"buckra-man very uncertain"
the caption, a common saying among negroes at the south, had its origin in a consciousness, on the part of the negro, of the many liabilities to which his master's affairs are subject, and his own dependence on the ulterior consequences. it carries with it a deep significance, opens a field for reflection, comprehends the negro's knowledge of his own uncertain state, his being a piece of property the good or evil of which is effected by his master's caprices, the binding force of the law that makes him merchandise. nevertheless, while the negro feels them in all their force, the master values them only in an abstract light. ask the negro whose master is kind to him, if he would prefer his freedom and go north?-at first he will hesitate, dilate upon his master's goodness, his affection for him, the kindly feeling evinced for him by the family-they often look upon him with a patriarchal tenderness-and, finally, he will conclude by telling you he wishes master and missus would live for ever. he tells you, in the very simplicity of his nature, that "eve' ting so unsartin! and mas'r don't know if he die when he gwine to." that when he is dying he does not realise it; and though his intention be good, death may blot out his desires, and he, the dependent, being only a chattel, must sink into the uncertain stream of slave-life. marston's plantation might have been taken as an illustration of the truth of this saying. long had it been considered one of eminent profit; his field slaves were well cared for; his favourite house servants had every reasonable indulgence granted them. and, too, marston's mansion was the pleasant retreat of many a neighbour, whose visits were welcomed by the kindly attention he had taught his domestics to bestow. marston's fault lay in his belonging to that class of planters who repose too much confidence in others.
the morning following lorenzo's departure ushered forth bright and balmy. a quiet aspect reigned in and about the plantation, servants moved sluggishly about, the incidents of the preceding night oppressed marston's mind; his feelings broke beyond his power of restraint. like contagion, the effect seized each member of his household,--forcibly it spoke in word and action! marston had bestowed much care upon lorenzo and franconia; he had indulged and idolised the latter, and given the former some good advice. but advice without example seldom produces lasting good; in truth, precept had the very worst effect upon lorenzo,--it had proved his ruin! his singular and mysterious departure might for a time be excused,--even accounted for in some plausible manner, but suspicion was a stealing monster that would play upon the deeply tinctured surface, and soar above in disgrace. that the rovero family were among the first of the state would not be received as a palliation; they had suffered reverses of fortune, and, with the addition of lorenzo's profligacy, which had been secretly drawing upon their resources, were themselves well nigh in discredit. and now that this sudden and unexpected reverse had befallen marston, he could do nothing for their relief. involved, perplexed, and distrusted-with ever-slaying suspicion staring him in the face-he was a victim pursued by one who never failed to lay low his object. that man moved with unerring method, could look around him upon the destitution made by his avarice, without evincing a shadow of sympathy. yes! he was in the grasp of a living shylock, whose soul, worn out in the love of gold, had forgotten that there existed a distinction between right and wrong.
surrounded by all these dark forebodings, marston begins to reflect on his past life. he sees that mercy which overlooks the sins of man when repentance is pure; but his life is full of moral blemishes; he has sinned against the innocent, against the god of forgiveness. the inert of his nature is unfolding itself,--he has lived according to the tolerated vices of society-he has done no more than the law gave him a right to do! and yet, that very society, overlooking its own wrongs, would now strip him of its associations. he lives in a state where it is difficult to tell what society will approve or reprobate; where a rich man may do with impunity what would consign a poor man to the gallows.
if we examine the many rencontres that take place in the south, especially those proving fatal, we will find that the perpetrator, if he be a rich man, invariably receives an "honourable acquittal." again, when the man of position shoots down his victim in the streets of a city, he is esteemed brave; but a singular reversion takes place if the rencontre be between poor men. it is then a diabolical act, a murder, which nothing short of the gallows can serve for punishment. the creatures whom he had made mere objects to serve his sensuality were before him; he traced the gloomy history of their unfortunate sires; he knew that ellen and clotilda were born free. the cordon that had bound his feelings to the system of slavery relaxed. for the first time, he saw that which he could not recognise in his better nature-himself the medium of keeping human beings in slavery who were the rightful heirs of freedom. the blackness of the crime-its cruelty, its injustice-haunted him; they were at that very moment held by graspum's caprice. he might doom the poor wretches to irretrievable slavery, to torture and death! then his mind wandered to annette and nicholas; he saw them of his own flesh and blood; his natural affections bounded forth; how could he disown them? the creations of love and right were upon him, misfortune had unbound his sensations; his own offspring stood before him clothed in trouble thick and dangerous. his follies have entailed a life-rent of misery upon others; the fathomless depth of the future opens its yawning jaws to swallow up those upon whom the fondness of a father should have been bestowed for their moral and physical good.
