Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  And father Dickson rose to depart.

  “Oh, come, come, now, brother, don’t take it so seriously!” said Dr. Cushing. “Stay, at least, and spend the day with us, and let us have a little Christian talk.”

  “I must go,” said father Dickson. “I have an appointment to preach, which I must keep, for this evening, and so I must bid you farewell. I hoped to do something by coming here, but I see that it is all in vain. Farewell, brethren; I — shall pray for you.”

  “Well, father Dickson, I should like to talk more with you on this subject,” said Dr. Cushing. “Do come again. It is very difficult to see the path of duty in these matters.”

  Poor Dr. Cushing was one of those who are destined, like stationary ships, forever to float up and down in one spot, only useful in marking the ebb and flood of the tide. Affection, generosity, devotion, he had, — everything but the power to move on.

  Clayton, who had seen at once that nothing was to be done or gained, rose, and said that his business was also pressing, and that he would accompany father Dickson on his way.

  “What a good fellow Dickson is!” said Cushing, after he returned to the room.

  “He exhibits a very excellent spirit,” said Dr. Packthread.

  “Oh, Dickson would do well enough,” said Dr. Calker, “if he wasn’t a monomaniac. That’s what Js the matter with him! But when he gets to going on this subject, I never hear what he says. I know it’s no use to reason with him, — entirely time lost. I have heard all these things over and over again.”

  “But I wish,” said Dr. Cushing, “something could be done.”

  “Well, who doesn’t?” said Dr. Calker. “We all wish something could be done; but, if it can’t, it can’t; there’s the end of it. So now let us proceed, and look into business a little more particularly.”

  “After all,” said Dr. Packthread, “you Old School brethren have greatly the advantage of us. Although you have a few poor good souls, like this Dickson, they are in so insignificant a minority that they can do nothing, — can’t even get into the General Assembly, or send in a remonstrance, or petition, or anything else; so that you are never plagued as we are. We cannot even choose a moderator from the slave-holding States, for fear of an explosion; but you can have slave-holding moderators, or anything else that will promote harmony and union.”

  CHAPTER XLIII

  THE SLAVE’S ARGUMENT

  ON his return home, Clayton took from the post-office a letter, which we will give to our readers: —

  Mr. Clayton, — I am now an outcast. I cannot show my face in the world, I cannot go abroad by daylight; for no crime, as I can see, except resisting oppression. Mr. Clayton, if it were proper for your fathers to fight and shed blood for the oppression that came upon them, why isn’t it right for us? They had not half the provocation that we have. Their wives and families were never touched. They were not bought, and sold, and traded, like cattle in the market, as we are. In fact, when I was reading that history, I could hardly understand what provocation they did have. They had everything easy and comfortable about them. They were able to support their families, even in luxury. And yet they were willing to plunge into war and shed blood. I have studied the Declaration of Independence. The things mentioned there were bad and uncomfortable, to be sure; but, after all, look at the laws which are put over us! Now, if they had forbidden them to teach their children to read, — if they had divided them all out among masters, and declared them as incapable of holding property as the mule before the plough, — there would have been some sense in that revolution.

  Well, how was it with our people in South Carolina? Denmark Vesey was a man! His history is just what George Washington’s would have been if you had failed.

  What set him on in his course? The Bible and your Declaration of Independence. What does your Declaration say? “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights governments are instituted among men; that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of any of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it.” Now, what do you make of that? This is read to us every Fourth of July. It was read to Denmark Vesey and Peter Poyas, and all those other brave, good men who dared to follow your example and your precepts. Well, they failed, and your people hung them. And they said they couldn’t conceive what motive could have induced them to make the effort. They had food enough, and clothes enough, and were kept very comfortable. Well, had not your people clothes enough, and food enough? and wouldn’t you still have had enough, even if you had remained a province of England to this day, — much better living, much better clothes, and much better laws, than we have to-day? I heard your father’s interpretation of the law; I heard Mr. Jekyl’s; and yet, when men rise up against such laws, you wonder what in the world could have induced them! That’s perfectly astonishing!

  But, of all the injuries and insults that are heaped upon us, there is nothing to me so perfectly maddening as the assumption of your religious men, who maintain and defend this enormous injustice by the Bible. We have all the right to rise against them that they had to rise against England. They tell us the Bible says, “Servants, obey your masters.” Well, the Bible says also, “The powers that be are ordained of God, and whoso resisteth the power, resisteth the ordinance of God.” If it was right for them to resist the ordinance of God, it is right for us. If the Bible does justify slavery, why don’t they teach the slave to read it? And what’s the reason that two of the greatest insurrections came from men who read scarcely anything else but the Bible? No, the fact is, they don’t believe this themselves. If they did, they would try the experiment fairly of giving the Bible to their slaves. I can assure you the Bible looks as different to a slave from what it does to a master, as everything else in the world does.

  Now, Mr. Clayton, you understand that when I say you, along here, I do not mean you personally, but the generality of the community of which you are one. I want you to think these things over, and, whatever my future course may be, remember my excuse for it is the same as that on which your government is built.

