“What is it?” inquired his companion.
“Lord help me if I know what it is. Look for yourself.”
The two others now thrust in their heads, took one look at us, and drew back. Had we indeed lost all resemblance to human beings. We were crouched in the corner beneath our cloaks, and our head the only parts of our persons visible, were disfigured by matted masses of hair, which feel [fell] over and vailed our faces.
“Shoot at it” said one.
“I believe in my soul, it’s a woman” exclaimed another as my companion slightly moving revealed a part of her person.
With that I threw off the cloak, rose to my feet, and moved towards them. “Gentlemen” I said “we are two poor women, who lost our way last spring, wandered off here, and here took up our abode, because we could find no other home.”
“A[i]n’t you runaway slaves?” suggested one.
They were hard featured men with little in their appearance to recommend them. I tremblingly answered that I was or had been a slave.
“And what is she?” they inquired alluding to my companion.
“She was my mistress.”
“Your mistress” and he burst into a loud guffaw.
“A fine story you are telling me, mistresses don’t go wandering about in that manner.”
“Stop” said another one of the trio “there is some mystery here. I heard something about it last spring. What was your master’s name?”
Not perceiving that any good could come of concealment I told him.
“Yes, that was the name. It is just as she says” he continued addressing the others.
“How long have you been here?” inquired another.
“All summer nearly.”
“Faith, I wouldn’t stay here a night for all your master’s that was once your master’s fortune.”
“May I inquire the reason why?[”]
“Because it is said that a beautiful girl was once murdered here, and that the place is haunted. Haven’t you found it so.”
I replied that a good conscience was a sure protector, and that no spirit had troubled me.
“Well, who would have imagined that our gunning expedition would have been so profitable. Why these gals will be worth more to us than all the game in the woods.”
“My mistress is sick and deranged. She has suffered so much” I said. “You will deal tenderly with her.”
“Certainly, if she behaves herself” he answered dryly.
Fortunately she was in a bo her mind was in a lucid interval, and she maintained surprising composure, remarking only that the bitterness of death was past, and that whatever might be her destiny her sufferings could not exceed those she had already felt.
“I make no appeal to your sympathy” she said. “I say nothing of horror or alarm. I do not ask you to consider that possibly some great misfortune may happen to you, and you may need friends as we need them now. I do not ask you to consider all this, well knowing that were I not dumb you would be deaf, that neither tears, nor prayers, nor entreaties of ours could move your purpose whatever that may be.”
“You think meanly of us, Madam” said one of the men. A smile rested on the countenances of the others, perhaps that he should designate such a miserable looking person by such a term. He observed it.
“Smile if you please” he said “but that woman once graced an exalted station, and I pity the misfortune which seems beyond hope of remedy.”
“Heaven I fear has turned against us” continued my mistress mournfully. “There is no use battling against fate. Henceforth come what will I am resigned.”
The passiveness of a settled despair was apparent in all her words and movements.
“Then you will go with us peacefully” said one. “Whither” she inquired, coming forward, and fixing her large sad eyes with an expression of mournful interest on the speaker’s face. [“]Will you take me to my father? Heaven knows how gladly I would go to him.”
Her senses were wandering.
“Not to your father, dear Madam” replied the one, who had formerly addressed her thus, and whom his companions called Horace “not to your father, but where you will be taken care of.”
“To my husband, then?”
“We could not.”
“Why not?” inquired one of the others.
“He is dead” answered Horace in a low voice. “At least that old lawyer who knows or seems to know everything told me so.”
She caught the word lawyer. An expression of unutterable agony flitted over her face.
“Not to him” she almost shrieked. “Indeed I cannot go to him.”
“And you shall not, you shall not,” said Horace pityingly. “I will see to that.”
Presently the three men withdrew to a little distance, where they stood and talked, and whispered. I thought that Horace remonstrated with them, that he objected to some proposal, but I caught only one sentence of their conversation and that was something about a large reward.
Then they returned to us, and we were led away as sheep are led to the slaughter unresisting, uncomplaining and uncertain of our fate.
I am half-inclined to believe that my overtaxed brain became bewildered at times like that of my poor dear mistress. I am sure that they talked of us, tho’ I failed to comprehend the words. I heard them. I understood their meaning, but could attach to them no sense in any other connection. I had heard them say “He is dead” and yet failed to realize at first that it was my master of whom they spoke. Then slowly, yet certainly the overpowering conviction was forced upon me, but how did he die?
We were walking along a narrow wood-road—all except my mistress. She was incapable of the exertion, and so they had formed for her a sort of rude litter which they carried alternately, two at a time, leaving one at freedom unemployed to prevent my escape. An unnecessary precaution, since even my strong desire for freedom, now become the object of my life, could not have induced me to abandon her. The man Horace was walking with me. He looked sad and sympathising. I might venture to inquire of him “You said, I think, that my master was dead, will you tell me how he died?” I asked.
“By his own hand, in the drawing-room—that ancient one where hung the family pictures” he replied.
