It was a delightful evening
after a cloudless day, with the setting sun
reflecting his golden rays on the
surrounding hills which were covered with a
beautiful greensward, and the luxuriant
verdure that forms the constant garb of the
tropics, that the steamer Columbia ran into
the dock at Natchez, and began unloading the
cargo, taking in passengers and making ready
to proceed on her voyage to New Orleans. The
plank connecting the boat with the shore had
scarcely been secured in its place, when a
good looking man about fifty years of age,
with a white neck tie, and a pair of gold
rimmed glasses on, was seen hurrying on
board the vessel. Just at that moment could
be seen a stout man with his face fitted
with the small-pox, making his way up to the
above mentioned gentleman.
"How do you do, my dear sir? this is Mr.
Wilson, I believe," said the short man, at
the same time taking from his mouth a large
chew of tobacco, and throwing it down on the
ship's deck.
"You have the advantage of me, sir," replied
the tall man.
"Why, don't you know me? My name is
Jennings; I sold you a splendid Negro woman
some years ago."
"Yes, yes," answered the Natchez man. "I
remember you now, for the woman died in a
few months, and I never got the worth of my
money out of her."
"I could not help that," returned the slave
trader; "she was as sound as a roach when I
sold her to you."
"Oh, yes," replied the parson, "I know she
was; but now I want a young girl, fit for
house use, one that will do to wait on a
lady."
"I am your man," said Jennings, "just follow
me," continued he, "and I will show you the
fairest little critter you ever saw." And
the two passed to the stern of the boat to
where the trader had between fifty and sixty
slaves, the greater portion being women.
"There," said Jennings, as a beautiful young
woman shrunk back with modesty. "There, sir,
is the very gal that was made for you. If
she had been made to your order, she could
not have suited you better."
"Indeed, sir, is not that young woman
white?" inquired the parson.
"Oh, no, sir; she is no whiter than you
see!"
"But is she a slave?" asked the preacher.
"Yes," said the trader, "I bought her in
Richmond, and she comes from an excellent
family. She was raised by Squire Miller, and
her mistress was one of the most pious
ladies in that city, I may say; she was the
salt of the earth, as the ministers say."
"But she resembles in some respect Agnes,
the woman I bought from you," said Mr.
Wilson. As he said the name of Agnes, the
young woman started as if she had been
struck. Her pulse seemed to quicken, but her
face alternately flushed and turned pale,
and tears trembled upon her eyelids. It was
a name she had heard her mother mention, and
it brought to her memory those days, those
happy days, when she was so loved and
caressed. This young woman was Clotelle, the
granddaughter of Agnes. The preacher, on
learning the fact, purchased her, and took
her home, feeling that his daughter
Georgiana would prize her very highly.
Clotelle found in Georgiana more a sister
than a mistress, who, unknown to her father,
taught the slave girl how to read, and did
much toward improving and refining
Clotelle's manners, for her own sake. Like
her mother fond of flowers, the "Virginia
Maid," as she was sometimes called, spent
many of her leisure hours in the garden.
Beside the flowers which sprang up from the
fertility of soil unplanted and unattended,
there was the heliotrope, sweet pea, and cup
rose, transplanted from the island of Cuba.
In her new home Clotelle found herself
saluted on all sides by the fragrance of the
magnolia. When she went with her young
mistress to the Poplar Farm, as she
sometimes did, nature's wild luxuriance
greeted her, wherever she cast her eyes.
The rustling citron, lime, and orange, shady
mango with its fruits of gold, and the
palmetto's umbrageous beauty, all welcomed
the child of sorrow. When at the farm,
Huckelby, the overseer, kept his eye on
Clotelle if within sight of her, for he knew
she was a slave, and no doubt hoped that she
might some day fall into his hands. But she
shrank from his looks as she would have done
from the charm of the rattlesnake. The Negro
driver always tried to insinuate himself
into the good opinion of Georgiana and the
company that she brought. Knowing that Miss
Wilson at heart hated slavery, he was ever
trying to show that the slaves under his
charge were happy and contented. One day,
when Georgiana and some of her Connecticut
friends were there, the overseer called all
the slaves up to the "great house," and set
some of the young ones to dancing. After
awhile whiskey was brought in and a dram
given to each slave, in return for which
they were expected to give a toast, or sing
a short piece of his own composition; when
it came to Jack's turn he said,
"The big bee flies high, the little bee
makes the honey: the black folks make the
cotton, and the white folks gets the money."
