University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
A SLAVE-HUNTING PARSON.

It was a delightful evening after a cloudless day, with the setting sun
reflecting his golden rays on the surrounding hills which were covered
with a beautiful greensward, and the luxuriant verdure that forms the
constant garb of the tropics, that the steamer Columbia ran into the
dock at Natchez, and began unloading the cargo, taking in passengers
and making ready to proceed on her voyage to New Orleans. The
plank connecting the boat with the shore had scarcely been secured in
its place, when a good-looking man about fifty years of age, with a
white neck-tie, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses on, was seen hurrying
on board the vessel. Just at that moment could be seen a stout man
with his face pitted with the small-pox, making his way up to the
above-mentioned gentleman.

“How do you do, my dear sir? this is Mr. Wilson, I believe,” said
the short man, at the same time taking from his mouth a large chew
of tobacco, and throwing it down on the ship's deck.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” replied the tall man.

“Why, don't you know me? My name is Jennings; I sold you a
splendid negro woman some years ago.”

“Yes, yes,” answered the Natchez man. “I remember you now, for
the woman died in a few months, and I never got the worth of my money
out of her.”

“I could not help that,” returned the slave-trader; “she was as sound
as a roach when I sold her to you.”

“Oh, yes,” replied the parson, “I know she was; but now I want a
young girl, fit for house use,—one that will do to wait on a lady.”

“I am your man,” said Jennings, “just follow me,” continued he,
“and I will show you the fairest little critter you ever saw.” And the
two passed to the stern of the boat to where the trader had between
fifty and sixty slaves, the greater portion being women.

“There,” said Jennings, as a beautiful young woman shrunk back
with modesty. “There, sir, is the very gal that was made for you. If
she had been made to your order, she could not have suited you better.”

“Indeed, sir, is not that young woman white?” inquired the parson.

“Oh, no, sir; she is no whiter than you see!”

“But is she a slave?” asked the preacher.

“Yes,” said the trader, “I bought her in Richmond, and she comes
from an excellent family. She was raised by Squire Miller, and her mistress
was one of the most pious ladies in that city, I may say; she was
the salt of the earth, as the ministers say.”

“But she resembles in some respect Agnes, the woman I bought from
you,” said Mr. Wilson. As he said the name of Agnes, the young woman
started as if she had been struck. Her pulse seemed to quicken,
but her face alternately flushed and turned pale, and tears trembled
upon her eyelids. It was a name she had heard her mother mention,
and it brought to her memory those days,—those happy days, when she
was so loved and caressed. This young woman was Clotelle, the grand-daughter
of Agnes. The preacher, on learning the fact, purchased her,
and took her home, feeling that his daughter Georgiana would prize her
very highly. Clotelle found in Georgiana more a sister than a mistress,
who, unknown to her father, taught the slave-girl how to read, and did
much toward improving and refining Clotelle's manners, for her own
sake. Like her mother fond of flowers, the “Virginia Maid,” as she was
sometimes called, spent many of her leisure hours in the garden. Beside
the flowers which sprang up from the fertility of soil unplanted and unattended,
there was the heliotrope, sweet-pea, and cup-rose, transplanted
from the island of Cuba. In her new home Clotelle found herself saluted
on all sides by the fragrance of the magnolia. When she went with
her young mistress to the Poplar Farm, as she sometimes did, nature's
wild luxuriance greeted her, wherever she cast her eyes.

The rustling citron, lime, and orange, shady mango with its fruits of
gold, and the palmetto's umbrageous beauty, all welcomed the child of
sorrow. When at the farm, Huckelby, the overseer, kept his eye on
Clotelle if within sight of her, for he knew she was a slave, and no
doubt hoped that she might some day fall into his hands. But she
shrank from his looks as she would have done from the charm of the
rattlesnake. The negro-driver always tried to insinuate himself into the
good opinion of Georgiana and the company that she brought. Knowing
that Miss Wilson at heart hated slavery, he was ever trying to show
that the slaves under his charge were happy and contented. One day,
when Georgiana and some of her Connecticut friends were there, the
overseer called all the slaves up to the “great house,” and set some of
the young ones to dancing. After awhile whiskey was brought in and
a dram given to each slave, in return for which they were expected to
give a toast, or sing a short piece of his own composition; when it came
to Jack's turn he said,—

“The big bee flies high, the little bee makes the honey: the black
folks make the cotton, and the white folks gets the money.”