“And the mansion?” I inquired.
“Has already with the servants passed into other [hands].[”]
From all I could gather it appeared that on the next day but one succeeding that of our escape Mr Trappe unexpectedly returned. Enjoying as he did the freedom of the house he went directly to the apartments of my mistress which he found vacated. Descending again he encountered Lizzy in one of the passages who in a great state of consternation and alarm informed him that her mistress had gone no one knew whither. Whether he was prepared for such a contingency, or whether he was betrayed from his usual calm indifference into something like surprise it is impossible to say, but he made inquiries for my master, and proceeded to have hold [an] interview with him.
He was in the south drawing-room, and of course Mr Trappe was admitted to his presence. What might have been the tenor of their conversation, what secrets were revealed, what disclosures made must remain a mystery. Who can doubt the painfulness of their character, or the depths of disgrace and exposure that were laid bare? The interview was long, very long, and then Mr Trappe came gliding out. His seedy black clothes, and blacker eyes gleamed a moment in the passage. The echo of his stealthy step was first heard on the porch, and then his retreating form passed rapidly down the long avenue of oaks, and he was seen no more. The evil his presence always brought with it had been accomplished there. He had brought misery and destruction on the household. Was not that enough?
Silent and solitary in his apartment, the linden creaking beneath the window remained my master. No one ventured to intrude on his privacy. Was there no voice in all that sumptuous dwelling with its luxurious appointments to meet the servants going to and fro, or passing in and out with the whisper “go to him.” Is there no influence there
to prefigure even to Mrs Bry what is then passing in his room, and beneath that roof? Is there no significance in the hours as they pass away, and still he comes not forth? His dinner is waiting, a sumptuous dinner served on massy plate. The delicate viands breathe a delicious flavor, the wine leaps and sparkles. His carriage is waiting, he had ordered them to have it in readiness by four o clock. Four o clock in the afternoon, and that hour passed. It is a long time for him to linger in his room. I never know him to remain so long before, mused Mrs Bry.
Five o’clock, and still invisible. Something must be wrong. Mrs Bry goes around the house, and looks up at the window; the shutters are closed. She returns enters the house and seeks the door of his apartment; it is fastened within, and even the keyhole closed up by bits of crumpled paper. She listens; there is noise. She knocks; there is no answer. She becomes seriously alarmed and the other servants catch the contagion. There is hurry and confusion, and a great scampering about the rooms. No one could tell what they are doing or trying to do. On that point they have no definite idea themselves. However they all say that something is wrong, and it really seems as if they designed that since insuperable obstacles prevented getting where the wrong apparently was, they would go at random where it was not.
There is a sort of scream, and a voice in one of the lower rooms. “My God, what is this?”
Mrs Bry hastens; others run to ascertain the nature of the discovery. “It is water” said one “nothing—somebody has spilt some water.”
“Do you call that water?” inquired the discoverer holding up her finger stained with a dark red substance. “It is blood, that’s what it is, and so is this, and this.”
And sure enough on the floor were several little pools of clotted gore. Mrs Bry looks upward at the ceiling; that is bloody too. She comprehends it all in a moment. immediately above this is the apartment In great alarm and agitation she rushes out, summons the overseer of the estate, who quietly hears her story, looks at the blood, remarks that it is very strange, and then forces open the door of my master’s room.
What find they there? The master fallen from his easy chair; fallen on his face to the floor, his garments and the carpet saturated with the red stream that still oozed slowly from a ghastly wound in his throat.
CHAPTER 6
New Places
Lo; the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow on the string.
PSALMS
Leaving the woods we advanced along an open plain, and thence entered a well-beaten road that led through the midst of a well-populated district. Our conductors laughed and joked on the strange appearance we all presented and the curiosity of the people, who sought to discover who and what we were. The novelty of our situation seemed to have wrought favorably on my mistress. She remained passive and silent, only inquiring now and then where they were taking her, or what they designed to do with her. And when they answered her evasively she would laugh with a short hysterical sob, and then relapse into silence.
We traveled slowly. The men soon wearied beneath their burden, and my weakened limbs and attenuated frame could barely hardly support the exercise of walking, even with long and frequent intervals of rest. At length, and just as night was shutting over the landscape, the patter of a mill, the spire of a church, and the distant hum of voices gave indication that we approached a village. The houses were soon in sight, some of them in a sort of dusky gloom that was neither light nor darkness, but the most with lights twinkling at the windows, that look and all wearing a placid look of peace and content.
One of the men went forward, as I supposed to herald our arrival, and to see that some place was prepared for our reception, my heart told me too well what place that would be.
He returned speedily, whispered that it was ready, and on we went into the village, along a street, past a tavern where many lights were burning and a great many people standing by a store whose broad glass windows were richly illuminated besides being garnished with a great variety of goods—and to a large building that seemed to blockade the street as it loomed dark and gloomy and in perfect contrast to the surrounding objects. They paused before this building, and one of them them tapped at a little low window, which like the others, was garnished with iron gratings. A few words were exchanged in a low tone with some one within, and the bolts revolved, an iron door swung heavily open and we stood within the vestibule of a prison.
