CHAPTER X
The morning of the departure dawned with an overcast sky, the prophecy of winter in the gray clouds that hung over the surface of the river. A chill mist, damp and penetrating, crept up the heights from the water's edge and veiled the city from view.
Something in the raw air bruised afresh the thought of goodbye to the Southland. The threat of cold in Virginia meant the piling of ice and snow in the North. Not a sparrow chirped in the hedges. Only a crow, passing high in the dull sky, called his defiance of wind and weather.
The Colonel made his final round of inspection to see that his people were provided against the winter. Behind each servant's cottage, a huge pile of wood was stacked. The roofs were in perfect order. The chimneys were pouring columns of smoke. It hung low at first but rolled away at the touch of the breeze from the North.
With Mrs. Lee he visited the aged and the sick. The thing that brought the smile to each withered mouth was the assurance of their love and care always.
Among the servants Sam held the center of interest. The wonderful, doubtful, yet fascinating thing had come to him. He had been set free. In each heart was the wish and with it fear of the future. The younger ones laughed and frankly envied him. The older ones wagged their heads doubtfully.
Old Ben expressed the best feelings of the wiser as he took Sam's hand for a fatherly word. He had finished the packing in an old cowhide trunk which Custis had given him.
"We's all gwine ter watch ye, boy, wid good wishes in our hearts and a whole lot er misgivin's a playin' roun' in our min'."
"Don't yer worry 'bout me, Uncle Ben. I'se all right."
He paused and whispered.
"Ye didn't know dat Marse Robert done gimme five hundred dollars in gol'—did ye?"
"Five hundred dollars in gol'!" Ben gasped.
Sam drew the shining yellow eagles from the bag in his pocket and jingled them before the old man's eyes.
"Dar it is."
Ben touched it reverently.
"Praise God fer de good folks He give us."
"I'se er proud nigger, I is. I'se sorry fur dem dat b'longs to po' folks."
Ben looked at him benignly.
"Don't you be too proud, boy. You'se powerful young and foolish. Yer des barely got sense enough ter git outen a shower er rain. Dat money ain't gwine ter las yer always."
"No, but man, des watch my smoke when I git up North. Yer hear frum me, yer will."
"I hopes I hear de right news."
Sam replaced his coin with a touch of authority in possession.
"Don't yer worry 'bout me no mo'. I'se a free man now an' I gwine ter come into de Kingdom."
The last important task done by the Colonel before taking the train for New York was the delivery to his lawyers of instructions for the removal of the Doyles and the placing in his hands sufficient funds for their journey.
He spent a day in Washington investigating the chances of the new settler securing a quarter section of land in Miami County, Kansas, the survey of which had been completed. He selected this County on the Missouri border to please Mrs. Doyle. She wished to live as near the line of old Virginia's climate as possible and in a country with trees.
Doyle promised to lose no time in disposing of his goods. The father, mother, three sons and two little girls were at Arlington to bid the Colonel and his family goodbye. They were not a demonstrative people but their affection for their neighbor and friend could not be mistaken.
The mother's eyes followed him with no attempt to hide her tears. She wiped them away with her handkerchief. And went right on crying and wiping them again. The boys were too shy to press forward in the crowd and grasp the Colonel's hand.
On arrival in New York the party stopped at the new Hotel Astor on Broadway. Colonel Lee had promised to spend a day at Fort Hamilton, his old command. But it was inconvenient to make the trip until the following morning.
Besides, he had important business to do for Sam. He had sent two of the servants, whom he had emancipated, to Liberia, and he planned the same journey for Sam. He engaged a reservation for him on a steamer sailing for Africa, and returned to the hotel at nine o'clock ready to leave for Fort Hamilton.
He was compelled to wait for Sam's return from the boarding house for colored people on Water Street where he had been sent by the proprietor of the Astor. Not even negro servants were quartered in a first-class hotel in New York or any other Northern city.
Sam arrived at half-past nine, and the Colonel strolled down Broadway with him to the little park at Bowling Green. He found a seat and bade Sam sit down beside him.
The boy watched the expression on his old master's face with dread. He had a pretty clear idea what this interview was to be about and he had made up his mind on the answer. His uncle, who had been freed five years before, had written him a glowing letter about Liberia.
He dreaded the subject.
"You know, of course, Sam," the Colonel began, "that your life is now in your own hands and that I can only advise you as a friend."
"An' I sho's glad ter have ye he'p me, Marse Robert."
