Frederick Steinmark had been deeply touched by the receipt of this letter, but, as it should seem by the words of hope rather than of certainty uttered by the young people as they travelled exultingly over the map of Germany which lay on the table, it had not elicited from him as yet any promise to quit the prosperous domain he had created around him.
So completely were the party occupied, that neither of them either heard or saw the approach of Juno; and it was not till her strange figure was within the window, that Lotte, who fronted it, looked up and saw her.
An exclamation of surprise burst from her; but age and decrepitude were ever sure to propitiate kindness from Lotte, which the badge of oppression displayed by her dark skin rather tended to increase than diminish.
“You look weary, my good woman, — sit down,” was the fair girl’s salutation to this battered remnant of humanity; and as she uttered it, she placed an easy chair for her. This gentle welcome completely changed the mood of the old woman. When she first heard their laughter, and marked their fair young joyous faces, a bitter feeling of contrast arose, followed however by the thought that, despite her age, her colour, and her slavery, she too might be counted as something in creation, and something too as much out of the ordinary run of mortals as, was the beautiful creature before whom she stood.
This thought was followed with the determination to disturb a little the bright current of their young spirits, by astounding their imaginations with some of her mystical rhyming prophecies, and the assumption of more than mortal power; but Lotte’s voice conjured the foul fiend out of her, and taking the offered seat, which was more welcome to her mind than to her body, she said, “Heaven reward you, fair and good, for your merciful kindness to an old slave! Are you the master’s daughter?”
“Yes I am — if you mean the master of this house, — I am Frederick Steinmark’s daughter.”
“And may I see him, my pretty lady? I have real business for his ear, and, no rambling nonsense of witchcraft, as perhaps you may think by looking at me.”
“My father,” replied Lotte, “is in the fields; but we must not send you to look for him there, for you might wander far and miss him at last. Cannot you leave a message for him? I will repeat it very faithfully when he returns.”
Though the beauty and sweetness of Lotte had quite won old Juno’s heart, which was moreover not insensible to the good-humoured aspect of her companions, she felt too deeply the importance of not confiding the secret of a runaway slave to any from whom it could be concealed, to venture any allusion to the real object of her visit. She therefore only said in reply, that she thought the master would choose himself to hear what she had to say, and therefore she would rather seek him if she must walk an hour for it.
“Run, Henrich, then,” said Lotte, “and try to learn which way he is gone.” The young man obeyed, and in a few minutes returned with both father and mother, whom he had met together returning to the house.
“This is my father, good woman,” said Lotte, stepping forward to meet him, and whispering in his ear, that he must speak to the poor old negress himself, for that she would communicate her business to no one else.
This information at once determined the hard-hearted German to break through his usual custom of appointing a deputy, and seating himself beside her, and looking with much interest at her worn and singular figure, he said, in a voice that was indeed the father to that of Lotte. “What can I do for you, good woman?”
“Speak to me where none other but yourself can hear,” replied Juno, with a little touch of mysticism in her tone.
“That can hardly be necessary, I think,” replied Steinmark, somewhat suspicious from the tone that his visitor would prove an impostor; “there are none here but friends — what is it you want of me?”
“Have you never done a good deed,” said the old woman, fixing her deep-set eyes upon him, “that might be a saving and a heavenly act if done in private, and yet might prove bloody and mischievous if witnessed?”
The eyes of the whole party were fixed upon Juno as she spoke, and there was not one of them that did not share the suspicion which had at first occurred to Steinmark, that she intended to pass for a fortune-teller or negro sorceress; a profession not unfrequently adopted by those among the race who attain to an advanced age. It was therefore with considerable surprise that his family, who knew his uncompromising aversion to deception of every kind, saw Frederick Steinmark rise at the moment her look and manner betokened most mystery, and with a heightened colour and hurried step proceed towards the door, desiring the old woman to follow him.
Having reached a place of safety, Steinmark, who, as may easily be divined, had guessed her errand, made her again sit down, and then once more requested to know her business.
“The God of mercy will bless you for this, and for the rest,” said Juno; “and now I will tell you all. Cæsar was not ungrateful, master — negroes are never ungrateful; but Cæsar loved one of his own poor race as dearly as a prince and a white man could love — and he knew Phebe was not far off from here — and he wandered about by night till he found her, and that was yesterday; and the minutes flew over fast, and light was in the east before the poor young things had told each other one half their misery since parting. And so I sent her home, and I hid him closer and safer than you could do, master, with all your noble kindness. — But Cæsar is not ungrateful.”
Steinmark was probably not sorry to hear that his dangerous guest had found another asylum; but, really anxious about the future destiny of the poor fellow, he inquired what he intended to do after the first heat of pursuit should be over.
“It is there, master, that we must look again to you,” replied Juno firmly, while she fixed her skilful and scrutinising eyes on the benevolent countenance before her. “If you will help, he may be saved; — if not, torture or death, or perhaps both, must be all that he can hope for.”
