“That’s from my brother,” he muttered, “and that also, and this—‘Mobile—forwarded’—who can this be from?”
He tore it open, and ran his eye over the contents.
“Oh, pshaw!” he snarled, flinging it down. “Business. Business be cursed! I’m in no mood for business. Let’s see what Joseph has to say for himself. Which is the first—Oh, this is it.”
He opened the letter, deliberately smoothed it out, and caressing his moustache with one hand, while he held the sheet in the other, began to read with a face that flushed into a horrid and tigerish smile as he read on. This was the letter:
New Orleans, La., May 20th, 1852.
Dear Torwood:
There’s been the devil to pay up on your plantation, and no mistake, and poor Tassle has gone the way of all flesh. On the 15th, Tassle lashed that mulatto wench Sally three or four times for falling down in the rows—the yellow beast pretending of course that she was sick, as they always do. Precious little work, at all events, was got out of her that day, and when night came, Tassle staked her down for a good flogging. That black Jim of yours, her husband, tried to beg her off the flogging, but Tassle wasn’t to be wheedled out of it, and struck Jim, so they tell me, across the face with the whip. Whereupon, Jim flew at him with an axe, and in a second it was all up with poor Tassle. The boy actually cut him to pieces, and then ran for the swamp. The planters were roused, however, got out the dogs, hunted him down, and in less than no time, I may say, a fire was lit by the bayou, and the black scoundrel trussed up and burned alive, screeching like mad, with all the niggers looking on. They’ll profit by the example, I reckon, and learn that it won’t do to murder a white man—the cursed brutes.
I am hurrying up to fix business, so that I can go; up river, and attend to the plantation for you, till you get back. But you’d better hurry home as quick as you can, for it’s a busy season with us here, and I can’t well be away.
In haste, your aff.,
Joseph Lafitte.