A Romance of the Republic - Lydia Maria Francis Child
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"I am glad of this arrangement," said Mr. King. "At their age, I hope
a year of separation will prove sufficient."
The Rose-mother covered the wound in her heart, and answered, "Yes,
it is best." But the constrained tone of the letter pained her, and
excited her mind to that most unsatisfactory of all occupations, the
thinking over what might have been. She had visions of her first-born
son, as he lay by her side a few hours before Chloe carried him away
from her sight; and then there rose before her the fair face of that
other son, whose pretty little body was passing into the roses of
Provence. Both of them had gone out of her life. Of one she received
no tidings from the mysterious world of spirits; while the other was
walking within her vision, as a shadow, the reality of which was
intangible.
Mr. King returned to Boston with his family in season for Gerald
to make the proposed call before he sailed. There was a little
heightening of color when he and Eulalia met, but he had drilled
himself to perform the part of a polite acquaintance; and as she
thought she had been rather negligently treated of late, she was cased
in the armor of maidenly reserve.
Both Mr. and Mrs. King felt it to be an arduous duty to call on Mrs.
Fitzgerald. That lady, though she respected their conscientiousness,
could not help disliking them. They had disturbed her relations with
Gerald, by suggesting the idea of another claim upon his affections;
and they had offended her pride by introducing the vulgar phantom of
a slave son to haunt her imagination. She was continually jealous of
Mrs. King; so jealous, that Gerald never ventured to show her the
likeness of his Rose-mother. But though the discerning eyes of Mr. and
Mrs. King read this in the very excess of her polite demonstrations,
other visitors who were present when they called supposed them to be
her dearest friends, and envied her the distinguished intimacy.
Such formal attempts at intercourse only increased the cravings of
Rosa's heart, and Mr. King requested Gerald to grant her a private
interview. Inexpressibly precious were these few stolen moments, when
she could venture to call him son, and hear him call her mother. He
brought her an enamelled locket containing some of his hair, inscribed
with the word "Gerald"; and she told him that to the day of her death
she would always wear it next her heart. He opened a small morocco
case, on the velvet lining of which lay a lily of delicate silver
filigree.
"Here is a little souvenir for Eulalia," said he.
Her eyes moistened as she replied, "I fear it would not be prudent, my
son."
He averted his face as he answered: "Then give it to her in my
mother's name. It will be pleasant to me to think that my sister is
wearing it."
* * * * *
A few days after Gerald had sailed for Europe, Mr. King started for
New Orleans, taking with him his wife and daughter. An auctioneer was
found, who said he had sold to a gentleman in Natchez a runaway slave
named Bob Bruteman, who strongly resembled the likeness of Gerald.
They proceeded to Natchez and had an interview with the purchaser, who
recognized a likeness between his slave Bob and the picture of
Gerald. He said he had made a bad bargain of it, for the fellow was
intelligent and artful, and had escaped from him two months ago. In
answer to his queries, Mr. King stated that, if Bob was the one he
supposed, he was a white man, and had friends who wished to redeem
him; but as the master had obtained no clew to the runaway, he could
of course give none. So their long journey produced no result, except
the satisfaction of thinking that the object of their interest had
escaped from slavery.
It had been their intention to spend the coldest months at the South,
but a volcano had flared up all of a sudden at Harper's Ferry, and
boiling lava was rolling all over the land. Every Northern man who
visited the South was eyed suspiciously, as a possible emissary of
John Brown; and the fact that Mr. King was seeking to redeem a runaway
slave was far from increasing confidence in him. Finding that silence
was unsatisfactory, and that he must either indorse slavery or
be liable to perpetual provocations to quarrel, he wrote to Mr.
Blumenthal to have their house in readiness for their return; an
arrangement which Flora and her children hailed with merry shouts and
clapping of hands.
When they arrived, they found their house as warm as June, with Flora
and her family there to receive them, backed by a small army of
servants, consisting of Tulee, with her tall son and daughter, and
little Benny, and Tom and Chloe; all of whom had places provided
for them, either in the household or in Mr. King's commercial
establishment. Their tropical exuberance of welcome made him smile.
When the hearty hand-shakings were over, he said to his wife, as they
passed into the parlor, "It really seemed as if we were landing on the
coast of Guinea with a cargo of beads."