"I'm going to give you the best advice I can. I'm going to advise you to do exactly what I would do if I were in your place."
"Yassah."
"If I were you, Sam, I wouldn't stay in this country. I'd go back to the land of my black fathers, to its tropic suns and rich soil. You can never be a full-grown man here. The North won't have you as such. The hotel wouldn't let you sleep under its roof, in spite of my protest that you were my body-servant. In the South the old shadow of your birth will be with you. If you wish to lift up your head and be a man it can't be here. No matter what comes in the future. If every black man, woman and child were set free to-morrow, there are not enough negroes to live alone. The white man will never make you his equal in the world he is building. I've secured your passage to Liberia and I will pay for it without touching the money which I gave you. What do you think of it?"
Sam scratched his head and looked away embarrassed. He spoke timidly at first, but with growing assurance.
"I'se powerful 'fraid dat Liberia's a long way frum home, Marse Robert."
"It is. But if you wish to be a full-grown man, it's your chance to-day. It will be the one chance of your people in the future as well. Can you make up your mind to face the loneliness and build your home under your own vine and fig tree? There you can look every man in the face, conscious that you're as good as he is and that the world is yours."
"I'se feared I ain't got de spunk, Marse Robert."
"The gold in your pocket will build you a house on public lands. You know how to farm. Africa has a great future. You've seen our life. We've taught you to work, to laugh, to play, to worship God, to love your home and your people. You're only twenty years old. I envy you the wealth of youth. I've reached the hilltop of life. Your way is still upward for a quarter of a century. It's the morning of life, boy, and a new world calls you. Will you hear it and go?"
"I'se skeered, Marse Robert," Sam persisted, shaking his head gravely.
Lee saw the hopelessness of his task and changed his point of appeal.
"What do you think of doing?"
"Who, me?"
"Who else? I can't think for you any longer."
"Oh, I'll be all right, sah. I foun' er lot er good colored friends in de bordin' house las' night. Wid dat five hundred dollars, I be livin' in clover here, sah, sho. I done talk wid a feller 'bout goin' in business."
"What line of business?"
"He gwine ter sho me ter-day, sah."
"You don't think you might change your mind about Liberia?"
"Na sah. I don't like my uncle dat's ober dar, nohow."
"Then I can't help you any more, Sam?"
"Na sah, Marse Robert. Y'u been de bes' master any nigger eber had in dis worl' an' I ain't nebber gwine ter fergit dat. When I feels dem five hundred dollars in my pocket I des swells up lak I gwine ter bust. I'se dat proud o' myse'f an' my ole marster dat gimme a start. Lordee, sah, hit's des gwine ter be fun fer me ter git long an' I mak' my fortune right here. Ye see ef I don't—"
Lee smiled indulgently.
"Watch out you don't lose the little one I gave you."
"Yassah, I got hit all sewed up in my close."
The old master saw that further argument would be useless. He rose wondering if his act of emancipation were not an act of cowardice—the shirking of responsibility for the boy's life. His mouth closed firmly. That was just the point about the institution of Slavery. No such responsibility should be placed on any man's shoulders.
Sam insisted on ministering to the wants of the family until he saw them safely on the boat for West Point. He waved each member a long goodbye. And then hurried to his new chum at the boarding house on Water Street. This dusky friend had won Sam's confidence by his genial ways on the first night of their acquaintance. He had learned that Sam had just been freed. That this was his first trip to New York though he spoke with careless ease of his knowledge of Washington.
But the most important fact revealed was that he had lately come into money through the generosity of his former master. The sable New Yorker evinced no curiosity about the amount.
After four days of joy he waked from a sickening stupor. He found himself lying in a filthy alley at dawn, bareheaded, his coat torn up the back, every dollar gone and his friend nowhere to be found.
Colonel Lee had given him the address of three clergymen and told him to call on them for help if he had any trouble. He looked everywhere for these cards. They couldn't be found. He had been so cocksure of himself he had lost them. He couldn't make up his mind to stoop to blacking boots and cleaning spittoons. He had always lived with aristocrats. He felt himself one to his finger tips.
There was but one thing he could do that seemed to be needed up here. He could handle tobacco. He could stem the leaf. He had learned that at Arlington in helping Ben superintend the curing of the weed for the servants' use.
He made the rounds of the factories only to find that the larger part of this work was done in tenement homes. He spent a day finding one of these workshops.
They offered to take him in as a boarder and give him sixty cents a day. He could have a pallet beside the six children in the other room and a place to put his trunk. Sixty cents a day would pay his room rent and give him barely enough food to keep body and soul together.
