by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER TWENTY.
MY JOURNAL.
I varied the monotony of my invalid existence by keeping a journal.
The journal of a sick chamber must naturally be barren of incident.Mine was a diary of reflections rather than acts. I transcribe a fewpassages from it--not on account of any remarkable interest which theypossess--but because, dotted down at the time, they represent morefaithfully some of the thoughts and incidents that occurred to me duringthe remainder of my stay on the plantation Besancon.
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_July 12th_.--To-day I am able to sit up and write a little. Theweather is intensely hot. It would be intolerable were it not for thebreeze which sweeps across my apartment, charged with the deliciousperfume of the flowers. This breeze blows from the Gulf of Mexico, byLakes Borgne, Pontchartrain, and Maauepas. I am more than one hundredmiles from the Gulf itself--that is, following the direction of theriver--but these great inland seas deeply penetrate the delta of theMississippi, and through them the tidal wave approaches within a fewmiles of New Orleans, and still farther to the north. Sea-water mightbe reached through the swamps at a short distance to the rear ofBringiers.
This sea-breeze is a great benefit to the inhabitants of LowerLouisiana. Without its cooling influence New Orleans during the summermonths would hardly be habitable.
Scipio tells me that a new "overseer" has arrived on the plantation, andthinks that he has been appointed through the agency of Mass'r Dominick.He brought a letter from the _avocat_. It is therefore probableenough.
My attendant does not seem very favourably impressed with the new comer,whom he represents as a "poor white man from de norf, an a Yankee atdaat."
Among the blacks I find existing an antipathy towards what they arepleased to call "poor white men"--individuals who do not possess slaveor landed property. The phrase itself expresses this antipathy; andwhen applied by a negro to a white man is regarded by the latter as adire insult, and usually procures for the imprudent black a scoring withthe "cowskin," or a slight "rubbing down" with the "oil of hickory."
Among the slaves there is a general impression that their mosttyrannical "overseers" are from the New England States, or "Yankees," asthey are called in the South. This term, which foreigners applycontemptuously to all Americans, in the United States has a restrictedmeaning; and when used reproachfully it is only applied to natives ofNew England. At other times it is used jocularly in a patriotic spirit;and in this sense every American is proud to call himself a Yankee.Among the southern blacks, "Yankee" is a term of reproach, associated intheir minds with poverty of fortune, meanness of spirit, wooden nutmegs,cypress hams, and such-like chicanes. Sad and strange to say, it isalso associated with the whip, the shackle, and the cowhide. Strange,because these men are the natives of a land peculiarly distinguished forits Puritanism! A land where the purest religion and strictest moralityare professed.
This would seem an anomaly, and yet perhaps it is not so much an anomalyafter all. I had it explained to me by a Southerner, who spoke thus:--
"The countries where Puritan principles prevail are those which producevice, and particularly the smaller vices, in greatest abundance. Thevillages of New England--the foci of blue laws and Puritanism.--furnishthe greatest number of the _nymphes du pave_ of New York, Philadelphia,Baltimore, and New Orleans; and even furnish a large export of them tothe Catholic capital of Cuba! From the same prolific soil spring mostof the sharpers, quacks, and cheating traders, who disgrace the Americanname. This is not an anomaly. It is but the inexorable result of apseudo-religion. Outward observance, worship, Sabbath-keeping, and thevarious forms, are engrafted in the mind; and thus, by complicating thetrue duties which man owes to his fellow-man, obscure or take precedenceof them. The latter grow to be esteemed as only of secondaryimportance, and are consequently neglected."
The explanation was at least ingenious.
_July 14th_.--To-day, twice visited by Mademoiselle; who, as usual, wasaccompanied by Aurore.
Our conversation does not flow easily or freely, nor is it of longcontinuance. She (Mademoiselle) is still evidently suffering, and thereis a tone of sadness in everything she says. At first I attributed thisto her sorrow for Antoine, but it has now continued too long to be thusexplained. Some other grief presses upon her spirit. I suffer fromrestraint. The presence of Aurore restrains me; and I can ill giveutterance to those common-places required in an ordinary conversation.She (Aurore) takes no part in the dialogue; but lingers by the door, orstands behind her mistress, respectfully listening. When I regard hersteadfastly, her fringed eyelids droop, and shut out all communion withher soul. _Oh that I could make her understand me_!
