Hatchie, the Guardian Slave Part 40

"_King H_. Good-night to all, then!"

SHAKSPEARE.

Connected with the estate at Bellevue, of which Jaspar Dumont was now in actual possession, was a small slave jail. It had been constructed under the immediate direction of Jaspar, to afford a place of confinement for the runaway or refractory negroes of the plantation. It was located at some distance from the proprietary mansion, and from the quarters of the negroes. Jaspar's taste in matters of this kind was of the most refined character, and he had caused it to be constructed on a plan and in a manner that would seem to bid defiance to the skill of a Baron Trenck, or a Stephen Burroughs. The material was granite, brought at no trifling expense from the North. There were no windows upon the sides, and only one entrance, which was secured by double iron doors. Light and air were supplied, in meagre quant.i.ties, by means of a skylight in the roof, which was regulated by a cord pa.s.sing down upon the outside.

This jail, either by accident or design, was so constructed that any noise inside was not transmitted to the outside. Whether this was because of the reflecting properties of the walls, which might have sent the sound echoing out at the skylight on the apex of the four-sided roof, or because of some other natural causes, we shall not take up the reader's time in discussing. Its inmates might startle Heaven with their cries, but certainly every ear on earth below must be deaf to their wail. This circ.u.mstance seemed typical of the actual fact of oppression; but we are sure that Jaspar never meant to typify the groans, by man unheeded, of the victims of tyranny ascending to be heard above.

It was the day after the events related in the last chapter, and the negro jail was tenanted; but not by a refractory or a runaway slave. It was now devoted to a more dignified purpose, being occupied by a white man and his wife, the victims of Jaspar Dumont's hatred and fears. They had already been prisoners for the past forty-eight hours. No sound from the wide, wide world without had reached them; and, though the man had shouted himself hoa.r.s.e in endeavors to arrest the attention of any casual pa.s.ser-by, the sound of his voice had risen to Heaven, but had not been heard by any mortal ear.

On a heap of dirty straw, in one corner, lay a female. She was feeble and helpless. By her side, gazing sadly upon her, was her companion, pale and haggard, and apparently conquered in spirit. The sufferings of the frail being by his side seemed to pierce him to the soul. He felt not for himself; his thoughts, his feelings, all were devoted to her, whom he had loved and respected through many vicissitudes, whose kindly sympathy had cheered his heart in many of the severest of earth's trials. They had pa.s.sed through peril and poverty together, and now the cup of tribulation seemed full to the brim. They were doomed to death,--not to the death of the malefactor, but as victims of private interest. No friendly jailer had been near, to bring them even a cup of cold water to a.s.suage their consuming thirst. Not a morsel of food had they tasted since their incarceration! The terrible doom to which they were consigned was too apparent; there was nothing to foreshadow even the slightest hope of redemption. A few days' intercourse with their inhuman persecutor had demonstrated too plainly that he was equal to any crime which his own safety demanded.

The female turned uneasily upon her rude and filthy bed. Her companion bent over her, and, as a flood of tears poured from his sunken eyes, he imprinted a kiss upon her pale cheek.

"Do you feel no better, Delia?" asked he, tenderly.

"Alas, no! The sands of life are fast ebbing out. O, for a single drop of cold water!"

"G.o.d in heaven! must I see her die, with no power to save?" exclaimed Dalhousie,--for it was he,--striking his hands violently upon his forehead.

"Do not let me distress you, Francois! Let me die!--I am ready to die,"

said she, faintly.

Dalhousie could make no reply. His emotions were too powerful to permit his utterance. Maddened by despair, into which the terrible situation of his cherished wife had plunged him, he paced the jail with long strides, gazing about him, as if to seek some desperate remedy for his woes.

Escape had scarcely presented itself to his mind. He had not the energy of character which rises superior to every ill, and had bent himself supinely to the fate which awaited him. To work through the solid walls of the jail seemed to him an impossibility, even if provided with the necessary implements. The scheme was too vast for his mind, unaccustomed, as it was, to contend with great difficulties.

Despair seemed to create, at this moment, a new man within him, armed with energy to break through every obstacle which might oppose him. His feeble, suffering companion demanded an effort for her relief, and such a demand even his supine nature could not resist.

