The Continental Monthly, Vol 2, No 6, December 1862

My friend! we must fight on till we conquer. We have no alternative but absolute ruin. Our triumph is far nearer than it seems, if we can but animate the loyal States to put forth their whole strength for the contest. Our armies are mustered; our leaders are chosen; our munitions provided; and the Proclamation of Freedom is an immense make-weight thrown into the right scale. We must and shall conquer, and save the civilized world from a scourge more baleful than any Alaric or Attila.

Yours, truly,Horace Greeley.

THANK GOD FOR ALL

Air—'They tell me thou'rt a favored guest;' or,' Seht ihr drei Rosse vor dem Wagen.'

Look back upon the vanished years,When all men pointed at our shame;Think on the curses and the jeersWhich rung and clung around our name:A byword and a mocking call—And we may thank the South for all.The foulness of their Southern slimeWas cast upon our Northern hands;The curse of murder, craft, and crimeClung to our fame in foreign lands:Men thought us prompt to thieve or brawl—And we may thank the South for all.Britannia smiles on Davis now,And blesses all his bayonets;There was a time when on our browShe set the shame of Southern debts:We wore the chain—we dragged the ball—And we may thank the South for all.Men spoke of slaves in bitter tone,When pointing to the stripes and stars;'The constellation is your own,The negro gets the bloody scars,And yet of equal rights you bawl!'Well—we may thank the South for all.They stole our starlight—made us blind,As did of old the Norland elves:Prometheus stole it—for mankind,But they—they kept it for themselves,And held us like their slaves in thrall—And we—we thanked them for it all.Thank God! the pact is rent in twain!Thank God! the light is all our own!We've burst the bonds and rent the chain,And drawn the sword, unhelped, alone:And, holding Freedom's carnival,We'll thank the South for that and all.The morning-red is on our brow,The brand, the curse grows pale with night;The sword is in our hands, and nowAll gleams in glory's golden light:We're free! Ye nations, hear the call—We see! and now thank God for all!

A MERCHANT'S STORY

'All of which I saw, and part of which I was.'

CHAPTER VII

It was nine o'clock at night, when the stage halted before the door of that purgatory for Southern pilgrims, the 'Washington House,' Newbern. As we dismounted from the box, Preston said to me:

'You order supper and a room, while I attend to Phyllis and the chidren. I'll join you presently.'

Seeing that our luggage was safely deposited on the piazza, I entered the hotel in quest of the landlord. The 'office' was a long, low, dingy apartment, with tobacco-stained floor, blackened ceiling, and greasy brown walls, ornamented here and there with advertisements of runaway slaves, auction notices of 'mules, negroes, and other property,' a few dusty maps, and a number of unframed wood cuts of prominent political characters. Among the latter, Calhoun, in bristling hair, cadaverous face, and high shirt collar, looked 'the unkindest cut of all.' Behind the bar, which extended across the further end of the room, was drawn up a whole regiment of glass decanters, and stout black bottles, full of spirit, and ready for active service. A generous wood fire roared and crackled on a broad hearthstone, and in a semi circle around it, in every conceivable attitude, were collected about twenty planters' sons, village shopkeepers, turpentine farmers, itinerant horse dealers, and cattle drovers. Some had their heels a trifle higher than their heads, some were seated on the knees of others, some were lounging on the arms of chairs, and some were stretched at full length on a pile of trunks near by; but all were too much engaged in smoking, expectorating, and listening to a horse-trading narrative, which one of their number was relating, to heed my entrance.

'Wall, ye see,' said the story teller, 'Dick come the possum over him; made b'lieve he was drunk, though he warn't, no more'n I ar; but he tuk darned good keer ter see the ole man get well slewed, he did. Wall, wen the ole feller wus pooty well primed, Dick stuck his arm inter his'n, toted him off ter the stable, and fotched out a ole spavin'd, wind-galled, used-up, broken-down critter, thet couldn't gwo a rod, 'cept ye got another hoss to haul him; and says he: 'See thar; thar's a perfect paragone o' hossflesh; a raal Arab; nimble's a cricket; sunder'n a nut; gentler'n a cooin' dove, and faster'n a tornado! I doan't sell 'im fur nary fault, and ye couldn't buy 'im fur no price, ef I warn't hard put. Come, now, what d'ye say? I'll put 'im ter ye fur one fifty, an' it's less'n he cost, it ar!' Wall, the ole man tuk—swallowed the critter whole—tuk him down without greasing, he did! ha! ha!'

