Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Smith, “it is clear that we can’t be in better hands. Private and public feelings seem to unite to excite your zeal; and I can only say, that as I own three hundred and ten niggers myself, I expect you have no reason to doubt of my willingness to help. — Perhaps, Mr. Whitlaw, it might be as well to have a few handbills prepared, to stick about at Natchez-under-hill; ’tis as well that the mind of the people should he prepared.”

  “’Tis you, Hogstown, as must do that, I expect,” observed Whitlaw; “and we’d better meet at Sanders’s to-morrow night, and get a bit of supper together in a private room; and then we can have a look at your handbills, Hogstown, and settle, maybe, finally what’s to be done Sunday night. I expect I may be able myself to pick up something among our own gangs that may be useful; and if I do, I can make it known to you then and there.”

  This proposal was agreed to, and the triumvirate separated.

  Whitlaw’s first care, as in duty bound, was to visit the colonel; and as he had inquired for him before starting in pursuit of Lucy, and been told that he was in a pretty comfortable fix in his arm-chair, and that the doctor expected he was better, he was a good deal startled when the black valet told him that “massa was roaring mad wid gripes,” and that “God-A’mighty only knowed what to do wid him, for the doctor was stumped.”

  Whitlaw hastened to his room, where he found him in bed, and in truth in a very deplorable condition. Inflammation had taken place, and a mortification was expected to follow; but no one had yet been there of sufficient courage to tell the dying man of his danger. No sooner was Whitlaw informed of it, however, than his active and intelligent spirit suggested to him what was proper to be done. His first care was to summon a lawyer, whom he deposited snugly in one of the sitting-rooms, with plum-cake, iced water, and whisky, wherewith to amuse himself. He next procured the attendance of two white overseers, who, if wanted, could write their names; and having placed them in another room with a bottle of rum and a couple of glasses, he returned to the suffering colonel.

  The physician was with him, and after the examination of a few minutes, attended Whitlaw into another room.

  “It’s all over with the colonel, I expect, doctor?” said Whitlaw with very proper solemnity.

  “I calculate he can’t last the day, sir,” was the reply; “or at any rate he’ll never see the morning light again, Mr. Whitlaw. These complaints, sir, go a pace in this country that mostly beats time, set it as short as you will.”

  “But I guess, doctor, that he won’t keep on this fashion to the last? He’ll come to, a little, won’t he, and be more reasonable-like before he goes?”

  “I calculate that it’s possible he may, Mr. Whitlaw; and so, sir, if there is any business to be done, which is your meaning, I expect, I advocate your watching without much relaxity of attention. When you catch him quiet for a spell, get him to swallow a mouthful of rum, and repeat the dose as you see he wants it, till such time as he may be left in peace without inconvenience. — Good day, Mr. Whitlaw, sir, — I’ll look in again as I ride back; — my cab is waiting for me, I expect, and I’ve got to ride as far as Mount Sion.”

  Whitlaw looked at the patient, and saw that as yet he was anything but quiet; he therefore ventured to retire for a few moments to refresh himself, and then returned to the sick chamber, attended by one negro, carrying rum and a small glass, and another with all implements necessary for writing. Thus prepared, the confidential clerk seated himself where he could watch the sick man without being seen by him; for the appeals of the poor sufferer to everyone within reach for the succour which no one could give, was an annoyance to which even the philosophy of my hero could not render him entirely insensible.

  This very anxious attendance continued for about two hours without any visible change in the condition of the colonel; but at the end of that time his complainings began to cease, and he gradually sank into silence, and something approaching apathy.

  Whitlaw drew near and contrived to make him swallow the prescribed cordial. The dying man opened his eyes and attempted to speak to him. It was evident he knew him, but equally evident that he had not strength to articulate. The confidential clerk poured out another glass of rum, and the patient again submitted to the dose, and with excellent effect, for in a minute or two he half raised himself in the bed and said quite distinctly “Where the devil have you been, Whitlaw?”

  “Engaged in your service, my dear sir,” replied the young man, arranging the bedclothes and the pillow with an air of affectionate assiduity; “engaged in a way that will, I trust, spare you all farther trouble on the score of insurrection, or anything of that kind.”

  “That’s well, Whitlaw. — And I wanted to tell you about my purchase. — I’ve got it all, and paid down ready-money too; but it’s a capital purchase, and will turn out un-ac-coun-ta-ble pro-fit-a-ble.”

  The last words being pronounced with considerable languor, and even difficulty, a third glass of rum was presented, which was this time taken eagerly by the colonel, and its effect immediately made manifest by so active an attempt at renewing the conversation, that Whitlaw deemed it prudent to check so idle a waste of very precious breath, saying— “My dear colonel, I’m not altogether easy about you — though now you’re out of pain there’s good hope that all will go right; only your strength must be kept up by cordials, the doctor says, and you kept quiet, except as to any matter of business that you may have to fix.”

  “Business, Whitlaw? How the devil can I be doing business? Not but I feel elegant easy too; but I expect I should be as weak as a sick puppy if I were to stir. What business do you think I could do? I couldn’t keep my eyes open for two minutes together, to see a nigger flogged, if he’d been caught at insurrection before my face.”

