The threat to swallow him down whole always gave Roy the keenest delight. He ran for the big house, laughing and waving the feather at Phillis.
Great was the speculation in the quartets as to what Mos' Grif had for every one.
"Hit's des' lade Chris'mus!"
"I des wisht I knowed wat I gwine t' git."
"Lawsey me, but I wisht hit was arter supper now!"
In the twilight they came swaying up through the grass – a long irregular line of them. Jerry had his banjo. Mammy, Sallie's old mother, carrieed in her arms the white baby. Little Margaret was her sole care and charge and no more devoted lovers existed.
"'Et me wide piggy back, mammy," plead the child.
"Heah, Jerry, put dis heah chile on my back! Be mons'ous keerful dar now! Don' yoh let dat chile fall! Dar yoh is, honey! Dar yoh is! Hoi' tight, now! Hug yoah ole mammy tight! D-a-t-s de way.
"'Go down, Moses, away down in Egypt's lan'.
Go tell ole Pharoah, t' let my people go.'"
Mammy began to trot and hum the tune for the child. The swaying rhythm caught like a sudden fire in a field of ripened grain. Every voice, old and young, fell into harmony, and Jerry's banjo beat its tuneful way like the ripple of a stream through it all.
Mrs. Davenport stood by the window watching them as they came nearer and nearer. Her face was sad and troubled. She looked up into the clear twilight and saw one star peer out. She did not know why, but in some mysterious way it seemed to comfort her. She smiled through dim eyes at the child on mammy's back. Her husband still sat by the table sorting over some legal-looking papers.
"Are those the manumission papers, father?" asked Beverly, taking one up and turning it curiously.
"Yes."
Beverly glanced at his father. It seemed to him that the lines in his face were very sad. The merry twinkle that always hid in the corners of eyes and mouth were obliterated. Then was a settled look of anxiety. He seemed older. Beverly was silent. He more nearly understood what his father was doing than did even Katherine. Presently he said: "Hear them sing!"
Mr. Davenport was staring straight before him into space. He turned to listen.
"Happy, careless, thoughtless, unfortunate creatures," he said softly, "and as free as you or I, this minute – as free as you or I – if only they knew it;" then suddenly – "No, not that, either. They can never be that so long as they may not stay here free, even if they want to. I suppose I am breaking the law to tell them what I shall to-night, but I can't take them away from their old home and friends and not tell them it is for good and all – that they may not come back. For good and all – for good and all," he repeated, abstractedly. After a long pause he said, "Law or no law, I cannot do that. I must tell them they are free before they go – and that they must say good-bye, never to come back."
"Seems pretty hard, doesn't it, father? But then – but – don't you think God was pretty hard on them when He – when He made them black? Jerry is a gentleman, if – if he was not black."
"Griffith," asked Katherine from the window, "how do you suppose they will take it? I'm afraid – "
"Take it! take it! Why, little woman, how would you or I take freedom if it were given to us?" The thought cheered him and he crossed the room and tapped her cheek with the papers. His face beamed. "I'm prepared to see the wildest outbreak of joy." He chuckled, and some of the old lines of mirth came back to his face. "I'm glad Jerry brought his banjo. They will be in a humor for some of the rollicking songs afterward. I think they would do me good too. And you, you, little woman, you will need it too. You have been brave – you have been my tower of great strength in all this. If you had contested it, I'm afraid my strength would have given out, after all." He put his arm around her. "But God knows what we can stand, Katherine, and he tempers the trial to our strength. Thank God it is over – the wont of it," he said, and drew her to him.
Suddenly this silent, self-controlled woman threw both arms about his neck and sobbed aloud. "God help us to bear it, Griffith. Sometimes I think I cannot! It is hard! It is hard!"
He stroked her hair silently.
"Mos' Grif, does yoh want us to come in er t' stay on de big po'ch?" It was Jerry's voice. "Good-ebnin', Mis' Kath'rine I I hope yoh is monst'ous well dis ebenin'. Thanky, ma'am, yes'm, I'm middlin'."
