued in the regiment until Grant
began the task of opening the Mississippi. After weeks of fruitless
effort, Grant marched his army down the west side of the river, while
the gunboats undertook the perilous task of running the batteries. Men
were found for the hour. The volunteers offered themselves in such
numbers that lots were cast to determine who should have the opportunity
to enlist in an enterprise so fraught with danger. Harry was one on whom
the lot fell.

Grant crossed the river below, coiled his forces around Vicksburg like
a boa-constrictor, and held it in his grasp. After forty-seven days of
endurance the city surrendered to him. Port Hudson, after the surrender
of Vicksburg, gave up the unequal contest, and the Mississippi was open
to the Gulf.




CHAPTER XV.


ROBERT AND HIS COMPANY.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Robert Johnson, as he approached Colonel
Robinson, the commander of the post, who was standing at the door of his
tent, talking with Captain Sybil.

"Good morning," responded Colonel Robinson, "I am glad you have come. I
was just about to send for you. How is your company getting on?"

"First rate, sir," replied Robert.

"In good health?"

"Excellent. They are all in good health and spirits. Our boys are used
to hardship and exposure, and the hope of getting their freedom puts new
snap into them."

"I am glad of it," said Colonel Robinson. "They make good fighters and
very useful allies. Last night we received very valuable intelligence
from some fugitives who had escaped through the Rebel lines. I do not
think many of the Northern people realize the service they have been to
us in bringing information and helping our boys when escaping from Rebel
prisons. I never knew a full-blooded negro to betray us. A month ago,
when we were encamped near the Rebel lines, a colored woman managed
admirably to keep us posted as to the intended movements of the enemy.
She was engaged in laundry work, and by means of hanging her sheets in
different ways gave us the right signals."

"I hope," said Captain Sybil, "that the time will come when some
faithful historian will chronicle all the deeds of daring and-service
these people have performed during this struggle, and give them due
credit therefor."

"Our great mistake," said Colonel Robinson, "was our long delay in
granting them their freedom, and even what we have done is only partial.
The border States still retain their slaves. We ought to have made a
clean sweep of the whole affair. Slavery is a serpent which we nourished
in its weakness, and now it is stinging us in its strength."

"I think so, too," said Captain Sybil. "But in making his proclamation
of freedom, perhaps Mr. Lincoln went as far as he thought public opinion
would let him."

"It is remarkable," said Colonel Robinson, "how these Secesh hold out.
It surprises me to see how poor white men, who, like the negroes, are
victims of slavery, rally around the Stripes and Bars. These men, I
believe, have been looked down on by the aristocratic slaveholders, and
despised by the well-fed and comfortable slaves, yet they follow their
leaders into the very jaws of death; face hunger, cold, disease, and
danger; and all for what? What, under heaven, are they fighting for?
Now, the negro, ignorant as he is, has learned to regard our flag as a
banner of freedom, and to look forward to his deliverance as a
consequence of the overthrow of the Rebellion."

"I think," said Captain Sybil "that these ignorant white men have been
awfully deceived. They have had presented to their imaginations utterly
false ideas of the results of Secession, and have been taught that its
success would bring them advantages which they had never enjoyed in the
Union."

"And I think," said Colonel Robinson, "that the women and ministers have
largely fed and fanned the fires of this Rebellion, and have helped to
create a public opinion which has swept numbers of benighted men into
the conflict. Well might one of their own men say, 'This is a rich man's
war and a poor man's fight.' They were led into it through their
ignorance, and held in it by their fears."

"I think," said Captain Sybil, "that if the public school had been
common through the South this war would never have occurred. Now things
have reached such a pass that able-bodied men must report at
headquarters, or be treated as deserters. Their leaders are desperate
men, of whom it has been said: 'They have robbed the cradle and the
grave.'"

"They are fighting against fearful odds," said Colonel Robinson, "and
their defeat is only a question of time."

"As soon," said Robert, "as they fired on Fort Sumter, Uncle Daniel, a
dear old father who had been praying and hoping for freedom, said to me:
'Dey's fired on Fort Sumter, an' mark my words, Bob, de Norf's boun'
ter whip.'"

