University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
CONFESSIONS OF A MEAN WHITE.

AFTER an early breakfast the following morning, Vance
proceeded to the hospital. The patient had been
expecting him.

“He has seemed to know just how near you 've been for
the last hour,” said the nurse. “He followed —”

“Sit down, Mr. Vance, please,” interrupted the patient.

Vance drew a chair near to the pillow and sat down.

“It all kum ter me last night, Mr. Vance! Now I
remember whar 't was I met yer. But fust lem me tell yer
who an' what I be. My name 's Quattles. I was born in
South Kerliny, not fur from Columby. I was what the
niggers call a mean white, and my father he was a mean white
afore me, and all my brothers they was mean whites, and my
sisters they mahrried mean whites. The one thing we was
raised ter do fiust-rate, and what we tuk ter kindly from the
start, was ter shirk labor. We was taught 't was degradin' ter
do useful work like a nigger does, so we all tried hard ter
find su'thin' that mowt be easy an' not useful.”

“My dear fellow,” interrupted Vance, who saw the man was
suffering, “you 're fatiguing yourself too much. Rest awhile.”

“No, Mr. Vance. You mus n't mind these twitchin's an'
spazums like. They airn't quite as bahd as they look. Wall,
as I war sayin', one cuss of slavery ar', it drives the poor
whites away from honest labor; makes 'em think it 's mean-sperretid
ter hoe corn an' plant 'taters. An' this feelin', yer
see, ar' all ter the profit uv the rich men, — the Hammonds,
Rhetts, an' Draytons, — 'cause why? 'cause it leaves ter the

rich all the good land, an' drives the poor whites ter pickin'
up a mean livin', any way they kin, outside uv hard work!
Howsomever, I did n't see this; an' so, like other mis'rable
fools, I thowt I war a sort uv a 'ristocrat myself, 'cause I could
put on airs afore a nigger. An' this feelin' the slave-owners
try to keep up in the mean whites; try to make 'em feel proud
they 're not niggers, though the hull time the poor cusses fare
wuss nor any nigger in a rice-swamp.”

“My friend,” said Vance, “you 've got at the truth at last,
though I fear you 've been long about it.”

“Yer may bet high on that, Mr. Vance! How I used ter
cuss the Abolishuners, an' go ravin' mahd over the meddlin'
Yankees! Wall, what d' yer think war the best thing South
Kerliny could do fur me, after never off'rin' me a chance ter
larn ter read an' write? I 'll tell yer what the peculiar
prermoted me ter. I riz to be foreman uv of a rat-pit.”

“Of a what?” interrogated Vance.

“Of a rat-pit. There war a feller in Charleston who kept
a rat-pit, whar a little tareyer dog killed rats, so many a
minute, to please the sportin' gentry an' other swells. Price
uv admission one dollar. The swells would come an' bet how
many rats the dog would kill in a minute, — 't was sometimes
thirty, sometimes forty, and wunst 't was fifty. My bus'ness
was ter throw the rats, one after another, inter the pit. We 'd
a big cage with a hole in the top, an' I had ter put my bar
hand in, an' throw out the rats fast as I could, one by one.
The tareyer would spring an' break the backs uv the varmints
with one jerk uv his teeth. Great bus'ness fur a white man,
— war n't it? So much more genteel than plantin' an' hoein'!
Wall, I kept at that pleasant trade five yars, an' then lost my
place 'cause both hands got so badly bit I could n't pull out the
rats no longer.”

“You must have seen things from a bad stand-point, my
friend.”

“Bad as 't was, 't was better nor the slavery stand-pint I
kum ter next. Yer 'v heerd tell uv Jeff McTavish? Wall,
Jeff hahd an overseer who got shot in the leg by a runaway
swamp nigger, an' so I was hired as a sort uv overseer's mate.
I war n't brung up ter be very tender 'bout niggers, Mr.

Vance; but the way niggers was treated on that air plantation
was too much even for my tough stomach. I 've seen niggers
shot down dead by McTavish fur jest openin' thar big lips to
answer him when he was mad. There war n't ten uv his
slaves out uv a hunderd, that war n't scored all up an' down
the back with marks uv the lash.”[1]

“Did you whip them?” inquired Vance.

