CHAPTER I.
IN THE STAGE-COACH AND AT THE INN.
Thick, misty clouds overcast the sky; peals of thunder in the distancecame rolling nearer and nearer, until they burst into one prolonged roarjust above a lumbering old stage-coach slowly making its way over themuddy roads of a Virginia post route, the driver incessantly crackinghis long whip over the backs of his jaded horses, and urging them, withshouts and exclamations, to accelerate their speed.
This scene occurs in what is now West Virginia. It is west of themountain range, but where, on every hand, are frowning precipices, deepgorges and swift-flowing torrents. On the right, the jutting headlandsare crowned with huge old bowlders, just peeping out from the thicket ofevergreens and creeping vines which surround them. Although not calledmountainous, it is a country whose picturesque heights and umbrageousvalleys would excite a degree of enthusiasm in the bosom of a lover ofthe beautiful. Down in those lonely valleys, almost hidden in theirleafy groves, was the home of many an old Virginia aristocrat. Thegreat, gnarled oak standing upon the verge of some miniature precipice,and glooming sullenly through the misty rain, seems but part of somepictured scene. Far in the distance, faintly penciled against the mistysky, rise headlands to what seems an enormous height, about them a darkmass of clouds, like some giant's garment caught upon the peaks andblown about at the will of the wind. It envelops and conceals thehighest peaks, leaving the imagination to add to the belief in theirstupendous height.
It has been raining all day, and the driver of the stage-coach isanxious to reach his destination.
"Gee-up! If we don't git to Lander's Hill before dark, I be hanged if wedon't stick there for the night," he exclaimed.
The stage-coach moves slowly along, and the shades of evening areclosing in. Six or seven passengers are seated within, and are about asuncomfortable as stage-coach travelers could well be. There is but asingle lady among them, and the chivalric spirit of the Southron hasassigned to her the most comfortable place in the coach. We areinterested in but one of these travelers, a man about forty-five orfifty years of age, something over medium size, whose appearance stampedhim as a well-to-do Virginia planter. His face was smooth-shaven, andhis hair, once dark, was silvered with the flight of years. His was ahandsome face, and a pleasant one to look upon; there was somethingpleasing and attractive about its expression, and the mild gray eyesburned with no ambitious designs or fiery passions; his dress was plaingray homespun, commonly worn as the traveling dress of a Southerner atthe time of which we write. His hat was of the finest silk,broad-brimmed and low-crowned, such as Southern planters invariablywore. Though unostentatious in manner, he was evidently a man accustomedto the manifold comforts of Southern life. He was, moreover, a manaccustomed to looking at both sides of a question, and arriving atconclusions without bias or prejudice. His frame was a fine type ofmanhood, and his muscular arms showed him possessed of more than anordinary degree of strength.
This man alone of all the passengers maintained a silent and thoughtfulmood as the coach passed on its way. A constant conversation was kept upby the other passengers on the weather, the roads, the journey, itstermination, and last, but not least, the politics of the day. However,while the gentleman whom we have more particularly described, and nowintroduce to our readers as George W. Tompkins, of Virginia, sat moodyand silent, and seemingly utterly oblivious of the discomforts withinor the gloomy prospect without, his fellow passengers were continuallytalking, and continually jostling against him, without rousing Mr.Tompkins from his reverie.
His mind was clouded by a horror that made him careless of presentsurroundings. He looked worn and weary, more so than any of the otherpassengers, and occasionally, when the coach rolled over smooth ground,he would lean back in his seat and close his eyes. No sooner done,however, than a thousand fantastic shapes would glide before his mentalvision, that seemed to take delight in annoying him. Whenever he becameunconscious to his real surroundings, shrieks seemed to sound in hisear, and he seemed to hear the cry:
"Search, search, search! Your task's not over, your task's not over!"
"And where shall I search?" he mentally asked.
"Ah, where?" the voice wailed.
Then the planter would rouse himself, and glance at the passengers andout of the window in the endeavor to keep his mind free from theannoyances. For a few moments he would succeed, but days and nights ofexertion, horror and excitement were telling upon him; once more hewould succumb and once more the fantastic shadows thronged about him,and the voice, mingling strangely with the grating roar of the coach'swheels, smote on his ear:
"Search, search, search! Your task's not over! Your task's not over!"
