Bab Bab 14 · Evangeline

. Evangeline

“A young star! which shone

O’er life—too sweet an image, for such glass!

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded;

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.”

The Mississippi! How, as by an enchanted wand, have its scenes been

changed, since Chateaubriand wrote his prose-poetic description of

it,[1] as a river of mighty, unbroken solitudes, rolling amid undreamed

wonders of vegetable and animal existence.

[1] _In Atala; or the Love and Constantcy of Two Savages in the

Desert_ (1801) by Francois Auguste Rene, Vicomte de Chateaubriand

(1768-1848).

But as in an hour, this river of dreams and wild romance has emerged to

a reality scarcely less visionary and splendid. What other river of the

world bears on its bosom to the ocean the wealth and enterprise of such

another country?—a country whose products embrace all between the

tropics and the poles! Those turbid waters, hurrying, foaming, tearing

along, an apt resemblance of that headlong tide of business which is

poured along its wave by a race more vehement and energetic than any

the old world ever saw. Ah! would that they did not also bear along a

more fearful freight,—the tears of the oppressed, the sighs of the

helpless, the bitter prayers of poor, ignorant hearts to an unknown

God—unknown, unseen and silent, but who will yet “come out of his place

to save all the poor of the earth!”

The slanting light of the setting sun quivers on the sea-like expanse

of the river; the shivery canes, and the tall, dark cypress, hung with

wreaths of dark, funereal moss, glow in the golden ray, as the

heavily-laden steamboat marches onward.

Piled with cotton-bales, from many a plantation, up over deck and

sides, till she seems in the distance a square, massive block of gray,

she moves heavily onward to the nearing mart. We must look some time

among its crowded decks before we shall find again our humble friend

Tom. High on the upper deck, in a little nook among the everywhere

predominant cotton-bales, at last we may find him.

Partly from confidence inspired by Mr. Shelby’s representations, and

partly from the remarkably inoffensive and quiet character of the man,

Tom had insensibly won his way far into the confidence even of such a

man as Haley.

At first he had watched him narrowly through the day, and never allowed

him to sleep at night unfettered; but the uncomplaining patience and

apparent contentment of Tom’s manner led him gradually to discontinue

these restraints, and for some time Tom had enjoyed a sort of parole of

honor, being permitted to come and go freely where he pleased on the

boat.

Ever quiet and obliging, and more than ready to lend a hand in every

emergency which occurred among the workmen below, he had won the good

opinion of all the hands, and spent many hours in helping them with as

hearty a good will as ever he worked on a Kentucky farm.

When there seemed to be nothing for him to do, he would climb to a nook

among the cotton-bales of the upper deck, and busy himself in studying

over his Bible,—and it is there we see him now.

For a hundred or more miles above New Orleans, the river is higher than

the surrounding country, and rolls its tremendous volume between

massive levees twenty feet in height. The traveller from the deck of

the steamer, as from some floating castle top, overlooks the whole

country for miles and miles around. Tom, therefore, had spread out full

before him, in plantation after plantation, a map of the life to which

he was approaching.

He saw the distant slaves at their toil; he saw afar their villages of

huts gleaming out in long rows on many a plantation, distant from the

stately mansions and pleasure-grounds of the master;—and as the moving

picture passed on, his poor, foolish heart would be turning backward to

the Kentucky farm, with its old shadowy beeches,—to the master’s house,

with its wide, cool halls, and, near by, the little cabin overgrown

with the multiflora and bignonia. There he seemed to see familiar faces

of comrades who had grown up with him from infancy; he saw his busy

wife, bustling in her preparations for his evening meals; he heard the

merry laugh of his boys at their play, and the chirrup of the baby at

his knee; and then, with a start, all faded, and he saw again the

canebrakes and cypresses and gliding plantations, and heard again the

creaking and groaning of the machinery, all telling him too plainly

that all that phase of life had gone by forever.

