“Then it's folly to ask justice in your city, is it?” asked the Captain. “But your people are generous, a'n't they? and treat strangers with a courtesy that marks the character of every high-minded society?”
“Yes!—but society in South Carolina has nothing to do with the law; our laws are gloriously ancient. I wish, Cap, I could only open your ideas to the way our folks manage their own affairs. I'm opposed to this law that imprisons stewards, because it affects commerce, but then our other laws are tip-top. It was the law that our legislature made to stop free niggers from coming from the abolition States to destroy the affections of our slaves. Some say, the construction given to it and applied to stewards of foreign vessels a'n't legal, and wasn't intended; but now it's controlled by popular will,—the stewards a'n't legislators, and the judges know it wouldn't be popular, and there's nobody dare meddle with it, for fear he may be called an abolitionist. You better take my advice, Cap: ship the nigger, and save yourself and Consul Mathew the trouble of another fuss,” continued the pilot.
“That I'll never do! I've made up my mind to try it, and won't be driven out of a port because the people stand in fear of a harmless man. If they have any souls in them, they'll regard with favor a poor sailor driven into their port in distress. I've sailed nearly all over the world, and I never got among a people yet that wouldn't treat a shipwrecked sailor with humanity. Gracious God! I've known savages to be kind to poor shipwrecked sailors, and to share their food with them. I can't, pilot, imagine a civilization so degraded, nor a public so lost to common humanity, as to ill treat a man in distress. We've said enough about it for the present. I'll appeal to Mr. Grimshaw's feelings, when I get to the city; and I know, if he's a man, he'll let Manuel stay on board, if I pledge my honor that he won't leave the craft.”
“Humph!—If you knew him as well as I do, you'd save your own feelings. His sympathies don't run that way,” said the pilot.
The Janson had now crossed the bar, and was fast approaching Fort Sumpter. Manuel had overheard enough of the conversation to awaken fears for his own safety. Arising from the mattrass, in a manner indicating his feeble condition, he called Tommy, and walking forward, leaned over the rail near the fore-rigging, and inquired what the Captain and the pilot were talking about. Observing his fears, the little fellow endeavoured to quiet him by telling him they were talking about bad sailors.
“I think it is me they are talking about. If they sell me for slave in Charleston, I'll kill myself before a week,” said he in his broken English.
“What's that you say, Manuel?” inquired the first mate as he came along, clearing up the decks with the men.
“Pilot tell Captain they sell me for slave in South Carolina. I'd jump overboard 'fore I suffer him,” said he.
“Oh, poh! don't be a fool; you a'n't among Patagonians, Manuel; you won't have to give 'em leg for your life. They don't sell foreigners and outlandish men like you for slaves in Carolina—it's only black folks what can't clothe the'r words in plain English. Yer copper-colored hide wouldn't be worth a sixpence to a nigger-trader—not even to old Norman Gadsden, that I've heard 'em tell so much about in the Liverpool docks. He's a regular Jonathan Wild in nigger-dealing; his name's like a fiery dragon among the niggers all over the South; and I hearn our skipper say once when I sailed in a liner, that niggers in Charleston were so 'fraid of him they'd run, like young scorpions away from an old he-devil, when they saw him coming. He sells white niggers, as they call 'em, and black niggers—any thing that comes in his way, in the shape of saleable folks. But he won't acknowledge the corn when he goes away from home, and swears there's two Norman Gadsdens in Charleston; that he a'n't the one! When a man's ashamed of his name abroad, his trade must be very bad at home, or I'm no sailor,” said the mate.
“Ah, my boys!” said the pilot in a quizzical manner, as he came to where several of the men were getting the larboard anchor ready to let go,—“if old Norman Gadsden gets hold of you, you're a gone sucker. A man what's got a bad nigger has only got to say Old Gadsden to him, and it's equal to fifty paddles. The mode of punishment most modern, and adopted in all the workhouses and places of punishment in South Carolina, is with the paddle, a wooden instrument in, the shape of a baker's peel; with a blade from three to five inches wide, and from eight to ten long. This is laid on the posteriors—generally by constables or officers connected with the police. Holes are frequently bored in the blade, which gives the application a sort of percussive effect; The pain is much more acute than with the cowhide; and several instances are known where a master ordered an amount of strokes beyond the endurance of the slave, and it proved fatal at the workhouse. They tell a pretty good story about the old fellow. I don't know if it's true, but the old fellow's rich now, and he does just what he pleases. It was that somebody found one of those little occasional droppings of the aristocracy, very well known among the secrets of the chivalry, and called foundlings, nicely fixed up in a basket.—It's among the secrets though, and mustn't be told abroad.—The finders labelled it, 'Please sell to the highest bidder,' and left it at his door. There was a fund of ominous meaning in the label; but Norman very coolly took the little helpless pledge under his charge, and, with the good nursing of old Bina, made him tell to the tune of two hundred and thirty, cash, 'fore he was two year old. He went by the name of Thomas Norman, the Christian division of his foster-father's, according to custom. The old fellow laughs at the joke, as he calls it, and tells 'em, when they stick it to him, they don't understand the practice of making money. You must keep a bright look out for him, Manuel—you'll know him by the niggers running when they see him coming.”