“I would do all I could,” replied the noble German, “to help any fellow-creature in such a strait; and your poor friend Cæsar is a very fine fellow, and I would gladly serve him even in a less necessity: but what can I do, my good woman? The laws of the state are explicit, severe, and most rigorously executed against all who aid and assist in the evasion or concealment of a slave. My being a foreigner by no means exempts me from the penalties these laws exact for such an offence. — What then do you suppose I could do for him?”
“I will tell you, sir,” said Juno, “what you can do, and I will pray the God of mercy to give you grace to do it. You may purchase Cæsar.”
“Purchase him, my good friend? — You surely forget his situation. How can I deal for a slave of whose existence I am bound, for his own sake, to appear ignorant?”
“No, master, no,” replied Juno eagerly; “you are only bound to appear ignorant of that which you neither know, nor ever shall know. You are ignorant of the place of his concealment — say it, and swear it, master, with a safe conscience, for so you are, and so you ever shall be; — swear this to Benjamin Franklin Oglevie, owner of the paper-factory on the banks of the river five miles above New Orleans, and then offer him such a price for Cæsar as shall tempt his avarice to the sacrifice of his revenge. Do this, and your wealth shall be blessed to the hundredth generation of those who shall inherit it.”
There was something in the language of the old negress that surprised Steinmark, and convinced him that it was no common person he had to deal with: nevertheless, there was an apparent want of coherence in her scheme which led him strongly to suspect, that whatever her mind might once have been, it was now unsettled. It was evident, however, that she was perfectly capable of comprehending what was said to her, and in the humane hope of turning her mind from a project that might harass her very painfully, and perhaps excite fallacious hopes in those for whom she seemed so deeply interested, he attempted to point out the impossibility of its success.
“But do you not perceive,” said he, “that I shall acknowledge the being acquainted with his retreat by
making this proposal? How can I offer to purchase a slave if I do not know where to find him?”
“Leave that to me, master. All I ask of you is to go, or send, or write to Benjamin Franklin Oglevie, paper-factory, Cicero ville, near New Orleans; and write or say this: ‘Sir,-you had a slave called Cæsar; he ran away from you about ten days ago. I will give you one thousand dollars for him, provided I can find him; as I understand he worked as a gardener in Kentucky, and I find difficulty in getting such a one as I require. At this moment I know not where he is; but I am assured that if I make the purchase, he will have means of knowing it, and that after I have paid the money and received your receipt for it, together with all other documents necessary to prove that he is mine, I shall find him on the following morning at work in my garden. In case you should wish to know at whose recommendation it is I wish to make this expensive purchase, I beg to inform you that it is Colonel Dart, a gentleman of high standing, whose name is well known in New Orleans, to whom I owe the advantage of being likely to get a gardener to suit me.’ — Will you write or say this, master?”
The incoherence of the plan had certainly disappeared; but there was another feature in it quite as fatal to the mind of Steinmark, and he answered, “If I should consent to give a thousand dollars for the purchase of Cæsar, I certainly would not accompany the offer with a falsehood. — Who is Colonel Dart? I know nothing of him.”
“But I do,” replied Juno with a smile that seemed involuntary; for, resuming the earnestness of her manner, she said eagerly, “Should you receive such a recommendation from Colonel Dart, will you do it?”
Frederick Steinmark was not naturally a very cautious man, but there was something in the appearance and manners of his visitor which inspired more surprise than confidence; yet he was far from intending to abandon the hope she had suggested, that he might save poor Cæsar. After meditating for a minute or two, instead of answering her question, he said, “Do you know anything of a person named Bligh?”
“Do I know him? — do I know the apostle of our race? — do I know Edward Bligh? Yes, master! I know him, and I love and reverence him as the good only can be loved and reverenced. Will you do this thing at his bidding?”
“I will,” said Steinmark without farther hesitation. “If he requests it, and no falsehood mixes with the negotiation, I will give a thousand dollars to become the lawful master of Cæsar.”
The joy and gratitude of poor old Juno were expressed in words and looks of such genuine and simple sincerity, that the feelings of Steinmark were now strongly awakened in her favour, and he reproached himself for the unworthy suspicions he had entertained of her motives and character.
“What is your name, my good woman?” said he kindly.
“Old Juno, master,” she replied, rising from her chair and making the lowest curtsey her stiff knees would permit; “and old Juno will bless you with her latest breath.”
“Well, Juno, I think we understand each other now; so let me take you back again to the sitting-room. By the way, I see no occasion to preserve secrecy with my family any longer. When the safety of Cresar was concerned, I submitted to it; but as you tell me he is safe from all pursuit, there is nothing to be feared for him: and to tell you the truth, Juno, I am not fond of mysteries.”
“And I would to heaven, master,” she replied, “that the same freedom of spirit, and that power which the white man has of doing his will openly, belonged to me, as it does to you! then old Juno would leave off her tricks, and never again try to seem other than the poor old cripple she is. But it would not do, master; Juno would lose all her power of doing good.”