Mis. Davenport drew herself farther into the shadow, but she heard the little groan that escaped her husband. She understood. Her own voice was as steady as if no storm had passed.
"Open these large windows on to the porch, Jerry, and your Mos' Grif will talk to you from here. Just keep them all outside. I liked your songs. When Mos' Grif is done with you all, sing some more – sing that one he likes so well – the one about 'Fun in de Cabin.'" "To be sho', Mis' Kath'rine, to be sho'. Dat I will. What dat Mos' Grif gwine ter gib us? Milt he 'low dat hit's terbacker, an' Lippy Jane she 'low dat hit's calicker, an' John he 'low dat – "
With the opening of the low windows a great wave of "howdys" arose and a cloud of black faces clustered dose to the open spaces. The moon was rising behind them and the lamp on the table within gave but a feeble effort to rival the mellow light outside. The master was slow to begin, but, at last, when the greetings were over he said, with an effort to seem indifferent, "You all know that we are going away from here and that you are going, too; but – " He found the task harder than he had expected. His voice trembled and he was glad that Katherine put her hand on his arm. He shifted his position and began again. "You have all heard of freedom." He was looking at them, and the faces were so blandly, blankly vacant of that which he was groping for – they were so evidently expecting a gift of tobacco, or its like – that he omitted all he had thought of to say of their new freedom and what it could mean for them, and what it had meant for him to secure it for them, and at once held up the folded papers. "These are legal papers. They are all registered at a court-house. I have one for each one of you. These papers set you free! They are manumission papers, and you are all to be free! free – "
The silence was unbroken except for a slight shuffling of feet, but the dire disappointment was depicted on every face. That was too plain to be mistaken. Only papers! No tobacco! No calico! Nothing to eat! The silence grew uncomfortable. They were waiting for something for which they could give out the "thanky, Mos' Grif, thanky, sir, I's mighty much 'bleeged t' you, I is dat!" in their own hearty and happy way.
Griffith found himself trying to explain what these papers really were. He chanced to open Judy's first. He would make an object lesson of it. She had been his nurse, and was too old and rheumatic to work except as the spirit of occupation urged her to some trifling task. Griffith was reading the paper and explaining as he went. The negroes looked from the master to Judy and back again until he was done. She walked lamely to his side when he had finished and was holding her freedom papers toward her. She held out her hand for it. Then she tore it through twice and tossed it out of the window. Her eyes flashed and she held herself erect.
"What I want wid yoah ole mannermussent papers? What I want wid 'em, hey?" She folded her arms. "Me a free nigger! Me! Mos' Grif, yoh ain't nebber gwine ter lib t' be ole enough t' make no free nigger out ob ole Judy! What I fotch yoh up foh? Didn't I nus yoh fum de time yoh was a teenchy little baby, an' wasn't ole Mis' and yoah paw sas'fied wid me? What I done t' yoh now? What fo' is yoh gwine ter tun me loose dat a way? Mannermussent papers!" she exclaimed, in a tone of contemptuous wrath, "mannermussent papers! Yoh can't mannermussent yoah ole Aunt Judy! Deys life lef in her yit!"
It was done so suddenly. The reception of freedom was so utterly unexpected – so opposed to what he had fondly hoped – that Griffith stood amazed. Katherine motioned to mammy, who still stood with the white baby in her arms. "Give me the baby, mammy. I will – "
"Mis' Kate," said the old woman, turning, as she pushed her way through the room, "Mis' Kate, do Mos' Grif mean dat yo' alls is gwine ter leabe us? Do he mean dat we alls is got ter be free niggers, wid no fambly an' no big house an' no baby t' nus?"
She changed the child's position, and the little soft, white cheek lay contentedly against the black one.
