Chapter VI

The Squire was pacing to and fro in the upper end of the room, and the woman and children were seated on the low bench near the counter. Phyllis lifted her eyes to my face as I entered, with a hopeful, inquiring expression, but they fell again when the trader said: 'Thet's the gal fur ye, Mr. Kirke; the most perfectest gal in seven States; good at onything, washin', ironin', nussin', breedin'; rig'larly fotched up; worth her weight in gold; d——d if she haint.' Turning then to Preston, he exclaimed: 'Why, Squire, how ar ye?'

'Very well,' replied my friend, coolly.

'How's times?' continued the trader.

'Very well,' said Preston, in a tone which showed a decided distaste for conversation.

'Well, glad on it. I heerd ye were hard put. Glad on it, Squire.'

The Squire took no further notice of him; and, turning to his property, the trader said: 'Stand up, gal, and let me show the gentleman what yer made of. Doan't look so down in the mouth, gal; this gentleman's got a friend thet'll keep ye in the style ye's fotched up ter.'

Phyllis rose and made a strong effort to appear composed.

'Now, Mr. Kirke, luk at thet rig,' said Larkin, seizing her rudely by the arm and turning her half around; 'straight's a rail. Luk at thet ankle and fut—nimble's a squirrel, and healthy!—why, ye couldn't sicken har if ye put har ter hosspetal work.'

'Well, never mind. I see what she is. What's your price?'

'But ye haint seed har, yit! She's puny like, I knows, but she's solid, I reckon; thar haint a pound of loose stuff on har—it's all muscle. See thar—jest look o' thet,' and he stripped the sleeve of her dress to the elbow; 'thar's a arm fur ye—whiter'n buttermilk, and harder'n cheese. Feel on't.'

The poor woman submitted meekly to this rough handling of her person, but I said impatiently:

'I tell you, Larkin, I'm satisfied. Name your price. I've no time to lose: the stage will be along in five minutes.'

'The stage! Lord bless ye, Mr. Kirke, it's broke down—'twon't be har fur an hour—I knows. Now look o' thet,' he continued, drawing the poor woman's thin dress tightly across her limbs, while he proceeded, despite my repeated attempts to interrupt him, with his disgusting exhibitions, which it would be disgraceful even to describe. 'Ye doan't mind, do ye, gal?' he added, chucking her under the chin in a rude, familiar way, and giving a brutal laugh. Phyllis shrank away from him, but made no reply. She had evidently braced her mind to the ordeal, and was prepared to bear anything rather than offend him. I determined to stop any further proceeding, and said to him:

'I tell you, Larkin, I'm satisfied. I cannot waste more time in this manner. Name your price at once.'

'Time! Mr. Kirke? why yer time arn't worth nothin' jest now. The stage won't be 'long till dark. Ye haint seed half on har, yit. I doan't want ter sell ye a damaged article. I want ter show ye she's sound's a nut—ye won't pay my price ef I doan't. Look a thar, now,' and with a quick, dexterous movement, he tore open the front of her dress. * * * * *

The poor girl, unable to use her hands, bent over nearly double, and strained the children to her breast to hide her shame. A movement at the other end of the room made me look at the Squire. With his jaws set, his hands clenched, and his face on fire, he bounded toward the trader. In a moment he would have been upon him. My own blood boiled, but, knowing that an outbreak would be fatal to our purpose, I planted myself firmly in his way, and said, as I took him by the arm and held him by main force:

'Stand back, Preston; this is my affair.'

'Yes, Squire,' added the trader, 'ye'd better be quiet. Ye'll turn trader, yerself, yit. If things is true, ye'll have ter begin on yer own nigs, mighty sudden.'

'If I am brought to that,' replied the Squire, with the calm dignity which was natural to him, 'I shall treat them like human beings—not like brutes.'

'Ye'll show 'em off the best how ye kin; let ye alone fur thet; I know yer hull parson tribe; thar haint nary a honest one among ye.'