Of course, the overseer was not at all elated with the sentiment contained
in Jack's toast. Mr. Wilson had lately purchased a young man
to assist about the house and to act as coachman. This slave, whose
name was Jerome, was of pure African origin, was perfectly black, very
fine-looking, tall, slim, and erect as any one could possibly be. His

features were not bad, lips thin, nose prominent, hands and feet small.
His brilliant black eyes lighted up his whole countenance. His hair
which was nearly straight, hung in curls upon his lofty brow. George
Combe or Fowler would have selected his head for a model. He was
brave and daring, strong in person, fiery in spirit, yet kind and true in
his affections, earnest in his doctrines. Clotelle had been at the parson's
but a few weeks when it was observed that a mutual feeling had grown up
between her and Jerome. As time rolled on, they became more and more
attached to each other. After satisfying herself that these two really
loved, Georgiana advised their marriage. But Jerome contemplated his
escape at some future day, and therefore feared that if married it might
militate against it. He hoped, also, to be able to get Clotelle away too,
and it was this hope that kept him from trying to escape by himself.
Dante did not more love his Beatrice, Swift his Stella, Waller his Saccharissa,
Goldsmith his Jessamy bride, or Burns his Mary, than did
Jerome his Clotelle. Unknown to her father, Miss Wilson could permit
these two slaves to enjoy more privileges than any of the other servants.
The young mistress taught Clotelle, and the latter imparted her instructions
to her lover, until both could read so as to be well understood.
Jerome felt his superiority, and always declared that no master should
ever flog him. Aware of his high spirit and determination, Clotelle
was in constant fear lest some difficulty might arise between her lover
and his master.

One day Mr. Wilson, being somewhat out of temper and irritated at
what he was pleased to call Jerome's insolence, ordered him to follow
him to the barn to be flogged. The young slave obeyed his master, but
those who saw him at the moment felt that he would not submit to be
whipped.

“No, sir,” replied Jerome, as his master told him to take off his coat:
“I will serve you, Master Wilson, I will labor for you day and night, if
you demand it, but I will not be whipped.”

This was too much for a white man to stand from a negro, and the
preacher seized his slave by the throat, intending to choke him. But
for once he found his match. Jerome knocked him down, and then escaped
through the back-yard to the street, and from thence to the woods.

Recovering somewhat from the effect of his fall, the parson regained
his feet and started in pursuit of the fugitive. Finding, however, that
the slave was beyond his reach, he at once resolved to put the dogs on
his track. Tabor, the negro-catcher, was sent for, and in less than an
hour, eight or ten men, including the parson, were in the woods with
hounds, trying the trails. These dogs will attack a negro at their master's
bidding; and cling to him as the bull-dog will cling to a beast.
Many are the speculations as to whether the negro will be secured alive

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 756EAF. Illustration page. Image of a group of Caucasion men standion on the bank of a swamp. They are pointing towards an African-American figure in the water. The men hold whips and guns.]

or dead, when these dogs once get on his track. Whenever there is to
be a negro hunt, there is no lack of participants. Many go to enjoy the
fun which it is said they derive from these scenes.

The company had been in the woods but a short time ere they got on
the track of two fugitives, one of whom was Jerome. The slaves immediately
bent their steps toward the swamp, with the hope that the
dogs, when put upon their scent would be unable to follow them through
the water.

The slaves then took a straight course for the Baton Rouge and Bayou
Sara road, about four miles distant. Nearer and nearer the whimpering
pack pressed on; their delusion begins to dispel. All at once the
truth flashes upon the minds of the fugitives like a glare of light,—'tis
Tabor with his dogs!

The scent becomes warmer and warmer, and what was at first an irregular
cry now deepens into one ceaseless roar, as the relentless pack
presses on after its human prey.

They at last reach the river, and in the negroes plunge, followed by the
catch-dog. Jerome is caught and is once more in the hands of his master,
while the other poor fellow finds a watery grave. They return, and
the preacher sends his slave to jail.