"'Cause, if dat's wat Mos' Grif mean, dis heah chile ob yoahs an' ole mammy, deys gwine t' stay togedder. Dis heah mammy don't eben tetch no ole mannermossent papers! Tar hit up yo'se'f, Mis' Kate, kase dis heah nigger ain't eben gwine t' tetch hit. She's des gwine ter put dis baby ter bed lak she alius done. Goodnight, Mis' Kate! Good-night, Mos' Grif!"
She was half-way up the stairs, when she turned.
"Mis' Kate, sumpin' er a-nudder done gone wrong wid Mos' Grifs haid. Sho' as yoh bawn, honey, dat's a fack! I wisht yoh send fo' yoh paw. I does dat!" and she waddled up the stairs, with the sleeping child held dose to her faithful heart.
The reception of the freedom papers by the others varied with temperament and age. Two or three of the younger ones reached in over the heads of those in front of them when their names were called, and, holding the papers in their hands, "cut a pigeon-wing" in the moonlight. One or two looked at theirs in stupid, silent wonder. Jerry and his wife gazed at the twins, and, in a half-dazed, half-shamefaced way, took theirs. Jerry took all four to Katherine. "Keep dem fo' me, please, ma'am, Mis' Kathrine, kase I ain't got no good place fer ter hide'em. Mebby dem dare chillun gwine ter want'em one er dese here days."
Not one grasped the full meaning of it all. It was evident that one and all expected to live along as before – to follow the fortunes of the family.
"Thanky, Mos' Grif, much 'bleeged," said old Milt, as he took his, "but I'd a heap site a-rud-der had some mo' ob dat town terbacker – I would dat, honey."
"Give it up for to-night, Griffith," said his wife, gently, as he still stood helplessly trying to explain again and again. "You look so white, and I am very tired. Give it up for tonight. It will be easier after they have talked it over together, perhaps – by daylight."
She pushed him gently into a chair and motioned to Jerry to take them all away. The faithful fellow remembered, when outside, that she had asked him to sing, but the merry song she had named had no echo in the hearts about him. All understood that they had failed to respond to something that the master had expected. The strings of his banjo rang out in a few minor chords, and as they moved toward the quarters an old forgotten melody floated back —
O, de shadders am a deepenin' on de mountains,
O, de shadders am a deep'nin' on de stream,
An' I think I hear an echo f urn de valley,
An echo ob de days ob which I dream!
Ole happy days! Ole happy days!
Befo' I knew dat sorrow could be bawn,
When I played wid mos'er's chillun in de medder,
When my wuk was done a-hoein' ob de cawn!
Dose happy, happy days! Dose happy, happy days!
Dey'll come again no mo', no-o-o m-o-r-e, no more!
Ole mos'er is a-sleepin' 'neath de willow!
An' de apple blossoms' failin' on de lawn,
Where he used to sit an' doze beneath its shadder,
In de days when I was hoein' ob de cawn!
Ole happy, etc.
Dey'll come no mo' dis side de rlbber Jordan,
O, dey'll come no mo' dis side de golden shoah!
Foh de Chilian's growed so big dat deys forgot me,
Kase I'se ole an' cannot wok foh dem no mo'!
Ole happy, etc.
CHAPTER VIII. – OUT OF BONDAGE
"Look down. Say nothin'. Few words comprehends the whole."
The long, lank mountaineer stood leaning on his gun and looking listlessly at the collection of bundles, bags, children, dogs, guns, banjos, and other belongings of the Davenport negroes, as they waited about the wagons, now nearly ready to start for "Washington and the free States" – that Mecca of the colored race. It is true that Lengthy Patterson disapproved of the entire proceeding, notwithstanding his profound respect for, and blind admiration of Parson Davenport, as he always called Griffith; but he had tramped many miles to witness the departure, which had been heralded far and wide. Lengthy's companion, known to his familiars as "Whis" Biggs, slowly stroked the voluminous hirsute adornment to which he was indebted for his name, "Whiskers" being the original of the abbreviation which was now his sole designation – Whis stroked his beard and abstractedly kicked a stray dog, which ran, howling, under the nearest wagon.