"O Alfred," rejoined she, "I am so grateful to you for employing them
all! You don't know, and never _can_ know, how I feel toward these
dusky friends; for you never had them watch over you, day after day,
and night after night, patiently and tenderly leading you up from the
valley of the shadow of death."
He pressed her hand affectionately, and said, "Inasmuch as they did it
for you, darling, they did it for me."
This sentiment was wrought into their daily deportment to their
servants; and the result was an harmonious relation between employer
and employed, which it was beautiful to witness. But there are
skeletons hidden away in the happiest households. Mrs. King had hers,
and Tom and Chloe had theirs. The death of Mr. Bell and the absence of
Mrs. Fitzgerald left no one in Boston who would be likely to recognize
them; but they knew that the Fugitive Slave Act was still in force,
and though they relied upon Mr. King's generosity in case of
emergency, they had an uncomfortable feeling of not being free. It was
not so with Tulee. She had got beyond Mount Pisgah into the Canaan of
freedom; and her happiness was unalloyed. Mr. King, though kind and
liberal to all, regarded her with especial favor, on account of old
associations. The golden hoops had been taken from her ears when she
was in the calaboose; but he had presented her with another pair, for
he liked to have her look as she did when she opened for him that door
in New Orleans, which had proved an entrance to the temple and palace
of his life. She felt herself to be a sort of prime minister in the
small kingdom, and began to deport herself as one having authority.
No empress ever had more satisfaction in a royal heir than she had in
watching her Benny trudging to school, with his spelling-book slung
over his shoulder, in a green satchel Mrs. King had made for him. The
stylishness of the establishment was also a great source of pride to
her; and she often remarked in the kitchen that she had always said
gold was none too good for Missy Rosy to walk upon. Apart from this
consideration, she herself had an Oriental delight in things that were
lustrous and gayly colored. Tom had learned to read quite fluently,
and was accustomed to edify his household companions with chapters
from the Bible on Sunday evenings. The descriptions of King Solomon's
splendor made a lively impression on Tulee's mind. When she dusted
the spacious parlors, she looked admiringly at the large mirrors, the
gilded circles of gas lights, and the great pictures framed in crimson
and gold, and thought that the Temple of Solomon could not have been
more grand. She could scarcely believe Mrs. Delano was wealthy. "She's
a beautiful lady," said she to Flora; "but if she's got plenty o'
money, what makes her dress so innocent and dull? There's Missy Rosy
now, when _she_'s dressed for company, she looks like the Queen of
Shebee."
One morning Tulee awoke to look out upon a scene entirely new to her
Southern eyes, and far surpassing anything she had imagined of the
splendor of Solomon's Temple. On the evening previous, the air had
been full of mist, which, as it grew colder, had settled on the trees
of the Common, covering every little twig with a panoply of ice. A
very light snow had fallen softly during the night, and sprinkled the
ice with a feathery fleece. The trees, in this delicate white vesture,
standing up against a dark blue sky, looked like the glorified spirits
of trees. Here and there, the sun touched them, and dropped a shower
of diamonds. Tulee gazed a moment in delighted astonishment, and ran
to call Chloe, who exclaimed, "They looks like great white angels, and
Ise feared they'll fly away 'fore Missis gits up."
Tulee was very impatient for the sound of Mrs. King's bell, and as
soon as the first tinkle was heard she rushed into her dressing-room,
exclaiming, "O, do come to the window, Missy Rosy! Sure this is silver
land."
Rosa was no less surprised when she looked out upon that wonderful
vision of the earth, in its transfigured raiment of snow-glory. "Why,
Tulee," said she, "it is diamond land. I've seen splendid fairy scenes
in the theatres of Paris, but never anything so brilliant as this."
"I used to think the woods down South, all covered with jess'mines,
was the beautifullest thing," responded Tulee; "but, Lors, Missy
Rosy, this is as much handsomer as Solomon's Temple was handsomer than
a meetin'-house."
But neither the indoor nor the outdoor splendor, nor all the personal
comforts they enjoyed, made this favored band of colored people
forgetful of the brethren they had left in bondage. Every word about
John Brown was sought for and read with avidity. When he was first
taken captive, Chloe said: "The angel that let Peter out o' prison
ha'n't growed old an' hard o' hearing. If we prays loud enough, he'll
go and open the doors for old John Brown."
Certainly, it was not for want of the colored people's praying loud
and long enough, that the prisoner was not supernaturally delivered.