'Ha! ha!' repeated the listening crowd, and 'Yah! yah!' echoed three or four well-dressed darkies, who were standing near the doorway: 'Sarved 'im right; he'm a mean ole cuss, he am;' chimed in one of the latter gentry, as he added another guffaw, and, swaying his body back and forth, brought his hands down on his thighs with a concussion which sent a thick cloud of tobacco smoke, of his own manufacture, circling to the other side of the room.

When the merriment had somewhat subsided, I stepped toward the assemblage, and inquired if the landlord were present. There was no reply for a few moments; then one of the embryo planters, speaking to a showily-dressed young man near him, remarked:

'Get up, and tend ter the stranger; ye arn't fit to tote vituals to a nigger.'

The young man rose very deliberately, and said:

'Want ter see the keeper, do ye?'

'Yes, sir, I want, a room, and supper for two, at once.'

'Room and supper fur two?'

'Yes, a room with a fire and two beds.'

'Whar d'ye come from?'

'From Goldsboro'; just in by the stage.'

'Oh! stage's in, is it?'

'Yes, sir, the stage is in. You'll oblige me by attending to us at once; we are hungry and tired.'

He looked at me for a moment without speaking, then leisurely walked out of the front door. Two or three of the loungers followed, but the young gentleman who had first spoken rose and politely tendered me a seat. Thanking him, I took the chair vacated by the bartender, and proceeded to warm my hands and limbs, which were thoroughly chilled by the long ride in the cold air.

'Cold, riding after nightfall, sir,' said the young man, who I now observed was the Mr. Gaston whom the trader had so unceremoniously ejected from the shooting ground.

'Yes, sir, it is cold riding on the box.'

'And our rattle-down coaches are so mighty slow; you don't have such fixin's at the North.'

'No, sir; but why do you suppose I'm from the North? I've passed for a Southerner to-day.'

'Oh, I know you Yankees all to pieces; I've lived among you.'

'At college, I suppose?'

'Yes, at Harvard.'

'You graduated early.'

'No, I didn't graduate, I left—left for my health. Ha! ha I' and he broke into a merry fit of laughter, in which several of his companions joined.

'Taken with sudden illness, as you were at the turkey-match, to-day?' I inquired good humoredly, and in a tone that could not give offence.

'Yes, the same disease, I swear. Ha! ha!'

'Ha! ha!' echoed his companions,

'The stranger's inter ye, Gus—inter ye a feet! Come, ye must treat,' shouted the teller of the horse story.

This last individual was tall, raw-boned, and squarely built, with broad, heavy features, and dull, cold, snake-like eyes. His black, unkempt hair, and long, wiry beard, fell round his face like tow round a mop handle, and his coarse linsey clothes, patched in many places, and smeared with tar and tobacco juice, fitted him as a shirt might fit a bean pole. The legs of his pantaloons were thrust inside of his boots, and he wore a fuzzy woollen hat with battered crown and a broad flapping brim. He looked the very picture of an ex-overseer under a cloud, or an itinerant sporting man, anxious for something to turn up.

I declined the proffered drink, but the company rose and approached the counter, while the young planter bade the bartender, who had just reëntered, 'trot out the consolation.'

'Down with the pewter, then, Mr. Gaston,' said the liquor vender. 'No pay, no drinks, is the rule in this yere shanty.'

The young man tossed him a half-eagle. His companions proceeded to imbibe a variety of compounds, while he poured out nearly a glass full of raw whiskey, and drank it down at a swallow. As he replaced the glass on the counter, a slatternly negro woman thrust her head in at the doorway, saying:

'Dar's a 'ooman heah; a wite 'ooman, dat am 'ticler anxyus fur de honor of Mister Mulock's 'quaintance. She'm in de sittin' room.'

'Thar's a call fur you, Bony,' said the young planter to the story teller; 'some young woman with designs on your landed possessions; ha! ha!'

Without replying, the other followed the serving woman from the room. He was the absconding polygamist for whom the tobacco-chewing female had ventured all the way from Chalk-Leod.

'Is supper ready, sir?' I asked of the bartender.

'Supper? I reckon so. Ye'd better go and see,' was the civil reply.

'Where's the dining room?'

'Over thar—'tother side the hall.'

Passing out of the room, I met Preston, and we proceeded together to the supper table. When we were seated, I remarked:

'By the way, I have just seen the husband of our stage coach acquaintance. He's a rum-looking customer.'

'Yes, I suppose he has taken to drinking again. The whipping and the loss of Phylly have probably worked on him.'

'You don't mean to say he is Phylly's husband?'

'Yes, didn't I tell you?'

'No. Two wives under one roof! Well, that's more than most white men can afford.'

'That's a fact. It's an awkward business; what had better be done?'