  I am very grateful to you for all your kindness. Perhaps the time may come when I shall be able to show my gratitude. Meanwhile I must ask one favor of you, which I think you will grant for the sake of that angel who is gone. I have a sister, who, as well as myself, is the child of Tom Gordon’s father. She was beautiful and good, and her owner, who had a large estate in Mississippi, took her to Ohio, emancipated and married her. She has two children by him, a son and a daughter. He died, and left his estate to her and her children. Tom Gordon is the heir-at-law. He has sued for the property, and obtained it. The act of emancipation has been declared null and void, and my sister and her children are in the hands of that man, with all that absolute power; and they have no appeal from him for any evil whatever. She has escaped his hands, so she wrote me once; but I have heard a report that he has taken her again. The pious Mr. Jekyl will know all about it. Now, may I ask you to go to him and make inquiries, and let me know? A letter sent to Mr. James Twitchel, at the postoffice near Canema, where our letters used to be taken, will get to me. By doing this favor you will secure my eternal gratitude.

  HARRY GORDON.

  Clayton read this letter with some surprise and a good deal of attention. It was written on very coarse paper, such as is commonly sold at the low shops. Where Harry was, and how concealed, was to him only a matter of conjecture. But the call to render him any assistance was a sacred one, and he determined on a horseback excursion to E., the town where Mr. Jekyl resided.

  He found that gentleman very busy in looking over and arranging papers in relation to that large property which had just come into Tom Gordon’s hands. He began by stating that the former owner of the servants at Canema had requested him, on her death-bed, to take an interest in her servants. He had th
erefore called to ascertain if anything had been heard from Harry.

  “Not yet,” said Mr. Jekyl, pulling up his shirt-collar. “Our plantations in this vicinity are very unfortunate in their proximity to the swamp. It’s a great expense of time and money. Why, sir, it’s inconceivable the amount of property that’s lost in that swamp! I have heard it estimated at something like three millions of dollars! We follow them up with laws, you see. They are outlawed regularly after a certain time, and then the hunters go in and chase them down; sometimes kill two or three a day, or something like that. But on the whole, they don’t effect much.”

  “Well,” said Clayton, who felt no disposition to enter into any discussion with Mr. Jekyl, “so you think he is there?”

  “Yes, I have no doubt of it. The fact is, there’s a fellow that’s been seen lurking about this swamp, off and on, for years and years. Sometimes he isn’t to be seen for months; and then again he is seen or heard of, but never so that anybody can get hold of him. I have no doubt the niggers on the plantation know him; but, then, you can never get anything out of them. Oh, they are deep! They are a dreadfully corrupt set!”

  “Mr. Gordon has, I think, a sister of Harry’s, who came in with this new estate,” said Mr. Clayton.

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Jekyl. “She has given us a good deal of trouble, too. She got away, and went off to Cincinnati, and I had to go up and hunt her out. It was really a great deal of trouble and expense. If I hadn’t been assisted by the politeness and kindness of the marshal and brother officers, it would have been very bad. There is a good deal of religious society, too, in Cincinnati; and so, while I was waiting, I attended anniversary meetings.”

  “Then you did succeed,” said Clayton. “I came to see whether Mr. Gordon would listen to a proposition for selling her.”

  “Oh, he has sold her!” said Mr. Jekyl. “She is at Alexandria now, in Beaton & Burns’s establishment.”

  “And her children, too?”

  “Yes, the lot. I claim some little merit for that myself. Tom is a fellow of rather strong passions, and he was terribly angry for the trouble she had made. I don’t know what he would have done to her if I hadn’t talked to him. But I showed him some debts that couldn’t be put off any longer without too much of a sacrifice; and, on the whole, I persuaded him to let her be sold. I have tried to exert a good influence over him in a quiet way,” said Mr. Jekyl. “Now, if you want to get the woman, like enough she may not be sold as yet.”

  Clayton, having thus ascertained the points which he wished to know, proceeded immediately to Alexandria. When he was there, he found a considerable excitement.

  “A slave woman,” it was said, “who was to have been sent off in a coffle the next day, had murdered her two children.”

  The moment that Clayton heard the news, he felt an instinctive certainty that this woman was Cora Gordon. He went to the magistrate’s court, where the investigation was being held, and found it surrounded by a crowd so dense that it was with difficulty he forced his way in. At the bar he saw seated a woman dressed in black, whose face, haggard and wan, showed yet traces of former beauty. The splendid dark eyes had a peculiar and fierce expression. The thin lines of the face were settled into an immovable fixedness of calm determination. There was even an air of grave, solemn triumph on her countenance. She appeared to regard the formalities of the court with the utmost indifference. At last she spoke, in a clear, thrilling, distinct voice: —

  “If gentlemen will allow me to speak, I’ll save them the trouble of that examination of witnesses. It’s going a long way round to find out a very little thing.”