_July 15th_.--Scipio is confirmed in his dislike for the new overseer.His first impressions were correct. From two or three little matterswhich I have heard about this gentleman, I am satisfied that he is a badsuccessor to the good Antoine.
_A propos_ of poor Antoine, it was reported that his body had beenwashed up among some drift-timber below the plantation; but the reportproved incorrect. A body _was_ found, but not that of the steward.Some other unfortunate, who had met with a similar fate. I wonder ifthe wretch who wounded me is yet above water!
There are still many of the sufferers at Bringiers. Some have died ofthe injuries they received on board the boat. A terrible death is thisscalding by steam. Many who fancied themselves scarce injured, are nowin their last agonies. The doctor has given me some details that arehorrifying.
One of the men, a "fireman," whose nose is nearly gone, and who isconscious that he has but a short while to live, requested to see hisface in a looking-glass. Upon the request being granted, he broke intoa diabolical laugh, crying out at the same time, in a loud voice, "Whata damned ugly corpse I'll make."
This reckless indifference to life is a characteristic of these wildboatmen. The race of "Mike Fink" is not extinct: many truerepresentatives of this demi-savage still navigate the great rivers ofthe West.
_July 20th_. Much better to-day. The doctor tells me that in a week Imay leave my room. This is cheering; and yet a week seems a long whileto one not used to being caged in this way. The books enable me to killtime famously. All honour to the men who make books!
_July 21st_.--Scipio's opinion of the new overseer is not improved. Hisname is "Larkin." Scipio says that he is well-known in the village as"Bully Bill Larkin"--a soubriquet which may serve as a key to hischaracter. Several of the "field-hands" complain (to Scipio) of hisseverity, which they say is daily on the increase. He goes aboutconstantly armed with a "cowhide," and has already, once or twice, madeuse of it in a barbarous manner.
To-day is Sunday, and I can tell from the "hum" that reaches me from thenegro "quarters," that it is a day of rejoicing. I can see the blackspassing the Levee road, dressed in their gayest attire--the men in white_beaver_ hats, blue long-tailed coats, and shirts with enormous ruffles;the women in gaudy patterns of cotton, and not a few in silks brilliantenough for a ball-room! Many carry silk parasols, of course of thebrightest colours. One would almost be tempted to believe that in thisslave-life there was no great hardship, after all; but the sight of MrLarkin's cowhide must produce a very opposite impression.
_July 24th_.--I noticed to-day more than ever the melancholy that seemsto press upon the spirit of Mademoiselle. I am now convinced thatAntoine's death is not the cause of it. There is some _present_ sourceof distraction, which renders her ill at ease. I have again observedthat singular glance with which she at first regarded me; but it was sotransitory, I could not read its meaning, and my heart and eyes weresearching elsewhere. Aurore gazes upon me less timidly, and seems to beinterested in my conversation, though it is not addressed to her. Wouldthat it were! Converse with her would perhaps relieve my heart, whichburns all the more fiercely under the restraint of silence.
_July 25th_.--Several of the "field-hands" indulged too freely onyesternight. Th
ey had "passes" to the town, and came back late. "BullyBill" has flogged them all this morning, and very severely--so as todraw the blood from their backs. This is rough enough for a _new_overseer; but Scipio learns that he is an "old hand" at the business.Surely Mademoiselle does not know of these barbarities!
_July 26th_.--The doctor promises to let me out in three days. I havegrown to esteem this man--particularly since I made the discovery thathe is _not_ a friend of Gayarre. He is not his medical attendanteither. There is another _medico_ in the village, who has charge ofMonsieur Dominique and his blacks, as also the slaves of the Besanconplantation. The latter chanced to be out of the way, and so Reigart wascalled to me. Professional etiquette partly, and partly my owninterference, forbade any change in this arrangement; and the lattercontinued to attend me. I have seen the other gentleman, who came oncein Reigart's company, and he appears much more suited to be the friendof the _avocat_.
Reigart is a stranger in Bringiers, but seems to be rapidly rising inthe esteem of the neighbouring planters. Indeed, many of these--the"grandees" among them--keep physicians of their own, and pay themhandsomely, too! It would be an unprofitable speculation to neglect thehealth of the slave; and on this account it is better looked after thanthat of the "poor white folks" in many a European state.