"Had we freed the slaves at the outset," said Captain Sybil, "we
wouldn't have given the Rebels so much opportunity to strengthen
themselves by means of slave labor in raising their crops, throwing up
their entrenchments, and building their fortifications. Slavery was a
deadly cancer eating into the life of the nation; but, somehow, it had
cast such a glamour over us that we have acted somewhat as if our
national safety were better preserved by sparing the cancer than by
cutting it out."

"Political and racial questions have sadly complicated this matter,"
said Colonel Robinson. "The North is not wholly made up of anti-slavery
people. At the beginning of this war we were not permeated with justice,
and so were not ripe for victory. The battle of Bull Run inaugurated the
war by a failure. Instead of glory we gathered shame, and defeat in
place of victory."

"We have been slow," said Captain Sybil, "to see our danger and to do
our duty. Our delay has cost us thousands of lives and millions of
dollars. Yet it may be it is all for the best. Our national wound was
too deep to be lightly healed. When the President issued his
Emancipation Proclamation my heart overflowed with joy, and I said:
'This is the first bright rift in the war cloud.'"

"And did you really think that they would accept the terms of freedom
and lay down their arms?" asked Robert.

"I hardly thought they would," continued Captain Sybil. "I did not think
that their leaders would permit it. I believe the rank and file of their
army are largely composed of a mass of ignorance, led, manipulated, and
moulded by educated and ambitious wickedness. In attempting to overthrow
the Union, a despotism and reign of terror were created which
encompassed them as fetters of iron, and they will not accept the
conditions until they have reached the last extremity. I hardly think
they are yet willing to confess that such extremity has been reached."

"Captain," said Robert, as they left Colonel Robinson's tent, "I have
lived all my life where I have had a chance to hear the 'Secesh' talk,
and when they left their papers around I used to read everything I could
lay my hands on. It seemed to me that the big white men not only ruled
over the poor whites and made laws for them, but over the whole nation."

"That was so," replied Captain Sybil. "The North was strong but
forbearing. It was busy in trade and commerce, and permitted them to
make the Northern States hunting-grounds for their slaves. When we sent
back Simms and Burns from beneath the shadow of Bunker Hill Monument and
Faneuil Hall, they mistook us; looked upon us as a lot of
money-grabbers, who would be willing to purchase peace at any price. I
do not believe when they fired on the 'Star of the West' that they had
the least apprehension of the fearful results which were to follow their
madness and folly."

"Well, Captain," asked Robert, "if the free North would submit to be
called on to help them catch their slaves, what could be expected of us,
who all our lives had known no other condition than that of slavery? How
much braver would you have been, if your first recollections had been
those of seeing your mother maltreated, your father cruelly beaten, or
your fellow-servants brutally murdered? I wonder why they never enslaved
the Indians!"

"You are mistaken, Robert, if you think the Indians were never enslaved.
I have read that the Spaniards who visited the coasts of America
kidnapped thousands of Indians, whom they sent to Europe and the West
Indies as slaves. Columbus himself, we are informed, captured five
hundred natives, and sent them to Spain. The Indian had the lesser power
of endurance, and Las Cassas suggested the enslavement of the negro,
because he seemed to possess greater breadth of physical organization
and stronger power of endurance. Slavery was an old world's crime which,
I have heard, the Indians never practiced among themselves. Perhaps it
would have been harder to reduce them to slavery and hold them in
bondage when they had a vast continent before them, where they could
hide in the vastnesses of its mountains or the seclusion of its forests,
than it was for white men to visit the coasts of Africa and, with their
superior knowledge, obtain cargoes of slaves, bring them across the
ocean, hem them in on the plantations, and surround them with a pall of
dense ignorance."

"I remember," said Robert, "in reading a history I once came across at
our house, that when the Africans first came to this country they did
not all speak one language. Some had only met as mutual enemies. They
were not all one color, their complexions ranging from tawny yellow to
deep black."

