University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE CLOUD BURSTS.

The shadow of that awful cloud which had desolated other
places now began to darken the boundaries of the plantation
of Canema. No disease has ever more fully filled out the
meaning of those awful words of Scripture, “The pestilence
that walketh in darkness.” None has been more irregular,
and apparently more perfectly capricious, in its movements.
During the successive seasons that it has been epidemic in
this country, it has seemed to have set at defiance the skill
of the physicians. The system of medical tactics which
has been wrought out by the painful experience of one
season seems to be laughed to scorn by the varying type
of the disease in the next. Certain sanitary laws and conditions
would seem to be indispensable; yet those who are
familiar with it have had fearful experience how like a wolf
it will sometimes leap the boundaries of the best and most
carefully-guarded fold, and, spite of every caution and protection,
sweep all before it.

Its course through towns and villages has been equally
singular. Sometimes, descending like a cloud on a neighborhood,
it will leave a single village or town untouched
amidst the surrounding desolations, and long after, when
health is restored to the whole neighborhood, come down
suddenly on the omitted towns, as a ravaging army sends
back a party for prey to some place which has been over-looked
or forgotten. Sometimes, entering a house, in
twenty-four hours it will take all who are in it. Sometimes
it will ravage all the city except some one street or locality,

and then come upon that, while all else is spared. Its
course, upon Southern plantations, was marked by similar
capriciousness, and was made still more fatal by that peculiar
nature of plantation life which withdraws the inmates
so far from medical aid.

When the first letters were received describing the progress
of it in northern cities, Aunt Nesbit felt much uneasiness
and alarm. It is remarkable with what tenacity people
often will cling to life, whose enjoyments in it are so dull
and low that a bystander would scarcely think them worth
the struggle of preservation. When at length the dreaded
news began to be heard from one point and another in their
vicinity, Aunt Nesbit said, one day, to Nina,

“Your cousins, the Gordons, in E., have written to us to
leave the plantation, and come and spend some time with
them, till the danger is over.”

“Why,” said Nina, “do they think the cholera can't
come there?”

“Well,” said Aunt Nesbit, “they have their family under
most excellent regulations; and, living in a town so,
they are within call of a doctor, if anything happens.”

“Aunt,” said Nina, “perhaps you had better go; but I
will stay with my people.”

“Why, don't you feel afraid, Nina?”

“No, aunt, I don't. Besides, I think it would be very
selfish for me to live on the services of my people all my
life, and then run away and leave them alone when a time
of danger comes. The least I can do is to stay and take
care of them.”

This conversation was overheard by Harry, who was
standing with his back to them, on the veranda, near the
parlor door where they were sitting.

“Child,” said Aunt Nesbit, “what do you suppose you
can do? You have n't any experience. Harry and Milly
can do a great deal better than you can. I 'll leave Milly
here. It 's our first duty to take care of our health.”

“No, aunt, I think there are some duties before that,”

said Nina. “It 's true I have n't a great deal of strength,
but I have courage; and I know my going away would discourage
our people, and fill them with fear; and that, they
say, predisposes to the disease. I shall get the carriage up,
and go directly over to see the doctor, and get directions
and medicines. I shall talk to our people, and teach them
what to do, and see that it is done. And, when they see
that I am calm, and not afraid, they will have courage.
But, aunt, if you are afraid, I think you had better go.
You are feeble; you can't make much exertion; and if you
feel any safer or more comfortable, I think it would be best.
I should like to have Milly stay, and she, Harry, and I, will
be a board of health to the plantation.”

“Harry,” she said, “if you 'll get up the carriage, we 'll
go immediately.”

Again Harry felt the bitterness of his soul sweetened and
tranquillized by the noble nature of her to whose hands the
law had given the chain which bound him. Galling and intolerable
as it would have been otherwise, he felt, when
with her, that her service was perfect freedom. He had not
said anything to Nina about the contents of the letter which
he had received from his sister. He saw that it was an evil
which she had no power over, and he shrank from annoying
her with it. Nina supposed that his clouded and troubled
aspect was caused wholly by the solicitude of responsibility.

In the same carriage which conveyed her to the town
sat Aunt Nesbit also, and her cap-boxes, whose importance
even the fear of the cholera could not lessen in her eyes.
Nina found the physician quite au fait on the subject. He
had been reading about miasma and animalculæ, and he entertained
Nina nearly half an hour with different theories as
to the cause of the disease, and with the experiments which
had been made in foreign hospitals.

