The Bondwoman's Narrative

by Hannah Crafts

  So saying she held up a beautiful bracelet of turquoise and emerald.

  “But how shall I find out?” inquired Lilly, charmed with the magnificence of the gift.

  “You can ask the slaves, ask everybody. Some of them will know.”

  “Think so?”

  “I know it. The overseer knows, and he cannot be wiser than any one else.”

  “But why?” began Lilly.

  “Not a word” said the lady with a gesture kind yet imperious. [“]Ask me no questions. Don’t care to know my motive or purpose. The knowledge could do you no good, and might be a snare. Only find out and come to me with the information.”

  “Indeed, I will do my best.” And so she did.

  We all wondered why the name of Rock Glen should be forever on her lips. True, the name was pleasant, and pretty, and interesting yet nothing so very extraordinary after all. Why then should Lilly take such a fancy to tease and torment everybody with it? What had we done that Rock Glen must be forever ringing in our ears?

  “Who knows anything about Rock Glen?” she would exclaim bounding down the steps, gay and blithe as a butterfly. Some of the slaves were ignorant, others had their commands, and the question was likely to remain unanswered when an old beggar woman came to the house one day.

  “Why, I do” she answered to Lilly’s playful sally.

  “And where is it, good mother” inquired Lilly, with an earnestness we could not but notice.

  “Why it isn’t far from here, I can’t tell just how far, though I can direct you how to go to get there.”

  “That will do quite as well” said Lilly.

  The old woman then directed her what road to follow, where to turn to the right, and where to the left, where there was a brook to cross, a meadow to pass over pass over, a meadow to cross, and a fence to leap, where there was a tavern and a store a blacksmith’s shop, and an undertaker, where we might see negroes working in a field of tobacco, and just catch the glimpse of a habitation nestled beneath an overhanging crag, that looked as if it would fall every moment, though the wear and tear of centuries had failed to displace it. “And that crag” she continued [“] and that little habitation beneath it is called Rock Glen.”

  Lilly hastened to Mrs Cosgrove with the information she had obtained.

  “Well done Lilly” said the Lady “But bid this old woman into my presence, perhaps she can tell me more.”

  And that old woman bent and decrepid with age, coarse, repulsive, clothed in rags, and hobbling along with the most awkward unseemly gait, ascended the broad staircase, pressed the magnificent carpets, and half blinded and overwhelmed with the sumptuousness of all she saw, was introduced to the presence of the Lady, who, robed in satins and glistening in jewelry was no happier than herself.

  Mrs Cosgrove would have shrunk from the embodiment of squalid poverty presented before her, but her strong purpose restrained her and she received the old beggar almost courteously.

  ’Twas a strange contrast these two women. The one so elegant and refined, so lofty in manner and luxurious in appointment, with such magnificent eyes, such splendid hair such a beautiful countenance; and the other a hedious old mummy, toothless, with blear eyes, driveling lips. Nothing elegant or tasteful about her. And yet that one so adorned so accomplished, so enviable in every worldly consideration, forgets herself, her aristocratic name, and high connexions, forgets that in exposing the honor of her husband she compromises her own, forgets everything else in her anxiety to ascertain who is the inhabitant of Rock Glen.

  To her questioning on this point the old woman responded that for a long time it had been uninhabited, but that a gentleman had recently purchased the estate and she believed had put somebody in the house, because going near there one day in her wanderings to get berries, she heard a sweet voice singing a cradle song

  “But you saw no one?”

  “No one, the doors and windows were carefully shut.”

  No further information of any importance could be elicited from the old woman, and Mrs Cosgrove dismissed her with a very handsome present.

  “Heaven help me” she exclaimed to Lilly when the old woman departed “I verily believe that sale was a sham after all. Who knows. Ten chances to one he has them all there. Singing a cradle song. That was doubtless Evelyn, but I will know—that I will. It’s plain enough now why he spends so much time from home. Go tell the servants to saddle our horses.[”]

  “You are not going now” said Lilly in great surprise.