Preston turned silently away, as if disdaining to waste words on such a subject; and I said to the trader:

'Mr. Larkin, I've told you I've no time to lose. Name your price at once, or I'll not buy the woman at all.'

'Well, jest as ye say, Mr. Kirke. But ye see she's a rare 'un; would bring two thousand in Orleans, sure's a gun.'

'Pshaw! you know better than that; but, name your price.'

'What, fur the hull, or the 'ooman alone?'

'Either way; I've no particular use for the children, but I'll buy them if cheap.'

'Oh! do buy us,' cried the little girl, taking hold of my coat; 'do buy us—please do, good massa.'

'Shet up, ye young whelp,' said the trader, raising his whip. The little thing slunk back affrighted, and commenced sobbing, but said no more.

'Well, Mr. Kirke, the lot cost me sixteen fifty, hard rocks, and 'twas dirt cheap, 'cause the 'ooman alone'll bring more'n thet. I couldn't hev bought har fur thet, but har owner wus hard up. Ye see he's Gin'ral——, down ter Newbern, one of yer rig'lar 'ristocrats, the raal ole-fashioned sort—keeps a big plantation, house in town; fine wines; fine wimmin; fast hosses; and goes it mighty strong. Well, he's allers a trifle under—ev'ry year 'bout two thousand short; and ev'ry year I buy a couple or so of nigs on him ter make it up. He's a pertickerler friend o' mine, ye see; he thinks a heap o' me—he does. Well, when I gets 'long thar t'other day, he says ter me, says he: 'Lark,' (he allers calls me Lark; thet's the name I goes by 'mong my intimate 'quaintance), well, says he; 'Lark, thar's Phylly. I want ye ter take har. She's the likeliest gal in the world—good old Virginny blood, father one of the raal old stock. Ye knows she's right, good ev'ry way, prays like a camp meetin', and virtuous ter kill; thar ain't none round har thet's up to har at thet—tried ter cum round har myself, but couldn't git nigher'n a rod—won't hev but one man, and'll stick ter him like death; jest the gal fur one o' them New Orleans bloods as wants one thet'll be true ter 'em. Do ye take, Lark?' says he. 'Well, I do, says I, and I knows just the feller fur har; one of yer raal high-flyers—rich's a Jew—twenty thousand a year—lives like a prince—got one or two on 'em now; but he says to me when I comes off, 'Lark,' says he, 'find me a gal, raather pale, tidy, hard's a nut, and not bigger'n a cotton bale.' Wall, says I, 'I will,' and, Gin'ral, Phylly's the gal! She'll hev good times, live like a queen, hev wines, dresses, hosses, operas, and all them sort o' things—ye knows them ar fellers doan't stand fur trifles.' 'Yes, I knows, Lark,' says the Gin'ral, 'and bein' it's so, ye kin take har, Lark; but I wouldn't sell har ter ary nother man livin'—if I would, d——n me. Ye kin hev har, Lark, but ye must take the young 'uns; she's got two, ye knows, and it hain't Christian-like ter sell 'em apart.' 'D——n the young 'uns, Gin'ral,' says I,' I karn't do nary a thing with them. What'll one o' them young bloods want o' them? They goes in fur home manufactures.' 'Yes, I knows, Lark,' says he, 'but ye kin sell 'em off thar—ony planter'll buy 'em—they'll pay ter raise. They're two likely little gals, ye knows; honest born, white father, and'll make han'some wimmin—han'somer'n thar mother, and sell higher when they's grow'd; ye'd better take 'em, Lark. If ye doan't, I'm d——d if I'll sell ye the mother; fur, ye see, I must have the hull vally, now, that's honest.' 'Wall, Gin'ral,' says I, 'ye allers talks right out, that's what I likes in ye. What's the price?' 'Wall,' says he, 'bein' it's ye, and ye've a good master in yer eye for Phylly, I'll say two thousand fur the lot—the gal alone'll fetch twenty-five hun'red down ter Orleans.' 'Whew!' says I, 'Gin'ral, ye've been a takin' suthin'. (But he hadn't; he war soberer than a church clock; 'twarn't more'n 'lev'n, and he's never drunk 'fore evenin'.) Wall,' says I, 'karn't think of it, nohow, Gin'ral.' Then he come down ter eighteen, but I counted out sixteen fifty—good rags of the old State Bank—and I'm blamed if he didn't take it. I'd no idee he wud; but debt, Mr. Kirke, debt's the devil—but it helps us, 'cause, I s'pose (and he laughed his hardened, brutal laugh), we do the devil's own work. But be thet how it may, if these high flyin' planters didn't run inter it, and hev ter pay up, nigger spec'latin' wouldn't be worth follerin'. Well, I took the nig's, and thar they is; and bein' it's you, Mr. Kirke, and yer a friend of the ole man, you shill hev the lot fur a hun'red and fifty more, or the 'ooman alone fur fifteen hun'red; but ary nother white man couldn't toch 'em fur less'n two thousand—if they could, d——n me.'