Among the various theories, there was one which appeared
to be his particular pet; and Nina could n't help
thinking, as he stepped about so alertly, that he almost enjoyed

the prospect of putting his discoveries to the test.
By dint, however, of very practical and positive questions,
Nina drew from him all the valuable information which he
had to give her; and he wrote her a very full system of directions,
and put up a case of medicines for her, assuring her
that he should be happy to attend in person if he had time.

On the way home, Nina stopped at Uncle John Gordon's
plantation, and there had the first experience of the difference
between written directions for a supposed case, and
the actual awful realities of the disease. Her Uncle John
had been seized only half an hour before, in the most awful
manner. The household was all in terror and confusion,
and the shrieks and groans of agony which proceeded from
his room were appalling. His wife, busy with the sufferer,
did not perceive that the messengers who had been sent in
haste for the doctor were wringing their hands in fruitless
terror, running up and down the veranda, and doing
nothing.

“Harry,” said Nina, “take out one of the carriage-horses,
and ride quick for your life, and bring the doctor
over here in a minute!”

In a few moments the thing was done, and Harry was
out of sight. She then walked up to the distracted servants,
and commanded them, in a tone of authority, to cease
their lamentations. Her resolute manner, and the quiet
tone of voice which she preserved, acted as a sedative on
their excited nerves. She banished all but two or three of
the most reasonable from the house, and then went to the
assistance of her aunt.

Before long the doctor arrived. When he had been in
the sick room a few moments, he came out to make some
inquiries of Nina, and she could not help contrasting the
appalled and confounded expression of his countenance
with the dapper, consequential air, with which, only two
hours before, he had been holding forth to her on animalculæ
and miasma.

“The disease,” he said, “presented itself in an entirely

different aspect from what he had expected. The remedies,”
he said, “did not work as he anticipated; the case
was a peculiar one.”

Alas! before the three months were over, poor doctor,
you found many peculiar cases!

“Do you think you can save his life?” said Nina.

“Child, only God can save him!” said the physician;
“nothing works right.”

But why prolong the torture of that scene, or rehearse the
struggles, groans, and convulsions? Nina, poor flowery
child of seventeen summers, stood with the rest in mute
despair. All was tried that could be done or thought of;
but the disease, like some blind, deaf destroyer, marched
on, turning neither to right nor left, till the cries and
groans grew fainter, the convulsed muscles relaxed, and the
strong, florid man lay in the last stages of that fearful collapse
which in one hour shrivels the most healthy countenance
and the firmest muscles to the shrunken and withered
image of decrepid old age. When the breath had passed,
and all was over, Nina could scarcely believe that that
altered face and form, so withered and so worn, could have
been her healthy and joyous uncle, and who never had appeared
healthier or more joyous than on that morning. But,
as a person passing under the foam and spray of Niagara
clings with blind confidence to a guide whom he feels, but
cannot see, Nina, in this awful hour, felt that she was not
alone. The Redeemer, all-powerful over death and the
grave, of whom she had been thinking so much, of late,
seemed to her sensibly near. And it seemed to her as if a
voice said to her, continually, “Fear not, for I am with thee.
Be not dismayed, for I am thy God.”

`How calm you are, my child!” said Aunt Maria to her.
“I would n't have thought it was in you. I don't know
what we should do without you.”

But now a frightful wail was heard.

“O, we are all dying! we are all going! O, missis,

come quick! Peter has got it! O, daddy has got it! O,
my child! my child!”

And the doctor, exhausted as he was by the surprise and
excitement of this case, began flying from one to another
of the cabins, in the greatest haste. Two or three of the
house-servants also seemed to be struck in the same moment,
and only the calmness and courage which Nina and
her aunt maintained prevented a general abandonment to
panic. Nina possessed that fine, elastic temperament which,
with the appearance of extreme delicacy, possesses great
powers of endurance. The perfect calmness which she felt
enabled her to bring all her faculties to bear on the
emergency.

“My good aunty, you must n't be afraid! Bring out your
religion; trust in God,” she said, to the cook, who was
wringing her hands in terror. “Remember your religion;
sing some of your hymns, and do your duty to the sick.”

There is a magic power in the cheerful tone of courage,
and Nina succeeded in rallying the well ones to take care
of the sick; but now came a messenger, in hot haste, to
say that the cholera had broken out on the plantation at
home.