They did not relinquish the hope till the 2d of December: and when
that sad day arrived, they assembled in their meeting-house to watch
and pray. All was silent, except now and then an occasional groan,
till the hands of the clock pointed to the moment of the martyr's exit
from this world. Then Tom poured forth his soul in a mighty voice of
prayer, ending with the agonized entreaty, "O Lord, thou hast taken
away our Moses. Raise us up a Joshua!" And all cried, "Amen!"
Chloe, who had faith that could walk the stormiest waves, spoke words
of fervent cheer to the weeping congregation.
"I tell ye they ha'n't killed old John Brown," said she; "'cause they
_couldn't_ kill him. The angel that opened the prison doors for Peter
has let him out, and sent him abroad in a different way from what we
'spected; that's all."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Through the following year, the political sky grew ever darker with
impending clouds, crinkled with lightning, and vocal with growlings of
approaching thunder. The North continued to make servile concessions,
which history will blush to record; but they proved unavailing.
The arrogance of slaveholders grew by what it fed on. Though a
conscientious wish to avoid civil war mingled largely with the
selfishness of trade, and the heartless gambling of politicians, all
was alike interpreted by them as signs of Northern cowardice. At
last, the Sumter gun was heard booming through the gathering storm.
Instantly, the air was full of starry banners, and Northern pavements
resounded with the tramp of horse and the rolling of artillery wagons.
A thrill of patriotic enthusiasm kindled the souls of men. No more
sending back of slaves. All our cities became at once cities of
refuge; for men had risen above the letter of the Constitution into
the spirit of the Declaration of Independence.
Gerald and his Lily-mother arrived in New York to find the social
atmosphere all aglow. Under its exciting influence, he wrote to Mr.
King:--
"Yesterday, I informed you of our arrival; and now I write to tell
you that they are forming a regiment here to march to the defence of
Washington, and I have joined it. Lily-mother was unwilling at
first. But a fine set of fellows are joining,--all first-class young
gentlemen. I told Lily-mother she would be ashamed to have me loiter
behind the sons of her acquaintance, and that Mr. Seward said it was
only an affair of sixty days. So she has consented. I enclose a letter
to Rose-mother, to ask her blessing on my enterprise, which I am quite
sure I shall have, together with your own."
Thus, with the unreflecting exhilaration of youth, Gerald went forth
to the war, as light of heart as if he had been joining a boat-race or
a hunting excursion; so little did he comprehend that ferocious system
of despotism which was fastening its fangs on free institutions with
the death-grapple of a bloodhound.
For the next two months, his letters, though hurried, were frequent,
and always cheerful; mostly filled with trifling gossipings about
camp-life, and affectionate remembrances to those he had left behind.
At last, Mr. King received one of graver import, which ran thus:--
"I have met with a strange adventure. A number of us were on picket
duty, with orders to keep a sharp lookout. We went pacing back and
forth on our allotted ground, now passing under the shadow of trees,
now coming out into the moonlight. I walked very erect, feeling myself
every inch a soldier. Sometimes I cast scrutinizing glances into
groups of shrubbery, and sometimes I gazed absently on the sparkling
Potomac, while memory was retracing the events of my life, and
recalling the dear ones connected with them. Just as I reached a large
tree which formed the boundary of my prescribed course, the next
sentinel, whose walk began where mine ended, approached the same tree,
and before he turned again we met face to face for an instant. I
started, and I confess to a momentary feeling of superstition; for I
thought I had seen myself; and that, you know, is said to be a warning
of approaching death. He could not have seen me very plainly, for I
was in shadow, while he for an instant was clearly revealed by the
moonlight. Anxious to be sure whether I had seen a vision or a
reality, when I again approached the tree I waited for him; and a
second time I saw such a likeness of myself as I never saw excepting
in the mirror. He turned quickly, and marched away with military
promptitude and precision. I watched him for a moment, as his erect
figure alternately dipped into shadow and emerged into light. I need
not tell you what I was thinking of while I looked; for you can easily
conjecture. The third time we met, I said, 'What is your name?' He
replied, 'George Falkner,' and marched away. I write on a drumhead, in
a hurry. As soon as I can obtain a talk with this duplicate of myself,
I will write to you again. But I shall not mention my adventure to
Lily-mother. It would only make her unhappy."