“I did n't do nothin' else; but I did it slack, an' McTavish
he found it out, and begun jawin' me. An' I guv it to him
back, and we hahd it thar purty steep, an' bymeby he outs
with his revolver, but I war too spry for him. I tripped him
up, an' he hahd ter ask pardon uv a mean white wunst in his
life, an' no mistake. A little tahmrin' water, please.”

Vance administered a spoonful, and the patient resumed his
story.

“In coorse, I hahd ter leave McTavish. Then fur five
years I 'd a tight time of it keepin' wooded up. What with
huntin' and fishin', thimble-riggin' an' stealin', I got along
somehow, an' riz ter be a sort uv steamboat gambler on the
Misippy. 'T was thar I fust saw you, Mr. Vance.”

“On the Mississippi! When and where?”

“Some fifteen yars ago, on boord the Pontiac, jest afore
she blowed up.”

“Indeed! I 've no recollection of meeting you.”

“Don't yer remember Kunnle D'lancy Hyde?”

“Perfectly.”

“Wall, I war his shadder. He could n't go nowhar I did n't
foller. If he took snuff, I sneezed. If he got drunk, I
staggered. Don't yer remember a darkish, long-haired feller,
he called Quattles?”

“Are you that man?” exclaimed Vance, restraining his
emotion.

“I 'm nobody else, Mr. Vance, an' it ain't fur nothin' I 've

got yer here to har what I 've ter tell. Ef I don't stop to say
I 'm sorry for the mean things I done, 't aint 'cause I hain't some
shame 'bout it, but 'cause time 's short. When the Pontiac
blowed up, I an' the Kunnle (he 's 'bout as much uv a kunnle
as I 'm uv a bishop), we found ou'selves on that part uv the
boat whar least damage was did. We was purty well corned,
for we 'd been drinkin' some, but the smash-up sobered us. The
Kunnle's fust thowt was fur his niggers. Says I: `Let the
niggers slide. We sh'll be almighty lucky ef we keep out of
hell ou'selves.' 'T was ev'ry man for hisself, yer know.”

“Were you on the forward part of the wreck?”

“Yes, Mr. Vance, an' it soon began ter sink. Poor critters,
men an' women, some scalded, some strugglin' in the water,
war cryin' for help. The Kunnle an' I —”

“Stop a moment,” said Vance; and, drawing out paper and
pencil, he made copious notes.

“As I war sayin', Mr. Vance, the Kunnle an' I got four life-presarvin'
stools, lahshed 'em together, an' begun ter make off
for the shore. Says I, `We owt ter save one uv those women
folks.' A yaller gal, with a white child in her arms, was
screamin' out for us to take her an' the child. Jest then she
got a blow on the head from a block that fell from one uv the
masts. It seemed ter make her wild, an' she dropped inter the
water, but held on tight ter the young 'un. Says the Kunnle
to me, says he, `Now, Cappn, you take the gal, an' I 'll take
the bebby.' An' so we done it, and all got ashore safe. We
lahnded on the Tennessee side. The sun hahd n't riz, but 't was
jest light enough ter see. We made tracks away from the
river till we kum ter a nigger's desarted hut, out of sight
'tween two hills. Thar we left the yaller gal and the bebby.
The gal seemed kind o' crazy; so we fastened 'em in.”

“And the child?” asked Vance. “Did you know whose it
was?”

“O yes, I knowed it, 'cause I 'd seen the yaller gal more 'n
a dozen times, off an' on, leadin' the little thing about. The
Berwicks, a North'n family, was the parrents. Wall, the
Kunnle an' I, we went back ter the river to see what was
goin' on. The sun was up now. The Champion hahd turned
back to give help. Poor critters war dyin' all round from

scalds and bruises. All at wunst the Kunnle an' I kum upon
a crowd round Mr. Berwick, who lay thar on the ground bahdly
wounded. His wife lay dead close by. He kept askin' fur
his child. A feller named Burgess told him he seed the yaller
gal an' child go overboord, an' that they must have drownded.
Prehaps he did see 'em in the water, but he did n't see us pick
'em up. Old Onslow he said he an' his boy had sarched ev'rywhar,
but could n't find the child nowhar. They b'leeved she
was drownded. A drop uv water, Mr. Vance.”