  “No, no, my dear sir, — no such sort of business as that; that your faithful friends can do for you; but no man can be sick, Colonel Dart, without wishing to settle his affairs, I expect.”

  “Settle? — what? — make my will, d’ye mean? Why the devil should I make my will? — I’m not going to die, Whitlaw, am I?”

  “Heaven forbid, my dearest colonel, that at such a moment as this the country should lose you! Never were your principles and your influence so much wanted! — But Dr. Thomas says, that though the appearances are very particularly favourable at present, there is jest enough possibility of a relapse — though no probability of it, — but jest, as he says, enough possibility to make it advisable, if in case the law wouldn’t dispose of your property jest as you would have it go — to make it advisable for you to leave it your own way instead.”

  The sick man groaned heavily and answered not a word.

  The rum-bottle, ever close at hand, was again seized, and again was the dram administered to the dying colonel.

  “Am I dying, Whitlaw?” said he solemnly, and as if rousing all his strength to hear the answer.

  “My dear colonel, no,” replied the anxious sycophant; “but the doctor says he knows you’ve no reason to love your nephew overmuch, and so he thought that it might help to make you quiet and easy, perhaps, if you knew for certain that he’d never get what he never helped to make.”

  “My nephew? — where is my nephew?” said the colonel with very alarming incoherence.

  “Thank God, sir, he is not near you, nor likely to be. What was it he said you was like, sir, the last time you had him here? Don’t you remember my overhearing him joking with one of the nigger-girls about you?”

  “Don’t I?” cried the colonel, starting up in bed, rum and rage uniting to rouse the expiring lamp. “I expect I do, Whitlaw. You heard him say to that wench that he knew I’d a fancy for, that I was like a blighted tomato, getting rotten before it was ripe, — wasn’t that it? Curse me if ever I forget it!”

  “Yes, those were the words, my dear colonel: and yet that’s the man that will have every cent of your property, estates, slaves, money and all, if any unexpected accident should happen to you before you’ve made a w
ill.”

  “I’ll be d — d if he shall!” exclaimed the stammering colonel. “Send for a lawyer, d’ye hear, Whitlaw? Never mind about giving me more rum now — I expect I’ve had enough; and ’tis your own work you’ll be doing, I guess, if you bring me a lawyer.”

  The lawyer was instantly summoned to the room, and the two overseers ordered to be in waiting on the outside of it. By the time this was done, the colonel appeared sleepy, and so greatly inclined to repose himself that Whitlaw feared lest the prize so nearly within his grasp should even yet escape him. It was with difficulty that the inspiring cordial was now forced within his lips; but by the help of something approaching to gentle violence this was effected, and sufficient life resulted from it to enable him to pronounce the words, “I give all I die possessed of, freehold, leasehold, and personal, to Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw, for his sole use and benefit.” Hardly were the words uttered, than the two men who were to witness the signing were brought in. The lawyer, who saw that he should never be paid for the will if he delayed to complete it, wrote the enormous bequest with all technical correctness and with a flying pen. Whitlaw raised his patron in his arms; the document was laid before him, the pen put into his clammy fingers, another spoonful of rum forced into his mouth, and the name of George Washington Dart scrawled in nearly illegible characters upon the paper. In another moment it was duly witnessed; and the next; my hero stood, the richest man in Louisiana, before the ghastly corpse of his benefactor.

  CHAPTER XII.

  IT was certainly a proof either of a very strong mind, or of a very strong feeling of hatred, that this vast change in the condition of Whitlaw did not make him forget the object he had in view for Sunday night. Neither did he in the slightest degree neglect the means by which he hoped to ensure his success. Before this important event happened to him he had decided upon consulting Juno, and his purpose remained unaltered, though, instead of a pitiful clerk with a salary of five hundred dollars a year, he would now stand before her, not only as her legal master and owner, but as the legal master and owner also of five hundred of her fellows, and of all the load of wealth which they had most of them passed their lives in augmenting.

  Such news as this flies fast; and when the new great man entered at daybreak the hovel of the old woman, she already knew that he was her master.

  Considering the feelings which rankled at her heart against him, it might have been supposed that this intelligence would have been rather painful than pleasing to her. But, for some reason or other, it was not so; and it was with joy as sincere as that which swelled his own bosom that she congratulated him on his great change of fortune.

  “I thought it would please you, Juno,” said he with infinite condescension; “because you know it was your own prophecy. Don’t you remember, Juno, jest before I set off for New Orlines, what you put it all in rhymes about my flying high?”

  “I remember every word of it, master,” replied Juno; “and I’m glad it’s all likely to come true so soon, or maybe I should not live to see it.”

  “Oh! you’ll see more yet, old woman — here’s money for the good luck your words brought with ’em; and now tell me how soon I shall get into the senate — that is, after I’ve done sat my time in congress?”