"Where shall I search?"
"Ah, where?"
"You don't seem to be well, friend," remarked a fellow-traveler,observing the startled and restless manner of Mr. Tompkins.
"Yes, I am well; that is--no, I am not; I am somewhat wearied," Mr.Tompkins answered.
"So are we all," rejoined the passenger. "This journey has been enoughto wear out men of iron, and the prospects for the night are far fromcheering."
"I had expected to reach home to-night," said the planter, "but I shallfail by a good dozen miles."
"You live in this State?"
"Yes, sir," answered Mr. Tompkins, settling himself in his corner.
The gentleman, evidently a Southern man, seeing that Mr. Tompkins wasindisposed to carry on any further conversation, relapsed into silence.With another effort Mr. Tompkins conquered the stupor which, with allits fantastic concomitants, was once more overcoming him, and sat boltupright in his seat.
"This has been a fearful week," he soliloquized, "but I have done all Icould."
The gentleman by his side, catching the last part of the remark, andsupposing it had reference to the present journey, remarked:
"Yes, it is not the fault of the passengers, but of the managers of thisline. They should be prepared for such emergencies, and have a supply offresh horses."
Observing that his exclamation, though misinterpreted, had arrestedattention, Mr. Tompkins, to guard against its recurrence, lest he shoulddivulge the subject of his disturbed thoughts, aroused himself andresisted, with determination, the stupor that was overcoming him. It waswhile thus combating the fatigue that weighed him down that thestage-coach came to a very sudden stop.
The driver, pressing his face to the aperture at the top of the coach,cried out:
"Here we are at Lander's Hill, and I be hanged if the hosses are able todrag ye all up. They are completely fagged out, so I guess ye menfolks'll hev to hoof it to the top, an' occasionally give us a push, orwe'll stick here until mornin'."
"How far is it to where we can stop over night?" asked the passenger whohad endeavored to draw Mr. Tompkins into conversation.
"After we git on top of the hill it's only 'bout three miles to JerryLycan's inn, where we'll stop for the night, an' it's down hill 'mostall the way," replied the driver.
With much grumbling and many imprecations on the heads of the managersof the stage line, the passengers clambered out of the coach. A long,muddy hill, in places quite steep, lay before them. It was nearly half amile to the top, and portions of the road were scarcely passable evenin good weather.
"These are public roads in Virginia!" exclaimed one gentleman, as healighted in the mud.
"We can't have railroads to every place," essayed a fellow-traveler,evidently a Virginian; "but you will find our soil good."
"Yes, good for sticking purposes," said the first speaker, trying toshake some of the mud from his boots; "I never saw soil with greateradhesive qualities."
"Now look 'ee," said the driver, "we'll hev some purty smart jogs, wherethe hosses 'll not be able to pull up, and you'll hev to put yourshoulders agin the coach an' give us a push."
"May I be blessed!" ejaculated the Southerner. "They are not evencontent to make us walk, but want us to draw the coach."
"Better to do that an' hev a coach at the top to rid
e in than to walkthree miles," said the driver.
After allowing his horses a brief rest, the driver cracked his whip andthe lumbering coach moved on, the passengers slowly plodding alongbehind. None seemed pleased with the prospect of a walk up the long,muddy hill, but the grumbling Southerner manifested a more decidedrepugnance than either of the others.
"This is worse than wading through Carolina swamps waist deep," heexclaimed, as he trudged along, dragging his weary feet andmud-freighted boots after him.
The coach had not proceeded more than a dozen rods when it came to oneof the "jogs" in the hill alluded to by the driver. "Now help here, orwe'll stick sure. Git up!" cried the driver, and the poor, tired horsesnerved themselves for the extra effort required of them. The ascent herewas both steep and slippery, and it required the united strength ofhorses and passengers to pass the coach over the place.
Here the passengers discovered the prodigious strength which lay in thebroad shoulders of Mr. Tompkins. Not a murmur had escaped his lips whenrequired to walk up the hill, and he was the first to place his shoulderto the wheel to push the coach over the difficult passage. To stillfurther increase the discomforts of their position they were thoroughlydrenched by a passing shower which overtook them before they reach thesummit of the hill. Here they again climbed into the coach, and resumingtheir seats, were whirled along through the gathering darkness towardthe inn.