Another letter, which arrived a week after, contained merely the
following paragraph on the subject that interested them most:--
"We soldiers cannot command our own movements or our time. I have been
able to see G.F. but once, and then our interview was brief. He seemed
very reserved about himself. He says he came from New York; but his
speech is Southern. He talks about 'toting' things, and says he
'disremembers,' I shall try to gain his confidence, and perhaps I
shall be able to draw him out."
A fortnight later he wrote:--
"I have learned from G.F. that the first thing he remembers of himself
is living with an old negress, about ten miles from New Orleans, with
eight other children, of various shades, but none so white as himself.
He judges he was about nine years old when he was carried to New
Orleans, and let out by a rich man named Bruteman to a hotel-keeper,
to black boots, do errands, &c. One of the children that the old
negress brought up with him was a mulatto named Henriet. The boys
called her Hen, he said. He used to 'tote' her about when she was a
baby, and afterward they used to roll in the mud, and make mud-pies
together. When Hen was twelve years old, she was let out to work in
the same hotel where he was. Soon afterward, Mr. Bruteman put him out
to learn the carpenter's trade, and he soon became expert at it. But
though he earned five or six dollars a week, and finally nine or ten,
he never received any portion of it; except that now and then Mr.
Bruteman, when he counted his wages, gave him a fip. I never thought
of _this_ side of the question when I used to hear grandfather talk
about the rights of slaveholders; but I feel now, if this had been my
own case, I should have thought it confounded hard. He and Hen were
very young when they first begun to talk about being married; but he
couldn't bear the thoughts of bringing up a family to be slaves, and
they watched for an opportunity to run away. After several plans which
proved abortive, they went boldly on board 'The King Cotton,' he as a
white gentleman, and she disguised as his boy servant. You know how
that attempt resulted. He says they were kept two days, with hands and
feet tied, on an island that was nothing but rock. They suffered with
cold, though one of the sailors, who seemed kind-hearted, covered them
with blankets and overcoats. He probably did not like the business of
guarding slaves; for one night he whispered to G.F., 'Can't you swim?'
But George was very little used to the water, and Hen couldn't swim at
all. Besides, he said, the sailors had loaded guns, and some of them
would have fired upon them, if they had heard them plunge; and even
if by a miracle they had gained the shore, he thought they would be
seized and sent back again, just as they were in Boston.
"You may judge how I felt, while I listened to this. I wanted to ask
his forgiveness, and give him all my money, and my watch, and my ring,
and everything. After they were carried back, Hen was sold to the
hotel-keeper for six hundred dollars, and he was sold to a man in
Natchez for fifteen hundred. After a while, he escaped in a woman's
dress, contrived to open a communication with Hen, and succeeded in
carrying her off to New York. There he changed his woman's dress, and
his slave name of Bob Bruteman, and called himself George Falkner.
When I asked him why he chose that name, he rolled up his sleeve and
showed me G.F. marked on his arm. He said he didn't know who put them
there, but he supposed they were the initials of his name. He is
evidently impressed by our great resemblance. If he asks me directly
whether I can conjecture anything about his origin, I hardly know how
it will be best to answer. Do write how much or how little I ought to
say. Feeling unsafe in the city of New York, and being destitute of
money, he applied to the Abolitionists for advice. They sent him to
New Rochelle, where he let himself to a Quaker, called Friend Joseph
Houseman, of whom he hired a small hut. There, Hen, whom he now calls
Henriet, takes in washing and ironing, and there a babe has been born
to them. When the war broke out he enlisted; partly because he thought
it would help him to pay off some old scores with slaveholders, and
partly because a set of rowdies in the village of New Rochelle said he
was a white man, and threatened to mob him for living with a nigger
wife. While they were in New York city, he and Henriet were regularly
married by a colored minister. He said he did it because he hated
slavery and couldn't bear to live as slaves did. I heard him read a
few lines from a newspaper, and he read them pretty well. He says a
little boy, son of the carpenter of whom he learned his trade, gave
him some instruction, and he bought a spelling-book for himself.
