University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
A FUGITIVE CHATTEL.

THE next morning Charlton sat in his office, calculating
his percentage on a transaction in which he had just acted
as mediator between borrower and lender. The aspect of the
figures, judging from his own, was cheerful.

The office was a gloomy little den up three flights of stairs.
All the furniture was second hand, and the carpet was ragged
and dirty. No broom or dusting-cloth had for months molested
the ancient, solitary reign of the spiders on the ceiling. A
pile of cheap slate-colored boxes with labels stood against the
wall opposite the stove. An iron safe served also as a dressing-table
between the windows that looked out on the street; and
over it hung a small rusty mirror in a mahogany frame with a
dirty hair-brush attached. The library of the little room was
confined to a few common books useful for immediate reference;
a City Directory, a copy of the Revised Statutes, the
Clerk's Assistant, and a dozen other volumes, equally recondite.

There was a knock at the door, and Charlton cried out,
“Come in!”

The visitor was a negro whose face was of that fuliginous
hue that bespeaks an unmixed African descent. He was of
medium height, square built, with the shoulders and carriage
of an athlete. He seemed to be about thirty years of age.
His features, though of the genuine Ethiopian type, were a
refinement upon it rather than an exaggeration. The expression
was bright, hilarious, intelligent; frank and open, you would
add, unless you chanced to detect a certain quick oblique
glance which would flash upon you now and then, and vanish
before you could well realize what it meant. Across his left

cheek was an ugly scar, almost deep enough to be from a cutlass
wound.

“Good morning, Peculiar. Take a chair.”

“Not that name, if you please, Mr. Charlton,” said the
negro, closing the door and looking eagerly around to see if
there had been a listener. “Remember, you are to call me
Jacobs.”

“Ah yes, I forgot. Well, Jacobs, I am glad to see you;
but you are a few minutes before the time. It is n't yet
twelve. Just step into that little closet and wait there till I
call you.”

The negro did as he was directed, and Charlton closed the
door upon him. Five minutes after, the clock of Trinity
struck twelve, and there was another knock at the door.

Before we suffer it to be answered, we must go back and
describe an interview that took place some seven weeks previously,
in the same office, between Charlton and the negro.

A year before that first interview, Charlton had, in some
accidental way, been associated with a well-known antislavery
counsel, in a case in which certain agents of the law for
the rendition of fugitive slaves had been successfully foiled.
Though Charlton's services had been unessential and purely
mercenary, he had shared in the victor's fame; and the grateful
colored men who employed him carried off the illusion that
he was a powerful friend of the slave. And so when Mr. Peculiar,
alias Mr. Jacobs, found himself in New York, a fugitive
from bondage, he was recommended, if he had any little misgivings
as to his immunity from persecution and seizure, to
apply to Mr. Charlton as to a fountain of legal profundity and
philanthropic expansiveness. Greater men than our colored
brethren have jumped to conclusions equally far from the truth
in regard not only to lawyers, but military generals.

Charlton's primary investigations, in his first interview with
Peek, had reference to the amount of funds that the negro
could raise through his own credit and that of his friends.
This amount the lawyer found to be small; and he was about
to express his dissatisfaction in emphatic terms, when a new
consideration withheld him. Affecting that ruling passion of
universal benevolence which the fond imagination of his colored

client had attributed to him, he pondered a moment, then
spoke as follows:

“You tell me, Jacobs, you are in the delicate position of a
fugitive slave. I love the slave. Am I not a friend and a
brother, and all that? But if you expect me to serve you,
you must be entirely frank, — disguise nothing, — disclose to
me your real history, name, and situation, — make a clean breast
of it, in short.”

“That I will do, sir. I know, if I trust a lawyer at all, I
ought to trust him wholly.”

There was nothing in the negro's language to indicate the
traditional slave of the stage and the novel, who always says
“Massa,” and speaks a gibberish indicated to the eye by a
cheap misspelling of words. A listener who had not seen
him would have supposed it was an educated white gentleman
who was speaking; for even in the tone of his voice there was
an absence of the African peculiarity.