Old Jerry Lycan stood on the long porch of his old-fashioned Virginiatavern, and peered down the road through the gloom. It had been dark buta few moments. The old man's ears caught the sound of wheels coming downthe road, and he knew the stage was not far off.
"The roads are just awful," said the landlord, "and no wonder it isbelated."
The night was intensely dark; not a star was to be seen in the sky; anoccasional flash of lightning momentarily lit up surrounding objects,only to render the blackness more complete. Far down the road the oldman's eyes caught a glimpse of the coach-lights bobbing up and down asthe ponderous vehicle oscillated over the rough roads. Approachingslowly, like a wearied thing of life, the cumbrous stage at lastappeared, made visible only by its own lamps, which the driver hadlighted. The splashing of six horses along the miry roads and the dullrolling of the huge wheels made the vehicle heard long before it wasseen.
"Rube haint no outside passengers to-night," said the landlord, seeingthat the top seats of the coach were vacant. "'Spose nobody'd want toride out in the rain."
"Here ye are at Lycan's inn," called out the driver to the inmates ofthe coach as he reined in his weary horses in front of the roadsidetavern.
Uncle Jerry as he was called, with his old, perforated tin lantern, cameto open the stage door and show his guests into the house. Rube, thedriver, tossing the reins to the stable-boy, climbed down from his loftyperch, and went into the bar-room to get "something hot" to warm hisbenumbed body.
The landlord brought the wet and weary men into the room, where a greatfire was blazing, and promised that supper should be ready by the timethey were dry. The Southerner declared that he was much too dry within,though he was dripping wet without. Uncle Jerry smiling invited himinto the bar-room. The Southerner needed no second invitation, and soonreturned, saying that Virginia inns were not so bad after all.
The lady had been shown to a private apartment, while the gentlemen wereattempting to dry their clothing by the fire in the public room. TheSoutherner, who had been in much better humor since his visit to thebar, seemed now to look very philosophically upon his soaking and otherinconveniences of travel.
Our planter, Mr. Tompkins, sat in front of the pile of blazing logs,gazing at the bright, panoramic pictures constantly forming there.Sleeping or waking, darkness of the stage-coach and in those glowingembers, he saw but one picture, and its horrors were constantly hauntinghis mind.
The other guests talked and laughed while their soaked clothes weredrying, but Mr. Tompkins was silent, whether sitting or standing. Almostbefore their clothes were dry supper was announced, and they allrepaired to the long, low dining room and seated themselves at thetable. The supper, plain and substantial, was just suited to the needsof the hungry guests.
The evening meal over, they returned to the sitting room. The Southernerhad lit a cigar, and kept up a constant flow of conversation.
"Virginia is too near the Free-soilers," he said, evidently directinghis remarks to Mr. Tompkins; "don't they come over here and steal yourniggers?"
"They never have," Mr. Tompkins answered.
"I take it for granted you own slaves?"
"Yes, sir; I have a number on my plantation, and never have had onestolen yet."
"Don't the 'Barnburners,' 'Wooly Heads' and Abolitionists from Ohio andPennsylvania come over here and steal them away?"
"They have never taken any from me."
"Well, that's a wonder. I know a number of good men on the border whofind it impossible to keep niggers at all."
"Perhaps they are not good masters," said Mr. Tompkins.
"They were the best of masters, and they lost their niggers, thoughthey guarded them with watchful overseers and bloodhounds."
"But do you think that a good master needs to guard his slaves witharmed overseers and dogs?" said Mr. Tompkins.
"Of course," the Carolinian answered; "how else would you keep the blackrascals in subjection? Are we not horrified almost every week by reportsof some of their outrages? Swamps and canebrakes have become the hauntsof runaway blacks, who, having murdered their master, seek to wreckvengeance on innocent children or women."
Mr. Tompkins started at these assertions, as though he felt a pang athis heart.
"My friend, what you say is true, too true," he said; "but is the masteralways blameless? The negro possesses feelings, and even a beast may begoaded to madness. Is it not an unrighteous system which is crushing andcursing our beloved country?"
"What system?"
"Slavery."