The stage had not arrived, and I had submitted to this lengthy harangue, because I saw I could more certainly accomplish the purchase by indulging the humor of the trader. The suspense was, no doubt, agony to Phyllis, and the Squire manifested decided impatience, but the delay seemed unavoidable. It was difficult for Preston to control himself. He chafed like a chained tiger. At first he paced up and down the farther side of the apartment, then sat down, then rose and paced the room again, and then again sat down, every now and then glaring upon Larkin with a look of savage ferocity that showed the wild beast was rising in him. The trader once in a while looked toward him with a cool unconcern that indicated two things: nerves of iron, and perfect familiarity with such demonstrations.

Fearing an explosion, I at last stepped up to the Squire, and said to him in a low tone: 'Let me beg of you to leave the room—do—you may spoil all.' He made no reply, but did as I requested.

When he had gone, Larkin remarked, in an indifferent way, 'The Squire's got the devil in him. He's some when his blood's up—edged tools, dangerous ter handle—he is—I knows him.' I'd ruther have six like Tom on me, ony time, than one like him. But he karn't skeer me. The man doan't breathe thet kin turn Jake Larkin a hair.'

'I see he's excited,' I replied; 'but why is he so interested in this woman?'

'Why? She was fotched up 'long with him—children together. He owned har till he got in the nine-holes one day, and sold har ter the Gin'ral. I'd bet a pile the young 'uns ar his'n. He knows har as he do the psa'm book. Ha! ha!' and he laughed his brutal laugh, as, chucking Phyllis again under the chin, he asked, 'Doan't he, gal?'

She shrank away from him, but said nothing.

'Doan't be squeamy, gal; out with it; we'll think the more on ye fur't. Arn't the young 'uns his'n? Didn't ye b'long ter the Squire till he got so d——d pious five year ago?'

'Yes, master; I belonged to him; Master Robert wus allers pious.'

'Yes, I knows; he wus allers preachin' pious. But didn't ye b'long ter him—ye knows what I means—till he got so d——d camp-meetin' pious five year ago?'

'Master Robert was allers camp-meetin' pious,' replied the woman, looking down, and drawing her thin shawl more closely over her open bosom.

'Well,' said Larkin, 'ye karn't git nothin' out o' har, but it's so—sartin! Ev'ry 'un says so; and what ev'ry 'un says arn't more'n a mile from the truth. Jest look o' that little 'un. Doan't ye see the Squire's eyes and forrerd thar?' and he took the little girl roughly by the arm, and turned her face toward mine. The lower part of her features were like her mother's, but her eyes, hair, and forehead were Preston's!

'Yes, I see,' I said; 'but you spoke of two little girls; where is the other?'