“Well, Harry,” said Nina, with a face pale, yet unmoved,
“our duty calls us away.”

And, accompanied by the weary physician, they prepared
to go back to Canema. Before they had proceeded far, a
man met them on horseback.

“Is Dr. Butler with you?”

“Yes,” said Nina, putting her head out of the carriage.

“O, doctor, I 've been riding all over the country after
you. You must come back to town this minute! Judge
Peters is dying! I 'm afraid he is dead before this time,
and there 's a dozen more cases right in that street. Here,
get on to my horse, and ride for your life.”

The doctor hastily sprang from the carriage, and mounted
the horse; then, stopping a moment, he cast a look of

good-natured pity on the sweet, pale face that was leaning
out of the carriage window.

“My poor child,” he said, “I can't bear to leave you.
Who will help you?”

“God,” said Nina; “I am not afraid!”

“Come, come,” said the man, “do harry!” And, with
one hasty glance more, he was gone.

“Now, Harry,” said Nina, “everything depends upon
our keeping up our courage and our strength. We shall
have no physician. We must just do the best we can. After
all, it is our Lord Jesus that has the keys of death, and he
loved us and died for us. He will certainly be with us.”

“O, Miss Nina, you are an angel!” said Harry, who felt
at that moment as if he could have worshipped her.

Arrived at home, Nina found a scene of terror and confusion
similar to that she had already witnessed. Old Hundred
lay dead in his cabin, and the lamenting crowd, gathering
round, were yielding to the full tide of fear and excitement,
which predisposed them to the same fate. Nina rode up
immediately to the group. She spoke to them calmly; she
silenced their outcries, and bade them obey her.

“If you wish, all of you, to die,” she said, “this is the
way towards it; but, if you 'll keep quiet and calm, and do
what ought to be done, your lives may be saved. Harry
and I have got medicines — we understand what to do.
You must follow our directions exactly.”

Nina immediately went to the house, and instructed Milly,
Aunt Rose, and two or three of the elderly women, in the
duties to be done. Milly rose up, in this hour of terror,
with all the fortitude inspired by her strong nature.

“Bress de Lord,” she said, “for his grace to you, chile!
De Lord is a shield. He 's been wid us in six troubles, and
he 'll be wid us in seven. We can sing in de swellings of
Jordan.”

Harry, meanwhile, was associating to himself a band of
the most reliable men on the place, and endeavoring in the
same manner to organize them for action. A messenger

was despatched immediately to the neighboring town for
unlimited quantities of the most necessary medicines and
stimulants. The plantation was districted off, and placed
under the care of leaders, who held communication with
Harry. In the course of two or three hours, the appalling
scene of distress and confusion was reduced to the resolute
and orderly condition of a well-managed hospital.

Milly walked the rounds in every direction, appealing to
the religious sensibilities of the people, and singing hymns
of trust and confidence. She possessed a peculiar voice,
suited to her large development of physical frame, almost
as deep as a man's bass, with the rich softness of a feminine
tone; and Nina could now and then distinguish, as she was
moving about the house or grounds, that triumphant tone,
singing,

The house that night presented the aspect of a beleaguered
garrison. Nina and Milly had thrown open all the chambers;
and such as were peculiarly exposed to the disease,
by delicacy of organization or tremulousness of nervous
system, were allowed to take shelter there.

“Now, chile,” said Milly, when all the arrangements
had been made, “you jes lie down and go to sleep in yer
own room. I see how 't is with you; de spirit is willing, but
de flesh is weak. Chile, dere is n't much of you, but dere
won't nothing go widout you. So, you take care of yerself
first. Never you be 'fraid! De people 's quiet now, and de

sick ones is ben took care of, and de folks is all doing de
best dey can. So, now, you try and get some sleep; 'cause
if you goes we shall all go.”

Accordingly Nina retired to her room, but before she lay
down she wrote to Clayton:

After writing this, Nina laid down and slept — slept all
night as quietly as if death and disease were not hanging
over her head. In the morning she rose and dressed herself,
and Milly, with anxious care, brought to her room some
warm coffee and crackers, which she insisted on her taking
before she left her apartment.

“How are they all, Milly?” said Nina.