"Why, sir, you are a singular slave-holder," cried the Southerner. "Areyou going to turn a Martin Van Buren and join the Free-soilers?"
"There is a great deal in that question, sir, outside of politics. Ibelieve in slavery, else I would not own a slave; but, if our slaves areto be treated as animals, it were better if the institution wereabolished."
"How would you treat them?"
"Discharge the overseers, to begin with."
"I am sure, you would fail."
"The plan has succeeded well on my plantation," said Mr. Tompkins, "andI do not own a single negro who would not die for me."
Here were met two men, both believing in the institution of humanslavery, but carrying out its principles, how differently! The one withcool Northern blood and kindly feelings, advocating a humane mode ofruling the helpless being in his power. The other, representing theextreme type of refined cruelty and oppression. The mind of the one grewmore and more in harmony with the idea of abolition, while the othercame to hate, with all the fierceness of his Southern heart, the idea ofuniversal freedom; became willing, even, to strike at that flag whichhad failed to protect his interests and his opinions.
The date at which we write was directly after the election andinauguration of Taylor as President of the United States. The oppositionto human slavery had steadily been gaining ground, regardless of tauntsand sneers, and the ranks of the Abolitionists were hourly on theincrease. Slavery was peculiarly a selfish institution. It is folly tosay that only men born and reared in the South could be numbered amongthe upholders of this "peculiar institution," for many Northern men wentSouth and purchased plantations and slaves, and in 1861 many of theseenlisted on the Confederate side, and fought under the Confederate flag,not from principle, but from self-interest.
Mr. Tompkins, who was Northern born, believed in slavery simply becausehe owned slaves, and not from any well defined principle. Even now thesame conflict that later convulsed the Nation was raging in hisheart--the conflict between self-interest and the right. Press andpulpit, the lecturer's rostrum and the n
ovelist's pen, had almostwrought out the doom of slavery, when the politician took up the stormydispute.
The discussion in the Virginia inn was warm but friendly, the Caroliniandeclaring that God and Nature had ordained the negro for slavery; thathis diet should be the ash-cake, his stimulant the whip, his reward forobedience a blanket and a hut, his punishment for rebellion chains anddeath. Doubtless his passion over-reached his judgment in the heat ofargument, and his brain, perhaps, was not so cool since his visit to thebar-room.
"My dear sir," Mr. Tompkins finally said, hoping to end the discussion,which was drawing to them the attention of all, "the policy you suggestwill, I fear, plunge our whole country into trouble. Few men are bornrulers, and history has never shown one successful who ruled by harshmeasures only. Admitting that a negro is not a rational being, kindnesswith a beast can accomplish more than harshness. It is cruel masters whomake runaway slaves. The parting of parent and child, husband and wife,torn ruthlessly asunder, never to see each other again, will make even anegro furious. I fear, sir, that slavery is a bad institution, but it isfirmly established among us, and I see no way at present to get rid ofit."
The other guests at Jerry Lycan's inn had gathered in groups of two andthree, and were listening silently to the differing views of these twoupholders of slavery, for there were factions in those days among theslavery men. The landlord had entered the room, and, being a politicianhimself, drank in the discussion with deepest interest.
Just as the argument was at its height the outer door of the inn openedand a boy, wild-eyed, but handsome, entered. A glance at the strangelywild eyes and disheveled hair convinced all present that he was insane.He was about twelve years of age, with a slender figure and awell-shaped head, but some great shock had unseated his reason. Hismania was of a mild, harmless type. Walking directly up to Mr. Tompkins,he said:
"Have you seen my father? You look very much like my father, but I knowhe has not yet come into Egypt."
The voice was so plaintive and sad that it touched at once the hearts ofall, and happily put an end to the conversation.
"Who is your father?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"Jacob is my father. I am his favorite son. My brothers sold me a slaveinto Egypt, and told my father I had been slain by wild beasts. Have youseen my father?"
"He is crazy. Humor him, say something to him," whispered the landlord.
"Your father is not yet ready to come into Egypt," said Mr. Tompkins.
"And my brother Benjamin--did you see him?" the lad asked.
"Yes."
"Is the famine sore in the land where my father dwells?"
"Yes."
"And does he suffer--is he old? Oh, yes, I remember; my father must bedead." He seated himself on a low stool by the fireside, and, bowing hishead in his hands, seemed lost in thought.