'Done? Why, let him go. You'll be well rid of him. He's a worthless fellow, or nature dosn't write English. I read 'scoundrel' all over his face.'

'He has a bad nature; but Phylly's influence on him is good, and she loves him.'

'Loves him! Well, there's no accounting for tastes.'

'That's true,' replied the Squire; 'but we all love those whom we do good to. She married Mulock after nursing him through a long illness, and she has tamed him, though it was taming a wolf.'

We soon left the table. Preston went into the sitting room, while I resumed my seat by the bar room fire.

I had nearly finished my evening cigar, when Preston came into the office, Shaking hands with young Gaston and a number of the others, who all greeted him with marked respect. He said to me:

'What shall I do? Mulock's wife will let him off if I pay her a hundred dollars.'

'Pay her a hundred dollars!' I exclaimed.

'Yes; she'll release him to Phyllis for that—give a paper to that effect. What would you do?

The idea was so ludicrous that, in spite of the Squire's serious manner, I burst into a fit of laughter. Between the mirthful explosions I managed to say:

'Pardon me, Preston; but I never before heard of selling a husband—at so low a price. Ha! ha! Do not buy him; he isn't worth the money.' Then seeing that he appeared hurt, I added: 'What does Phyllis say?'

'I haven't told her; she'll feel badly to have him go, but it's not right for me to pay the money. I should pay my debts first.'

Mr. Gaston, whose attention had been attracted to our conversation by my rather boisterous conversation, now said, making a strong effort to appear serious:

'Excuse me, Squire, but what is it? Has Mulock two wives; and does one offer to sell out for a hundred dollars?'

'Yes,' replied Preston, in a tone which showed a decided disinclination to conversation with him.

'Buy him, then, Squire; I'll give you twenty-five dollars for the bargain, on the spot; I will, I swear;' and, unable to contain himself longer, he burst into an uproarious fit of merriment, in which the by-sitters joined.

Preston's face darkened, and in a grave voice he said:

'Young man, you forget yourself. I am sorry to see you so wanting in respect to others, and—yourself.'

'I beg your pardon, Mr. Preston,' replied Gaston, in an apologetic tone; 'I meant no offence, sir—upon my soul, I did not. If Mulock is for sale for a—'here his risibilities again gave way—'for a hundred dollars, I'll buy him; for it's cheap; I swear it's cheap, seeing he's a white man.'

Preston, by this time really angered, was about to make a harsh reply, when I interrupted him:

'Never mind, my friend, let Mr. Gaston buy him; he can afford it. Do it, Mr. Gaston; it will be both a capital joke and a good action, do it at once.'

The glass of raw whiskey had somewhat 'elevated' the young planter, and my conscience demurred a little at the advice I gave him; but I recovered my usual self-complacency on reflecting that he would undoubtedly put the money to a much worse use.

Saying, 'D–d if I won't,' Gaston drew forth his purse, and counted out a number of half eagles. Finding he had not enough, he turned to another young planter, and said:

'Here, Bob, I'm short; lend me fifty dollars.'

'Bob' produced his wallet, and, without counting them, handed him a roll of bills.

'Now, stranger, come along, I shall want you to draw up the papers and witness the trade; ha! ha! Is she in the parlor, Squire?'

'Yes,' said Preston, taking the seat I had vacated.

The young man then put his arm into mine, and we proceeded to the 'sitting room.'

Mulock was seated before the fire, gazing intently at the blaze. His wife sat opposite, speaking earnestly to him. She every now and then wetted a short piece of wood with saliva, and dipping it into a snuff bottle, mopped her teeth and gums with the savory powder. She was—as her husband might have said—a perfect 'paragone' of 'poor white' womanhood, with all the accomplishments of her class, smoking, chewing, snuff dipping, and whiskey drinking.

As we approached, she lifted her eyes, and Gaston said to her:

'Are you the lady who has a man for sale—a likely white man?'

'Wall, stranger, I reckon I'm the 'ooman, Thet ar feller's my husband, an' he karn't git off 'cept I git a hundred dollars.'

'Will you give a bill of sale, releasing all your right, title, and interest in him to me, if I pay you a hundred dollars?'

'Yes, I wull—ter ye, or ter ony-body.'

'Wall, now,' continued Gaston, imitating her tone, 'karn't yo take a trifle less'n thet—eighty or so?'

'No, stranger, nary dime under thet. I'm gol-durned ef I does.'

'Well, Mulock, what do you say? Are you willing to be sold?'

'I haint willin' ter be laff'd at by ye, nor nobody else,' replied Mulock, rising, and turning fiercely on the planter. 'I'll larrup the d–d 'ooman ony how, and ye, too, ef ye say much more.'

