Before long the doctor arrived. When he had been in the sick room a few moments, he came out to make some inquiries of Nina, and she could not help contrasting the appalled and confounded expression of his countenance with the dapper, consequential air, with which, only two hours before he had been holding forth to her on animalculæ and miasma.
“The disease,” he said, “presented itself in an entirely different aspect from what he had expected. The remedies,” he said, “did not work as he anticipated; the case was a peculiar one.”
Alas! before the three months were over, poor doctor, you found many peculiar cases!
“Do you think you can save his life?” said Nina. “Child, only God can save him!” said the physician; “nothing works right.”
But why prolong the torture of that scene, or rehearse the struggles, groans, and convulsions? Nina, poor flowery child of seventeen summers, stood with the rest in mute despair. All was tried that could be done or thought of; but the disease, like some blind, deaf destroyer, marched on, turning neither to right nor left, till the cries and groans grew fainter, the convulsed muscles relaxed, and the strong, florid man lay in the last stages of that fearful collapse which in one hour shrivels the most healthy countenance and the firmest muscles to the shrunken and withered image of decrepit old age. When the breath had passed, and all was over, Nina could scarcely believe that that altered face and form, so withered and so worn, could have been her healthy and joyous uncle, and who never had appeared healthier and more joyous than on that morning. But as a person passing under the foam and spray of Niagara clings with blind confidence to a guide whom he feels, but cannot see, Nina, in this awful hour, felt that she was not alone. The Redeemer, all-powerful over death and the grave, of whom she had been thinking so much of late, seemed to her sensibly near. And it seemed to her as if a voice said to her continually, “Fear not, for I am with thee. Be not dismayed, for I am thy God.”
“How calm you are, my child!” said Aunt Maria to her. “I wouldn’t have thought it was in you. I don’t know what we should do without you.”
But now a frightful wail was heard.
“Oh, we are all dying! we are all going! Oh, missis, come quick! Peter has got it! Oh, daddy has got it! Oh, my child! my child!”
And the doctor, exhausted as he was by the surprise and excitement of this case, began flying from one to another of the cabins, in the greatest haste. Two or three of the house servants also seemed to be struck in the same moment, and only the calmness and courage which Nina and her aunt maintained prevented a general abandonment to panic. Nina possessed that fine, elastic temperament which, with the appearance of extreme delicacy, possesses great powers of endurance. The perfect calmness which she felt enabled her to bring all her faculties to bear on the emergency.
“My good aunty, you mustn’t be afraid! Bring out your religion; trust in God,” she said to the cook, who was wringing her hands in terror. “Remember your religion; sing some of your hymns, and do your duty to the sick.”
There is a magic power in the cheerful tone of courage, and Nina succeeded in rallying the well ones to take care of the sick; but now came a messenger, in hot haste, to say that the cholera had broken out on the plantation at home.
“Well, Harry,” said Nina, with a face pale, yet unmoved, “our duty calls us away.”
And accompanied by the weary physician, they prepared to go back to Canema. Before they had proceeded far, a man met them on horseback.
“Is Dr. Butler with you?”
“Yes,” said Nina, putting her head out of the carriage.
“Oh, Doctor, I’ve been riding all over the country after you. You must come back to town this minute! Judge Peters is dying! I’m afraid he is dead before this time, and there’s a dozen more cases right in that street. Here, get on to my horse, and ride for your life.”
The doctor hastily sprang from the carriage, and mounted the horse; then stopping a moment, he cast a look of good-natured pity on the sweet, pale face that was leaning out of the carriage window.
“My poor child,” he said, “I can’t bear to leave you. Who will help you?”
“God,” said Nina; “I am not afraid!”
“Come, come,” said the man, “do hurry!” And with one hasty glance more he was gone.
“Now, Harry,” said Nina, “everything depends upon our keeping up our courage and our strength. We shall have no physician. We must just do the best we can. After all, it is our Lord Jesus that has the keys of death, and he loved us and died for us. He will certainly be with us.”
“Oh, Miss Nina, you are an angel!” said Harry, who felt at that moment as if he could have worshiped her.
Arrived at home, Nina found a scene of terror and confusion similar to that she had already witnessed. Old Hundred lay dead in his cabin, and the lamenting crowd, gathering round, were yielding to the full tide of fear and excitement, which predisposed them to the same fate.
Nina rode up immediately to the group. She spoke to them calmly; she silenced their outcries, and hade them obey her.
“If you wish, all of you, to die,” she said, “this is the way towards it; but if you’ll keep quiet and calm, and do what ought to be done, your lives may be saved. Harry and I have got medicines — we understand what to do. You must follow our directions exactly.”
Nina immediately went to the house, and instructed Milly, Aunt Rose, and two or three of the elderly women in the duties to be done. Milly rose up, in this hour of terror, with all the fortitude inspired by her strong nature.
“Bress de Lord,” she said, “for his grace to you, chile! De Lord is a shield. He’s been wid us in six troubles, and he’ll be wid us in seven. We can sing in de swellings of Jordan.”