"He does that twenty times a day," said the landlord.
"Who is he?" asked one of the travelers, "and where does he come from?"
"He has been here only a few days, and I know nothing about him. Hisfirst question was, 'Have you seen my father Jacob?'"
"Have you tried to find out about him?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"Yes, but to no purpose," answered Uncle Jerry. "He came one morning andsaid he was fleeing from Potiphar's wrath. After inquiring for hisfather, he remained silent for some time. I tried to find where he camefrom, but no one knows and he can not tell. I should judge by theclothes he wore that he was from the South, and, from the worn conditionof his shoes, that he came a great way. He is of some respectablefamily, for he has been well educated, and I fancy it's too much booklearning that has turned the boy's head. He talks of Plato and Socratesand Aristotle, and all the ancient philosophers, and his familiaritywith historical events shows him to have been a student; but he alwaysimagines that he is Joseph."
"Where does he live?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"Oh, he stays here at the inn, and shows no disposition to leave. Hemakes himself useful by helping the stable-boy and carries in fuel,imagining himself a servant of the high priest."
"Has he lucid intervals?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"No, not what could be called lucid intervals. Once he said to a girl inthe kitchen that it was books that made his head dizzy, and saidsomething of a home a great ways off, from which he had fled to escapegreat violence. They hoped then to clear up the mystery, but the nextmoment his mind wandered again and he was Joseph sold into Egypt,bewailing his father Jacob and his brother Benjamin."
"What is his name?" asked Mr. Tompkins.
"We can't get any other name than Joseph, and the boys here call himCrazy Joe."
"His malady may be curable; have you consulted a physician about it?"inquired the Californian, who was very much interested in the strangecase.
"Yes, sir; a doctor from the State Lunatic Asylum was here day beforeyesterday, but he pronounced him incurable."
"Could not the doctor tell how long he had been in this condition?"asked Mr. Tompkins.
"Not with certainty, but thought it only a few weeks or months. He saidhe had probably escaped from his guard and ran away."
At this moment the subject of conversation rose from the low stool andlooked about with a vacant stare.
"Do you want to go home to your parents?" Mr. Tompkins asked.
"When the famine is sore in the land they will come for me."
"Why did you run away?"
"My brothers sold me to the merchants with their camels. They made myfather believe I was killed, and brought me here and sold me; but I knowit is written that my brother Benjamin will come and bring my father tome."
"Is it not written that Jacob did go down into Egypt with his wholefamily, and that he wept on Joseph's neck, and said he was willing todie?" said Mr. Tompkins, to lead him out of this strange hallucination.
"Yes, yes--oh, yes!" the boy cried, eagerly.
"Did not Moses deliver the children of Israel from bondage long afterJacob's death?"
"I remember now that he did," said Joe.
"Then how can you be Joseph, when he died three or four thousand yearsago?"
The boy reflected a moment, and then said:
"Who can I be, if I am not Joseph?"
"Some one who imagines himself Joseph," said Mr. Tompkins. "Now, try tothink who you really are and where you came from."
"I am not Socrates, for he drank the hemlock and died, nor am I JuliusCaesar, for he was killed by Brutus," the poor lunatic replied.
"Try to think what was your father's name," persisted Mr. Tompkins,hoping to discover something.
"My father's name was Jacob, and I was sold a slave into Egypt by mybrothers; but there must be something wrong; my father must be dead."
Again he seated himself on the low stool and buried his face in hishands.
"It's no use," said the landlord; "that's as near as you'll ever come toknowing who he is from him. I have advertised him in the Pittsburgdaily, but no one has come yet to claim him."
"A very strange hallucination," said the Carolinian. "Is he alwaysmild?"
"Yes; he is never cross or sullen, and seems delighted with children. Heanswers them in many ways."
It was growing late, and the weary travelers were ready to go to bed.The landlord assisted by Crazy Joe and another boy, took lighted candlesto the various rooms for the guests.
By the combined aid of a good supper, a warm discussion on slavery, andhis interest in the insane boy, Mr. Tompkins had succeeded in fightingaway the legion of gloomy thoughts that harassed his mind, and a fewminutes after retiring was sleeping peacefully.