I have endeavoured to draw from the doctor some facts, regarding theconnexion existing between Gayarre and the family of Besancon. I couldonly make distant allusion to such a subject. I obtained no verysatisfactory information. The doctor is what might be termed a "closeman," and too much talking would not make one of his profession verypopular in Louisiana. He either knows but little of their affairs, oraffects not to know; and yet, from some expressions that dropped fromhim, I suspect the latter to be the more probable.
"Poor young lady!" said he; "quite alone in the world. I believe thereis an aunt, or something of the kind, who lives in New Orleans, but shehas no male relation to look after her affairs. Gayarre seems to haveeverything in his hands."
I gathered from the doctor that Eugenie's father had been much richer atone period--one of the most extensive planters on the coast; that he hadkept a sort of "open house," and dispensed hospitality in princelystyle. "Fetes" on a grand scale had been given, and this moreparticularly of late years. Even since his death profuse hospitalityhas been carried on, and Mademoiselle continues to receive her father'sguests after her father's fashion. Suitors she has in plenty, but thedoctor has heard of no one who is regarded in the light of a "lover."
Gayarre had been the intimate friend of Besancon. Why, no one couldtell; for their natures were as opposite as the poles. It was thoughtby some that their friendship had a little of the character of thatwhich usually exists between _debtor_ and _creditor_.
The information thus imparted by the doctor confirms what Scipio hasalready told me. It confirms, too, my suspicions in regard to the youngCreole, that there is a cloud upon the horizon of her future, darkerthan any that has shadowed her past--darker even than that produced bythe memory of Antoine!
_July 28th_.--Gayarre has been here to-day--at the house, I mean. Infact, he visits Mademoiselle nearly every day; but Scipio tells mesomething new and strange. It appears that some of the slaves who hadbeen flogged, complained of the overseer to their young mistress; andshe in her turn spoke to Gayarre on the subject. His reply was that the"black rascals deserved all they had got, and more," and somewhat rudelyupheld the ruffian Larkin, who is beyond a doubt his _protege_. Thelady was silent.
Scipio learns these facts from Aurore. There is something ominous inall this.
Poor Scipio has made me the confidant of another, and a private grief.He suspects that the overseer is looking too kindly upon "him kettleChloe." The brute! if this be so!--My blood boils at the thought--oh!slavery!
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_August 2nd_.--I hear of Gayarre again. He has been to the house, andmade a longer stay with Mademoiselle than usual. What can he have to dowith her? Can his society be agreeable to her? Surely that isimpossible! And yet such frequent visits--such long conferences! Ifshe marry such a man as this I pity her, poor victim!--for victim willshe be. He must have some power over her to act as he is doing. Heseems master of the plantation, says Scipio, and issues his orders toevery one with the air of its owner. All fear him and his"nigger-driver," as the ruffian Larkin is called. The latter is morefeared by Scipio, who has noticed some further rude conduct on the partof the overseer towards "him leettle Chloe." Poor fellow! he is greatlydistressed; and no wonder, when even the law does not allow him toprotect the honour of his own child!
I have promised to speak to Mademoiselle about the affair; but I fear,from what reaches my ears, that she is almost as powerless as Scipiohimself!
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_August 3rd_.--To-day, for the first time, I am able to go out of myroom. I have taken a walk through the shrubbery and garden. Iencountered Aurore among the orange-trees, gathering the golden fruit;but she was accompanied by little Chloe, who held the basket. Whatwould I not have given to have found her alone! A word or two only wasI able to exchange with her, and she was gone.
She expressed her pleasure at seeing me able to be abroad. She _seemed_pleased; I fancied she felt so, I never saw her look so lovely. Theexercise of shaking down the oranges had brought out the rich crimsonbloom upon her cheeks, and her large brown eyes were shining likesapphires. Her full bosom rose and fell with her excited breathing, andthe light wrapper she wore enabled me to trace the noble outlines of herform.
I was struck with the gracefulness of her gait as she walked away. Itexhibited an undulating motion, produced by a peculiarity of figure--acertain _embonpoint_ characteristic of her race. She was large andwomanly, yet of perfect proportion and fine delicate outlines. Herhands were small and slender, and her little feet seemed hardly to pressupon the pebbles. My eyes followed her in a delirium of admiration.The fire in my heart burned fiercer as I returned to my solitarychamber.