Near one side of the jail was a shallow pit, which had, apparently, been quite recently excavated. In it lay the shovel with which the earth had been thrown out.

Dalhousie fixed his eyes upon the pit. A new thought animated him. "_I_ began to dig that pit for gold; I will continue it for water," muttered he, as he seized the shovel, and commenced digging. Awhile he labored with the energy of desperation; but, enfeebled by long fasting, and unused to such severe toil, he soon felt his strength give way. It appeared to be his only hope, the only ministration of comfort to the loved one beside him, and he strove manfully against the weakness which beset him. An hour he labored; but not a drop of moisture rewarded his toil. Overcome by his exertions, he seated himself upon the brink of the pit, and gave way to the agonizing emotions which filled his soul. A sigh from his wife roused him to a new effort, and, partially invigorated by the few moments' rest, he again applied himself to his task. The ground was of a moist character, and he had every encouragement of soon finding the coveted treasure. Animated by this hope, he redoubled his efforts, and for another hour despair nerved his arm, and strengthened his sinking frame. Still the buried treasure eluded his search. Exhausted by his exertions, he sunk heavily upon the side of the pit, and the big tears coursed down his hollow cheeks.

Deserted by man, he felt that there was no G.o.d in heaven; and no divinely-born sentiment came to cheer him in the hour of his despondency. He felt that the hand of death must soon take him and his loved wife into its cold embrace. With much effort he drew himself to her side, and endeavored to compose his mind for the struggle with the destroyer.

Two hours he lay by her side; but his time had not yet come. Rested from the severe fatigue he had undergone, he felt a new vigor stealing through his frame. Something like hope again flitted before his desponding mind, and, partially raising himself from his rec.u.mbent posture, he gazed about the apartment. The pit he had dug was yawning near him. A shudder convulsed his frame, as it reminded him of the open grave that gaped to receive him. Had he not dug this grave for himself?

The instinct of self-preservation drew him to his feet. Seizing the shovel, he advanced to the pit, when, to his unspeakable delight, he perceived that the bottom of it was covered with black, dirty water. The sight roused his dormant energies, and he saw before him years of life and happiness. Leaping into the pit, he drank from the putrid pool, using the palms of his hands for a drinking vessel.

Tearing off the top of his glazed cap, he succeeded in making a very tolerable cup of it, with which he conveyed some of the precious liquid to the parched lips of his sinking wife. The act roused her from the absent mood to which she had abandoned herself. She took a long draught of the discolored beverage, and, had it been the pure mountain spring, its effect could scarcely have been more magical. It not only refreshed the body, but inspired the mind. With this dawning hope the poor prisoners built the flimsy fabric of future joy and safety.

Dalhousie had lived years in the hours of his confinement. Experience, the stern mentor of humanity, had ministered to him, and imparted the strength and resolution which often require years to mature. Thoughts, and feelings, and energies, to which he had before been a stranger, came bounding through his mind, as the mighty river, which, having broken away the feeble barrier man had set in its course, roars and thunders down its before forsaken path. The powerful impulse of hope, stimulated by this successful act, made him curse his supineness in calmly yielding to the awful fate which awaited him. His best hours--his hours of unimpaired strength--had now pa.s.sed away; there was no fountain at which he could renew it. But energy now burned within him, and, like an invisible power, seemed to drive him on to some great act. The impulse was irresistible; hopeless as his case had before appeared, he determined to escape. But how? This question had not yet presented itself. Escape from the jail!--from death!--himself,--more than himself, his wife! Stone walls lost their appalling firmness, and were no more than downy ma.s.ses, which his breath could blow away.

Animated by this irresistible impulse, he took the shovel, and sounded upon the walls; but they were everywhere firm and solid beneath his blow. It seemed useless to his usually inert mind, and he was about to abandon himself again to the jaws of despair, when a new thought suggested itself. Fired with the inspiration of the new idea, he impulsively proceeded to carry it into execution. By the side of the wall, with vigorous strokes, he commenced digging, with the intention of undermining it. Without a thought of his enfeebled body, he plied the shovel with the energy of desperation. Instead of making a calm calculation, and proceeding with such an economy of strength as would enable him to complete the work, he labored as though the task before him could be easily and quickly accomplished.