  “Yes, now, immediately, but don’t tell them of my purpose.”

  Lilly bowed, a “Yes Missus” and departed on her errand.

  Mrs Cosgrove was an accomplished horsewoman, and her fine figure and rich complexion never showed to better advantage than when she was engaged in this graceful and exhilerating exercise. Lilly usually rode by her side with a man servant following in attendance. However his services were not required or admitted on the present occasion.

  The breeze was fresh, the sky clear, the scene beautiful, but it is certainly questionable whether the lady in her eagerness would have been aware if it had they been quite the reverse.

  Putting her horse in to a brisk canter they rode off. In about two or three hours Mrs Cosgrove was brought back insensible, with Lilly weeping at her side. She was carried to her rooms, which she never left again.

  As Lilly related the story they came near Rock Glen when they encountered Mr Cosgrove returning thence. Reining in his horse he inquired “where they were going?” to which the Lady replied that he would probably know soon enough for his satisfaction, and attempted to pass on, when he seized the bridle of her horse. She requested him to let go, which he refused to do, unless she told him would promise to return with him. Both became angry, and high words passed between them. What occurred next Lilly could not say for she was looking in the opposite direction. But her mistress screamed, and looking round she beheld the horse loose and running, the Lady hanging suspended by his side, her foot apparently fast in the saddle. Mr Cosgrove sate [sat] motionless a moment on his horse like one thunderstruck and then called loudly for assistance. Assistance came, but too late to prevent her receiving dreadful injuries.[”]

  “Did she fall from the horse?” I inquired interrupting Lizzy’s long story.

  “To be sure she fell from the horse, but why? Lilly said that she should always believe master struck her.”

  “And he did not return?”

  [“]He came soon after, but he didn’t go to her room, nor inquire after her, nor seem to know that such a person was in existence. Her back and hips had been injured so severely that she could not leave her bed, and it was a pitiful sight to beheld [sic] that woman once so matchless and queenly in bearing, now painfully reclining day after day in the same posture, her face ever turned towards the window, in a watching listening attitude as if she waited the coming of some one, or the occurrence of some event. But her thoughts flew homeward, and she would murmur of those beautiful lands beyond the seas where she had dwelt so happily, and wonder why she ever came away, and what her dear, dear friends out there would think should they hear of her misfortune.

  [“]Then she used frequently to ask of her husband, whether he was at home, whether he spoke of her, and whether or not he looked contented and happy. These questions we answered according to the circumstances, when she would close her eyes and sigh bitterly. How a long continued illness humiliates the proudest, and brings home to the mind the thought of death and eternity and a judgement to come; while in view of these considerations we become disposed to forgive even as we would be forgiven. Mrs Cosgrove was no longer the haughty self-conceited woman, but a gentle, humble lamb-like follower of Christ. This change was not wrought suddenly. It came only after nights and days of tearless mental agony, after deep humiliation of spirit, and bitter supplications. Then gradually and beautifully and calmly as the moon breaking over stormy seas came the light of hope to her mind. It was accompanied by peace and love and gentle chi child-lik
e trust, and though lame and weary and fast losing her hold of time she became happier than ever she had been in the days of her pride, and beauty, and prosperity. And then she requested to see her husband. He came walking proudly at first and with an air of affected indifference, but beholding the divine light of her countenance, and the soft expressive beam of her eyes his whole manner changed. He came prepared for an expression of contempt and hatred he beheld a manifestation of love. Instead of meeting reproaches he was greeted with smiles, and a voice of unwonted softness breathed in his ear. [‘]My husband can you forgive me?[’] The words, the tone, the manner, the scene before him, the past that to his conscience must be forever the present rose up before him. He melted into tears beside her, exclaiming [‘]I have nothing in the world to forgive, but you Oh: how deeply, have I injured you. I cannot ask your forgiveness, I only ask that you will not curse me.[’]

  [“]Then followed a scene of mutual explanations and regrets. For the first time during their married lives the husband and wife began to understand each other, now that the grave was closing between them. They began to perceive that a little more forbearance, and sympathy, and love on one side, with a little more respect and consideration on the other would have rendered them happy and prevented at least to one the bitterness of unending remorse.