“My friends tell me I may trust you, sir,” said Jacobs, advancing
and looking Charlton square in the face. Charlton
must have blenched for an instant, for the negro, as a slight but
significant compression of the lip seemed to portend, drew back
from confidence. “Can I trust you?” he continued, as if he
were putting the question as much to himself as to Charlton.
There was a pause.

Charlton took from his drawer a letter, which he handed to
the negro, with the remark, “You know how to read, I suppose.”

Without replying, Peek took the letter and glanced over it,
— a letter of thanks from a committee of colored citizens in
return for Charlton's services in the case already alluded to.
Peek was reassured by this document. He returned it, and
said, “I will trust you, Mr. Charlton.”

“Take a seat then, Jacobs, and I will make such notes of
your story as I may think advisable.”

Peek did as he was invited; but Charlton seemed interested
mainly in dates and names. A more faithful reporter would
have presented the memorabilia of the narrative somewhat in
this form:

“Was born on Herbert's plantation in Marshall County,

Mississippi. Mother a house-slave. When he was four years
old she was sold and taken to Louisiana. His real name not
Jacobs. That name he took recently in New York. The
name he was christened by was Peculiar Institution. It
was given to him by one Ewell, a drunken overseer, and was
soon shortened to Peek, which name has always stuck to him.
Was brought up a body servant till his fourteenth year. Soon
found that the way for a slave to get along was to lie, but to
lie so as not to be found out. Grew to be so expert a liar, that
among his fellows he was called the lawyer. No offence to
you, Mr. Charlton.

“As soon as he could carry a plate, was made to wait at
table. Used to hear the gentlemen and ladies talk at meals.
Could speak their big words before he knew their meaning.
Kept his ears and eyes well open. An old Spanish negro,
named Alva, taught him by stealth to read and write. When
the young ladies took their lessons in music, this child stood by
and learnt as much as they did, if not more. Learnt to play
so well on the piano that he was often called on to show off
before visitors.

“Was whipped twice, and then not badly, at Herbert's: once
for stealing some fruit, once for trying to teach a slave to read.
Family very pious. Old Herbert used to read prayers every
morning. But he did n't mind making a woman give up one
husband and take another. Did n't mind separating mother
and child. Did n't mind shooting a slave for disobedience.
Saw him do it once. Herbert had told Big Sam not to go with
a certain metif girl; for Herbert was as particular about
matching his niggers as about his horses and sheep. A jealous
negro betrayed Sam. Old Herbert found Sam in the metif
girl's hut, and shot him dead, without giving him a chance to
beg for mercy.[1] Well, Sam was only a nigger; and did n't Mr.
Herbert have family prayers, and go to church twice every
Sunday? Who should save his soul alive, if not Mr. Herbert?

“In spite of prayers, however, things did n't go right on the

plantation. The estate was heavily mortgaged. Finally the
creditors took it, and the family was broken up. Peculiar was
sold to one Harkman, a speculator, who let him out as an
apprentice in New Orleans, in Collins's machine-shop for the
repair of steam-engines. But Collins failed, and then Peek
became a waiter in the St. Charles Hotel. Here he stayed six
years. Cut his eye-teeth during that time. Used to talk freely
with Northern visitors about slavery. Studied the big map of
the United States that hung in the reading-room. Learnt all
about the hotels, North and South. Stretched his ears wide
whenever politics were discussed.

“Having waited on the principal actors and singers of the
day at the St. Charles, he had a free pass to the theatres. Used
often to go behind the scenes. Waited on Blitz, Anderson, and
other jugglers. Saw Anderson show up the humbug, as he
called it, of spiritual manifestations. Went to church now and
then. Heard some bad preachers, and some good. Heard Mr.
Clapp preach. Heard Mr. Palmer preach. After hearing the
latter on the duties of slaves, tried to run away. Was caught
and taken to a new patent whipping-machine, recently introduced
by a Yankee. Here was left for a whipping. Bought
off the Yankee with five dollars, and taught him how to stain
my back so as to imitate the marks of the lash. Thus no discredit
was brought on the machine. A week after was sold to
a Red River planter, Mr. Carberry Ratcliff.