'Well, you see, I bought 'em both, and the Gin'ral give me a bill o' sale on 'em; but when we come to look arter the young 'un in the mornin', she warn't thar. The Gin'ral's 'ooman—she's a 'ooman fur me—a hull team—she makes him stan' round, I reckon. Well, she'd a likin' for the little 'un, and she swoore she shouldn't be sold. She told me ter my face she'd packed har off whar I couldn't git har, nohow; and she said she'd raise the town, and hev me driv' out if I 'tempted it.'

'What did you do then?' I asked.

'Well, ye knows the Gin'ral's a honerubble man; so, when he seed his 'ooman was sot thet way, he throw'd in the yaller boy—and he's wuth a hun'red more'n the gal, ony day. His mother took on ter kill, 'cause the Gin'ral'd sort o' promised him ter har, and she'd been a savin' up ter buy him. But the Gin'ral's a honerubble man, and he didn't flinch a hair—not a hair. Thet's the sort ter deal with, I say. I stuck fur the little gal, though—'cause, ye see, I'd takin' a likin' ter har myself—she's the pootiest little thing ye ever seed, she is; but the Gin'ral he said 'twarn't no use, fur his 'ooman would have har way, and finally I guv in, and took another bill o' sale. And what d'ye think! I'd no more'n got it inter my pocket, 'fore the Gin'ral's 'ooman pulled out a gold watch, two or three diamond pins, a ring or two, and some wimmin's fixin's, and says she, 'See thar, Mister Larkin, them's what I got fur the little gal. I've sold har—sold har this mornin', and guv the bill o' sale; and if the Gin'ral doan't cartify it, he woan't git no peace, I reckon. I was bound ter see one on 'em done right by, I was.' Well, I told har she wus ahead o' my time, and I put out raather sudden, I did. A 'ooman's the devil; I'd ruther trade with twenty men than one 'ooman, I swar.'

When he spoke of her child, the slave woman burst into tears. Her emotion drowned the curiosity which had made me a patient listener to the trader's story, and recalled me to the business in hand. With some twinges of conscience for having kept the wretched girl so long on the rack, I said to him, 'Well, Larkin, let's get through with this. Name your lowest price for the lot.'

'P'raps you'd as lief throw out the boy. I'll take off three hundred fur him.'

'Oh! doan't ye leab Ally, massa; buy Ally too, massa; oh do, good massa!' he cried, with an expression of keen agony such as I had never till then seen in a child. He was a 'likely' little fellow, with a round, good-natured face, and a bright, intelligent eye; and though I presumed Preston felt no particular interest in him, I thought of his mother, depriving herself of sleep and rest to save up the price of her boy, and I said: 'No, I have taken a liking to him; I'll take the whole or none.'

'Well, then, seventeen fifty, not a dime less. Thet's only a hun'red profit.'

'Will a hundred profit satisfy you?'

'Yes, bein' as you's a friend of the ole man, and I hain't had 'em only four days.'

I quietly sat down on the bench, beside the little girl, and taking her hand in mine, and playing with her small fingers in a careless way, said: 'Well, I will give you a hundred profit; but, Larkin,' and I looked him directly in the eye and smiled, 'you cannot intend to come the Yankee over me! I am one of them myself, you know, and understand such things. These people cost you twelve hundred—not a mill more.'

'The h——ll they did! P'raps ye mean ter say I lie?' he replied, in an excited tone, his face reddening with anger.

'No, I don't. I merely state a fact, and you know it. So keep cool.'

'It's a d——d lie, sir. I doan't keer who says it,' he exclaimed, now really excited.

'Come, come, my fine fellow,' I said, rising and facing him; 'skip the hard words, and don't get up too much steam—it might hurt you, or your friends.'

'What d'ye mean? Speak out, Mr. Kirke. If ye doan't want ter buy 'em, say so, and hev done with it.' This was said in a more moderate tone. He had evidently taken my meaning, and feared he had gone too far.