  [“]At length to a painful and restless night succeeded a a [sic] day of comparative comfort and repose. Since their reconciliation Mr Cosgrove had ceaselessly attended her bedside, supported her drooping fainting head on his bosom, and administered the soothing cordial with his own hand. But that day worn out with fatigue and watching he had been persuaded by Lilly to retire and take some rest, while Mrs Cosgrove slept. Hour after hour confiding in the gentle care of Lilly Alone and unaccustomed to scenes of sickness and death, the gentle girl felt sad and lonely. She noticed, too, that a deep mysterious shadow was slowly falling over the countenance of her mistress, that her breathing grew labored and difficult, and that her brow was bathed with a cold and clammy sweat. Noiselessly she stole down and asked me to return with her. I did so, and just as we entered the room, the last flutter expired on her sinking lip. She was dead.[”]

  Lizzy then told me of many other things connected with her master and his family, and how that from the hour of his wife’s death he had never seemed like himself, probably in consequence of grief, more probably in consequence of remorse. That Mrs Bry, the old housekeeper had removed to another state and lived in the family of her son; that the Linden with its creaking branches had bowed to the axe, and that great changes had been wrought inside the house as well as out; that some of the ancient rooms, whose walls ceiled with oak were brown with age, had been newly renovated, and now shone in all the glory of fresh paint and plaster. Above all that Sir Clifford’s portrait and its companions of both sexes, had been publicly exposed in the market to the highest and knocked down to the highest bidder. “Sic transit gloria mundi.”

  CHAPTER 16

  In North Carolina

  We are sold for nought, I and my people.

  ESTHER

  I had waited long with Lizzy, to[o] long. Of course it wasn’t right in me, and I received a sound rating for it.

  “Hannah you are a bad girl, very bad, if you don’t mind your P’s and Q’s a little better, I shall sell you that is certain. I can’t have such work as this. You go out on an errand that shouldn’t occupy more than ten minutes and stay all day. I never heard the like.”

  It was not for me to reply. The lady would have took it in high dudgeon had I opened my lips to make the most reasonable excuse, and one unreasonable would have been a still greater insult.

  “And mind, too” she continued “when you get to my place in North Carolina that you don’t dare to mention that—that— that—” she hesitated and stammered.

  “I understand, I will not mention it.”

  “And you needn’t make a merit of that neither” she said in a voice, whence every bit of languor had departed. “You needn’t make a merit of that as much as to say Mrs Wheeler has a secret I am keeping it for her, and she is much obliged, and bound to be thankful, indulgent, and what not.”

  “Of course that would be very foolish” I said.

  “Why don’t you just bow and keep your mouth shut” she inquired angrily.

  I thought her temper becoming worse and worse every day, but it was not so, I was getting better acquainted with her.

  And yet she had her good spells and these generally came when she fancied herself ill. Langour of voice and feebleness of motion were sure to be attended with conversational displays of neighborhood gossip, family history or the like, and when no one else was near I was obliged to listen to her.

  As we rode down to the boat designed to convey us to Mrs Wheeler’s “place in North Carolina” I was admiring the splendid show made by the President’s House and the Capitol; the quantity of Congress men, Senators, navy and Army officers going to and fro; the number of vehicles containing fine Ladies the wives and daughters of foreign Ministers and distinguished strangers. I say I was admiring these no less than at the extraordinary contract to their pre wondering at the extraordinary contrast to them presented by some wretches in rags, who appeared to be searching the rubbish for bones, pins, or rather refuse for bones, pins, or other refuse among the rubbish which had accumulated in several places when an incident occurred which affected me greatly. A negro designed for sale had broken away from his master and the assistants, and taken refuge beneath the equestrian statue of Jackson, that lover of freedom; and thence he was dragged, though shrieking and praying, and struggling, manacles placed on his limbs, and borne back to the market.