“Can never speak of this man calmly. He had a slave, a
woman white as you are, sir, that he beat, and then tried to
make me take and treat as my wife. When he found I had
cheated him, he just had me tied up and whipped till three
strong men were tired out with the work. It 's a wonder how
I survived. My whole back is seamed deep with the scars.
This scar over my cheek is from a blow he himself gave me
that day with a strip of raw hide. He sold me to Mr. Barnwell
in Texas as soon as I could walk, which was n't for some
weeks. I left, resolving to come back and kill Ratcliff. I
meant to do this so earnestly, that the hope of it almost restored
me. Revenge was my one thought, day and night. I
felt that I could not be at ease till that man Ratcliff had paid
for his barbarity. Even now I sometimes wake full of wrath
from my dreams, imagining I have him at my mercy.

“I went to Texas with a bad reputation. Was put among
the naughty darkies, and sent to the cotton-field. Braxton, the
overseer, had been a terrible fellow in his day, but I happened
to be brought to him at the time he was beginning to get scared
about his soul. Soon had things my own way. Braxton made
me a sort of sub-overseer; and I got more work out of the
field-hands by kindness than Braxton had ever got by the
lash.

“One day I discovered on a neighboring plantation an old
woman who proved to be my mother. She had been brought
here from Louisiana. She was on the point of dying. She
knew me, first from hearing my name, and then from a cross
she had pricked in India ink on my breast. She had n't seen
me for sixteen years. Had been having a hard time of it.
Her hut was close by a slough, a real fever-hole, and she had
been sick most of the time the last three years.

“The old woman flashed up bright on finding me: gave me
a long talk; told me little stories of when I was a child; told
me how my father had been sold to an Alabama man, and shot
dead for trying to break away from a whipping-post. All at
once she said she saw angels, drew me down to her, and dropped
away quiet as a lamb, so that, though my forehead lay on her
breast, I did n't know when she died.

“After this loss, I was pretty serious. Was n't badly treated.
My master, an educated gentleman, was absent in New Orleans
most of the time. Overseer Braxton, after the big scare he
got about his soul, grew to be humane, and left almost everything
to me. But I felt sick of life, and wanted to die, though
not before I had killed Ratcliff. One day I heard that Corinna,
a quadroon girl, a slave on the plantation, had fallen into a
strange state, during which she preached as no minister had
ever preached before. I had known her as a very ordinary and
rather stupid girl. Went to see her in one of her trances.
Found that report had fallen short of the real case. Was
astonished at what I saw and heard. Saw what no white man
would believe, and so felt I was wiser on one point than all the
white men. My interviews with Corinna soon made me forget
about Ratcliff; and when she died, six weeks after my first
visit, felt my mind full of things it would take me a lifetime
to think out and settle.

“After Corinna's death, I stayed some months on the plantation,
though I had a chance to leave. Stayed because I had
an easy time and because I found I could be of use to the
slaves; and further, because I had resolved, if ever I got free,
it should be by freeing myself. A white man, a Mr. Vance,
whose life I had saved, wanted to buy and free me. I made
him spend his money so it would show for more than just the
freeing of one man. But Braxton, the overseer, who was letting
me have pretty much my own way, at last died; and
Hawks, his successor, was of opinion that the way to get work
out of niggers was to treat them like dogs; and so, one pleasant
moonlight night, I made tracks for Galveston. Here, by
means of false papers, I managed to get passage to New Orleans,
and there hid myself on board a Yankee schooner bound
for New London, Connecticut. When she was ten days out,
I made my appearance on deck, much to the surprise of the
crew. Fifteen days afterwards we arrived in the harbor of
New London.