"Yes," said Captain Sybil, "and in dealing with the negro we wanted his
labor; in dealing with the Indian we wanted his lands. For one we had
weapons of war; for the other we had real and invisible chains, the
coercion of force, and the terror of the unseen world."

"That's exactly so, Captain! When I was a boy I used to hear the old
folks tell what would happen to bad people in another world; about the
devil pouring hot lead down people's throats and stirring them up with a
pitch-fork; and I used to get so scared that I would be afraid to go to
bed at night. I don't suppose the Indians ever heard of such things,
or, if they had, I never heard of them being willing to give away all
their lands on earth, and quietly wait for a home in heaven."

"But, surely, Robert, you do not think religion has degraded the negro?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. But a man is in a tight fix when he takes his
part, like Nat Turner or Denmark Veasy, and is made to fear that he will
be hanged in this world and be burned in the next. And, since I come to
think of it, we colored folks used to get mightily mixed up about our
religion. Mr. Gundover had on his plantation a real smart man. He was
religious, but he would steal."

"Oh, Robert," queried Sybil, "how could he be religious and steal?"

"He didn't think," retorted Robert, "it was any harm to steal from his
master. I guess he thought it was right to get from his master all he
could. He would have thought it wrong to steal from his fellow-servants.
He thought that downright mean, but I wouldn't have insured the lives of
Gundover's pigs and chickens, if Uncle Jack got them in a tight place.
One day there was a minister stopping with Mr. Gundover. As a matter of
course, in speaking of his servants, he gave Jack's sins an airing. He
would much rather confess Jack's sins than his own. Now Gundover wanted
to do two things, save his pigs and poultry, and save Jack's soul. He
told the minister that Jack was a liar and a thief, and gave the
minister a chance to talk with Uncle Jack about the state of his soul.
Uncle Jack listened very quietly, and when taxed with stealing his
master's wheat he was ready with an answer. 'Now Massa Parker,' said
Jack, 'lem'me tell yer jis' how it war 'bout dat wheat. Wen ole Jack
com'd down yere, dis place war all growed up in woods. He go ter work,
clared up de groun' an' plowed, an' planted, an' riz a crap, an' den wen
it war all done, he hadn't a dollar to buy his ole woman a gown; an' he
jis' took a bag ob wheat.'"

"What did Mr. Parker say?" asked Sybil.

"I don't know, though I reckon he didn't think it was a bad steal after
all, but I don't suppose he told Jack so. When he came to the next
point, about Jack's lying, I suppose he thought he had a clear case; but
Jack was equal to the occasion."

"How did he clear up that charge?" interrogated Captain Sybil.

"Finely. I think if he had been educated he would have made a first-rate
lawyer. He said, 'Marse Parker, dere's old Joe. His wife don't lib on
dis plantation. Old Joe go ober ter see her, but he stayed too long, an'
didn't git back in time fer his work. Massa's oberseer kotched him an'
cut him all up. When de oberseer went inter de house, pore old Joe war
all tired an' beat up, an' so he lay down by de fence corner and go ter
sleep. Bimeby Massa oberseer com'd an' axed, "all bin a workin' libely?"
I say "Yes, Massa."' Then said Mr. Parker, 'You were lying, Joe had been
sleeping, not working.' 'I know's dat, but ef I tole on Joe, Massa
oberseer cut him all up again, and Massa Jesus says, "Blessed am de
Peacemaker."' I heard, continued Robert, that Mr. Parker said to
Gundover, 'You seem to me like a man standing in a stream where the
blood of Jesus can reach you, but you are standing between it and your
slaves. How will you answer that in the Day of Judgment?'"

"What did Gundover say?" asked Captain Sybil.

"He turned pale, and said, 'For God's sake don't speak of the Day of
Judgment in connection with slavery.'"

Just then a messenger brought a communication to Captain Sybil. He read
it attentively, and, turning to Robert, said, "Here are orders for an
engagement at Five Forks to-morrow. Oh, this wasting of life and
scattering of treasure might have been saved had we only been wiser. But
the time is passing

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