He and the Colonel were seated upon the piazza in the soft Southern night talking over the points of law in claiming the Carlingford estate, when Mrs. Thomson called the latter for a moment into the house. Something blacker than the black night passed him as he sat there alone. Warren was startled, and it was some moments after the figure passed, before he realized that a man had spoken to him in passing: “Leave your window unlatched.”
Pleading fatigue, the young man retired early, but not to sleep. His pulse beat at fever heat; his excited fancy could detect the sound of drums and the hurrying of marching feet. He sunk into a feverish slumber, from which he was awakened by the weeping of distressed females. He listened—all was still; it was the imagination again. He could not sleep, so he arose and looked carefully after his pistols. Danger seemed all about him, but he unlatched the window and drew it back softly, then stretched himself again upon the bed.
About one o’clock he was awakened from a light slumber by some one shaking him, and sitting up, found Judah beside him,—his dark face distinctly visible by the moon’s dim light. Sitting in the darkness, the sweet scent of the magnolia enveloping them in its fragrance, the faint sounds of insect life mingling with the murmur of rustling leaves, Warren Maxwell listened to whispered words that harrowed up his very soul. To emphasize his story, Judah stripped up his shirt and seizing the young white man’s hand pressed it gently over the scars and seams stamped upon his back.
“I could bear it all, Mr. Maxwell,” he concluded, “but Winona——” here his voice broke. “They’ve educated her to increase her value in the slave market, and next week Mr. Thomson takes her and me up the river to sell us to the highest bidder. If help does not come I have sworn to kill her before she shall become slavery’s victim. It is impossible for me to put in words the fate of a beautiful female slave on these plantations; the torture of hell cannot surpass it.”
A great wave of admiration swept over Warren at Judah’s words. It was the involuntary tribute of Nature to nobility of soul wherever found. The boy had become a man, and his demeanor was well calculated to inspire admiration and trust. Something truly majestic—beyond his years—had developed in his character. Warren thought him a superb man, and watched him, fascinated by his voice, his language, and his expressive gestures. Slavery had not contaminated him. His life with White Eagle had planted refinement inbred. In him was the true expression of the innate nature of the Negro when given an opportunity equal with the white man.
Impulsively, Maxwell laid his arm affectionately about the neck and shoulders of the youth.
“No extremes, Judah, until all else fails. I can buy you both if it comes to that, and my promise to take you to England with me still holds good.”
“I doubt that you will be allowed to buy us. There is a stronger reason for our destruction underlying all this than is apparent. Don’t let it be known that we have held any communication with you, or that you are at all interested in our fate. Be cautious.”
“I will remember. But I shall have to study this matter over. I hardly know how to meet this issue if the use of money is denied us. When do you leave?”
“Monday, on the ‘Crescent.’”