as he sits contemplating this painful picture, aunt rachel enters the room to inquire if lorenzo breakfasts with them. "why! old mas'r, what ail ye dis mornin'? ye don't seems nohow. not a stripe like what ye was yesterday; somethin' gi 'h de wrong way, and mas'r done know what i' is," she mutters to herself, looking seriously at marston.
"nothing! old bustler; nothing that concerns you. do not mention lorenzo's name again; he has gone on a journey. send my old faithful daddy bob to me." rachel hastened to fulfil the command; soon brought the old servant to the door. his countenance lighted up with smiles as he stood at the doorway, bowing and scraping, working his red cap in his hand. there stood the old man, a picture of attachment.
"come in, bob, come in!" marston says, motioning his hand, "i wish the world was as faithful as you are. you are worthy the indulgence i have bestowed upon you; let me hope there is something better in prospect for you. my life reproves me; and when i turn and review its crooked path-when i behold each inconsistency chiding me-i lament what i cannot recall." taking the old man by the hand, the tears glistening in his eyes, he looks upon him as a father would his child.
"in a short time, bob, you shall be free to go where you please, on the plantation or off it. but remember, bob, you are old-you have grown grey in faithfulness,--the good southerner is the true friend of the negro! i mean he is the true friend of the negro, because he has associated with him from childhood, assimilated with his feelings, made his nature a study. he welcomes him without reserve, approaches him without that sensitiveness and prejudice which the northerner too often manifests towards him. you shall be free, bob! you shall be free!-free to go where you please; but you must remain among southerners, southerners are your friends."
"yes, mas'r, 'im all just so good, if t'warn't dat i so old. free nigger, when 'e old, don't gwane to get along much. old bob tink on dat mighty much, he do dat! lef bob free win 'e young, den 'e get tru' de world like buckra, only lef 'im de chance what buckra hab. freedom ain't wof much ven old bob worn out, mas'r; and buckra what sell nigger,--what make 'e trade on him, run 'im off sartin. he sell old nigger what got five dollar wof' a work in 'e old bones. mas'r set 'um free, bad buckra catch 'um, old bob get used up afo' he know nofin," quaintly replied the old man, seeming to have an instinctive knowledge of the "nigger trade," but with so much attachment for his master that he could not be induced to accept his freedom.
"it's not the leaving me, bob; you may be taken from me. you are worth but little, 'tis true, and yet you may be sold from me to a bad master. if the slave-dealers run you off, you can let me know, and i will prosecute them," returned marston.
"ah! mas'r; dat's just whar de blunt is-in de unsartainty! how i gwane to let mas'r know, when mas'r no larn nigger to read," he quickly responded. there is something in his simple remark that marston has never before condescended to contemplate,--something the simple nature of the negro has just disclosed; it lies deeply rooted at the foundation of all the wrongs of slavery. education would be valuable to the negro, especially in his old age; it would soften his impulses rather than impair his attachment, unless the master be a tyrant fearing the results of his own oppression. marston, a good master, had deprived the old man of the means of protecting himself against the avarice of those who would snatch him from freedom, and while his flesh and blood contained dollars and cents, sell him into slavery. freedom, under the best circumstances, could do him little good in his old age; and yet, a knowledge of the wrong rankled deep in marston's feelings: he could relieve it only by giving daddy bob and harry their freedom if they would accept it.