"Hit do appear t' me that the Pahrson air a leetle teched in the haid."
There was a long pause. The negroes looked, as they always did, at these mountaineers in contempt.
Lengthy dove into a capacious pocket and produced a large home-twisted hand of tobacco and passed it in silence to his companion, who gnawed off a considerable section and in silence returned it to the owner.
"Let's set," he remarked, and doubled himself down on a log. Lengthy took the seat beside him, and gathered his ever-present gun between his long legs and gazed into space. Mr. Biggs stroked his beard and remained plunged in deep thought. That is to say, he was evidently under the impression that he was thinking, albeit skeptics had been known to point to the dearth of results in his conversation, and to intimate that nature had designed in him not so much a thinker as an able-bodied tack upon which to suspend a luxuriant growth of beard. He was known far and wide as "Whis" Biggs; and, if there was within or without his anatomy anything more important, or half so much in evidence as was his tremendous achievement in facial adornment (if such an appendage may be called an adornment by those not belonging to a reverted type), no one had ever discovered the foot. What there was of him, of value, appeared to have run to hair. The rest of him was occupied in proudly displaying the fact. He stroked his beard and looked wise, or he stroked his beard and laughed, or he stroked his beard and assumed a solemn air, as occasion, in his judgment, appeared to require; but the occasion always required him to stroke his beard, no matter what else might happen to man or to beast.
But at last the wagons pulled out. Amidst shouts and "Whoas!" and "Gees!" and "G'langs!" Amidst tears and laughter and admonitions from those who went, and those who were left behind, the strange and unaccustomed procession took its course toward the setting sun. The family drove, in the old Davenport barouche, far enough behind to avoid the dust of the wagons. The long journey was begun for master and for freedmen. Each was launched on an unknown sea. Each was filled with apprehension and with hope. Old friends and relatives had gathered to witness the departure, some to blame, some to deprecate, and all to deplore the final leave-taking. Comments on the vanishing procession were varied and numerous. The two mountaineers listened in silence, the one stroking his beard, the other holding his gun. Some thought the preacher undoubtedly insane, some thought him merely a dangerous fanatic, some said he was only a plain, unvarnished fool; some insisted that since he had gone counter to public opinion and the law of the state, he was a criminal; while a semi-silent few sighed and wished for the courage and the ability to follow a like course. The first hours of the journey were uneventful. There was a gloom on all hearts, which insured silence. Each felt that he was looking for the last time upon the valley of their love. Jerry drove the family carriage. As they paused to lower the check-reins at the mill stream, Katherine bent suddenly forward and shaded her eyes with her hands. "Griffith! Griffith! there goes Pete back oyer the fields I I'm sure it is Pete. No other negro has that walk – that lope. See! He looked back! He is running! I know it is Pete!"
Mr. Davenport sprang from the carriage and shouted to the fleeing man. He placed his hands to the sides of his face and shouted again and again.
"Shell I run foh' 'im, Mos' Grif?" asked Jerry passing the lines to his mistress. "I lay I kin ketch 'im, 'n I'll fetch' im back, too, fo' he gits to de cross-roads!"
He grasped the carriage whip and prepared to start. The shouts had served to redouble Pete's.
"He was your negro, Katherine, shall I let him go?" Griffith said in a tired voice.
"Yes, yes, oh, Griffith, let him stay in Virginia if he wants to. We can't have him with us – why, why not let him stay here?"
Griffith sighed. His wife knew quite well why; but she was nervous and overwrought and feared resistance should Pete be brought to bay – might he not fight for his freedom to remain where he might not be free!