  Mrs Wheeler had her state room on the boat. She was very languid and feeble, and as usual at such times very talkative. It was really astonishing what a bad opinion she entertained of the Capital, how heartily she detested office-seekers, and how much she pitied that poor man, the President, who was dunned and worried by them till almost ready to break his neck to escape their importunities.

  “Why they tell me” she continued, “that there is scarcely a man in Washington who has not been an office seeker at some time or another of his life, and the women are quite as desperate as the man [sic]. and those who are the Those especially who cannot manage their own private affairs are too weak and silly, and negligent to manage their own private affairs have uniformly an itching fancy to dabble in the public business.”

  It being obligatory on me to give my assent I said “very likely.”

  “To be sure” she responded. “It really appears that some of them must pass their whole lives looking and intriguing for an office, and it matters very little how it is what it is, or what principle it involves. It matters still less what duties are attached to it; for all these gentlemen consider themselves competent for any station under the sun. They want a secretaryship, they want a clerkship, they want to be foreign ministers, they want to be consuls, they want to be Governors of Territories, they want a Custom house appointment and if nothing better offers they will gladly accept even a commission to keep Lights, or attend the mail.”

  “And what would they do if they had these offices?” I inquired. [“]To hear their account of it they would do extraordinary things. They would build new ships and hire new steamers, they would go to war and make peace they would take Cuba, or Canada, or Dominica, they would have a rail-road to the Pacific, and a ship Canal across the Isthmus, they would quell the Indians and oust the Mormons, in short their [there] is nothing of possible or impossible that they would not do or try.”

  I thought it very funny that Mrs Wheeler should inveigh so loudly against office-seekers when [she] herself and [her] husband had both tried their hands at the same game but it would not have done to do to say so, and she went on.

  “Then, too, these fellows, office-hunters I mean, are utterly insensible to anyone’s feelings. They are always excited about nominations, candidates, and elections. They are always discussing votes and voters. How this on
e would run and that one wouldn’t. You find them in all sorts of places, from the President’s levee to a pot-house broil. In stores, in low taverns, in great hotels, in unmentionable out-of-the-way places, at the corners of streets, and beneath awnings, in fact wherever a political squabble can be discussed or commented on.”

  Again I said “Very likely” and again she continued.

  “It is really disgusting to think of the associations they form, the low company they patronise, the degrading and vulgar connexions they affect not to despise. How they will shake hands with loafers and drunkards, bow to the half crazy and idiotic, and hand over small bribes of half-dollars and bad rum to vagabond Irishmen. Then they are never satisfied. Success only makes them more ravenous and rapacious.”

  How far the lady would [have] gone on, or how extravagant she might have become in her description of this unfortunately too large class of men it is impossible to say, had not Mr Wheeler, luckily for me, come into the room, and made some remarks which for the time being changed the tenor of her conversation.

  In due time we reached North Carolina without the occurrence of any incident worthy of notice. Mr Wheeler’s fine plantation was situated near Wilmington the principal port of the state and was altogether one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. Yet the house had none of that stately majesty characteristic of Lindendale; neither had it that home-bred air of genial quiet and ropose, which gave Forget-me-not its chief attractions, but there was a luxurious abundance of vines, and fruits, and flowers, and song-birds, and every thing wore such an aspect of maturity and ripeness that I was fairly charmed. The lime-tree walks were like green arcades, the very shadows of the orange trees seemed dropping with fruit, the peach trees were so laden that their branches bent nearly to the earth and were supported by stout props, and the purple clusters of grapes hung tempting from the trellis work of I don’t know how many arbors. Tumbled about among the wide frames and the spread nets there were great heaps of marrows, glowing pods, and lucious cucumbers melons, with the greatest profusion of green leaves sparkling and glistening in the sun. As every foot of ground seemed occupied with some rich vegetable treasuse [treasure], the whole atmosphere was redolent with fragrance like one great bo[u]quet. Then there was sweet smelling and savory herbs, and a wondrous flush of roses, and such a world of pinks that I never grew tired of admiring them.