In such a case, you write to your wife, and send messages to your

children; but Tom could not write,—the mail for him had no existence,

and the gulf of separation was unbridged by even a friendly word or

signal.

Is it strange, then, that some tears fall on the pages of his Bible, as

he lays it on the cotton-bale, and, with patient finger, threading his

slow way from word to word, traces out its promises? Having learned

late in life, Tom was but a slow reader, and passed on laboriously from

verse to verse. Fortunate for him was it that the book he was intent on

was one which slow reading cannot injure,—nay, one whose words, like

ingots of gold, seem often to need to be weighed separately, that the

mind may take in their priceless value. Let us follow him a moment, as,

pointing to each word, and pronouncing each half aloud, he reads,

“Let—not—your—heart—be—troubled.

In—my—Father’s—house—are—many—mansions.

I—go—to—prepare—a—place—for—you.”

Cicero, when he buried his darling and only daughter, had a heart as

full of honest grief as poor Tom’s,—perhaps no fuller, for both were

only men;—but Cicero could pause over no such sublime words of hope,

and look to no such future reunion; and if he _had_ seen them, ten to

one he would not have believed,—he must fill his head first with a

thousand questions of authenticity of manuscript, and correctness of

translation. But, to poor Tom, there it lay, just what he needed, so

evidently true and divine that the possibility of a question never

entered his simple head. It must be true; for, if not true, how could

he live?

As for Tom’s Bible, though it had no annotations and helps in margin

from learned commentators, still it had been embellished with certain

way-marks and guide-boards of Tom’s own invention, and which helped him

more than the most learned expositions could have done. It had been his

custom to get the Bible read to him by his master’s children, in

particular by young Master George; and, as they read, he would

designate, by bold, strong marks and dashes, with pen and ink, the

passages which more particularly gratified his ear or affected his

heart. His Bible was thus marked through, from one end to the other,

with a variety of styles and designations; so he could in a moment

seize upon his favorite passages, without the labor of spelling out

what lay between them;—and while it lay there before him, every passage

breathing of some old home scene, and recalling some past enjoyment,

his Bible seemed to him all of this life that remained, as well as the

promise of a future one.

Among the passengers on the boat was a young gentleman of fortune and

family, resident in New Orleans, who bore the name of St. Clare. He had

with him a daughter between five and six years of age, together with a

lady who seemed to claim relationship to both, and to have the little

one especially under her charge.

Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl,—for she was one of

those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no more contained in one

place than a sunbeam or a summer breeze,—nor was she one that, once

seen, could be easily forgotten.

Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its usual

chubbiness and squareness of outline. There was about it an undulating

and aerial grace, such as one might dream of for some mythic and

allegorical being. Her face was remarkable less for its perfect beauty

of feature than for a singular and dreamy earnestness of expression,

which made the ideal start when they looked at her, and by which the

dullest and most literal were impressed, without exactly knowing why.

The shape of her head and the turn of her neck and bust was peculiarly

noble, and the long golden-brown hair that floated like a cloud around

it, the deep spiritual gravity of her violet blue eyes, shaded by heavy

fringes of golden brown,—all marked her out from other children, and

made every one turn and look after her, as she glided hither and

thither on the boat. Nevertheless, the little one was not what you

would have called either a grave child or a sad one. On the contrary,

an airy and innocent playfulness seemed to flicker like the shadow of

summer leaves over her childish face, and around her buoyant figure.

She was always in motion, always with a half smile on her rosy mouth,

flying hither and thither, with an undulating and cloud-like tread,

singing to herself as she moved as in a happy dream. Her father and

female guardian were incessantly busy in pursuit of her,—but, when

caught, she melted from them again like a summer cloud; and as no word

of chiding or reproof ever fell on her ear for whatever she chose to

do, she pursued her own way all over the boat. Always dressed in white,

she seemed to move like a shadow through all sorts of places, without

contracting spot or stain; and there was not a corner or nook, above or

below, where those fairy footsteps had not glided, and that visionary

golden head, with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along.