The wagons had all stopped. One of the twins, with ashen face, came running back to report Pete's escape. "Mos' Grif, Oh, Lordy, Mos' Grif! Pete he's run off! Pete – "
It was plain to be seen that the negroes were restless and expectant. The tone and atmosphere of uncertainty among them, the tearful eyes of some, and the sullen scowl of others quickly decided Mr. Davenport. It was no time for indecision. Prompt action alone would prevent a panic and a stampede. Katherine spoke a few hasty words to him as he leaned on the carriage-door. He sprang in. "Go on!" he shouted. "Go on! We can't all stop now. We must cross the ferry tonight!" Then as a precaution he said to the twin: "Catch up and tell Judy that 'Squire Nelson will get Pete if he tries to stay here."
'Squire Nelson, the terrible!' Squire Nelson! who had called before him a runaway boy and calmly shot him through the leg as an example to his fellows, and then sent him to the quarters to repent his rash act – and incidentally to act as a warning! 'Squire Nelson! Did the manumission papers give those who stayed behind to 'Squire Nelson? The negroes looked into each other's faces in silent fear, and drove rapidly on.
An hour later, as they were looking at the glorious sunset, and Griffith was struggling to be his old cheery self, Katherine said sadly: "We are as much exiled as they, Griffith. We could never come back." She choked up and then, steadying her voice, "If you think it is God's will we must submit; but – but everything makes it so hard – so cruelly hard. I am so afraid. I – no one ever – every one loved you before, and now – now – did you see the faces, Griffith, when we left? Did you see 'Squire Nelson's face?" She shuddered.
"Oh, is that all?" he exclaimed lightly. "Is that it, Katherine? Well, don't worry over that, dear. We won't be here to see it, and – of course he wouldn't like it. Of course it will make trouble among his negroes for awhile and I am sorry for that. I don't wonder he feels – I – "
"But, Griffith," she said nervously, "we are not out of the State yet, and – and, Griffith," she lowered her voice to make sure that Jerry would not hear, "can't the law do something dreadful to you for leaving Pete here, free? What can – "
"Jerry, I wish you'd drive up a little. Get to the ferry before it is too dark to cross, can't you?" said Griffith, and then, "Don't worry about that, Katherine, Pete won't dare show himself for a day or two, and besides-" He paused. The silence ran into minutes. Then he reached over and took her hand and with closed eyes he hummed as they rode, or broke off to point silently to some picturesque spot or to whistle to a robin. There was a nervous tension on them all.
"Mos' Grif, hit gwine ter be too late to cross dat ferry to-night. Ain't we better stop at dat big house over dar?"
Mr. Davenport opened his eyes. He had been humming – without time and with long pauses between the words – one of his favorite hymns. He looked out into the twilight, "That's Ferris's old mill and the Ferris house, isn't it, Katherine? Yes, Jerry, call to the boys to stop. We will have to stay over. It is too late to cross now. That ferry isn't very safe even in daylight."
The following morning, just before sunrise, there was a rap at the door, and a servant came to say that Mr. Davenport was wanted. Katherine was white with fear. She sprang from bed and went to the window. There, in front of the house, stood Lengthy Patterson, gun in hand, and beside him, sullen, crestfallen, and with one foot held in his hands, stood Pete. Griffith threw open the window, and Lengthy waited for no prelude. He nodded as if such calls were of daily occurrence, and then jerked his head toward Pete. "Saw him runnin'. Told him t' stop. He clim' out faster. Knowed you wanted him." He pointed to Pete's foot. It was bleeding. There was a bullet hole through the instep. "Few words comprehends the whole," added the mountaineer and relaxed his features into what he intended for a humorous expression. Griffith turned sick and faint. 'Squire Nelson's lesson had been well learned even by this mountaineer.
Pete was a dangerous negro to be without control, that was true. As a free negro left him without ties, it was only a question of time when he would commit some desperate deed, and yet what was to be done? Lengthy appeared to grasp the preacher's thought. He slowly seated himself on the front step and motioned Pete to sit on the grass.