“Old Skinner, the captain, had been playing possum with
me all the voyage, — keeping dark, and pretending to be my
friend, meaning all the while to have me arrested in port. No
sooner had he dropped anchor than he sent on shore for the
officers. But the mate tipped me the wink. `Darkey,' said
he, `do you see that little green fishing-boat yonder? Well,
that belongs to old Payson, an all-fired abolitionist and friend
of the nigger. Our Captain and crew are all under hatches,
and now if you don't want to be a lost nigger, jest you drop
down quietly astern, swim off to Payson, and tell him who you
are, and that the slave-catchers are after you. If old Payson
don't put you through after that, it will be because it is n't old
Payson.'

“I did as the mate told me. Reached the fishing-boat. Found
old Payson, a gnarled, tough, withered old sea-dog, who comprehended
at once what was in the wind, and cried, `Ha! ha!'
like the war-horse that snuffs the battle. Just as I got into
the boat, Captain Skinner came up on the schooner's deck, and
saw what had taken place. The schooner's small boat had
been sent ashore for the officers whose business it was to carry
out the Fugitive-Slave Law. What could Skinner do? Visions

of honors and testimonials and rewards and dinners from Texan
slaveholders, because of his loyalty to the institution in
returning a runaway nigger, suddenly vanished. He paced
the deck in a rage. To add to his fury, old Payson, while I
stood at the bows, dripping and grinning, came sailing up
before a stiff breeze, and passed within easy speaking distance,
Payson pouring in such a volley of words that Skinner was
dumbfounded. `I 'll make New London too hot for you, you
blasted old skinflint!' cried Payson. `You 'd sell your own
sister just as soon as you 'd sell this nigger, you would! Let
me catch you ashore, and I 'll give you the blastedest thrashing
you ever got yet, you infernal doughface, you! Go and lick
the boots of slaveholders. It 's jest what you was born for.'

“And the little sail-boat passed on out of hearing. Payson
got in the track of one of the spacious steamboats that ply
between the cities of Long Island Sound and New York, and
managed to throw a line, so as to be drawn up to the side.
We then got on board. In six hours, we were in New
York. Payson put me in the proper hands, bade me good by,
returned to his sail-boat, and made the best speed he could
back to New London, fired with hopes of pitching into that
`meanest of all mean skippers, old Skinner.'

“This was three years ago. The despatch agents of the
underground railroad hurried me off to Canada. As soon as I
judged it safe, I returned to New York. Here I got a good
situation as head-waiter at Bunker's. Am married. Have a
boy, named Sterling, a year old. Am very happy with my
wife and child and my hired piano. But now and then I and
my wife have an alarm lest I shall be seized and carried back
to slavery.”

Here Mr. Institution finished his story, which we have condensed,
generally using, however, his own words. Charlton
did not subject him to much cross-questioning. He asked, first,
what was the name of the schooner in which Peek had escaped
from Texas. It was the Albatross. Charlton made a note.
Second, did Mr. Barnwell, Peek's late master, have an agent
in New Orleans? Yes; Peek had often seen the name on
packages: P. Herman & Co. And, third, did Peek marry his
wife in Canada? Yes. Then she, too, is a fugitive slave, eh?

Peek seemed reluctant to answer this question, and flashed
a quick, distrustful glance on Charlton. The latter assumed
an air of indifference, and said, “Perhaps you had better not
answer that question; it is immaterial.”

Again Peek's mind was relieved.

“That is enough for the present, Mr. Jacobs,” continued
Charlton. “If I have occasion to see you, I can always find
you at Bunker's, I suppose.”

“Yes, Mr. Charlton. Inquire for John Jacobs. Keep a
bright lookout for me, and you sha'n't be the loser. Will five
dollars pay you?”

Charlton wavered between the temptation to clutch more at
the moment, and the prospect of making his new client available
in other ways. At length taking the money he replied,
“I will make it do for the present. Good morning.”