Mr. Steinmark had already accounted for his unwonted visit to Mrs. Whitlaw, by informing her that a riotous mob from Natchez having destroyed his house, he should be obliged if she would afford hospitality to him and his family while his servant prepared the waggon that was to convey them away.
As by good luck old Whitlaw had this day passed even more than his usual number of hours at the Eagle, the lady of Mount Etna was able to indulge her elegant predilection for good company by assuring Mr. Steinmark and the young “Lord,” that “they were welcome to stay jest as long as they liked.”
Nothing now, therefore, remained but to prepare Lucy for the necessity of immediate departure by telling her that the remains of her brother had already been interred by the hands of true and faithful friends. Frederick Steinmark even ventured to name the spot where he was left to his holy rest, and he showed his nice knowledge of a woman’s heart by doing so.
“Does he lie there? — in my dear Lotte’s garden?” said Lucy, melting into tears of softer sorrow than she had yet shed. “God bless you, sir! — God for ever bless you!”
Cæsar had been once more despatched to bring the waggon and horses which through the long hours of that dreadful day had remained nearly where they had been first stationed to receive the family and their packages on the lawn.
The poor animals got a hasty feed of Mr. Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw’s scorched corn, and were then led down to Mount Etna. Not a word had yet been said respecting the place of their destination. Had they departed in the morning, it would have been for Natchez; and the family, if they thought about it at all, imagined that it must be Natchez still. But when Cæsar returned, he begged, while the ladies with streaming eyes were once more taking their seats in the carriage, to speak a word in private to his master.
“I have been thinking, sir,” he said with great humility, “that it will not be well fer you to go to Natchez; — not that there will be danger, but news is sure to run, and many curious eyes may follow you to the wharf; and who knows, sir, but Miss Lucy might hear something said?”
“Enough! enough! Cæsar — we will not go to Natchez. How far is it, do you know, to the next place above at which the boats will stop?”
Cæsar knew but little about it, but Clio found a Mount Etna slave who did; and it was at length decided that they should immediately set out, and travel up the river till they reached it. All then that was now left to do ere quitting the region of their American home for ever, was to bid a long adieu to Clio; and spite of the wide difference in education, habits, feelings, tastes, it was most truly affectionate, and to the end of Clio’s long life there was no recollection that gave so much pleasure as that of having sheltered Lotte Steinmark and her family.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE dreadful-scene which old Juno witnessed at Reichland, far from accelerating the weakness and infirmities of age, which now at length seemed rapidly falling on her, appeared to awaken and revive a great portion of her former energy. Not all her reverence for the character of Edward had taught her to be practically so much a Christian as to understand the doctrine of forgiveness of injuries.
The hatred she had conceived for young Whitlaw, which originated in his barbarous abuse of the power given him over the slaves of Colonel Dart, had gone on increasing with almost every passing day; for in truth every passing day had added to the list of crimes her memory stored up against him. His conduct to Selina — HER SELINA, had swelled this catalogue to an extent that made her believe she was called upon by Heaven to be the instrument of ridding the earth of such a monster. It was, therefore, with no view to corrupt the principles of Edward’s Christian congregation that she had urged them to destroy him. In her heart she believed it would be a deed acceptable in the sight of God, and her disappointment brought no conviction to her mind that it was possible the humble people might be right, and herself wrong; she only thought it was another proof of the ill luck that dogged her destiny.
“I have shown them,” she cried, “that the life of their apostle hangs upon the destruction of this villain, and yet the besotted fools think it their duty to preserve his life. This is not natural. Such reasoning is not in the common course of things, but comes from my evil hap.” And never perhaps had the long-suffering old woman bewailed the rugged fortune that had followed her more bitterly than when she failed in this attempt. Never had she felt the utter worthlessness of herself and her existence so painfully, as when she wandered out into the forest on the morning of that eventful day, the miseries of which have been just recorded. She might have bemoaned in the language of Sampson, her
— hopes all flat,
— Nature within her seemed
In all her functions weary of herself.
But the deed she had seen perpetrated by those whom she knew to be the agents of the being she abhorred, instead of adding to the weight of grief and horror that rested on her, once more revived her hope of living to avenge Selina’s death.
Instead of neglecting her health and strength as she had done since her return from New Orleans, she now did her very best to cherish both. She returned to her hut with the steady pace of one who would spare himself fatigue. The best and most cheering of her stores were drawn upon for her supper, and she went to bed praying to God for sleep, that her strength might be renewed, and that she might at last achieve the deed she was appointed to perform.
It may be mentioned as a proof of the care she took to save those powers of mind and body she was about to draw upon, that though it was necessary for her again to visit those with whom she had always been accustomed to hold intercourse during the night, she now determined to watch for an opportunity of speaking to them by day, lest a midnight vigil and a midnight walk might do her harm.