The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimes found

those eyes looking wonderingly into the raging depths of the furnace,

and fearfully and pityingly at him, as if she thought him in some

dreadful danger. Anon the steersman at the wheel paused and smiled, as

the picture-like head gleamed through the window of the round house,

and in a moment was gone again. A thousand times a day rough voices

blessed her, and smiles of unwonted softness stole over hard faces, as

she passed; and when she tripped fearlessly over dangerous places,

rough, sooty hands were stretched involuntarily out to save her, and

smooth her path.

Tom, who had the soft, impressible nature of his kindly race, ever

yearning toward the simple and childlike, watched the little creature

with daily increasing interest. To him she seemed something almost

divine; and whenever her golden head and deep blue eyes peered out upon

him from behind some dusky cotton-bale, or looked down upon him over

some ridge of packages, he half believed that he saw one of the angels

stepped out of his New Testament.

Often and often she walked mournfully round the place where Haley’s

gang of men and women sat in their chains. She would glide in among

them, and look at them with an air of perplexed and sorrowful

earnestness; and sometimes she would lift their chains with her slender

hands, and then sigh wofully, as she glided away. Several times she

appeared suddenly among them, with her hands full of candy, nuts, and

oranges, which she would distribute joyfully to them, and then be gone

again.

Tom watched the little lady a great deal, before he ventured on any

overtures towards acquaintanceship. He knew an abundance of simple acts

to propitiate and invite the approaches of the little people, and he

resolved to play his part right skilfully. He could cut cunning little

baskets out of cherry-stones, could make grotesque faces on

hickory-nuts, or odd-jumping figures out of elder-pith, and he was a

very Pan in the manufacture of whistles of all sizes and sorts. His

pockets were full of miscellaneous articles of attraction, which he had

hoarded in days of old for his master’s children, and which he now

produced, with commendable prudence and economy, one by one, as

overtures for acquaintance and friendship.

The little one was shy, for all her busy interest in everything going

on, and it was not easy to tame her. For a while, she would perch like

a canary-bird on some box or package near Tom, while busy in the little

arts afore-named, and take from him, with a kind of grave bashfulness,

the little articles he offered. But at last they got on quite

confidential terms.

“What’s little missy’s name?” said Tom, at last, when he thought

matters were ripe to push such an inquiry.

“Evangeline St. Clare,” said the little one, “though papa and everybody

else call me Eva. Now, what’s your name?”

“My name’s Tom; the little chil’en used to call me Uncle Tom, way back

thar in Kentuck.”

“Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see, I like you,” said

Eva. “So, Uncle Tom, where are you going?”

“I don’t know, Miss Eva.”

“Don’t know?” said Eva.

“No, I am going to be sold to somebody. I don’t know who.”

“My papa can buy you,” said Eva, quickly; “and if he buys you, you will

have good times. I mean to ask him, this very day.”

“Thank you, my little lady,” said Tom.

The boat here stopped at a small landing to take in wood, and Eva,

hearing her father’s voice, bounded nimbly away. Tom rose up, and went

forward to offer his service in wooding, and soon was busy among the

hands.

Eva and her father were standing together by the railings to see the

boat start from the landing-place, the wheel had made two or three

revolutions in the water, when, by some sudden movement, the little one

suddenly lost her balance and fell sheer over the side of the boat into

the water. Her father, scarce knowing what he did, was plunging in

after her, but was held back by some behind him, who saw that more

efficient aid had followed his child.

Tom was standing just under her on the lower deck, as she fell. He saw

her strike the water, and sink, and was after her in a moment. A

broad-chested, strong-armed fellow, it was nothing for him to keep

afloat in the water, till, in a moment or two the child rose to the

surface, and he caught her in his arms, and, swimming with her to the

boat-side, handed her up, all dripping, to the grasp of hundreds of

hands, which, as if they had all belonged to one man, were stretched

eagerly out to receive her. A few moments more, and her father bore

her, dripping and senseless, to the ladies’ cabin, where, as is usual

in cases of the kind, there ensued a very well-meaning and kind-hearted

strife among the female occupants generally, as to who should do the

most things to make a disturbance, and to hinder her recovery in every

way possible.