He hurried back to his boarding house, threw the little trunk on his back and trudged to the tobacco tenement. When he arrived no one stopped work. The mother waved her hand to the rear. He placed his trunk in a dark corner, came out and settled to the task of stemming tobacco.
He did his work with a skill and ease that fascinated the children. He took time to show them how to grip the leaf to best advantage and rip the stem with a quick movement that left scarcely a trace of the weed clinging to it. He worked with a swinging movement of his body and began to sing in soft, low tones.
The wizened eyes brightened, and when he stopped one of them whispered:
"More, black man. Sing some more!"
He sang one more song and choked. His eye caught the look of mortal weariness in the tired face of the little girl of six and his voice wouldn't work.
"Goddermighty!" he muttered, "dese here babies ought not ter be wukkin lak dis!"
When lunch time came the six children begged Sam to live in the place and take his meals with them.
Their mother joined in the plea and offered to board him for thirty cents a day. This would leave him a few cents to spend outside. He couldn't yet figure on clothes. It didn't seem right to have to pay for such things. Anyhow he had enough to last him awhile.
He decided to accept the offer and live as a boarder with the family. The lunch was discouraging. A piece of cold bread and a glass of water from the hydrant. Sam volunteered to bring the water.
The hydrant was the only water supply for the six hundred people whose houses touched the alley. It stood in the center. The only drainage was a sink in front of it. All the water used had to be carried up the stairs and the slops carried down. The tired people did little carrying downstairs. Pans and pails full of dishwater were emptied out the windows with no care for the passer below. Scarcely a day passed without a fight from this cause. A fight in the quarter was always a pleasure to the settlement.
Sam munched his bread and sipped his water. He watched the children eat their pieces ravenously. He couldn't finish his. He handed it to the smallest one of the children who was staring at him with eyes that chilled his heart. He knew the child was still hungry. Such a lunch as a piece of bread and a tin cup of water must be an accident, of course. He had heard of jailers putting prisoners on bread and water to punish them. He had never known human beings living at home to have such food. They would have a good dinner steaming hot. He was sure of that.
A sudden commotion broke out in the alley below. Yells, catcalls, oaths and the sound of crashing bricks, coal, pieces of furniture, and the splash of much water came from the court.
The mother rushed to the window and hurled a stone. There was a pile of them in the corner of the room.
Sam tried to look out.
"What's de matter, ma'm? Is dey er fight?"
"No—nothin' but a rent collector." The woman smiled.
It was the first pleasant thought that had entered her mind since Sam had come.
The dinner was as rude a surprise as the lunch. He watched the woman fumble over lighting the fire in the stove until he could stand it no longer.
"Lemme start de fire fer ye, ma'm," he offered at last.
"I wish you would," she sighed. "I married when I wuz seventeen and I never had made a fire before. I don't believe I'll ever learn."
The negro was not long in observing that she knew no more about cooking than she did about lighting a fire. The only cooking utensils in the place were a pot and a frying pan. The frying pan was in constant use. For dinner she fried a piece of tough beef without seasoning. She didn't know how to make bread. She bought the soggy stuff at the grocer's. There was no bread for dinner at all. They had boiled potatoes, boiled in plain water without even a grain of salt or pepper. The coffee was so black and heavy and bitter he couldn't drink it.
The father had a cup of beer with his coffee. A cup of beer was provided for Sam. The girl of twelve had rushed the growler to the corner saloon. The negro had never tasted beer before and he couldn't drink it. The stuff was horrible. It reminded him of a dose of quinine his mistress had once made him take when he had a chill.
He worked harder than usual next day to forget the fear that haunted him. At night he was ill. He had caught cold and had a fever. He dropped on his pallet without dinner and didn't get up for three weeks.
He owed his landlady so much money now, he felt in honor bound to board with her and give her all his earnings. He felt himself sinking into an abyss and he didn't have the strength to fight his way out.
The thing that hurt him more than bad food and air when he got to his work again was the look of death in the faces of the children. Their eyes haunted him in the dark as they slept on the same floor. He would get out of there when he was strong again. But these children would never go except to be hauled in the dead wagon to the Potter's Field. And he heard the rattle of this black wagon daily.
In a mood of desperation he walked down Water Street past the boarding house. In front of the place he met a boarder who had spoken to him the last day of his stay. He seized Sam by the coat, led him aside and whispered:
"Has ye heard 'bout de old man, name John Brown, dat come ter lead de niggers ter de promise' lan'?"