'Come, Mulock,' said the young man, coolly, but firmly, 'be civil, or I'll let daylight through you before you're a minute older. I'm disposed to do you a good turn, but you must be civil, by–.'

'Wall, do as ye likes, Gus; onything'll suit me,' replied Mulock, resuming his previous position.

'But, d– you, if I spend a hundred on you, you must go to work like a man, and try to pay it. I wouldn't do it anyhow, if it warn't for Phylly.'

'But Phylly's gone,' said Mulock in a dejected tone; 'gone—toted off by thet d–d trader. If I hadn't a ben in the cussed jug, I'd a killed him.'

'No she isn't gone; she's here—Preston's bought her.'

Mulock sprang to his feet; his dull, cold eye lighted, and seizing the young man by the arm, he exclaimed:

'Doan't ye lie ter me, Gus; is she yere?'

'Yes, so Bob says; he saw her get out of the stage.'

Mulock made no reply, but strode toward the door. Gaston said quickly:

'Hold on, Bony, don't vamoose just yet. D–d if I'll help you out of this if you don't promise to work like an honest fellow to pay me.'

'I will, Gus; I'll leave off drinkin' ter onst; I'll work day and night, I will.'

'Well, my rustic beauty, are you ready to sign a bill of sale?'

'Yas; but I reckon, bein's as ye set so high on Bony, ye kin go a trifle more'n thet; jest the 'spences down yere?'

'Not another red,' said Gaston.

'Wall, he ain't of no account, nohow; I reckon he ain't wuth no more. Count out th' pewter.'

I procured writing utensils from the bar room, and in a few moments drew up a paper, by which, in consideration of one hundred dollars, to her in hand, that day paid, Jane Mulock, of Chalk Level, in the county of Harnet, and State of North Carolina, did sell, assign, transfer, make over, convey, and forever quit claim unto Phyllis Preston, otherwise known as Phyllis Mulock, of the town of Newbern, in the county of Craven, and State aforesaid, all her right, title, and interest in and to the body, soul, wearing apparel, and other possessions, of one Napoleon Bonaparte Mulock, whom the said Jane charged with being her husband; and also all claims or demands she had on him for a support, she binding herself never to institute any suit or suits against him in any court of the State of North Carolina, or of any other State, or of the United States, for the crime of bigamy, or for any other crime, misdemeanor, or abomination committed against herself at any time prior to the date of said instrument. In testimony whereof she, the said Jane Mulock, did sign the sign of the cross, and affix her seal to a half sheet of dirty paper, whereto Gustavus A. Gaston, and the writer hereof, were witnesses.4

Both Mulock and his wife thought the instrument a valid one. He again took Phyllis to his bosom, and Jane, I have been told, married another husband. In view of the latter fact, I have never been able to wholly satisfy my conscience for the part I took in the transaction.

CHAPTER VIII

While we were at breakfast on the following morning, Preston said to me:

'I think I had better leave Phylly and Rosey here till I can consult with my wife; we have house servants enough, and Phylly can't work in the field. It may be advisable to let her remain in Newbern.'

'And what will you do with the little yellow boy?'

'Oh, take him with us. There's always something the little fellows can do. We'll call at his mother's and get him.'

We decided to set out for the plantation at once, and Preston ordered a livery wagon to be got in readiness. While we were waiting for it, I strolled out upon the piazza. I had not been there long before 'young Joe,' Preston's only son, rode up to the hotel. He was a manly lad, about twelve years of age, and in form, features, and manner, a miniature edition of his father. He had grown amazingly since at my house, two years before, and I did not at once recognize him; but as soon as he caught sight of me, he shouted out in boyish glee, throwing his bridle over the hitching post, and springing to the ground.

'Oh, Mr. Kirke! I'm so glad you've come; mother will be so glad to see you. We'll have such a nice time,' and he seized me by the hand, and shook it energetically.

'Why, Joe, I thought you were at home!'

'Oh, no! I'm here at school, but father says I'm to have a vacation while you're here. Why didn't you fetch Frank? You promised you would.'

'I know I did, Joe, but his mother wouldn't let him come; she thinks he's too young to travel.'

'Pshaw! He's old enough—most as old as I am; but never mind, Mr. Kirke; we'll have a fine time, hunting and fishing, and going to the races. They're going to have a big one over to Trenton next week, and I'm dying to go; it's so lucky you've come.'

'Lord bless you, Joe, I never went to a race, and never shot a gun in my life; besides, I can remain only a day or so.'

'Oh, yes, you can; father says you Yorkers are always in a hurry; but you must take it easy now. I'll show you round, and learn you the ropes.'