“Well, well! I suppose you know best, Juno. But I may tell them all, may I not, why you are here?”
“Only let me go first. Do not let me hear you talk together of old Juno and her tricks,”
“But you will stay to rest, and to take some refreshment?”
Juno shook her head. “You have given rest and refreshment to my spirit, master, and that was what I wanted. Farewell, and God reward you!” As she spoke, she passed through a door that opened upon a field behind the house, and traversed it so rapidly, that Steinmark’s answering “Farewell” was scarcely uttered in time to overtake her.
CHAPTER X.
MEANWHILE, our hero arrived at New Orleans. There is always something splendid and attractive in the sight of a great city rising on the banks of a majestic river. The effect, indeed, is often delusive, giving an idea of general cheerfulness and prosperity which either belongs not to the scene at all, or only to a very limited portion of its population. In no instance, perhaps, is this more the case than at New Orleans. The noble Levee, forming a barrier to one of earth’s most powerful streams — the long, long line of shipping, bearing the colours of all the nations of the world — the busy market, the well-dressed crowd, the gay verandas — all speak of industry and wealth. But penetrate a very little beyond the surface, and where is the barren rock or desert moor that shows not a spectacle more cheering? Year after year, religion and philosophy have struck off the fetters from the emancipated slave in different quarters of the globe; but at New Orleans every white man’s object is to rivet them on his black brethren firmer and firmer still. This is the business of their lives: — and what are their pleasures? To revel in the caresses of the race they scorn, and to rouse their dreamy, idle souls to animation by the sordid stimulants of strong drink and gambling: and then, as if their own unholy deeds brought not sufficient punishment, nature sends forth the monster Fever, to stalk through the land, breathing avenging curses with his poisonous breath.
Such is New Orleans. Yet to New Orleans Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw approached with a heart swelling with anticipated pleasure, and a brain throbbing with projects for the gratification both of avarice and ambition.
The aspiring nature of young Whitlaw might with truth be called an appetite that grew with what it fed on; for the firmer he felt himself in the good graces of Colonel Dart, and the higher his estimate became of the amount of his father’s wealth, the more ardent was his wish to rise still higher on the wheel of Fortune.
As the young man stood on the stern gallery of the stately boat that bore him onward into the very centre of this extensive mart, from which station he was enabled to contemplate one by one every object after he had passed it — for not for worlds would Whitlaw have stood among the motley population at the bow, even to gratify his longing wish to see all and everything, — it might be fairly doubted whether his confident hopes of gain at the gambling-houses, or the glowing anticipations of unbounded license of debauchery for his leisure hours, inspired the strongest feeling of triumphant happiness at his heart.
Scarcely had the churning paddles ceased to play, when he sprang on shore, and securing a drag and a negro, he proceeded directly to Mrs. Bennet’s celebrated boarding-house, renowned for the best dinners, and the most confiding in difference as to exits and entrances, of any house in the town.
He was fortunate enough to find a room vacant at this favourite rendezvous of freedom and fashion; and having, by dint of persuading Mrs. Bennet that he should certainly stay three times as long as he intended to do, prevailed upon her to remit a dollar a week in her usual charge, he established himself at once, adorned himself with the most chosen embellishments of Natchez, and sallied forth in search of adventure.
Whitlaw was an excellent billiard-player; and even amidst the rural, or at least suburban retreats of Natchez-under-Hill, had already learned how very easy it was, with a skilful hand and a crafty brain, to make pleasure and profit unite in rewarding the hours and years of practice he had devoted to this game.
He first directed his steps to a well-known table close to the French theatre; and, as was usual with him on such occasions, assumed a look of simple curiosity, as if the scene were very new and very strange to him. The table was occupied by two men who appeared very unequally matched; the one being a dashing, neck-or-nothing, and seeming lucky player; and the other, a quiet, deliberate, b
ut very clumsy performer.
Considerable amusement was produced among the bystanders, who were numerous, by the contrast both between the play and the demeanour of the opponents.
“Now for it, my fine fellow!” cried the successful player, who was evidently of the half-horse, half-alligator breed of fair Kentucky; “now, then; I’ll go the whole hog with ye — I’ll make eight of this stroke, — and that’s a shame, for it’s two more than I want.”
He made the stroke, and marked four for it. “Then I’ve got another squeak for it, before I’m right-down stumped,” cried the losing player, in a small voice, in which a little hope seemed to struggle against a great deal of despair. “Please, gentlemen, don’t touch my elbow; I expect that’s not the way to give me fair play, and who knows but I may do something better at last?”
Shouts of laughter burst from the lookers-on, as the man, after studying the table as if his life depended on the hazard he was playing for, at last gave a most energetic thrust and missed.
“Capital! capital!” shouted the Kentuckian; “take another go — do now — and then you see I shall win clean without losing an inch.”
His adversary, looking sullen, sulky, and mortified, replied:— “Play, can’t you? and not stand there gibing and jeering a better man than yourself — play and have done with it.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 26