Of course, the overseer was not at all
elated with the sentiment contained in
Jack's toast. Mr. Wilson had lately
purchased a young man to assist about the
house and to act as coachman. This slave,
whose name was Jerome, was of pure African
origin, was perfectly black, very fine
looking, tall, slim, and erect as any one
could possibly be. His features were not
bad, lips thin, nose prominent, hands and
feet small. His brilliant black eyes lighted
up his whole countenance. His hair, which
was nearly straight, hung in curls upon his
lofty brow. George Combe or Fowler would
have selected his head for a model. He was
brave and daring, strong in person, fiery in
spirit, yet kind and true in his affections,
earnest in his doctrines. Clotelle had been
at the parson's but a few weeks when it was
observed that a mutual feeling had grown up
between her and Jerome. As time rolled on,
they became more and more attached to each
other. After satisfying herself that these
two really loved, Georgiana advised their
marriage. But Jerome contemplated his escape
at some future day, and therefore feared
that if married it might militate against
it. He hoped, also, to be able to get
Clotelle away too, and it was this hope that
kept him from trying to escape by himself.
Dante did not more love his Beatrice, Swift
his Stella, Waller his Saccharissa,
Goldsmith his Jessamy bride, or Burns his
Mary, than did Jerome his Clotelle. Unknown
to her father, Miss Wilson could permit
these two slaves to enjoy more privileges
than any of the other servants. The young
mistress taught Clotelle, and the latter
imparted her instructions to her lover,
until both could read so as to be well
understood. Jerome felt his superiority, and
always declared that no master should ever
flog him. Aware of his high spirit and
determination, Clotelle was in constant fear
lest some difficulty might arise between her
lover and his master.
One day Mr. Wilson, being somewhat out of
temper and irritated at what he was pleased
to call Jerome's insolence, ordered him to
follow him to the barn to be flogged. The
young slave obeyed his master, but those who
saw him at the moment felt that he would not
submit to be whipped.
"No, sir," replied Jerome, as his master
told him to take off his coat: "I will serve
you, Master Wilson, I will labor for you day
and night, if you demand it, but I will not
be whipped."
This was too much for a white man to stand
from a Negro, and the preacher seized his
slave by the throat, intending to choke him.
But for once he found his match. Jerome
knocked him down, and then escaped through
the back yard to the street, and from thence
to the woods.
Recovering somewhat from the effect of his
fall, the parson regained his feet and
started in pursuit of the fugitive. Finding,
however, that the slave was beyond his
reach, he at once resolved to put the dogs
on his track. Tabor, the Negro catcher, was
sent for, and in less than an hour, eight or
ten men, including the parson, were in the
woods with hounds, trying the trails. These
dogs will attack a Negro at their master's
bidding; and cling to him as the bull dog
will cling to a beast. Many are the
speculations as to whether the Negro will be
secured alive or dead, when these dogs once
get on his track. Whenever there is to be a
Negro hunt, there is no lack of
participants. Many go to enjoy the fun which
it is said they derive from these scenes.
The company had been in the woods but a
short time ere they go on the track of two
fugitives, once of whom was Jerome. The
slaves immediately bent their steps toward
the swamp, with the hope that the dogs, when
put upon their scent would be unable to
follow them through the water.
The slaves then took a straight course for
the Baton Rouge and Bayou Sara road, about
four miles distant. Nearer and nearer the
whimpering pack pressed; their delusion
begins to dispel. All at once the truth
flashes upon the minds of the fugitives like
a glare of light, 'tis Tabor with his dogs!
The scent becomes warmer and warmer, and
what was at first an irregular cry now
deepens into one ceaseless roar, as the
relentless pack presses on after its human
prey.
They at last reach the river, and in the
Negroes plunge, followed by the catch dog.
Jerome is caught and is once more in the
hands of his master, while the other poor
fellow finds a watery grave. They return,
and the preacher sends his slave to jail.
Clotelle or The Colored Heroine, A tale of the Southern States