“And did n't you undeceive them?” asked Vance, giving
the water.

“No, Mr. Vance. The Kunnle seed a prize in that yaller
gal, and the Devil put an idee inter his head. Says the Kunnle
to me, says he, `Now foller yer leader, Cappn.' (He used ter
call me Cappn.) `Swar jest as yer har me swar.' Then up
he steps an' says to Mr. Onslow, `Judge, it 's all true what Mr.
Burgess says; the yaller gal, with the child in her arms, war
crowded overboord. This gemmleman an' I tried ter save
them. Ef we did n't, may I be shot. We throw'd the gal a
life-presarver, but she could n't hold on, no how. Fust the
child went under, an' we was so chilled we could n't save it.
Then the gal let go her grip uv the stool an' sunk. 'T war as
much as we could do ter git ashore ou'selves.'”

“Did the judge put you to your oaths?” asked Vance.

“Yes, Mr. Vance. He swar'd us both; then writ down all
we said, read it over ter us, and we put our names ter it, an'
't was witnessed all right. The feller Burgess bahcked us up by
sayin' he see us in the water jest afore the gal fell, which was
all true. It seemed a plain case. The judge tell'd it all ter
Mr. Berwick, an' he growed sort o' wild, an' died soon arter.
What bekummed of you all that time, Mr. Vance?”

“I landed on the Arkansas side,” said Vance. “I supposed
the Berwick family all lost. The bodies of the parents I saw
and identified, and Burgess told me he 'd talked with two men
who saw the child go down.”

“Wall, Mr. Vance. Thar ain't much more uv a story. We
went ter Memphis. The Kunnle swelled round consid'rable,
and got his name inter the newspapers. But the yuller gal
she was sort o' cracked-brained. She war no use ter us or ter

the child. The Kunnle got low-sperreted. He 'd made a bad
spec, ahter all. He 'd lost his niggers; an' the yuller gal, she
as he hoped ter sell in Noo Orleenz fur sixteen hunderd dollars,
she turned out a fool. Howzomever, he found a lightish,
genteel sort uv a nigger, a quack doctor, who took her off our
hands. He said as how she mowt be 'panned an' made as good
as noo.”

“And what did you do with the child?”

“Wall, another bright idee hahd struck the Kunnle. Says
he, `Color this young 'un up a little, and she 'd bring risin' uv
four hunderd dollars at a vahndoo. Any mahn, used ter buyin'
niggers, would see at wunst she 'd grow up ter be a val'able
fancy article. Ef I could afford it, I 'd hold her on spekilation
till she war fifteen.' Wall, Mr. Vance, uv all the mean things
I ever done, the meanest was to let the Kunnle, whan we got
ter Noo Orleenz, take that poor little patient thing, as I had
toted all the way down from Memphis, an' sell her ter the
highest bidder.”

With an irrepressible groan, Vance walked to the window.
When he returned, he looked with pity on Quattles, and said,
“Proceed!”

“Yer see, Mr. Vance, I owed the Kunnle two hunderd dollars,
he 'd won from me at euchre. He offered ter make it
squar ef I 'd give up my int'rest in the child. Wall, I 'd got
kind o' fond uv the little thing; an' 't was n't till I got blind
drunk on 't that I could bring my mind ter say yes. The thowt
uv what I done that day has kept me drunk most ever sence.
But the Kunnle, he tried to comfort me like. Says he, `The
child was fairly ourn, seein' as how we saved it from drownin'.'
`Don't take on so, old feller,' says he. `Think yerself lucky
ef yer hahv n't nothin' wuss nor that agin yerself.' But 't was
no go. He never could make me hold up my head agin like
as I used ter; an' we two cut adrift, an' hain't kept 'count uv
each other sence.”

“How did he dispose of the child?”

“He stained her skin till she looked like a half mulatter, an'
then he jest got Ripper, the auctioneer, ter sell her.”

“Who bought the child?”

