FootNote
The new kid on the block, FootNote is known for digitizing historical
documents... many of which are genealogical gems. With naturalizations,
city directories, war records, newspapers, town records, etc... this new
kid is quickly being recognized as an alternative to Ancestry.
While we know our northern friends may not feel it, in the South, Spring is
here. So we thought we'd share a few of our gardening sites appropriate
for this time of the year. Along with gardening, there's grilling, and getting
ready to diet so that you can fit back into that bathing suit this summer!
With no one but her dear
little Clotelle, Isabella passed her weary
hours without partaking of either food or
drink, hoping that Henry would soon return,
and that the strange meeting with the old
woman would be cleared up.
While seated in her neat little bedroom with
her fevered face buried in her handkerchief,
the child ran in and told its mother that a
carriage had stopped in front of the house.
With a palpitating heart she arose from her
seat and went to the door, hoping that it
was Henry; but, to her great consternation,
the old lady who had paid her such an
unceremonious visit on the evening that she
had last seen Henry, stepped out of the
carriage, accompanied by the slave trader,
Jennings.
Isabella had seen the trader when he
purchased her mother and sister, and
immediately recognized him. What could these
persons want there? thought she. Without any
parleying or word of explanation, the two
entered the house, leaving the carriage in
charge of a servant.
Clotelle ran to her mother, and clung to her
dress as if frightened by the strangers.
"She's a fine looking wench," said the
speculator, as he seated himself, unasked,
in the rocking chair; "yet I don't think she
is worth the money you ask for her."
"What do you want here?" inquired Isabella,
with a quivering voice.
"None of your insolence to me," bawled out
the old woman, at the top of her voice; "if
you do, I will give you what you deserve so
much, my lady, a good whipping."
In an agony of grief, pale, trembling, and
ready to sink to the floor, Isabella was
only sustained by the hope that she would be
able to save her child. At last, regaining
her self possession, she ordered them both
to leave the house. Feeling herself
insulted, the old woman seized the tongs
that stood by the fire place, and raised
them to strike the quadroon down; but the
slave trader immediately jumped between the
women, exclaiming,
"I won't buy her, Mrs. Miller, if you injure
her."
Poor little Clotelle screamed as she saw the
strange woman raise the tongs at her mother.
With the exception of old Aunt Nancy, a free
colored woman, whom Isabella sometimes
employed to work for her, the child had
never before seen a strange face in her
mother's dwelling. Fearing that Isabella
would offer some resistance, Mrs. Miller had
ordered the overseer of her own farm to
follow her; and, just as Jennings had
stepped between the two women, Mull, the
Negro driver, walked into the room.
"Seize that impudent hussy," said Mrs.
Miller to the overseer, "and tie her up this
minute, that I may teach her a lesson she
won't forget in a hurry."
As she spoke, the old woman's eyes rolled,
her lips quivered, and she looked like a
very fury.
"I will have nothing to do with her, if you
whip her, Mrs. Miller," said the slave
trader. "Niggers ain't worth half so much in
the market with their backs newly scarred,"
continued he, as the overseer commenced his
preparations for executing Mrs. Miller's
orders.
Clotelle here took her father's walking
stick, which was lying on the back of the
sofa where he had left it, and, raising it,
said,
"If you bad people touch my mother, I will
strike you."
They looked at the child with astonishment;
and her extreme you, wonderful beauty, and
uncommon courage, seemed for a moment to
shake their purpose. The manner and language
of this child were alike beyond her years,
and under other circumstances would have
gained for her the approbation of those
present.
"Oh, Henry, Henry!" exclaimed Isabella,
wringing her hands.
"You need not call on him, hussy; you will
never see him again," said Mrs. Miller.
"What! is he dead?" inquired the heart
stricken woman.