relinquishing daddy's hand, he commanded him to go and bring him annette and nicholas. "bring them," he says, "without the knowledge of their mothers." bob withdrew, hastened to the cabins in the yard to fulfil the mission. poor things, thought marston; they are mine, how can i disown them? ah, there's the point to conquer-i cannot! it is like the mad torrents of hell, stretched out before me to consume my very soul, to bid me defiance. misfortune is truly a great purifier, a great regenerator of our moral being; but how can i make the wrong right?-how can i live to hope for something beyond the caprice of this alluring world? my frailties have stamped their future with shame.
thus he mused as the children came scampering into the room. annette, her flaxen curls dangling about her neck, looking as tidy and bright as the skill of clotilda could make her, runs to marston, throws herself on his knee, fondles about his bosom, kisses his hand again and again. she loves him,--she knows no other father. nicholas, more shy, moves slowly behind a chair, his fingers in his mouth the while. looking through its rounds wistfully, he shakes his head enviously, moves the chair backwards and forwards, and is too bashful to approach annette's position.
marston has taken annette in his arms, he caresses her; she twirls her tiny fingers through his whiskers, as if to play with him in the toying recognition of a father. he is deeply immersed in thought, smooths her hair, walks to the glass with her in his arms, holds her before it as if to detect his own features in the countenance of the child. resuming his seat, he sets her on one knee, calls nicholas to him, takes him on the other, and fondles them with an air of kindness it had never before been their good fortune to receive at his hands. he looked upon them again, and again caressed them, parted their hair with his fingers. and as annette would open her eyes and gaze in his, with an air of sweetest acknowledgment, his thoughts seemed contending with something fearful. he was in trouble; he saw the enemy brooding over the future; he heaved a sigh, a convulsive motion followed, a tear stealing down his cheek told the tale of his reflections.
"now, daddy;" he speaks, directing himself to old bob, who stands at the door surprised at marston's singular movements, "you are my confidant, what do you think the world-i mean the people about the district, about the city-would say if they knew these were mine? you know, bob,--you must tell me straight out, do they look like me?-have they features like mine?" he inquires with rapid utterance.
"mas'r, bob don' like to say all he feels," meekly muttered the old man.
"there is the spot on which we lay the most unholy blot; and yet, it recoils upon us when we least think. unfortunate wretches bear them unto us; yet we dare not make them our own; we blast their lives for selfish ends, yield them to others, shield ourselves by a misnomer called right! we sell the most interesting beings for a price,--beings that should be nearest and dearest to our hearts."
the old slave's eyes glistened with excitement; he looked on astonished, as if some extraordinary scene had surprised him. as his agitation subsided, he continued, "mas'r, i bin watch 'im dis long time. reckon how nobody wouldn't take 'em fo'h nobody else's-fo'h true! dar ain't no spozin' bout 'em, 'e so right smart twarn't no use to guise 'em: da'h just like old boss. mas'r, nigger watch dem tings mighty close; more close den buckra, cos' buckra tink 'e all right when nigger tink 'e all wrong."
marston is not quite content with this: he must needs put another question to the old man. "you are sure there can be no mistaking them for mine?" he rejoins, fixing his eyes upon the children with an almost death-like stare, as daddy leads them out of the room. the door closes after them, he paces the room for a time, seats himself in his chair again, and is soon absorbed in contemplation. "i must do something for them-i must snatch them from the jaws of danger. they are full of interest-they are mine; there is not a drop of negro blood in their veins, and yet the world asks who are their mothers, what is their history? ah! yes; in that history lies the canker that has eaten out the living springs of many lives. it is that which cuts deepest. had i known myself, done what i might have done before it was too late, kindness would have its rewards; but i am fettered, and the more i move the worse for them. custom has laid the foundation of wrong, the law protects it, and a free government tolerates a law that shields iniquities blackening earth." in this train of thought his mind wandered. he would send the children into a free state, there to be educated; that they may live in the enjoyment of those rights with which nature had blest them. the obstacles of the law again stared him in the face; the wrong by which they were first enslaved, now forgotten, had brought its climax.
suddenly arousing from his reverie, he started to his feet, and walking across the floor, exclaimed in an audible voice, "i will surmount all difficulties,--i will recognise them as my children; i will send them where they may become ornaments of society, instead of living in shame and licentiousness. this is my resolve, and i will carry it out, or die!"
