University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE SLAVE HUNT.

Tom Gordon, for the next two or three days after his
injury, was about as comfortable to manage as a wounded
hyena. He had a thousand varying caprices every hour
and moment; and now one and now another prevailed.
The miserable girls who were held by him as his particular
attendants were tormented by every species of annoyance
which a restless and passionate man, in his impatience,
could devise.

The recent death of Milly's mistress by the cholera had
reduced her under Tom's authority; and she was summoned
now from her work every hour to give directions
and advice, which, the minute they were given, were repudiated
with curses.

“I declare,” said Aunt Katy, the housekeeper, “if Mas'r
Tom is n't 'nough to use a body off o' der feet. It 's jist
four times I 's got gruel ready for him dis last two hours
— doing all I could to suit him; and he swars at it, and
flings it round real undecent. Why, he 's got fever, and
does he spect to make things taste good to him, when
he 's got fever! Why, course I can't, and no need of him
calling me a devil, and all that! That ar 's very unnecessary,
I think. I don't believe in no such! The Gordons allers
used to have some sense to 'em, even if they was cross; but
he an't got a grain. I should think he was 'sessed wid Old
Sam, for my part. Bringing 'sgrace on us all, the way he
cuts up! We really don' know how to hold up our head,
none of us. The Gordons have allers been sich a genteel

family! Laws, we did n't know what privileges we had
when we had Miss Nina! Them new girls, dressed up in all
their flounces and ferbuloes! Guess they has to take it!”

In time, however, even in spite of his chafing, and fretfulness,
and contempt of physicians' prescriptions, Tom
seemed to recover, by the same kind of fatality which makes
ill-weeds thrive apace. Meanwhile he employed his leisure
hours in laying plans of revenge, to be executed as soon
as he should be able to take to his horse again. Among
other things, he vowed deep vengeance on Abijah Skinflint,
who, he said, he knew must have sold the powder and ammunition
to the negroes in the swamp. This may have
been true, or may not; but, in cases of lynch-law, such
questions are indifferent matter. A man is accused, condemned,
and judged, at the will of his more powerful
neighbor. It was sufficient to Tom that he thought so; and,
being sick and cross, thought so just now with more particular
intensity.

Jim Stokes, he knew, cherished an animosity of long
standing towards Abijah, which he could make use of in
enlisting him in the cause. One of the first uses, therefore,
which Tom made of his recovered liberty, after he was
able to ride out, was to head a raid on Abijah's shop. The
shop was without ceremony dismantled and plundered;
and the mob, having helped themselves to his whiskey,
next amused themselves by tarring and feathering him;
and, having insulted and abused him to their satisfaction,
and exacted a promise from him to leave the state within
three days, they returned home glorious in their own eyes.
And the next week a brilliant account of the affair appeared
in the Trumpet of Liberty, headed

“Summary Justice.”

Nobody pitied Abijah, of course; and, as he would
probably have been quite willing to join in the same sort
of treatment for any one else, we know not that we are
particularly concerned for his doom. The respectable people

in the neighborhood first remarked that they did n't
approve of mobs in general, and then dilated, with visible
satisfaction, on this in particular, after a fashion of that
stupid class that are called respectable people, generally.
The foolish mob gloried and exulted, not considering that
any day the same weapons might be turned against them.
The mob being now somewhat drilled and animated, Tom
proposed, while their spirit was up, to get up a hunting
in the swamp, which should more fully satisfy his own
private vengeance. There is a sleeping tiger in the human
breast that delights in violence and blood; and this tiger
Tom resolved to unchain.

The act of outlawry had already publicly set up Harry
as a mark for whatever cruelty drunken ingenuity might
choose to perpetrate. As our readers may have a curiosity
in this kind of literature, we will indulge them with a copy
of this:

One can scarcely contemplate without pity the condition
of a population which grows up under the influence of such
laws and customs as these. That the lowest brutality and
the most fiendish cruelty should be remorselessly practised
by those whose ferocity thus receives the sanction of the
law, cannot be wondered at. Tom Gordon convened at his
house an assemblage of those whom he used as the tools
and ministers of his vengeance. Harry had been secretly
hated by them all in his prosperous days, because, though
a slave, he was better dressed, better educated, and, on the
whole, treated with more consideration by the Gordon family
and their guests, than they were; and, at times, he had
had occasion to rebuke some of them for receiving from the
slaves goods taken from the plantation. To be sure, while
he was prosperous they were outwardly subservient to him,
as the great man of a great family; but now he was down,
as the amiable fashion of the world generally is, they resolved
to make up for their former subservience by redoubled
insolence.

Jim Stokes, in particular, bore Harry a grudge, for having
once expressed himself with indignation concerning the
meanness and brutality of his calling; and he was therefore
the more willing to be made use of on the present occasion.
Accordingly, on the morning we speak of, there was
gathered before the door of the mansion at Canema a confused
mélange of men, of that general style of appearance
which, in our times, we call “Border Ruffians,” — half drunken,
profane, obscene as the harpies which descended on the
feast of Æneas. Tom Gordon had only this advantage among
them, that superior education and position had given him

the power, when he chose, of assuming the appearance and
using the language of a gentleman. But he had enough of
grossness within, to enable him at will to become as one of
them. Tom's arm was still worn in a sling, but, as lack
of energy never was one of his faults, he was about to take
the saddle with his troop. At present they were drawn up
before the door, laughing, swearing, and drinking whiskey,
which flowed in abundance. The dogs — the better-mannered
brutes of the two, by all odds — were struggling in their
leashes with impatience and excitement. Tom Gordon
stood forth on the veranda, after the fashion of great generals
of old, who harangued their troops on the eve of battle.
Any one who has read the speeches of the leaders who
presided over the sacking of Lawrence will get an idea of
some features in this style of eloquence, which our pen
cannot represent.

“Now, boys,” said Tom, “you are getting your names
up. You 've done some good work already. You 've given
that old, snivelling priest a taste of true orthodox doctrine,
that will enlighten him for the future. You 've given that
long-nosed Skinflint light enough to see the error of his
ways.”

A general laugh here arose, and voices repeated,

“Ah, ah, that we did! Did n't we, though?”

“I reckon you did!” said Tom Gordon. “I reckon he
did n't need candles to see his sins by, that night!
Did n't we make a candle of his old dog-kennel? Did n't
he have light to see his way out of the state by? and did n't
we give him a suit to keep him warm on the road? Ah,
boys, that was a warm suit — no mistake! It was a suit
that will stick to him, too! He won't trade that off for rum,
in a hurry, I 'm thinking! Will he, boys?”

Bursts of crazy, half-drunken applause here interrupted
the orator.

“Pity we had n't put a match to it!” shouted one.

“Ah, well, boys, you did enough for that time! Wait
till you catch these sneaking varmins in the swamp, you

shall do what you like with them. Nobody shall hinder
you, that 's law and order. These foxes have troubled us
long enough, stealing at our hen-roosts while we were
asleep. We shall make it hot for them, if we catch them;
and we are going to catch them. There are no two ways
about it. This old swamp is like Davy's coon — it 's got
to come down! And it will come down, boys, when it sees
us coming. No mistake about that! Now, boys, mind,
catch him alive, if you can; but shoot him, if you can't.
Remember, I 'll give a hundred and fifty dollars for his
head!”

A loud shout chorused this last announcement, and Tom
descended in glory to take his place in his saddle.

Once, we suppose, this history would not have been
believed, had it been told; but of late our own sons and
brothers have been hounded and hunted by just such men,
with such means.

The fire which began in the dry tree has spread to the
green!

Long live the great Christianizing Institution!!!