It was a small, but strong guard room, from which a narrow stair case led upwards, and two low entrances conducted to cells or apartments on the ground floor, all secured with the tyrant strength of bolts and bars. The bleak walls otherwise bare were not unsuitably furnished with iron fetters, and other uncouth implements, designed for still more inhuman purposes, interspersed with broad bowie knives, guns, pistols, and other weapons of of-fence and defence.
At finding ourselves, thus suddenly, and without having committed any crime, thus introduced into one of the legal fortresses of a country celebrated throughout the world for the freedom, equality, and magnanimity of its laws, I could not help reflecting on the strange ideas of right and justice that seemed to have usurped a place in public opinion, since the mere accident of birth, and what persons were the least capable of changing or modifying was made a reason for punishing and imprisoning them.
At our first entrance I turned an eager glance towards my mistress, and our conductors, but the lamp in the vestibule was too low in flame to afford my curiosity any satisfaction. Had her countenance expressed all the horror in the world, or theirs all the sympathy I could not have discerned it by the dim uncertain rays. Presently the jailer lit a small tallow candle, which he found after along search on a little shelf, and I obtained a distinct view of his uncouth features and wild appearance. His hair was red as fire, and being brushed back from his equally red face stood all on end. His eyes were blood-shotten, and various small red pimples disfigured his nose. He seemed to understand perfectly who and what we were, and made sundry remarks at our expense.
“Gals runaway—couldn’t afford to lose ’em—bring heaps of money—one of ’em sick, eh.”
He then bade us follow him.
“You will make them comfortable as you can, poor things” said Horace.
The fellow grinned an affirmative.
“And keep them here, till we have time to notify their owners and receive our reward” suggested another.
Another ghastly grin, and then he marshaled us up the stairs, and along a narrow gallery, which had several doors opening into it, that apparently communicated with other cells and passages. Then coming to a dead halt, he applied a key to the lock of the lock of a door so low and narrow that no one could pass through it erect, or without turning side-foremost. The door flew open.
“Now walk in there, one at a time” he said eyeing us closely. We obeyed in silence, and he was about closing the door upon us when I inquired if we couldn’t have a light.
“A light, faith, and what do you want of that?” he answered roughly.
“To see by, of course; it is very dark in here” I replied.
“There isn’t much to see, I guess” he said with a low chuckle “but I shall be back directly to bring you some supper” and the door shut with a bang.
We were now in almost Egyptian darkness, and the hot stifling air had a suffocating stench. We could only cling to each other, and group [grope] our way around the cell with outstretched hands around the cell.
It contained no furniture with the exception of a low wooden stool, and a cot-bed or pallet very narrow and exceedingly filthy. Stumbling over these we were both seated when the jailer returned.
“Making yourselves at home a[l]ready” he said in a half-cheerful half sneering manner. “Here is your supper and hope you I hope you won’t many make any disturbance, or try to get out, because you see it isn’t pleasant to have a muss, specially with women.”
Telling him not to give himself uneasiness on that score I again besought him to leave us a light.
“If
it wasn’t gin the rules” he began.
“Who cares for the rules” I said interrupting him. “You must certainly be an independent man, you can tell, you know very well what is necessary. We have not been placed here for punishment but only safe-keeping.” And thus by alternately coaxing and flattering him he was induced to leave the candle with us, muttering meanwhile to himself that he wasn’t sure it was all right.
The food he brought us was coarse and unpalatable. It consisted of some hard, dry mouldy bread, some cheese alive with vermin and some water so me warm and fetid that we could scarcely drink it. We only ate a few morsels, and then retired to our humble bed.
It is said that persons have been known to sleep on the rack, and even when exposed to the keenest agony of torturing fire. Worn out with fatigue and harrowing anxiety I sank into a painful and uneasy slumber. It was not rest, for I was wearied and tortured by a frightful dream. It was not the blessed oblivion that locks the senses when peace and happiness surround us, but a sort of lethargic stupor, the result of over-taxed exertion mental and physical.
Then came a sensation of bodily pain, and presently a consciousness that some animal was trying to devour me. I started up in horror and grasped a huge rat that was nibbling at my cheek. Releasing him as quickly he ran frightened into his hole, which the faint rays of the lamp rendered visible in the farthest corner of the cell.
With the contingency of being devoured before my eyes, I could not shut them again, but lay painfully awake, while my terrified imagination began to conjure strange fancies. I had heard of rats in prisons and ancient charnel-houses, that banqueted banqueted hediously on the dead, or that assailing even living men and women by thousands gnawed the quivering and palpitating flesh from their bones. Such a fate was too horrible to contemplate. I gazed in fascinated horror at the cavity, whence now and then the creature would stick its head, glance around with its eager eyes, and then draw back suddenly.
The Bondwoman's Narrative Page 14