It was then that she forgot her own
situation, thinking only of the man she
loved. Never having been called to endure
any kind of abusive treatment, Isabella was
not fitted to sustain herself against the
brutality of Mrs. Miller, much less the
combined ferociousness of the old woman and
the overseer too. Suffice it to say, that
instead of whipping Isabella, Mrs. Miller
transferred her to the Negro speculator, who
took her immediately to his slave pen. The
unfeeling old woman would not permit
Isabella to take more than a single change
of her clothing, remarking to Jennings,
"I sold you the wench, you know, not her
clothes."
The injured, friendless, and unprotected
Isabella fainted as she saw her child
struggling to release herself from the arms
of old Mrs. Miller, and as the wretch boxed
the poor child's ears.
After leaving directions as to how
Isabella's furniture and other effects
should be disposed of, Mrs. Miller took
Clotelle into her carriage and drove home.
There was not even color enough about the
child to make it appear that a single drop
of African blood flowed through its blue
veins.
Considerable sensation was created in the
kitchen among the servants when the carriage
drove up, and Clotelle entered the house.
"Jes' like Massa Henry fur all de worl',"
said Dinah, as she caught a glimpse of the
child through the window.
"Wondah whose brat dat ar' dat missis
bringin' home wid her?" said Jane, as she
put the ice in the pitchers for dinner. "I
warrant it's some poor white nigger somebody
bin givin' her."
The child was white. What should be done to
make it look like other Negroes, was the
question which Mrs. Miller asked herself.
The callous hearted old woman bit her nether
lip, as she viewed that child, standing
before her, with her long, dark ringlets
clustering over her alabaster brow and neck.
"Take this little nigger and cut her hair
close to her head," said the mistress to
Jane, as the latter answered the bell.
Clotelle screamed, as she felt the scissors
grating over her head, and saw those curls
that her mother thought so much of falling
upon the floor.
A roar of laughter burst from the servants,
as Jane led the child through the kitchen,
with the hair cut so short that the naked
scalp could be plainly seen.
"'Gins to look like nigger, now," said
Dinah, with her mouth upon a grin.
The mistress smiled, as the shorn child
reentered the room; but there was something
more needed. The child was white, and that
was a great objection. However, she hit upon
a plan to remedy this which seemed feasible.
The day was excessively warm. Not a single
cloud floated over the blue vault of heaven;
not a breath of wind seemed moving, and the
earth was parched by the broiling sun. Even
the bees had stopped humming, and the
butterflies had hid themselves under the
broad leaves of the burdock. Without a
morsel of dinner, the poor child was put in
the garden, and set to weeding it, her arms,
neck, and head completely bare. Unaccustomed
to toil, Clotelle wept as she exerted
herself in pulling up the weeds. Old Dinah,
the cook, was a unfeeling as her mistress,
and she was pleased to see the child made to
work in the hot sun.
"Dat white nigger'll soon be brack enuff if
missis keeps her workin' out dar," she said,
as she wiped the perspiration from her sooty
brow.
Dinah was the mother of thirteen children,
all of whom bad been taken from her when
young; and this, no doubt, did much to
harden her feelings, and make her hate all
white persons.
The burning sun poured its rays on the face
of the friendless child until she sank down
in the corner of the garden, and was
actually broiled to sleep.
"Dat little nigger ain't workin' a bit,
missus," said Dinah to Mrs. Miller, as the
latter entered the kitchen.
"She's lying in the sun seasoning; she will
work the better by and by," replied the
mistress.
"Dese white niggers always tink dey seff
good as white folks," said the cook.
"Yes; but we will teach them better, won't
we, Dinah?" rejoined Mrs. Miller.
"Yes, missus," replied Dinah; "I don't like
dese merlatter niggers, no how. Dey always
want to set dey seff up for sumfin' big."
With this remark the old cook gave one of
her coarse laughs, and continued: "Missis
understands human nature, don't she? Ah! if
she ain't a whole team and de ole gray mare
to boot, den Dinah don't know nuffin'."
Of course, the mistress was out of the
kitchen before these last remarks were made.