It would be only retracing the same ground that has been gone over before were Juno’s second round of visits to her Christian friends to be described. Again she urged them to come forward like men, and avenge the cause of the whole negro race, in destroying the most systematic and brutal enemy they had ever known; and to this plea for vengeance she now added with all the anticipated triumph of assured success the history of Edward Bligh’s atrocious murder. But it was still in vain: — the male portion of poor
Edward’s congregation was very small, and the few sober-minded men of whom it was composed were in no danger of having their principles destroyed by the sophistry of Juno.
But the purpose of her soul was too strongly fixed for this second failure to set it aside. She had already made up her mind what course to pursue should the friends of Edward again fail her, and it was only from a strange idea of doing his spirit pleasure that she endeavoured to avenge his death by the hands of his own people. These had shrunk from the good work, and she turned to agents of stronger fabric and less tender conscience.
Among the five hundred slaves of Paradise Plantation, there were not wanting some who had heavy cause to execrate the name of Whitlaw, and among whom, as Juno well knew, his recent accession to the situation of their actual legal master had been celebrated the night after it happened — when she had shut herself up in splenetic despair within her hut — by a chorus of muttered curses.
With her view of the nature of the deed which it was the only remaining object of her life to accomplish — believing it, as she truly did, to be just and holy, she would far rather have entrusted its execution to those who had been the disciples and followers of the martyr than to such as had never attended his ministry. But having failed in this, she once more set forth, after the hours of work were over; and now directing her steps, not exactly to the most holy, but the most wronged and the most vindictive, she soon found herself in the command, if she wished it, of a force sufficient in strength of purpose and in strength of hand to have executed the welcome task she proposed to them a hundred times over.
Having thus succeeded to her heart’s desire in this part of her task, Juno, cheered in spirits and perfectly composed in mind, made a quiet friendly visit to Peggy.
; She found her sitting alone in the covered space between her wash-house and her sleeping-room, and weeping sadly enough, though not bitterly, for the departure of her happy “glorious” Phebe. Of all the people in the world, Juno was the one whose conversation at this moment was likely to be the most welcome to her. It was she who had obtained this glorious lot for her child; it was she who had seen the last of her before her departure; and it was she who could best relate the horrors of the dreadful day at Reichland, of which rumours had reached the slaves, but of which they as yet knew nothing certainly.
After this tranquil friendly visit was over, Juno repaired to her home and passed a night of almost unbroken rest.
The following morning, just at the hour when she should be sure to find her new master enjoying the luxuries of his almost al fresco breakfast, the old slave repaired to the mansion-house of Paradise Plantation.
With her accustomed licensed boldness, she presented herself in the portico before the windows of his breakfast-room; and there, as she expected, sat the great and happy man. His table was spread with luxury so abundant, that it was evident that the pleasures of eating were not with him addressed to the palate alone, but that the eyes and nose were expected to take a share in it.
So many accidental circumstances had linked Juno in his memory with the most happy moments of his fortunate career, that Whitlaw was fully persuaded she had influenced them. Had Clio, who as he knew would joyfully have shed her blood to do him service, thus suddenly appeared before him, it was not in his nature to greet her with as much observance and respect as he now did Juno. — Juno, who, though he knew it not, thirsted for his life as greedily as a famished wolf for the daintiest morsel ever smelt in his ravenous dreams, and who in his soul he believed to be, though friendly for her hellish purposes to him — as foul a witch as ever distilled adders “caught in the eclipse” — Juno was welcomed by him with a gracious smile, and with hospitable offers of whatever she might prefer from his variously-spread table.
“Rum!” replied Juno, brandishing her bamboo with all her pristine mysticism of gesticulation. “Master of all! — rum can add power to will—”
With his own hand he presented, her the glass, which she emptied, after pronouncing in a tone of great sublimity, “Health to the master of all! — such health as follows the gifted prayers of Juno!”
Whitlaw as he listened to her seemed to feel the comfort of youth, health, and vigour in every limb; and again he smiled upon her gratefully.
“And what brings you to me to-day, Juno?” said he, making her a sign to seat herself as before in the portico. “I’ll engage now, that you are come to give me some profitable counsel, — or to tell me something, maybe, that I ought to know.”
“I shall begin to think my master has learnt his poor slave’s trade,” replied Juno with a grim smile. “Have the green birds told you that?”
“Not exactly the green birds, Juno, for they never talk to me but by your help. However, I have known you for a spell, Juno; and that is enough to help a shrewd man to make a shrewd guess.”
“Right, right, right, — a shrewd man you are, master of all! and there’s the secret that binds old Juno to love you as she does. Those who consult the spirits of the air love shrewdness such as yours; it helps them famously.”
“Well, then, I have guessed right, have I? — What is it, Juno? — no mutiny among the slaves, I hope?”
“While Juno lives,” replied the old woman, nodding her head significantly, “While Juno lives — and God may do what God has done and the years of Juno may pass the years of man, — and her thread of life may still be spun on, and on, as long as yours, master of all, — and while old Juno lives, no mutiny shall rise among the slaves but you shall know of it by times.”
“That’s well, Juno — and you shall be paid for it.”