“Wall, Cash bowt her. That 's all I ever could find out.
Ef Ripper knowed more, he would n't tell.”

“To whom did you sell the yellow girl?”

“We did n't sell her at all. Was glad to git her off our
hahnds at no price. The chap what took her called hisself Dr.
Davy. He was a free nigger, a trav'lin' quack, — one of those
fellers that 'tises to cure ev'ry thing.”

“When did you last hear of him?”

“The last I heerd tell uv Davy, he war in Natchez, and that
war five years ago.”

“What became of the yellow girl?”

“Wall, thar 's a quar story 'bout that. Whan we fust saw
that air gal on the wreck, she was callin' out ter us, `Take me
an' the child with yer!' She said it wunst, an' hahd jest begun
ter say it again, an' hahd got as fur as Take, whan the block
hit her on the head, an' she fell inter the water. Wall, six
months ahter, Davy took that air gal ter a surgeon in Philadelphy,
an' hahd her 'panned; an' jest as the crushed bone war
lifted from the brain, that gal cried out, ` — me an' the child
with yer!' Shoot me ef she did n't finish the cry she 'd begun
jest six months afore.[2] She got back her senses all straight,
an' Davy made her his wife.”

“Did you keep anything that belonged to the child?”

“Jest you feel in the pockets uv them pants under my piller,
and git out my pus.”

Vance obeyed, and drew forth a small bag of wash-leather.
This he emptied on the coverlet, the contents being a few
dimes and five-cent pieces, a tonga-bean, and a small pill-box
covered with cotton-wool and tied round with twine.

“Thar! Open that ar' box,” said the patient.

Vance opened it, and took out a pair of little sleeve-buttons,
gold with a setting of coral. Examining them, he found on the
under surface the inscription C. A. B. in diminutive characters.

“I 'll tell you how 't was,” said the wounded man. “That
night of the 'sploison the yuller gal an' the child must have
gone ter bed without ondressin'; for they 'd thar cloze all on.

Most like the gal fell asleep an' forgot. Soon as we touched
the shore, the Kunnle says ter me, says he, `Cap'n, you cahrry
the child, an' I 'll pilot the gal.' Wall; I took the child in my
arms, an' as I cahrr'd her, I seed she wore gold buttons on the
sleeves uv her little pelisse, — a pair on each; an', thinks I,
the Kunnle will pocket them buttons sure. So I pocketed 'em
myself; but whan it kum to partin' with the child, I jest took
one pair uv the buttons, an sowd 'em on inside uv the bosom uv
her little shirt whar they would n't be seen. The other pair is
that thar. Take 'em an' keep 'em, Mr. Vance.”

“Have you any article of clothing belonging to her?”

“Not a rag, Mr. Vance. They all went with her.”

“Did you notice any mark on the clothes?”

“Yes, they was marked C. A. B., in letters worked in hahnsum
with white silk.”

“Was that the kind of letter?” asked Vance, who, having
drawn the cipher in old English, held it before the patient's
eyes.

“Yes, them 's um. I remember, 'cause I used ter ondress the
child. An', now I think uv it, one uv her eyes was bluish, an'
t' other grayish.”

“What day was it you parted with the child?”

“The same day she was sold.”

“When was that?”

“It must have been in May follerin' the 'splosion. Lem
me see. 'T was that day I got the pill-box. I 'd been ter
the doctor's fur some physickin' stuff. He give me a prescrip,
an' I went an' got some pills in that air box, an' then
throwed the pills away an' kept the box.”

Vance glanced at the cover. The apothecary's name and
the number of the prescription were legible. Vance put the
box in his pocket.

“Can't yer think uv su'thin' else?” asked Quattles.

“Only this,” replied Vance: “How shall I manage Hyde?”

“Wall, ef the Kunnle sh'd hold up his milk, you jest say ter
him these eer words: `Dorothy Rusk must be provided for.
What kn I do fur her?' The widder Rusk is his sister, yer
see, an' that 's the one soft spot the Kunnle's got.”

Vance carefully recorded the mysterious words; then asked,

“Do you remember Peek, the runaway slave Hyde had in
charge?”