'I mean simply this. This woman and the children cost you twelve hundred dollars four days ago. Preston wants them—must have them—and he will give thirteen hundred for them, and pay you in a year, with interest; that's all.'

'Well, come now, Mr. Kirke, thet's liberal, arn't it! S'pose I doan't take it, what then?'

'Then Roye, Struthers & Co. will stop your supplies, or I'll stop their's—that's 'SARTIN',' and I laughed good-humoredly as I said it.

'Well, yer one on 'em, Mr. Kirke, thet's a fact;' and then he added, seriously, 'but ye karn't mean to saddle my doin's onter them.'

'Yes, I will; and tell them they have you to thank for it.'

'What,' and he struck his forehead with his hand; 'what a dangnation fool I wus ter tell ye 'bout them!'

'Of course, you were; and a greater one to say you paid sixteen fifty for the property. I'd have given fifteen hundred for them if you had told the truth. But come, what do you say; are they Preston's or not?'

'No, I karn't do it; karn't take Preston's note—'tain't wuth a hill o' beans. Give me the money, and it's a trade.'

'Preston is cramped, and cannot pay the money just now. I'll give you my note, if you prefer it.'

'Payable in York, interest and exchange?'

'Yes.'

'Well, it's done. And now, d——n the nigs. I'll never buy ary 'nother good-lookin' 'un as long's I live.'

'I hope you won't,' I replied, laughing.

He then produced a blank note and a bill of sale, and drawing from his pocket a pen and a small ink bottle, said to me: 'Thar, Mr. Kirke, ye fill up the note, and I'll make out the bill o' sale. I'm handy at such doin's.'

'Give me the key of these bracelets first. Make out the bill to Preston—Robert Preston, of Jones County.'

He handed me the key, and I unlocked the shackles. 'Now, Phyllis,' I said, 'it is over. Go and tell Master Robert.'

She rose, threw her arms wildly above her head, and staggering weakly forward, without saying a word, left the cabin. Yelping and leaping with joy, the yellow boy followed her; but the little girl came to me, and looking up timidly in my face, said: 'O massa! Rosey so glad 'ou got mammy—Rosey so glad. Rosey lub 'ou, massa—Rosey lub 'ou a heap.' I thought of the little girl I had left at home, and with a sudden impulse lifted the child from the floor and kissed her. She put her little arms about my neck, laid her soft cheek against mine, and burst into tears. She was not accustomed to much kindness.

I filled out the note and gave it to the trader; and, with the bill of sale in my hand, was about to go in search of Preston, when he and Phyllis entered the cabin. I handed him the document, and glancing it over, he placed it in his pocket book.

'Now, Larkin,' I said, 'this is a wretched business; give it up; there's too much of the man in you for this sort of thing.'

'Well, p'raps yer right, Mr. Kirke; but I'm in it, and I karn't git out; but it seems ter me it tain't no wuss dealin' in 'em then ownin' 'em.'

'I don't know. Is it not a little worse on the man himself? Does it not sort of harden you—blunt your better feelings, to be always buying and selling people that do not want to be bought and sold?'

'Well, p'raps it do; it's a cussed business ony how. But thar's my hand, Mr. Kirke. Yer a gentleman, I swar, if ye hev come it over me, ha! ha! How slick you done it! I likes ye the better fur it; and if Jake Larkin kin ever do ye a good turn, he'll do it. I allers takes ter a man thet's smarter nor I am, I do,' and he gave my hand another of his powerful shakes.

'I thank you, Larkin; and if I can ever serve you, it will give me great pleasure to do so.'

'I doan't doubt it, Mr. Kirke, I doan't; and I'll call on ye, sure, if ye ever kin do me ony good. Good-by; ye want ter be with the Squire; good-by;' and giving my hand another shake, he left the cabin.

Which was the worse—that coarse, hardened man, or the institution which had made him what he was?

It was many years before the trader and I met again. When we did, he kept his word!