It was a sultry, close day, the next day, as the steamer drew near to

New Orleans. A general bustle of expectation and preparation was spread

through the boat; in the cabin, one and another were gathering their

things together, and arranging them, preparatory to going ashore. The

steward and chambermaid, and all, were busily engaged in cleaning,

furbishing, and arranging the splendid boat, preparatory to a grand

entree.

On the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded, and

anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes towards a group on the

other side of the boat.

There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the day before,

but otherwise exhibiting no traces of the accident which had befallen

her. A graceful, elegantly-formed young man stood by her, carelessly

leaning one elbow on a bale of cotton while a large pocket-book lay

open before him. It was quite evident, at a glance, that the gentleman

was Eva’s father. There was the same noble cast of head, the same large

blue eyes, the same golden-brown hair; yet the expression was wholly

different. In the large, clear blue eyes, though in form and color

exactly similar, there was wanting that misty, dreamy depth of

expression; all was clear, bold, and bright, but with a light wholly of

this world: the beautifully cut mouth had a proud and somewhat

sarcastic expression, while an air of free-and-easy superiority sat not

ungracefully in every turn and movement of his fine form. He was

listening, with a good-humored, negligent air, half comic, half

contemptuous, to Haley, who was very volubly expatiating on the quality

of the article for which they were bargaining.

“All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black Morocco, complete!”

he said, when Haley had finished. “Well, now, my good fellow, what’s

the damage, as they say in Kentucky; in short, what’s to be paid out

for this business? How much are you going to cheat me, now? Out with

it!”

“Wal,” said Haley, “if I should say thirteen hundred dollars for that

ar fellow, I shouldn’t but just save myself; I shouldn’t, now, re’ly.”

“Poor fellow!” said the young man, fixing his keen, mocking blue eye on

him; “but I suppose you’d let me have him for that, out of a particular

regard for me.”

“Well, the young lady here seems to be sot on him, and nat’lly enough.”

“O! certainly, there’s a call on your benevolence, my friend. Now, as a

matter of Christian charity, how cheap could you afford to let him go,

to oblige a young lady that’s particular sot on him?”

“Wal, now, just think on ’t,” said the trader; “just look at them

limbs,—broad-chested, strong as a horse. Look at his head; them high

forrads allays shows calculatin niggers, that’ll do any kind o’ thing.

I’ve, marked that ar. Now, a nigger of that ar heft and build is worth

considerable, just as you may say, for his body, supposin he’s stupid;

but come to put in his calculatin faculties, and them which I can show

he has oncommon, why, of course, it makes him come higher. Why, that ar

fellow managed his master’s whole farm. He has a strornary talent for

business.”

“Bad, bad, very bad; knows altogether too much!” said the young man,

with the same mocking smile playing about his mouth. “Never will do, in

the world. Your smart fellows are always running off, stealing horses,

and raising the devil generally. I think you’ll have to take off a

couple of hundred for his smartness.”

“Wal, there might be something in that ar, if it warnt for his

character; but I can show recommends from his master and others, to

prove he is one of your real pious,—the most humble, prayin, pious

crittur ye ever did see. Why, he’s been called a preacher in them parts

he came from.”

“And I might use him for a family chaplain, possibly,” added the young

man, dryly. “That’s quite an idea. Religion is a remarkably scarce

article at our house.”

“You’re joking, now.”

“How do you know I am? Didn’t you just warrant him for a preacher? Has

he been examined by any synod or council? Come, hand over your papers.”

If the trader had not been sure, by a certain good-humored twinkle in

the large eye, that all this banter was sure, in the long run, to turn

out a cash concern, he might have been somewhat out of patience; as it

was, he laid down a greasy pocket-book on the cotton-bales, and began

anxiously studying over certain papers in it, the young man standing

by, the while, looking down on him with an air of careless, easy

drollery.