“In coorse I do,” said Quattles, twisting with pain from
his wound. “Should you ever see that nigger, Mr. Vance, tell
him that Amos Slink, St. Joseph Street, kn tell him su'thing'
'bout his wife. Amos wunst tell 'd me how he 'coyed her down
from Montreal. 'T was through that same lawyer chap that
kum it over Peek.”

“Can Amos identify you as the Quattles of the Pontiac?”

“In coorse he can, for he knowed all 'bout me at the time.”

“And now, my friend, I wish to have this testimony of yours
sworn to and witnessed; but I 'm overtasking your strength.”

“Do it, Mr. Vance. Help me ter lose my strength, ef yer
think I kn do any good tellin' the truth.”

“Can you get along without this opiate two hours longer?”

“Yes, Mr. Vance, I kn do without it altogether.”

“Then I 'll leave you for two hours.”

“One word, Mr. Vance.”

“What is it?”

“Did yer ever pray?”

“Yes; every man prays who tries to do good or undo evil.
You 've been praying for the last hour, my friend.”

“How did yer know that? I 've been thinkin' of it, that 's
a fak. But I 'm not up to it, Mr. Vance. Could you pray for
me jest three minutes?”

“Willingly, my poor fellow.”

And kneeling at the little cot, Vance, holding a hand of the
sufferer, prayed for him so tenderly, so fervently, and so searchingly
withal, that the poor dying outcast wept as he had never
wept before. O precious tears, parting the mist that hung upon
his future (even as clouds are parted that hide the sunset's
glories), and revealing to his spiritual eyes new possibilities of
being, fruits of repentance, through a mercy which (God be
thanked!) is not measured by the mercy of men.

Leaving the hospital, Vance stepped into an office, and drew
up, in the form of a deposition, all the facts elicited from Quattles.
His next step was to find Amos Slink. That gentleman
had settled down in the second-hand clothing business. Vance
made a liberal purchase of hospital clothing; and then adverted

to the past exploits of Amos in the “nigger-catching” line.
Amos proudly produced letters to authenticate his prowess.
They bore the signature of Charlton. “I want you to lend
me those letters, Mr. Slink.”

“Could n't do it, Mr. Vance. Them letters I mean to hand
down to my children.”

“Well, it 's of no consequence. I 'll go into the next store
for the rest of my goods.”

“Don't think of it. Here! take the letters. Only return 'em.”
Vance not only secured the letters, but got Mr. Slink to go
with him to the hospital to identify Quattles.

Then, on his way, enlisting three friends who were good
Union men, one of them being a justice of the peace, Vance
led them where the wounded man lay. Slink, who was known
to the parties, identified the patient as the Mr. Quattles of the
Pontiac; and the identification was duly recorded and sworn
to. Vance then read his notes aloud to Quattles, whose competency
to listen and understand was formally attested by the
surgeon. The justice administered the oath. Quattles put his
name to the document, and the signature was duly witnessed
by all present.

No sooner was the act completed than the patient sank into
unconsciousness. “He 'll not rally again,” said the surgeon.
A quick, heavy breathing, gradually growing faint and fainter,
— and lo! there was a smile on the face, but the spirit that
had left it there had fled!

Vance first went to the apothecary whose name was on the
pill-box. “Did Mr. Gargle keep the books in which he pasted
his prescriptions?”

“Yes, he had them for twenty years back.”

“Would he look in the volume for 18—, for a certain
number?”

“Willingly.”

In two minutes the number was found, and the day of the
prescription fixed. Vance then proceeded to the office of
L' Abeille, turned to the newspaper of that day, and there, in
the advertising columns, found a sale advertised by P. Ripper
& Co., auctioneers. It was a sale of a “lot” of negroes; and
as a sort of postscript to the specifications was the following: —

Not pausing to indulge the emotions which these cruel words
awoke, Vance went in search of Ripper & Co. The firm had
been broken up more than ten years before. Not one of the
partners was in the city. They had disappeared, and left no
trace. Were any of their old account-books in the warehouse?
No. The building had been burnt to the ground, and a new
one erected on its site.

“Where next?” thought Vance. “Plainly to Natchez, to
see if I can learn anything of Davy and his wife.”