“I shall, I shall — my heart will pay me, you may trust to that. And now, what have I got to tell you?”
Here Juno rose up from her seat, and fixing her eyes upon his face, she entered the room and walked close up to him. Then in a whisper that could not have been heard at three steps’ distance, she said, “I cannot tell you now, I cannot tell you here; — but I will tell you; and when I do, then you will know how much you owe to Juno.”
“But when can you, Juno? I’m sure I’ll go anywhere rather than disoblige you. — I expect you are thinking we may be overheard here?” he continued in a whisper as low as her own. D’ye know of any listeners among ’em? — any ill blood in the house, Juno?”
“It is better that you should hear all I have got to say when I may speak and not care who hears me. Will the master of all come to Juno’s poor hut before the slaves are driven forth to their work to-morrow morning?”
“That’s d — tion early, Juno,” replied the great man. “When I wasn’t the owner myself, you know, ’twas another guess sort of thing; — and then I was early and late too sometimes. But now, you see, I like to indulge a spell when I wake:— ’tis the best part of lying a-bed, I expect, when one’s eyes are open and one knows for certain that one is there, and, as snug as feathers and fine linen can make one. — Can’t I come later in the day, Juno?”
“The master of all can come when he will, and go when he will, and do what he will; but woe will com’ to the master, and woe will come to the slave in this matter, if his steps are seen drawing near to the dwelling of Juno.”
“But the best way not to be seen would be for me to come jest in full working-time. The overseers will take care that no slaves are straggling then; and I need not even cross the fields, you know, for I can ride round into the woods, and so come to you from behind the hut.”
“That is true,” replied Juno; “and if you come at that time, midnight and darkness could not more surely keep the eyes of slaves from you. — But have none eyes save slaves? — How many others are there, who may be here, or there, according to their will, and none have power to stop them?”
“Not slaves? — Good God! — do you fear the overseers, Juno? — I’ll come without fail, jest before sun-rise. — But say one word, — do you suspect my overseers?”
“One is not all — and even two are not many. But fear not for any of them! — Come five minutes before sun-rise, and you shall be told all, — to the last word, — that it is necessary for you to hear.”
“Take this glass of rum, Juno,” said Whitlaw in a tone that spoke both gratitude and triumph. “The rascals! — if they are niggers, I know how to deal with ’em; and if they are whites, there’s more Lynch law to be had for the asking.”
Juno, nothing loath, took the glass, and holding it to her lips, said, “May your coming to poor Juno but keep you as safe from every future harm as she would have you, and you never shall have cause to fear treachery more!”
She then emptied the glass, waved her farewell, and departed.
CHAPTER XVIII.
IT will hardly be doubted that considerably before the sun was visible above the horizon, on the following morning, old Juno was up and ready to receive her expected visitor. But not the slightest trace of hurry or agitation was perceptible in her countenance or manner, and not for many years had she appeared so perfectly exempted from weakness or suffering of any kind.
She walked forth from her hut and turned her eyes towards the east. The short twilight was rapidly brightening into day, when the sound of a horse’s feet behind her dwelling made her start. She forgot that he was one of those who professed never to walk when he could ride, and for a moment she feared that their interview was interrupted; but at the same instant she turned her head and beheld Whitlaw.
“The wise and shrewd are always punctual,” observed Juno, making a respectful reverence. “Will it please the master of all to seat himself on this log? — The air is fresh and pleasant here, and it may be that the hut of Juno is not roomy enough.
“It don’t matter much, I expect,” replied Whitlaw, “as to where we bide while you says out your say, Juno. Tell me at once, my good woman,
what danger is it that threatens?”
“I will answer all your questions, as in duty bound,” replied Juno, placing herself before him; “but first the business that brought you here makes it right and fitting that you should answer some few of mine. I would not willingly mistake or blunder in such a thing as this, and I should like to have your own voice upon it.”
“Well, then, begin, in God’s name — and be quick, will you? — I hate being out in the damp of the morning; I don’t want to shake, I promise you.”
“If you should shake, Mr. Whitlaw, the fit will not hold you long: I know a cure for ague.”
“But these questions, Juno, — what is it that you want to ask of me?”
“Will you promise to answer all I ask?”
“To be sure — why not? — come, ask away.”
“Have you ever caused a negro child to be flogged before the eyes of Colonel Dart SOLELY to promote his amusement by its gestures and its cries?”
“What the devil can any overseer have to do with that?” said Whitlaw, colouring.
“You shall understand the, meaning of all presently. Did you ever cause a negro-woman to be flogged before your eyes till she died, and then report to the colonel that she had died in childbirth?”
“’Tis over late for ’em to do any mischief to me on that score,” said Jonathan Jefferson with a toss of the head. “If I did, I expect I killed my own slave at any rate; — the loss is mine, and not the overseer’s, let him be who he will.”
“Did you, or did you not,” continued Juno, “report falsely to the colonel what his nephew said of him, thereby securing his inheritance to yourself?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 51