Harry, meanwhile, was associating to himself a band of the most reliable men on the place, and endeavoring in the same manner to organize them for action. A messenger was dispatched immediately to the neighboring town for unlimited quantities of the most necessary medicines and stimulants. The plantation was districted off, and placed under the care of leaders, who held communication with Harry. In the course of two or three hours, the appalling scene of distress and confusion was reduced to the resolute and orderly condition of a well-managed hospital.
Milly walked the rounds in every direction, appealing to the religious sensibilities of the people, and singing hymns of trust and confidence. She possessed a peculiar voice, suited to her large development of physical frame, almost as deep as a man’s bass, with the rich softness of a feminine tone; and Nina could now and then distinguish, as she was moving about the house or grounds, that triumphant tone, singing: —
“God is my sun,
And he my shade,
To guard my head,
By night or noon.
Hast thou not given thy word
To save my soul from death?
And I can trust my Lord,
To keep my mortal breath,
I’ll go and come,
Nor fear to die,
Till from on high
Thou call me home.”
The house that night presented the aspect of a beleaguered garrison. Nina and Milly had thrown open all the chambers; and such as were peculiarly exposed to the disease, by delicacy of organization or tremulousness of nervous system, were allowed to take shelter there.
“Now, chile,” said Milly, when all the arrangements had been made, “you jes lie down and go to sleep in yer own room. I see how ‘t is with you; de spirit is willing, but de flesh is weak. Chile, dere isn’t much of you, but dere won’t nothing go widout you. So, you take care of yerself first. Never you be ‘fraid! De people’s quiet now, and de sick ones is ben took care of, and de folks is all doing de best dey can. So, now, you try and get some sleep; ‘cause if you goes we shall all go.”
Accordingly Nina retired to her room, but before she lay down she wrote to Clayton: —
We are all in affliction here, my dear friend. Poor Uncle John died this morning of the cholera. I
had been to E — to see a doctor and provide medicines. When I came back I thought I would call a few moments at the house, and I found a perfect scene of horror. Poor uncle died, and there are a great many sick on the place now; and while I was thinking that I would stay and help aunt, a messenger came in all haste, saying that the disease had broken out on our place at home.
We were bringing the doctor with us in our carriage, when we met a man riding full speed from E — , who told us that Judge Peters was dying, and a great many others were sick on the same street. When we came home we found the poor old coachman dead, and the people in the greatest consternation. It took us some time to tranquillize them and to produce order, but that is now done. Our house is full of the sick and the fearful ones. Milly and Harry are firm and active, and inspire the rest with courage. About twenty are taken with the disease, but not as yet in a violent way. In this awful hour I feel a strange peace, which the Bible truly says “passeth all understanding.” I see, now, that though the world and all that is in it should perish, “Christ can give us a beautiful immortal life.” I write to you because, perhaps, this may be the only opportunity. If I die, do not mourn for me, but thank God, who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. But then, I trust, I shall not die. I hope to live in this world, which is more than ever beautiful to me. Life has never been so valuable and dear as since I have known you. Yet I have such trust in the love of my Redeemer, that, if he were to ask me to lay it down, I could do it almost without a sigh. I would follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth. Perhaps the same dreadful evil is around you, — perhaps at Magnolia Grove. I will not be selfish in calling you here, if Anne needs you more. Perhaps she has not such reliable help as Harry and Milly are to me. So do not fear, and do not leave any duty for me. Our Father loves us, and will do nothing amiss. Milly walks about the entries singing. I love to hear her sing, she sings in such a grand triumphant tone. Hark, I hear her now!
“I’ll go and come,
Nor fear to die,
Till from on high
Thou call me home.”
I shall write you every mail, now, till we are better.
Living or dying, ever your own
NINA.
After writing this, Nina lay down and slept — slept all night as quietly as if death and disease were not hanging over her head. In the morning she rose and dressed herself, and Milly, with anxious care, brought to her room some warm coffee and crackers, which she insisted on her taking before she left her apartment.
“How are they all, Milly?” said Nina.
“Well, chile,” said Milly, “de midnight cry has been heard among us. Aunt Rose is gone; and Big Sam, and Jack, and Sally, dey’s all gone; but de people is all more quiet, love, and dey’s determined to stand it out!”
“How is Harry?” said Nina in a tremulous voice.
“He isn’t sick; he has been up all night working over de sick, but he keeps up good heart. De older ones is going to have a little prayer-meeting after breakfast, as a sort of funeral to dem dat’s dead; and, perhaps, Miss Nina, you’d read us a chapter.”
“Certainly I will,” said Nina.
It was yet an early hour, when a large circle of family and plantation hands gathered together in the pleasant, open saloon, which we have so often described. The day was a beautiful one; the leaves and shrubbery round the veranda moist and tremulous with the glittering freshness of morning dew. There was a murmur of tenderness and admiration as Nina, in a white morning-wrapper, and a cheek as white, came into the room.
“Sit down, all my friends,” she said, “sit down,” looking at some of the plantation men, who seemed to be diffident about taking the sofa, which was behind them; “it’s no time for ceremony now. We are standing on the brink of the grave, where all are equal. I’m glad to see you so calm and so brave. I hope your trust is in the Saviour, who gives us the victory over death. Sing,” she said. Milly began the well-known hymn: —
“And must this feeble body fail,
And must it faint and die?