"No, but I'se waitin' fur somebody ter lead me."
"Come right on wid me, man. I'se a-goin' to a meetin' to-night an' jine de ban'. Will ye jine us?"
"I jine anything dat'll lead me to de promise' lan'."
"Come on. Hit's over in Brooklyn but a nigger's gwine ter meet me at de ferry and take me dar."
Sam felt in his pocket for the money for the ferry. Luckily he had twenty cents. It was worth while to gamble that much on a trip to the promised land.
An emissary of the prophet met them on the Brooklyn side and led them to a vacant store with closed wooden shutters. No light could be seen from the street. The guide rapped a signal and the door opened. Inside were about thirty negroes gathered before a platform. Chairs filled the long space. A white man was talking to the closely packed group of blacks. Sam pressed forward and watched him.
He was old until he began to talk. And then there was something strange and electric in his tones that made him young. His voice was vaulting and metallic and throbbed with an indomitable will. There was contagion in the fierceness of his tones. It caught his hearers and called them in a spell.
His shoulders were stooped. His manner grim and impressive. There was a quick, wiry movement to his body that gave the idea that he was crouching to spring. It was uncanny. It persisted as his speech lengthened.
He was talking in cold tones of the injustice being done the black man in the South. Of the crimes against God and humanity which the Southern whites were daily committing.
The one feature of the strange speaker that fascinated Sam was the glitter of his shifting eyes. He never held them still. He did not try to bore a man through with them. They were restless, as if moved by hidden forces within. The flash of light from their depths seemed a signal from an unknown world.
Sam watched him with open mouth.
He was finishing his talk now in a desultory way more gripping in its deadly calm than the most passionate appeal.
"We are enrolling volunteers," he quietly announced. "Volunteers in the United States League of Gileadites. If you sign your names to the roll to-night understand clearly what you are doing. I have written for each member Words of Advice which he must memorize as the guide to his action."
He drew a sheet of paper from his pocket and read:
"No jury can be found in the Northern States, that would convict a man for defending his rights to the last extremity. This is well understood by Southern Congressmen, who insist that the right of trial by jury should not be granted to the fugitive slave. Colored people have more fast friends among the whites than they suppose. Just think of the money expended by individuals in your behalf in the past twenty years! Think of the number who have been mobbed and imprisoned on your account. Have any of you seen the branded hand? Do you remember the names of Lovejoy and Torrey? Should any of your number be arrested, you must collect together as quickly as possible so as to outnumber your adversaries who are taking an active part against you. Let no able-bodied man appear on the ground unequipped or with his weapons exposed to view; let that be understood beforehand. Your plans must be known only to yourself, and with the understanding that all traitors must die, wherever caught and proven to be guilty.
"'Whosoever is fearful or afraid, let him return and depart early from Mount Gilead' (Judges VII Chapter, 3rd verse; Deuteronomy XX Chapter, 8th verse). Give all cowards an opportunity to show it on condition of holding their peace. Do not delay one moment after you're ready: you will lose all your resolution if you do. Let the first blow be the signal for all to engage; and when engaged do not do your work by halves; but make clean work with your enemies—"
It was the slow way in which he spoke the last words that gave them meaning. Sam could hear in his tones the crash of steel into human flesh and the grating of the blade on the bone. It made him shiver.
Every negro present joined the League.
When the last man had signed, John Brown led in a long prayer to Almighty God to bless the holy work on which these noble men had entered. At the close of his prayer he announced that on the following night at the People's Hall on the Bowery in New York, the Honorable Gerrit Smith, the noblest friend of the colored men in the North, would preside over a mass meeting in behalf of the downtrodden. He asked them all to come and bring their friends.
The ceremony of signing over, Sam turned to the guide with a genial smile.
"I done jine de League."
"That's right. I knew you would."
"I'se a full member now, ain't I?"
"Of course."
"When do we eat?" Sam asked eagerly.
"Eat?"
"Sho."
"We ain't organizin' de Gileadites to eat, man."
"Ain't we?"
"No, sah. We'se organizin'—ter kill white men dat come atter runaway slaves."
"But ain't dey got nuttin ter eat fer dem dat's here?"
"You come ter de big meetin' ter-morrow night an' hear sumfin dat's good fer yo' soul."
"I'll be dar," Sam promised. But he hoped to find something at the meeting that was good for his stomach as well as his soul.