“Well, chile,” said Milly, “de midnight cry has been
heard among us. Aunt Rose is gone; and Big Sam, and
Jack, and Sally, dey 's all gone; but de people is all
more quiet, love, and dey 's determined to stand it out!”

“How is Harry?” said Nina, in a tremulous voice.

“He is n't sick; he has been up all night working over
de sick, but he keeps up good heart. De older ones is
going to have a little prayer-meeting after breakfast, as a
sort of funeral to dem dat 's dead; and, perhaps, Miss
Nina, you 'd read us a chapter.”

“Certainly I will,” said Nina.

It was yet an early hour, when a large circle of family

and plantation hands gathered together in the pleasant,
open saloon, which we have so often described. The day
was a beautiful one; the leaves and shrubbery round the
veranda moist and tremulous with the glittering freshness
of morning dew. There was a murmur of tenderness and
admiration as Nina, in a white morning-wrapper, and a
cheek as white, came into the room.

“Sit down, all my friends,” she said, “sit down,” looking
at some of the plantation-men, who seemed to be diffident
about taking the sofa, which was behind them; “it 's
no time for ceremony now. We are standing on the brink
of the grave, where all are equal. I 'm glad to see you
so calm and so brave. I hope your trust is in the Saviour,
who gives us the victory over death. Sing,” she said.
Milly began the well-known hymn:

Every voice joined, and the words rose triumphant from
the very gates of the grave. When the singing was over,
Nina, in a tremulous voice, which grew clearer as she went
on, read the undaunted words of the ancient psalm:

“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High
shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say
of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress. My God, in
him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the
snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He
shall cover thee with his feathers. Under his wings shalt
thou trust. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by
night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day, nor for the pestilence
that walketh in darkness, nor for the destruction that

wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall by thy side, and
ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh
thee. He shall give his angels charge over thee to keep
thee in all thy ways.”

“It is possible,” said Nina, “that we may, some of us,
be called away. But, to those that love Christ, there is no
fear in death. It is only going home to our Father. Keep
up courage, then!”

In all cases like this, the first shock brings with it more
terror than any which succeeds. The mind can become
familiar with anything, even with the prospect of danger
and death, so that it can appear to be an ordinary condition
of existence. Everything proceeded calmly on the plantation;
and all, stimulated by the example of their young
mistress, seemed determined to meet the exigency firmly
and faithfully. In the afternoon of the second day, as Nina
was sitting in the door, she observed the wagon of Uncle
Tiff making its way up the avenue; and, with her usual
impulsiveness, ran down to meet her humble friend.

“O, Tiff, how do you do, in these dreadful times!”

“O, Miss Nina,” said the faithful creature, removing his
hat, with habitual politeness, “ef yer please, I 's brought
de baby here, 'cause it 's drefful sick, and I 's been doing all
I could for him, and he don't get no better. And I 's
brought Miss Fanny and Teddy, 'cause I 's 'fraid to leave
'em, 'cause I see a man yesterday, and he tell me dey was
dying eberywhar on all de places round.”

“Well,” said Nina, “you have come to a sorrowful place,
for they are dying here, too! But, if you feel any safer
here, you and the children may stay, and we 'll do for you
just as we do for each other. Give me the baby, while you
get out. It 's asleep, is n't it?”

“Yes, Miss Nina, it 's 'sleep pretty much all de time,
now.”

Nina carried it up the steps, and put it into the arms of
Milly.

“It 's sleeping nicely,” she said.

“Ah, honey!” said Milly, “it 'll neber wake up out of
dat ar! Dat ar sleep an't de good kind!”

“Well,” said Nina, “we 'll help him take care of it, and
we 'll make room for him and the children, Milly; because
we have medicines and directions, and they have nothing
out there.”

So Tiff and his family took shelter in the general fortress.
Towards evening, the baby died. Tiff held it in his arms
to the very last; and it was with difficulty that Nina and
Milly could persuade him that the little flickering breath
was gone forever. When forced to admit it, he seemed for
a few moments perfectly inconsolable. Nina quietly opened
her Testament, and read to him:

“And they brought little children unto him, that he
should touch them; and his disciples rebuked those that
brought them. But Jesus said, Suffer little children to
come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom
of heaven.”

“Bressed Lord!” said Tiff, “I 'll gib him up, I will! I
won't hold out no longer! I won't forbid him to go, if it
does break my old heart! Laws, we 's drefful selfish! But
de por little ting, he was getting so pretty!”