"Don't fret. Take yer time. I'm a goin' t' the ferry. Few words comprehends th' whole," he remarked to Griffith, and examined the look of his gun, with critical deliberation. When the wagons were ready to start Jerry whispered to his master that two of the other young negroes had run off during the night, and yet Mr. Davenport pushed on. It was not until late the next afternoon when the dome of the Capitol at Washington burst upon their sight that Griffith and Katherine breathed free. The splendid vision in the distance put new life and interest in the negroes. Their restlessness settled into a childlike and emotional merrymaking, and snatches of song, and banter, and laughter told that danger of revolt or of stampede was over. Judy, alone, sulked in the wagons, and Mammy vented her discontent on the younger ones by word and blow, if they ventured too near her or her white charge. At last the Long Bridge alone stood between them and a liberty that could not be gainsaid – and another liberty for the master which had been so dearly and hazardously bought.
The Long Bridge was spanned and the strange party drove down Pennsylvania Avenue to the office of the attorney who had arranged for their reception. The Long Bridge was past and safety was theirs! Griffith glanced back and then turned to look. "Katherine," he said, smiling sadly, "we have crossed the dead line. We are all safe!" He sighed with the smile still on his lips.
"It is terrible not to feel safe! Terrible! Terrible!" she said in an undertone, "not to feel safe from pursuit, from behind, and from unknown and unaccustomed dangers near at hand – terrible!"
So accustomed had Griffith been to caring for and housing these negroes, who, now that they were in the midst of wonders of which they never had dreamed, clung to him with an abiding faith that whatever should betide he would be there to meet it for them – so accustomed had he been to caring for them that it had never occurred to Griffith not do so, even now when they were no longer his.
"Are the cabins ready?" he asked the attorney's clerk, and sent all but Mammy to the huts which had been provided on the outskirts.
"Go along with this gentleman, children," he said. "Mammy will stay with us, and after Jerry takes us to the hotel he will come and tell you what else to do. Good-bye! Goodbye! Keep together until Jerry comes."
All was uncertainty; but it was understood by all that several of the negroes were to go with the family and the rest to remain here. Griffith had decided to take to his new home Jerry and his wife, Ellen, and the twins; Mammy and Judy, and, if possible, Sally and John. It was here, and now, that he learned the inhospitality of the free states to the freed negroes.
"I intend to take several of them with, me and – "
"Can't do it," broke in the attorney, "Indiana's a free state."
"Well, I can take'em along and hire 'em, I reckon."
"Reckon you can't – not in Indiana."
"What!"
"I said you couldn't take'em along and hire em.
"I'd like to know the reason for that. I – "
"Law. Law's against it."
Griffith drew his hand across his face as if he had lost his power to think.
"You can't take any of'em to Indiana, I tell you," said the attorney insistently, and Griffith seemed dazed. Then he began again: "Can't take them!" he exclaimed, in utter dismay.
"That's what I said twice – can't take them – none of them."
"But I shall pay them wages! Surely I can take my own choice of servants into my own household if they are free and I pay them wages I Surely – "
"Surely you cannot, I tell you," said the attorney, and added dryly, "not unless you are particularly anxious to run up against the law pretty hard." He reached up and took down a leather-bound volume. He turned the leaves slowly, and Griffith and Katherine looked at each other in dismay. "There it is in black and white. Not a mere law, either – sometimes you can evade a law, if you are willing to risk it; but from the way you both feel about leaving those two free niggers in Virginia, I guess you won't be very good subjects for that sort of thing – thirteenth article of the constitution of the State itself." He drew a pencil mark along one side of the paragraph as Griffith read. "Oh! you'll find these free states have got mighty little use for niggers. Came here from one of'em myself. Free or not free, they don't want 'em. You see," he said, slowly drawing a line down the other side of the page, "they prohibit you from giving employment to one! Don't propose to have free nigger competition with their white labor. Can't blame 'em." He shrugged his shoulders.