He showed me some beef-bones, on which he practises writing with a
pencil. When he told me how hard he had tried to get what little
learning he had, it made me ashamed to think how many cakes and toys I
received as a reward for studying my spelling-book. He is teaching an
old negro, who waits upon the soldiers. It is funny to see how hard
the poor old fellow tries, and to hear what strange work he makes of
it. It must be 'that stolen waters are sweet,' or slaves would never
take so much more pains than I was ever willing to take to learn to
spell out the Bible. Sometimes I help G.F. with his old pupil; and I
should like to have Mrs. Blumenthal make a sketch of us, as I sit on
the grass in the shade of some tree, helping the old negro hammer his
syllables together. My New York companions laugh at me sometimes; but
I have gained great favor with G.F. by this proceeding. He is such
an ingenious fellow, that he is always in demand to make or mend
something. When I see how skilful he is with tools, I envy him. I
begin to realize what you once told me, and which did not please me
much at the time, that being a fine gentleman is the poorest calling a
man can devote himself to.
"I have written this long letter under difficulties, and at various
times. I have omitted many particulars, which I will try to remember
in my next. Enclosed is a note for Rose-mother. I hold you all in most
affectionate remembrance."
Soon after the reception of this letter, news came of the defeat at
Bull Run, followed by tidings that Gerald was among the slain. Mr.
King immediately waited upon Mrs. Fitzgerald to offer any services
that he could render, and it was agreed that he should forthwith
proceed to Washington with her cousin, Mr. Green. They returned with a
long wooden box, on which was inscribed Gerald's name and regiment. It
was encased in black walnut without being opened, for those who loved
him dreaded to see him, marred as he was by battle. It was carried to
Stone Chapel, where a multitude collected to pay the last honors to
the youthful soldier. A sheathed sword was laid across the coffin, on
which Mrs. Fitzgerald placed a laurel wreath. Just above it, Mrs. King
deposited a wreath of white roses, in the centre of which Eulalia
timidly laid a white lily. A long procession followed it to Mount
Auburn, with a band playing Beethoven's Funeral March. Episcopal
services were performed at the grave, which friends and relatives
filled with flowers; and there, by the side of Mr. Bell, the beautiful
young man was hidden away from human sight. Mr. King's carriage had
followed next to Mrs. Fitzgerald's; a circumstance which the public
explained by a report that the deceased was to have married his
daughter. Mrs. Fitzgerald felt flattered to have it so understood,
and she never contradicted it. After her great disappointment in her
husband, and the loss of her other children, all the affection she
was capable of feeling had centred in Gerald. But hers was not a deep
nature, and the world held great sway over it. She suffered acutely
when she first heard of her loss; but she found no small degree of
soothing compensation in the praises bestowed on her young hero, in
the pomp of his funeral, and the general understanding that he was
betrothed to the daughter of the quatro-millionnaire.
The depth of Mrs. King's sorrow was known only to Him who made the
heart. She endeavored to conceal it as far as possible, for she felt
it to be wrong to cast a shadow over the home of her husband and
daughter. Gerald's likeness was placed in her chamber, where she saw
it with the first morning light; but what were her reveries while she
gazed upon it was told to no one. Custom, as well as sincere sympathy,
made it necessary for her to make a visit of condolence to Mrs.
Fitzgerald. But she merely took her hand, pressed it gently, and said,
"May God comfort you." "May God comfort you, also," replied Mrs.
Fitzgerald, returning the pressure; and from that time henceforth the
name of Gerald was never mentioned between them.
After the funeral it was noticed that Alfred Blumenthal appeared
abstracted, as if continually occupied with grave thoughts. One day,
as he stood leaning against the window, gazing on the stars and
stripes that floated across the street, he turned suddenly and
exclaimed: "It is wrong to be staying here. I ought to be fighting for
that flag. I _must_ supply poor Gerald's place."
Mrs. Delano, who had been watching him anxiously, rose up and clasped
him round the neck, with stronger emotion than he had ever seen her
manifest. "_Must_ you go, my son?" she said.
He laid his hand very gently on her head as he replied: "Dearest
Mamita, you always taught me to obey the voice of duty; and surely it
is a duty to help in rescuing Liberty from the bloody jaws of this
dragon Slavery."
She lingered an instant on his breast then, raising her tearful face,
she silently pressed his hand, while she looked into those kind and
honest eyes, that so strongly reminded her of eyes closed long
ago. "You are right, my son," murmured she; "and may God give you
strength."
Turning from her to hide the swelling of his own heart, Alfred saw
his mother sobbing on his father's bosom. "Dearest mamma," said he,
"Heaven knows it is hard for me. Do not make it harder."