His wife, somewhat revived by the draught she had taken, penetrated the purpose of her husband; but she saw that his strength must entirely fail him ere the work could be accomplished.

"You must husband your strength, Francois," said she; "rest a little."

"The hope of deliverance is too strong to let me sacrifice another moment in idleness," replied Dalhousie, without ceasing from his labors.

"But, Francois, you will kill yourself, if you work so hard."

"That would be an honorable death, at least."

"And leave me to linger here?--No, let us die together, if die we must.

Perhaps I can help you,"--and she strove to rise.

"Do not rise, Delia,--keep quiet; I am strong, and will yet deliver you from this dungeon. Lay quiet, dear; do not add to my distress."

"I fear I must lay still,--I cannot rise," said she, sinking back with the exhaustion of the effort.

Dalhousie threw down his shovel, and hastened to her side.

"Do not attempt to rise again, dear," said he. "Let me get you some more water."

He again filled the rude cup at the pit, and, after she had taken a long draught of it, he laved her head, an operation which appeared to refresh her.

"Do you feel better?"

"Much better."

"Now keep perfectly quiet, and I will resume my task."

"I will; but pray, Francois, do not work so hard; temper your enthusiasm with reason. You cannot succeed, unless you are careful."

"I will, dear; I will rest every little while."

Dalhousie resumed his labor, and, convinced by his wife's reasoning, he labored more moderately. While he toils at this apparently hopelessly task, we will return to the night when we left him in the library, after having obtained possession of the secret packet.

The overseer, after leaving the library, was perplexed to determine his future course. He was in possession of a mighty secret, a secret which involved his employer's very existence. The realization of a thousand golden dreams was at hand, and he was resolved, without an over-nice balancing of conscientious scruples, to make the most of the information he had obtained. There were two methods of procedure open to him, and his perplexity was occasioned by this fact. In this instance his resolution was not at fault, for the reins were in his own hands. It was not like hewing a path through the granite barriers of difficulty, against the very frown of destiny. He imagined that some overruling power had made the path, and invited him to walk in it.

Should he make his fortune by means of the uncle or the niece? The question of his existence had narrowed itself down to this point. It was sure, he felt, from one or the other.

Being of a naturally generous disposition, with strong affections, and having not a little of the natural sense of justice in his composition, he was decidedly in favor of permitting the niece to enrich him. This was his personal preference; but he was sensible of the truth of the axiom, that individual preferences must sometimes be sacrificed to the success of the main object; and, if the circ.u.mstances demanded it, he felt able to make the sacrifice.

If he forwarded the packet to its proper destination, the lady would, without doubt, be soon restored to her possessions. This was the course he preferred, as well as the course which justice and morality demanded.

But, alas! his moral sentiment was not sufficiently developed to make him pause before taking the opposite course, if his present and temporary interest should seem to demand it. A departure from the strict injunction of conscience is sure to bring misery; and this was doubly true in his case.

The uncle was in actual possession, and he called to mind the old maxim, that "possession is nine points in the law." He was unwilling to risk the bright prospects, which had so suddenly opened upon him, on the tenth point. Fearing that Jaspar's unscrupulous character would enable him to defeat the heiress, he had not the courage to do his duty and trust Heaven for the reward.

With this view of his position, he reluctantly--we will do him the justice to say reluctantly--abandoned the project of restoring the niece to her birthright. Thus was the great purpose of his life narrowed down to one point, and he retired to his pillow to consider in what manner he should approach Jaspar.

Simple as this single point had before appeared, he found, on reflection, that it was environed with difficulties and dangers. Jaspar was intrenched in his own castle, and it would require some address even to approach near enough to hold a parley. Conclusive as were the evidences in his possession of Jaspar's perfidy, they might, by the aid of cunning and gold, be made to appear as forgeries, gotten up for the purpose of extorting money. The stake was a great one, and he determined with a bold hand to play the game.

CHAPTER XXV.

"_Ca.s.sius_. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment.