University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
THE SLAVE'S ARGUMENT.

On his return home, Clayton took from the post-office a
letter, which we will give to our readers.

Clayton read this letter with some surprise, and a good
deal of attention. It was written on very coarse paper,

such as is commonly sold at the low shops. Where Harry
was, and how concealed, was to him only a matter of conjecture.
But the call to render him any assistance was a
sacred one, and he determined on a horseback excursion to
E., the town where Mr. Jekyl resided.

He found that gentleman very busy in looking over and
arranging papers in relation to that large property which
had just come into Tom Gordon's hands. He began by
stating that the former owner of the servants at Canema
had requested him, on her death-bed, to take an interest in
her servants. He had therefore called to ascertain if anything
had been heard from Harry.

“Not yet,” said Mr. Jekyl, pulling up his shirt-collar.
“Our plantations in this vicinity are very unfortunate in
their proximity to the swamp. It 's a great expense of
time and money. Why, sir, it 's inconceivable, the amount
of property that 's lost in that swamp! I have heard it estimated
at something like three millions of dollars! We follow
them up with laws, you see. They are outlawed regularly,
after a certain time, and then the hunters go in and
chase them down; sometimes kill two or three a day, or
something like that. But, on the whole, they don't effect
much.”

“Well,” said Clayton, who felt no disposition to enter
into any discussion with Mr. Jekyl, “so you think he is
there?”

“Yes, I have no doubt of it. The fact is, there 's a fellow
that 's been seen lurking about this swamp, off and on, for
years and years. Sometimes he is n't to be seen for
months; and then again he is seen or heard of, but never so
that anybody can get hold of him. I have no doubt the
niggers on the plantation know him; but, then, you can
never get anything out of them. O, they are deep! They
are a dreadfully corrupt set!”

“Mr. Gordon has, I think, a sister of Harry's, who
came in with this new estate,” said Mr. Clayton.

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Jekyl. “She has given us a good

deal of trouble, too. She got away, and went off to Cincinnati,
and I had to go up and hunt her out. It was really
a great deal of trouble and expense. If I had n't been
assisted by the politeness and kindness of the marshal and
brother officers, it would have been very bad. There is a
good deal of religious society, too, in Cincinnati; and so,
while I was waiting, I attended anniversary meetings.”

“Then you did succeed,” said Clayton. “I came to see
whether Mr. Gordon would listen to a proposition for selling
her.”

“O, he has sold her!” said Mr. Jekyl. “She is at Alexandria,
now, in Beaton & Burns' establishment.”

“And her children, too?”

“Yes, the lot. I claim some little merit for that, myself.
Tom is a fellow of rather strong passions, and he was terribly
angry for the trouble she had made. I don't know what
he would have done to her, if I had n't talked to him. But
I showed him some debts that could n't be put off any longer
without too much of a sacrifice; and, on the whole, I persuaded
him to let her be sold. I have tried to exert a
good influence over him, in a quiet way,” said Mr. Jekyl.
“Now, if you want to get the woman, like enough she may
not be sold, as yet.”

Clayton, having thus ascertained the points which he
wished to know, proceeded immediately to Alexandria.
When he was there, he found a considerable excitement.

“A slave-woman,” it was said, “who was to have been sent
off in a coffle the next day, had murdered her two children.”

The moment that Clayton heard the news, he felt an instinctive
certainty that this woman was Cora Gordon. He
went to the magistrate's court, where the investigation was
being held, and found it surrounded by a crowd so dense
that it was with difficulty he forced his way in. At the bar
he saw seated a woman dressed in black, whose face, haggard
and wan, showed yet traces of former beauty. The
splendid dark eyes had a peculiar and fierce expression.
The thin lines of the face were settled into an immovable

fixedness of calm determination. There was even an air of
grave, solemn triumph on her countenance. She appeared
to regard the formalities of the court with the utmost indifference.
At last she spoke, in a clear, thrilling, distinct
voice:

“If gentlemen will allow me to speak, I 'll save them the
trouble of that examination of witnesses. It 's going a long
way round to find out a very little thing.”

There was an immediate movement of curiosity in the
whole throng, and the officer said,

“You are permitted to speak.”

She rose deliberately, untied her bonnet-strings, looked
round the whole court, with a peculiar but calm expression
of mingled triumph and power.

“You want to know,” she said, “who killed those children!
Well, I will tell you;” and again her eyes travelled
round the house, with that same strong, defiant expression;
“I killed them!”

There was a pause, and a general movement through the
house.

“Yes,” she said, again, “I killed them! And, O, how
glad I am that I have done it! Do you want to know what
I killed them for? Because I loved them! — loved them so
well that I was willing to give up my soul to save theirs!
I have heard some persons say that I was in a frenzy, excited,
and did n't know what I was doing. They are mistaken.
I was not in a frenzy; I was not excited; and I
did know what I was doing! and I bless God that it is
done! I was born the slave of my own father. Your old
proud Virginia blood is in my veins, as it is in half of those
you whip and sell. I was the lawful wife of a man of honor,
who did what he could to evade your cruel laws, and set me
free. My children were born to liberty; they were brought
up to liberty, till my father's son entered a suit for us, and
made us slaves. Judge and jury helped him — all your laws
and your officers helped him — to take away the rights of
the widow and the fatherless! The judge said that my

son, being a slave, could no more hold property than the
mule before his plough; and we were delivered into Tom
Gordon's hands. I shall not say what he is. It is not fit to
be said. God will show at the judgment-day. But I escaped,
with my children, to Cincinnati. He followed me
there, and the laws of your country gave me back to him.
To-morrow I was to have gone in a coffle and leave these
children — my son a slave for life — my daughter —” She
looked round the court-room with an expression which said
more than words could have spoken. “So I heard them say
their prayers and sing their hymns, and then, while they
were asleep and did n't know it, I sent them to lie down
in green pastures with the Lord. They say this is a dreadful
sin. It may be so. I am willing to lose my soul to have
theirs saved. I have no more to hope or fear. It 's all
nothing, now, where I go or what becomes of me. But, at
any rate, they are safe. And, now, if any of you mothers,
in my place, would n't have done the same, you either
don't know what slavery is, or you don't love your children
as I have loved mine. This is all.”

She sat down, folded her arms, fixed her eyes on the floor,
and seemed like a person entirely indifferent to the further
opinions and proceedings of the court.

She was remanded to jail for trial. Clayton determined,
in his own mind, to do what he could for her. Her own
declaration seemed to make the form of a trial unnecessary.
He resolved, however, to do what he could to enlist for
her the sympathy of some friends of his in the city.

The next day he called, with a clergyman, and requested
permission to see her. When they entered her cell, she
rose to receive them with the most perfect composure, as if
they had called upon her in a drawing-room. Clayton introduced
his companion as the Rev. Mr. Denton. There was
an excited flash in her eyes, but she said, calmly,

“Have the gentlemen business with me?”

“We called,” said the clergyman, “to see if we could
render you any assistance.”

“No, sir, you cannot!” was the prompt reply.

“My dear friend,” said the clergyman, in a very kind
tone, “I wish it were in my power to administer to you the
consolations of the Gospel.”

“I have nothing to do,” she answered, firmly, “with
ministers who pretend to preach the Gospel, and support
oppression and robbery! Your hands are defiled with
blood! — so don't come to me! I am a prisoner, here, and
cannot resist. But, when I tell you that I prefer to be
left alone, perhaps it may have some effect, even if I am a
slave!”

Clayton took out Harry's letter, handed it to her, and
said:

“After you have read this, you will, perhaps, receive me,
if I should call again to-morrow, at this hour.”

The next day, when Clayton called, he was conducted
by the jailer to the door of the cell.

“There is a lady with her now, reading to her.”

“Then I ought not to interrupt her,” said Clayton, hesitating.

“O, I suspect it would make no odds,” said the jailer.

Clayton laid his hand on his to stop him. The sound
that came indistinctly through the door was the voice of
prayer. Some woman was interceding, in the presence of
eternal pity, for an oppressed and broken-hearted sister.
After a few moments the door was partly opened, and he
heard a sweet voice, saying:

“Let me come to you every day, may I? I know what
it is to suffer.”

A smothered sob was the only answer; and then followed
words, imperfectly distinguished, which seemed
to be those of consolation. In a moment the door was
opened, and Clayton found himself suddenly face to face
with a lady in deep mourning. She was tall, and largely
proportioned; the outlines of her face strong, yet beautiful,
and now wearing the expression which comes from
communion with the highest and serenest nature. Both

were embarrassed, and made a momentary pause. In the
start she dropped one of her gloves. Clayton picked it up,
handed it to her, bowed, and she passed on. By some singular
association, this stranger, with a serious, radiant face,
suggested to him the sparkling, glittering beauty of Nina;
and it seemed, for a moment, as if Nina was fluttering by
him in the air, and passing away after her. When he examined
the emotion more minutely afterwards, he thought,
perhaps, it might have been suggested by the perception,
as he lifted the glove, of a peculiar and delicate perfume,
which Nina was fond of using. So strange and shadowy
are the influences which touch the dark, electric chain of
our existence.

When Clayton went into the cell, he found its inmate in a
softened mood. There were traces of tears on her cheek,
and an open Bible on the bed; but her appearance was
calm and self-possessed, as usual. She said:

“Excuse my rudeness, Mr. Clayton, at your last visit.
We cannot always command ourselves to do exactly what
we should. I thank you very much for your kindness to
us. There are many who are kindly disposed towards us;
but it 's very little that they can do.”

“Can I be of any assistance in securing counsel for
you?” said Clayton.

“I don't need any counsel. I don't wish any,” said she.
“I shall make no effort. Let the law take its course. If
you ever should see Harry, give my love to him — that 's
all! And, if you can help him, pray do! If you have
time, influence, or money to spare, and can get him to any
country where he will have the common rights of a human
being, pray do, and the blessing of the poor will come
on you! That 's all I have to ask.”

Clayton rose to depart. He had fulfilled the object of his
mission. He had gained all the information, and more than
all, that he wished. He queried with himself whether it
were best to write to Harry at all. The facts that he had
to relate were such as were calculated to kindle to a fiercer

flame the excitement which was now consuming him. He
trembled, when he thought of it, lest that excitement should
blaze out in forms which should array against him, with
still more force, that society with which he was already
at war. Thinking, however, that Harry, perhaps, might
obtain the information in some less guarded form, he sat
down and wrote him the following letter:

Clayton returned to his father's house, and related the
result of his first experiment with the clergy.

“Well, now,” said Mrs. Clayton, “I must confess I was
not prepared for this.”

“I was,” said Judge Clayton. “It 's precisely what I
expected. You have tried the Presbyterians, with whom
our family are connected; and now you may go successively
to the Episcopalians, the Methodists, the Baptists, and you
will hear the same story from them all. About half of
them defend the thing from the Bible, in the most unblushing,
disgusting manner. The other half acknowledge and
lament it as an evil; but they are cowed and timid, and
can do nothing.”

“Well,” said Clayton, “the greatest evidence to my

mind of the inspiration of the Scriptures is, that they are
yet afloat, when every new absurdity has been successively
tacked to them.”

“But,” said Mrs. Clayton, “are there no people that are
faithful?”

“None in this matter that I know of,” said Judge Clayton,
“except the Covenanters and the Quakers among us,
and the Free-will Baptists and a few others at the North.
And their number and influence is so small, that there can
be no great calculation made on them for assistance. Of
individuals, there are not a few who earnestly desire to do
something; but they are mostly without faith or hope, like
me. And, from the communities — from the great organizations
in society — no help whatever is to be expected.”