Griffith began to protest. "But I have read – I thought – "
"Of course you thought – and you've read a lot of spread-eagle stuff, I don't doubt. Talk is one of the cheapest commodities in this world; but when it comes to acts – " he chuckled cynically, "s'pose you had an idea that the border States were just holding out their arms to catch and shield and nurture and feed with a gold spoon every nigger you Southern men were fools enough to set free; but the cold fact is they won't even let you bring them over and pay 'em to work for you! That is one of the charming little differences between theory and practice. They've got the theory and you've had the practice of looking after the niggers! Your end is a damned sight more difficult than theirs, as you'll discover, if you haven't already. Excuse me, I forgot you were a preacher. You don't look much like one." Griffith smiled and bowed. Katherine had gone to the front window, where Mammy and the baby were enjoying the unaccustomed sights of the street. Griffith and the lawyer moved toward them.
"No, sir, your niggers have all got to stay right here in Washington and starve or steal. You can't take'em to Indiana, that's mighty certain. Why, when that Constitution was passed only a year or two ago, there wern't but 21,000 voters in the whole blessed State that didn't vote to punish a white man for even giving employment to a free nigger. Public sentiment as well as law is all against you. You can't take those niggers to Indiana – that's certain!"
"Dar now! Dar now! wat I done tole you?" exclaimed Mammy. "What I done tole Mos' Grif 'bout all dis foolishness? Mis' Kate, you ain't gwine ter 'low dat is you? Me an' Judy free niggers! Town free niggers wid no fambly!" The tone indicated that no lower depth of degradation and misfortune than this could be thrust upon any human being.
"I's gwine ter keep dis heah baby, den. Who gwine ter take cahr ob her widout me?" The child was patting the black face and pulling the black ear in a gleeful effort to call forth the usual snort and threat to "swaller her whole."
"Bless yoah hawt, honey, yoh ain't gwine t' hab no odder nus, is yo'? Nus! Nus! White trash t' nus my baby! Yoh des gwine ter hab yoh ole mammy, dat's wat!"
The attorney took Mr. Davenport and Katherine to an inner office. It was two hours later when they came out. Both were pale and half dazed, but arrangements had been made, papers had been drawn, by which the nine oldest negroes were, in future, to appear at this office once every three months and draw the sum of twenty-four dollars each, so long as they might live. The younger ones must hereafter shift, as best they could, for themselves. The die was cast. The bridges were burned behind them. There was no return, and the negroes were indeed, "free, town niggers," henceforth.
"God forgive me if I have done wrong," said Griffith, as he left the office. "If I have done wrong in deserting these poor black children, for children they will always be, though pensioned as too old to work! Poor Mammy, Poor Judy! And Mart, and old Peyton!"
He shook his head and compressed his lips as he walked toward the door, with a stoop in his shoulders that was not there when he had entered. All the facts of this manumission were so wholly at variance with the established theories.
Every thing had been so different from even what Griffith had expected to meet. As they reached the door the attorney took the proffered hand and laughed a little, satirically.
"Now I want you to tell me what good you expect all this to do? What was the use? What is gained? It's clear to a man without a spy-glass what's lost all around; but it's going to puzzle a prophet to show where the gain comes in, in a case like this. If you'll excuse the remark, sir, it looks like a piece of romantic tom-foolery, to a man up a tree. A kind of tom-foolery, that does harm all around – to black and to white, to bond and to free. Of course if all of 'em were free it would, no doubt, be better. I'm inclined to think that way, myself. But just tell me how many slave-owners – even if they wanted to do it —could do as you have? Simply impossible! Then, besides, where'd they go – the niggers? Pension the whole infernal lot? Gad! but it's the dream of a man who never will wake up to this world, as it is built. And what good have you done? Just stop long enough to tell me that;" he insisted, still holding Griffith's hand. He was smiling down at his client who stood on a lower step. There was in his face a tinge of contempt and of pity for the lack of worldly wisdom.