University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

At day light, all was in motion. Arthur and Virginia,
being affectionately dismissed by their friends,
were first upon the road, before Lieutenant Whiting
was awake. Much of the night had been spent in
preparations, and long before sunrise Douglas handed
his aunt and cousins into their carriage. His uncle
mounted the barouche, with Jack for driver, by whose
side old Tom was placed; while the lady's maid
took her seat by her single-minded master, with a
freedom from which an amalgamationist would have
drawn the most pleasing inferences. No other white
person was seen; but a body guard of twenty negroes,
well armed, and mounted on plough horses, some
saddled, some cushioned, and some bare-backed,
surrounded the carriages and baggage-wagon. In
the midst rode Douglas and his friend on horseback.

“You see,” said Mr. Trevor to Whiting, as he
took his place in the barouche, “that the part these
faithful creatures took in last night's work, drives
them into exile as well as me. I must not leave
them behind to be the victims of baffled malice.
What is to become of my plantation, is a question
of less importance. I suppose I may say with Cincinnatus,
when honor was forced on him as it is on
me, my fields must go untilled this year! You see
here, sir, my whole male force. Not one proved
recreant.”

“This affair is altogether unaccountable to me,”
said Whiting to Douglas, as they moved off together;
“and this the strangest feature of the whole.
Do men, then, act without motives; and against all
assignable motives?”

“I asked the same question myself last night,”
said Douglas, “and was referred to coming events
for the answer. I was partly taught, at the same
time, to account for what I was told to expect.”

“And how can it be accounted for?”

“I cannot say I have my lesson perfect; but
something was said about the difference of character
produced by peculiar training, and habitudes of mind
formed by circumstances. For my part, it appears
to me that there must be something, by nature, in
the moral constitution of the negro, intrinsically different
from the white man.”

“It would, indeed, seem so,” said Whiting, “if

we are to credit what we see. But, in that case, we
must reject the authority which tells us that all are of
one race.”

“So are all dogs,” said Douglas; “and dogs can
no more act without motive than man. It depends
on temper and character what shall be motives of
action. The wolf would be sadly puzzled to judge
of the motives of the Newfoundland dog. May not
circumstances, which have made the difference between
them, have produced the much less difference
between the white man and the negro? I have no
measure for the effect of such causes. If I am put
to choose between rejecting the evidence of my own
senses, or the evidence of God's word, or the philosophy
which teaches that man is to be considered as
a unit, because all of one race, philosophy must go
by the board. It may be, that what is best for me, is
best for my friend Jack there, and vice versa; but as
long as neither of us thinks so, why not leave each
to his choice? Besides, there is more room in the
world for both of us, than if both always wanted the
same things.”

A ride of a few hours carried the party across the
line into North Carolina. Here they stopped at the
first public house; and Mr. Trevor drew up a hasty
statement of the events of the night, which should
have the effect of acquitting Lieutenant Whiting of
all blame, on account of his own escape from the
fangs of his enemies. In this he set forth that,

having been warned of the intended prosecution, he
had made his preparations accordingly, and that the
officer had but fallen into a snare from which no
vigilance could have saved him. This he signed,
and gave, moreover, a clear acquittance to Lieutenant
Whiting for all he had done; and having thus placed
him, as far as depended on himself, rectus in curia,
he announced to him that he was now at liberty to
go whither he would.

“And now, sir,” said he, “as the spell which
would have made your touch degrading is broken
by the State line, let me have the pleasure of taking
you by the hand, not only as my nephew's friend,
but as one who, in the extremes of victory and defeat,
as captor and as prisoner, has borne himself as
became a gentleman.”

Saying this, he extended his hand, which Whiting
grasped with fervor, and they parted as friends
cordial and sincere.

Douglas accompanied his friend a short distance
on his return, the latter walking, and leading his
horse. They conversed of the past and the future.

“I have been a volunteer in this business,” said
Whiting. “I shall not disguise that my friendship
for you led me to offer my services, and I fear that
no excuse will be received for my failure. There is
a spirit somewhere at work, to which I will give no
name, that will be implacable at the thought that any

advantage may have been lost by my respect for your
feelings.”

“I am afraid it may prove so,” replied Douglas.
“The consequence may be fatal to your advancement
in the army, and perhaps you may be driven
from it, as I have been. Should it be so, my dear
Whiting—but I will not profit so little by the example
of delicacy set me while I wore the epaulette,
as to say any thing to you now. I would content
myself with telling you where I shall be found, if I
myself knew. But shall I keep you advised of my
movements?”

“By all means,” said Whiting. “I shall always
wish to know your fate, whether good or ill.”

“I know that,” replied Douglas. “But that is
not my meaning. Shall I let you know where to
find me, in case circumstances should lead you to
share my fate?”

“Don't ask me that, Trevor. The question implies
ideas which I must not entertain. But should
such a time as you suppose ever arrive, I shall know
where to find you, should my opinions make it right
to seek you.”

“Then, God bless you, Whiting! That we
shall meet again is sure. That we shall stand
shoulder to shoulder in the strife of battle, as, in our
day dreams, we have so often thought of doing, I
cannot doubt.”

And thus parted these gallant and generous

youths; the one into exile from the country that he
loved, the other to return to the service of an unthankful
master.

A farther ride of a few miles brought our party to
the village, in which Mr. Trevor wished to take up
his temporary residence. Here they found Mr. B—,
who had been engaged in investigating the comforts
and capabilities of the different public houses, and
having fixed on that he liked best, met Mr. Trevor
in the street, and conducted the party to it.
The two friends soon drew apart to discuss with the
landlord the necessary arrangements for the comfort
of the family during their proposed stay.

While they were thus engaged, Douglas seated
himself, after the manner of the country, in the bar-room;
in which, besides some travellers, there was a
motley assemblage of the inhabitants of the village,
who had come in to stare at and talk about the new
comers. By the time Douglas had taken care of the
ladies and baggage, they were deep into the merits
of the whole party; and, when he entered the room,
they were too busy talking to pay any attention to
him. The principal interlocutors were three. First,
a well-dressed, middle-aged man, whose dapper air
and delicate hands bespoke one accustomed to bowing
across a counter over lace patterns and painted
muslins; and whose style of eloquence was exactly
adapted to the praise of such articles. Then there
was a coarse, strong man, with a bacon-fed look,

plainly, cheaply, and untastefully dressed, in clothes
which, by their substantial goodness, indicated at
once the wearer's prudence, and the length of his
purse. His voice was loud, strong, and self-important,
entirely devoid of melody, and incapable of
inflection or modulation. His whole appearance
showed him to be a substantial planter, ignorant of
every thing but corn and tobacco. A huge whip in
the hand of the third, together with his dusty and
travel-soiled appearance, denoted the driver of a wagon
which stood before the door.

Their conversation I reserve for the next chapter.