“Papa, do buy him! it’s no matter what you pay,” whispered Eva, softly,

getting up on a package, and putting her arm around her father’s neck.

“You have money enough, I know. I want him.”

“What for, pussy? Are you going to use him for a rattle-box, or a

rocking-horse, or what?

“I want to make him happy.”

“An original reason, certainly.”

Here the trader handed up a certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby, which

the young man took with the tips of his long fingers, and glanced over

carelessly.

“A gentlemanly hand,” he said, “and well spelt, too. Well, now, but I’m

not sure, after all, about this religion,” said he, the old wicked

expression returning to his eye; “the country is almost ruined with

pious white people; such pious politicians as we have just before

elections,—such pious goings on in all departments of church and state,

that a fellow does not know who’ll cheat him next. I don’t know,

either, about religion’s being up in the market, just now. I have not

looked in the papers lately, to see how it sells. How many hundred

dollars, now, do you put on for this religion?”

“You like to be jokin, now,” said the trader; “but, then, there’s

_sense_ under all that ar. I know there’s differences in religion. Some

kinds is mis’rable: there’s your meetin pious; there’s your singin,

roarin pious; them ar an’t no account, in black or white;—but these

rayly is; and I’ve seen it in niggers as often as any, your rail

softly, quiet, stiddy, honest, pious, that the hull world couldn’t

tempt ’em to do nothing that they thinks is wrong; and ye see in this

letter what Tom’s old master says about him.”

“Now,” said the young man, stooping gravely over his book of bills, “if

you can assure me that I really can buy _this_ kind of pious, and that

it will be set down to my account in the book up above, as something

belonging to me, I wouldn’t care if I did go a little extra for it. How

d’ye say?”

“Wal, raily, I can’t do that,” said the trader. “I’m a thinkin that

every man’ll have to hang on his own hook, in them ar quarters.”

“Rather hard on a fellow that pays extra on religion, and can’t trade

with it in the state where he wants it most, an’t it, now?” said the

young man, who had been making out a roll of bills while he was

speaking. “There, count your money, old boy!” he added, as he handed

the roll to the trader.

“All right,” said Haley, his face beaming with delight; and pulling out

an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of sale, which, in a

few moments, he handed to the young man.

“I wonder, now, if I was divided up and inventoried,” said the latter

as he ran over the paper, “how much I might bring. Say so much for the

shape of my head, so much for a high forehead, so much for arms, and

hands, and legs, and then so much for education, learning, talent,

honesty, religion! Bless me! there would be small charge on that last,

I’m thinking. But come, Eva,” he said; and taking the hand of his

daughter, he stepped across the boat, and carelessly putting the tip of

his finger under Tom’s chin, said, good-humoredly, “Look-up, Tom, and

see how you like your new master.”

Tom looked up. It was not in nature to look into that gay, young,

handsome face, without a feeling of pleasure; and Tom felt the tears

start in his eyes as he said, heartily, “God bless you, Mas’r!”

“Well, I hope he will. What’s your name? Tom? Quite as likely to do it

for your asking as mine, from all accounts. Can you drive horses, Tom?”

“I’ve been allays used to horses,” said Tom. “Mas’r Shelby raised heaps

of ’em.”

“Well, I think I shall put you in coachy, on condition that you won’t

be drunk more than once a week, unless in cases of emergency, Tom.”

Tom looked surprised, and rather hurt, and said, “I never drink,

Mas’r.”

“I’ve heard that story before, Tom; but then we’ll see. It will be a

special accommodation to all concerned, if you don’t. Never mind, my

boy,” he added, good-humoredly, seeing Tom still looked grave; “I don’t

doubt you mean to do well.”

“I sartin do, Mas’r,” said Tom.

“And you shall have good times,” said Eva. “Papa is very good to

everybody, only he always will laugh at them.”

“Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation,” said St. Clare,

laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked away.