It was with the deepest humiliation that
Henry learned from one of his own slaves the
treatment which his child was receiving at
the hands of his relentless mother-in-law.
The scorching sun had the desired effect;
for in less than a fortnight, Clotelle could
scarcely have been recognized as the same
child. Often was she seen to weep, and heard
to call on her mother.
Mrs. Miller, when at church on Sabbath,
usually, on warm days, took Nancy, one of
her servants, in her pew, and this girl had
to fan her mistress during service.
Unaccustomed to such a soft and pleasant
seat, the servant would very soon become
sleepy and begin to nod. Sometimes she would
go fast asleep, which annoyed the mistress
exceedingly. But Mrs. Miller had nimble
fingers, and on them sharp nails, and, with
an energetic pinch upon the bare arms of the
poor girl, she would arouse the daughter of
Africa from her pleasant dreams. But there
was no one of Mrs. Miller's servants who
received so much punishment as old Uncle
Tony.
Fond of her greenhouse, and often in the
garden, she was ever at the old gardener's
heels. Uncle Tony was very religious, and,
whenever his mistress flogged him, he
invariably gave her a religious exhortation.
Although unable to read, he, nevertheless,
had on his tongue's end portions of
Scripture which he could use at any moment.
In one end of the greenhouse was Uncle
Tony's sleeping room, and those who happened
in that vicinity, between nine and ten at
night, could hear the old man offering up
his thanksgiving to God for his protection
during the day. Uncle Tony, however, took
great pride, when he thought that any of the
whites were within hearing, to dwell, in his
prayer, on his own goodness and the
unfitness of others to die. Often was he
heard to say, "O Lord, thou knowest that the
white folks are not Christians, but the
black people are God's own children." But if
Tony thought that his old mistress was
within the sound of his voice, he launched
out into deeper water.
It was, therefore, on a sweet night, when
the bright stars were looking out with a
joyous sheen, that Mark and two of the other
boys passed the greenhouse, and heard Uncle
Tony in his devotions.
"Let's have a little fun," said the
mischievous Marcus to his young companions.
"I will make Uncle Tony believe that I am
old mistress, and he'll give us an extra
touch in his prayer." Mark immediately
commenced talking in a strain of voice
resembling, as well as he could, Mrs.
Miller, and at once Tony was heard to say in
a loud voice, "O Lord, thou knowest that the
white people are not fit to die; but, as for
old Tony, whenever the angel of the Lord
comes, he's ready." At that moment, Mark
tapped lightly on the door. "Who's dar?"
thundered old Tony. Mark made no reply. The
old man commenced and went through with the
same remarks addressed to the Lord, when
Mark again knocked at the door. "Who dat dar?"
asked Uncle Tony, with a somewhat agitated
countenance and trembling voice. Still Mark
would not reply. Again Tony took up the
thread of his discourse, and said, "O Lord,
thou knowest as well as I do that dese white
folks are not prepared to die, but here is
old Tony, when de angel of de Lord comes,
he's ready to go to heaven." Mark once more
knocked on the door. "Who dat dar?"
thundered Tony at the top of his voice.
"De angel of de Lord," replied Mark, in a
somewhat suppressed and sepulchral voice.
"What de angel of de Lord want here?"
inquired Tony, as if much frightened.
"He's come for poor old Tony, to take him
out of the world," replied Mark, in the same
strange voice.
"Dat nigger ain't here; he die tree weeks
ago," responded Tony, in a still more
agitated and frightened tone. Mark and his
companions made the welkin ring with their
shouts at the old man's answer. Uncle Tony
hearing them, and finding that he had been
imposed upon, opened his door, came out with
stick in hand, and said, "Is dat you, Mr.
Mark? you imp, if I can get to you I'll larn
you how to come here wid your nonsense."
Mark and his companions left the garden,
feeling satisfied that Uncle Tony was not as
ready to go with "de angel of de Lord" as he
would have others believe.
Clotelle or The Colored Heroine, A tale
of the Southern States