While I was laughing at the enthusiasm of the young lad, the wagon drove up, and Preston soon appearing, we entered it and drove off. As Joe bounded upon his spirited horse and led the way down the elm-shaded street, I said to his father:

'How that boy rides; he's a perfect Centaur.'

'Yes, he is a good horseman. He's been trained to it. You know we think manly exercises an essential part of a gentleman's education.'

'And you let Joe keep his own horse?'

'Yes, it's awfully expensive; but old Joe raised the colt for the boy, and I couldn't deny him.'

We rode on until we reached the outskirts of the town, when we stopped before a small, tumble-down shanty, built of rough boards, and roofed with the same material. In the narrow front yard, a large iron pot, supported on two upright poles, was steaming over a light wood fire. The boiling clothes it contained were being stirred by a brawny, coal black negro woman, with an arm like the Farnese Hercules, and a form as stout as Wouter Van Twiller's. The yellow boy, Ally, was heaping wood on the fire.

'How do you do, aunty?' said Preston, as we drew up at the rickety gate.

'Right smart, massa, right smart,' replied the woman; then turning round and recognizing the Squire, she added: 'Oh, massa Preston, am dat 'ou? Oh! I'se so 'joiced 'ou got Ally; I'se so 'joiced! De Lord hear my prayer, massa—de Lord hear my prayer. I feel like I die wid joy, de Lord so good ter me. Oh, He'm so good ter me!'

'The Lord is good to all who love Him; He never fails those that trust in Him,' said Preston, solemnly.

'No more'n He doan't, massa; no more'n he doan't. De good missus tole me dat jess af'er dey toted de pore chile 'way; but I couldn't b'lieve it, massa, I couldn't b'lieve it. It 'peared like I neber see 'im agin—neber see 'im agin, but I prayed de Lord, massa, I prayed de Lord all de time—all de time dat de chile wus 'way; I hab no sleep, I eat most nuffin, an' my heart grow so big, I fought it would clean broke; but lass night, jess wen it 'peared like I couldn't stan' it no more; wen I wus a cryin' an' a groanin' to de Lord wid all my might, den, massa, de Lord, He hard me, an' He open de door, an' de little chile run in, an' put him arms round my neck, and he telled me I need neber cry no more, 'case de good massa Preston hab got him! Oh, it wus too much, massa, fur 'ou's so good, de Lord's so good, massa! Oh, I feel like I should die ob joy.' Here she sat down on a rude bench near by, covered her face with her apron, and sobbed like a child. Preston's eyes filled with tears, but brushing them hastily away, he asked, as if to change the subject:

'Did you say the 'missus' had been down?'

'Yes, massa, de good missus come down jess so soon as she hard Phylly war sold, an' wen she fine Ally war gwine too, she come ter see de ole 'ooman, she did, massa—and she try to comfut me. She say de good Lord would fotch Ally back, and He hab, massa! Oh, He hab!'

'Well, Dinah, what shall we do with Ally? Do you want him to go to the plantation?'

'Oh, yas, massa, I want de chile ter be wid 'ou. I'd rudder he'd be wid 'ou, massa; but massa'—and she spoke timidly, and with hesitation—''ou knows ole massa promise ter sell Ally ter me—ter sell 'im ter me wen I'd a sabed up 'nuff ter buy 'im. An' will 'ou, massa, will 'ou?'

'Yes, Dinah, of course I will,' said Preston.

'Oh! bress 'ou, massa; bress 'ou. It'm so good ob 'ou, so good ob 'ou, massa;' and she sobbed harder than before.

'How much have you saved up, aunty?'

'A hun'red and firteen, massa; an' dar's some more'n dat massa Blackwell am ter gib fur de usin' on it. Massa Blackwell got it. How much shill I pay fur Ally, massa?'

'Well, I don't know; the trader offered three hundred for him; you may have him for half that.'

'How much 's dat, massa?'

'A hundred and fifty dollars.'

'He'm wuth more'n dat, massa Preston; ole massa say Ally wuth two hun'red an' fifty or three hun'red ob any folks' money. He'm a likely boy, massa.'

'Yes, I know that; I don't mean to undervalue him. I wouldn't sell him to any one else for less than three hundred dollars.'

'Oh! tank 'ou, massa; it'm good ob 'ou; berry good ob 'ou, massa;' and again her apron found the way to her eyes.

'Well,' said Preston, after a moment's thought, 'I think you'd better take the boy now, aunty. I'm in some trouble, and I don't know how things may turn with me; so you'd better take him now.'

'But I hain't money 'nuff now, massa.'