  Juno fixed her eyes upon the ground for a moment, and perhaps was trying to string into doggrel rhyme, as she was wont to do, the words she intended to utter; but if so, she probably found the gift had left her, and that she must conjure fools into her circle by other means, for after some short delay she shook her head and replied, “I will tell you the day and the hour in one week from this day. — But this I will tell you now: Master of all though you be, your fortune, such as I saw it when I spoke my prophecy, is not yet all come to pass — but it shall! — and THEN you will again remember the words of Juno!”

  The rich man smiled upon the miserable old woman with increased benignity, and said —

  “Thankye, Juno — your word always brings luck, and now I want it upon another point. You’ve given many hints, you know, to the poor colonel that’s gone, that mischief was brewing among the slaves — and that’s come true too, like everything else. Now you must know that I and some friends with me have found out in a curious way enough, that there’s to be an unlawful praying and preaching with the black people in the forest on Sunday night; and one as we’ve long had our eyes upon, as no friend to the cause of good order and the prosperity of the State, Juno, is to be there stirring the poor ignorant souls up to rebellion. Now you’re up to a thing or two, Juno, and you know that the best law to stop such work as that is Lynch-law, which does much and says little; for all the palavering in the courts does more harm than good most times. However, we think that the chap Bligh, as the preacher’s called, has had a hint of warning given him by a sister of his — has got a notion of what we’re about, and I’m come now jest to ask your opinion whether Bligh will be at the place of meeting or not; ‘cause, you see, it wouldn’t do to let anybody rouse up the people and bring ’em out to the forest in the middle of the night, and then to balk ’em; — would it?”

  “No, master, no,” replied the sibyl earnestly. “Do that, and trust old Juno, they’ll never more obey at any word that you or yours could give. Have you any sure knowledge, master, that the black people do meet to pray?”

  “Only what we heard a young nigger say to the gal, Bligh’s sister.”

  “Then listen to Juno, master! — Trust no lips that tell you that, and trust no eyes but your own. Go yourself, with ME alone to place you, to this place of meeting, if it can be found. There lie concealed and see all. Then you will know what slaves dare do this thing, and what do not; and then all may meet with justice. For them, the master’s will, and the master’s hand will suffice; — but for their leader; — take care how you touch him in the midst of them! — Remember your wealth and greatness, and do not risk your own safety for the sake of seizing with difficulty and danger one that may be brought to public justice in the face of day. Mark your man, and when you know him, then set your avengers on him; — but not, if you listen to Juno, not till after the next Sabbath night is gone and past.”

  Whitlaw did listen, and with almost devout attention, to every word she spoke; and even after she ceased, waited a moment to be sure that she had finished. He then replied exactly as she wished and expected.

  “I expect, Juno, that the wisest thing I can do is jest to take your advice. ’Twas you foretold my fortune; and ’tis you, I guess, as can best show me how to keep it. So, instead of joining with them as have no such good friends as you to counsel them, I’ll tell ’em that the colonel’s death prevents my seeing them; and that as for the meeting, I shall have means to tell ’em more about it after next Sabbath. That’s what I’ll do, Juno,-and I expect that’s what you approve?”

  Juno assured him that if he acted thus, he would act wisely, and not only in conformity with her wish, but with the wishes of all those, whether inhabitants of earth, or air, or heaven, who watched over his destiny with the same care that she did.

  “And what must I say to Hogstown and Smith?” said the rich man, looking rather puzzled, “if they find out that after putting them off, I went to the forest by myself?”

  “They will never find it out,” said Juno.

  “But I don’t see how I’m to help telling them, if I find Bligh there. For ’tis Hogstown above all that’s to do the business at Natchez-under-hill among the white people, to set ’em on at Steinmark’s. Juno, I hate them people as I hate the devil, and I must have their house burnt over their heads before they start.”

  “Must you have their house burnt down, master?” said Juno in a tone of much reverence.

  “Why, to tell you the truth, my mind is more set upon that, I think, than even catching the parson.”

  “And when they’re jest ready to start,” said the old woman, chuckling, “with all their goods done packed, you will put them in an unhandsome fix, sure enough, master.”

  Whitlaw laughed
too, and replied with the most familiar jocoseness, “That’s a fact; and it’s a pleasure I don’t mean to lose, Juno, for it’s long since I’ve owed ’em a grudge, I promise ye.”

  “The colonel bought the place, I’m told,” said Juno, “just before he died.”

  “And that’s true,” replied the heir; “but not the house. I heard him say, poor man, the last talk of business we got together, that the Dutchman must get another chapman for his house and furniture, for he wanted nothing but the land.”

  “It would be pity that you should not see it burning!” said Juno, who happened to know perfectly well, though he did not, that it was his own property; “but it will be difficult to contrive about the time. — It will be too late after the Sabbath night; — you’d neither feel pain nor pleasure about it then.”

  “And why not, I wonder? — What makes you say that, Juno?”

  The old woman started, as if roused from a reverie in which she had inadvertently thought aloud; but immediately recovering herself, she replied, with perfect self-possession, “I mean, master, that I know well enough, that when great gentlefolks get a whim into their head, if it is not done off at once, they will not care a cent about it afterwards.”