My soul shall quit this gloomy vale,
And soar to realms on high;
“Shall join the disembodied saints,
And find its long-sought rest;
That only rest for which it pants,
On the Redeemer’s breast.”
Every voice joined, and the words rose triumphant from the very gates of the grave. When the singing was over, Nina, in a tremulous voice, which grew clearer as she went on, read the undaunted words of the ancient psalm: —
“‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress. My God, in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers. Under his wings shalt thou trust. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day, nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall by thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. He shall give his angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways.’
“It is possible,” said Nina, “that we may, some of us, be called away. But to those that love Christ, there is no fear in death. It is only going home to our Father. Keep up courage, then!”
In all cases like this, the first shock brings with it more terror than any which succeeds. The mind can become familiar with anything, even with the prospect of danger and death, so that it can appear to be an ordinary condition of existence. Everything proceeded calmly on the plantation; and all, stimulated by the example of their young mistress, seemed determined to meet the exigency firmly and faithfully. In the afternoon of the second day, as Nina was sitting in the door, she observed the wagon of Uncle Tiff making its way up the avenue; and with her usual impulsiveness, ran down to meet her humble friend.
“Oh, Tiff, how do you do, in these dreadful times!”
“Oh, Miss Nina,” said the faithful creature, removing his hat, with habitual politeness, “ef yer please, I’s brought de baby here, ‘cause it’s drefful sick, and I’s been doing all I could for him, and he don’t get no better. And I’s brought Miss Fanny and Teddy, ‘cause I’s ‘fraid to leave ‘em, ‘cause I see a man yesterday, and he tell me dey was dying eberywhar on all de places round.”
“Well,” said Nina, “you have come to a sorrowful place, for they are dying here, too! But if you feel any safer here, you and the children may stay, and we’ll do for you just as we do for each other. Give me the baby while you get out. It’s asleep, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Miss Nina, it’s ‘sleep pretty much all de time, now.”
Nina carried it up the steps, and put it into the arms of Milly.
“It’s sleeping nicely,” she said.
“Ah, honey!” said Milly, “it’ll neber wake up out of dat ar! Dat ar sleep ain’t de good kind!”
“Well,” said Nina, “we’ll help him take care of it, and we’ll make room for him and the children, Milly; because we have medicines and directions, and they have nothing out there.”
So Tiff and his family took shelter in the general fortress. Towards evening the baby died. Tiff held it in his arms to the very last; and it was with difficulty that Nina and Milly could persuade him that the little flickering breath was gone forever. When forced to admit it, he seemed for a few moments perfectly inconsolable. Nina quietly opened her Testament, and read to him: —
“And they brought little children unto him, that he should touch them; and his disciples rebuked those that brought them. But Jesus said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
“Bressed Lord!” said Tiff, “I’ll gib him up, I will! I won’t hold out no longer! I won’t forbid him to go, if it does break my old heart! Laws, we’s drefful selfish! But de por little ting, he was getting so pretty!”
&nb
sp; CHAPTER XXXV
THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS
CLAYTON was quietly sitting in his law office, looking over and arranging some papers necessary to closing his business. A colored boy brought in letters from the mail. He looked them over rapidly; and selecting one, read it with great agitation and impatience. Immediately he started, with the open letter crushed in his hand, seized his hat, and rushed to the nearest livery stable.
“Give me the fastest horse you have — one that can travel night and day!” he said. “I must ride for life or death!”
And half an hour more saw Clayton in full speed on the road. By the slow, uncertain, and ill-managed mail route, it would have taken three days to reach Canema. Clayton hoped, by straining every nerve, to reach there in twenty-four hours. He pushed forward, keeping the animal at the top of his speed; and at the first stage-stand, changed him for a fresh one. And thus proceeding along, he found himself, at three o’clock of the next morning, in the woods about fifteen miles from Canema. The strong tension of the nervous system, which had upheld him insensible to fatigue until this point, was beginning slightly to subside. All night he had ridden through the loneliness of pine forests, with no eye looking down on him save the twinkling mysterious stars. At the last place where he had sought to obtain horses everything had been horror and confusion. Three were lying dead in the house, and another was dying.
All along upon the route, at every stopping-place, the air had seemed to be filled with flying rumors and exaggerated reports of fear and death. As soon as he began to perceive that he was approaching the plantation he became sensible of that shuddering dread, which all of us may remember to have had, in slight degrees, in returning home after a long absence, under a vague expectation of misfortune, to which the mind can set no definite limits. When it was yet scarcely light enough to see, he passed by the cottage of Old Tiff. A strange impulse prompted him to stop and make some inquiries there before he pushed on to the plantation. But as he rode up, he saw the gate standing ajar, the door of the house left open; and after repeated callings, receiving no answer, he alighted, and leading his horse behind him, looked into the door. The gloaming starlight was just sufficient to show him that all was desolate. Somehow this seemed to him like an evil omen. As he was mounting his horse, preparing to ride away, a grand and powerful voice rose from the obscurity of the woods before him, singing in a majestic, minor-keyed tune, these words: —
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 105