  There was an immediate movement of curiosity in the whole throng, and the officer said, —

  “You are permitted to speak.”

  She rose deliberately, untied her bonnet-strings, looked round the whole court, with a peculiar but calm expression of mingled triumph and power.

  “You want to know,” she said, “who killed those children! Well, I will tell you;” and again her eyes traveled round the house, with that same strong, defiant expression; “I killed them!”

  There was a pause, and a general movement through the house.

  “Yes,” she said again, “I killed them! And oh, how glad I am that I have done it! Do you want to know what I killed them for? Because I loved them! — loved them so well that I was willing to give up my soul to save theirs! I have heard some persons say that I was in a frenzy, excited, and didn’t know what I was doing. They are mistaken. I was not in a frenzy; I was not excited; and I did know what I was doing! and I bless God that it is done! I was born the slave of my own father. Your old proud Virginia blood is in my veins, as it is in half of those you whip and sell. I was the lawful wife of a man of honor, who did what he could to evade your cruel laws and set me free. My children were born to liberty; they were brought up to liberty, till my father’s son entered a suit for us and made us slaves. Judge and jury helped him — all your laws and your officers helped him — to take away the rights of the widow and the fatherless! The judge said that my son, being a slave, could no more hold property than the mule before his plough; and we were delivered into Tom Gordon’s hands. I shall not say what he is. It is not fit to be said. God will show at the judgment day. But I escaped, with my children, to Cincinnati. He followed me there, and the laws of your country gave me back to him. To-morrow I was to have gone in a coffle and leave these children — my son a slave for life — my daughter” — She looked round the court-room with an expression which said more than words could have spoken. “So I heard them say their prayers and sing their hymns, and then, while they were asleep and didn’t know it, I sent them to lie down in green pastures with the Lord. They say this is a dreadful sin. It may be so. I am willing to lose my soul to have theirs saved. I have no more to hope or fear. It’s all nothing, now, where I go or what becomes of me. But, at any rate, they are safe. And now, if any of you mothers, in my place, wouldn’t have done the same, you either don’t know what slavery is, or you don’t love your children as I have loved mine. This is all.”

  She sat down, folded her arms, fixed her eyes on the floor, and seemed like a person entirely indifferent to the further opinions and proceedings of the court.

  She was remanded to jail for trial. Clayton determined, in his own mind, to do what he could for her. Her own declaration seemed to make the form of a trial unnecessary. He resolved, however, to do what he could, to enlist for her the sympathy of some friends of his in the city. The next day he called with a clergyman and requested permission to see her. When they entered her cell, she rose to receive them with the most perfect composure, as if they had called upon her in a drawing-room. Clayton introduced his companion as the Rev. Mr. Denton. There was an excited flash in her eyes, but she said calmly, —

  “Have the gentlemen business with me?”

  “We called,” said the clergyman, “to see if we could render you any assistance.”

  “No, sir, you cannot!” was the prompt reply.

  “My dear friend,” said the clergyman, in a very kind tone, “I wish it were in my power to administer to you the consolations of the gospel.”

  “I have nothing to do,” she answered firmly, “with ministers who pretend to preach the gospel and support oppression and robbery! Your hands are defiled with blood!

  —— so don’t come to me! I am a prisoner here, and cannot resist. But when I tell you that I prefer to be left alone, perhaps it may have some effect, even if I am a slave!”

  Clayton took out Harry’s letter, handed it to her, and said: —

  “After you have read this you will, perhaps, receive me, if I should call again to-morrow at this hour.”

  The next day, when Clayton called, he was conducted by the jailer to the door of the cell.

  “There is a lady with her now, reading to her.”

  “Then I ought not to interrupt her,” said Clayton, hesitating.

  “Oh, I suspect it would make no odds,” said the jailer. C
layton laid his hand on his to stop him. The sound that came indistinctly through the door was the voice of prayer. Some woman was interceding, in the presence of Eternal Pity, for an oppressed and broken-hearted sister. After a few moments the door was partly opened, and he heard a sweet voice, saying: —

  “Let me come to you every day, may I? I know what it is to suffer.”

  A smothered sob was the only answer; and then followed words, imperfectly distinguished, which seemed to be those of consolation. In a moment the door was opened, and Clayton found himself suddenly face to face with a lady in deep mourning. She was tall, and largely proportioned; the outlines of her face strong, yet beautiful, and now wearing the expression which comes from communion with the highest and serenest nature. Both were embarrassed, and made a momentary pause. In the start she dropped one of her gloves. Clayton picked it up, handed it to her, bowed, and she passed on. By some singular association, this stranger, with a serious, radiant face, suggested to him the sparkling, glittering beauty of Nina; and it seemed for a moment as if Nina was fluttering by him in the air, and passing away after her. When he examined the emotion more minutely afterwards, he thought, perhaps, it might have been suggested by the perception, as he lifted the glove, of a peculiar and delicate perfume which Nina was fond of using. So strange and shadowy are the influences which touch the dark, electric chain of our existence!