They had an unfair show in the battle of life, and they held it no sin
to take military advantage of the enemy–in a small way; in a small way,
but not in a large one. They would smouch provisions from the pantry
whenever they got a chance; or a brass thimble, or a cake of wax,
or an emery bag, or a paper of needles, or a silver spoon, or a dollar bill,
or small articles of clothing, or any other property of light value;
and so far were they from considering such reprisals sinful, that they
would go to church and shout and pray the loudest and sincerest with their
plunder in their pockets. A farm smokehouse had to be kept heavily
padlocked, or even the colored deacon himself could not resist a ham
when Providence showed him in a dream, or otherwise, where such a thing
hung lonesome, and longed for someone to love. But with a hundred hanging
before him, the deacon would not take two–that is, on the same night.
On frosty nights the humane Negro prowler would warm the end of the plank
and put it up under the cold claws of chickens roosting in a tree;
a drowsy hen would step on to the comfortable board, softly clucking
her gratitude, and the prowler would dump her into his bag, and later
into his stomach, perfectly sure that in taking this trifle from the man
who daily robbed him of an inestimable treasure–his liberty–he was
not committing any sin that God would remember against him in the
Last Great Day.
“Name the thief!”
For the fourth time Mr. Driscoll had said it, and always in the same
hard tone. And now he added these words of awful import:
“I give you one minute.” He took out his watch. “If at the end of
that time, you have not confessed, I will not only sell all four
of you, BUT–I will sell you DOWN THE RIVER!”
It was equivalent to condemning them to hell! No Missouri Negro
doubted this. Roxy reeled in her tracks, and the color vanished out
of her face; the others dropped to their knees as if they had been shot;
tears gushed from their eyes, their supplicating hands went up,
and three answers came in the one instant.
“I done it!”
“I done it!”
“I done it!–have mercy, marster–Lord have mercy on us po’ niggers!”
“Very good,” said the master, putting up his watch, “I will
sell you _here_ though you don’t deserve it. You ought to be sold
down the river.”
The culprits flung themselves prone, in an ecstasy of gratitude,
and kissed his feet, declaring that they would never forget his
goodness and never cease to pray for him as long as they lived.
They were sincere, for like a god he had stretched forth his mighty
hand and closed the gates of hell against them. He knew, himself,
that he had done a noble and gracious thing, and was privately well
pleased with his magnanimity; and that night he set the incident down
in his diary, so that his son might read it in after years, and be
thereby moved to deeds of gentleness and humanity himself.
CHAPTER 3
Roxy Plays a Shrewd Trick
Whoever has lived long enough to find out what life is,
knows how deep a debt of gratitude we owe to Adam,
the first great benefactor of our race. He brought death into the world.
–Pudd’nhead Wilson’s Calendar
Percy Driscoll slept well the night he saved his house minions from
going down the river, but no wink of sleep visited Roxy’s eyes.
A profound terror had taken possession of her. Her child could grow up
and be sold down the river! The thought crazed her with horror.
If she dozed and lost herself for a moment, the next moment she was
on her feet flying to her child’s cradle to see if it was still there.
Then she would gather it to her heart and pour out her love upon it in
a frenzy of kisses, moaning, crying, and saying, “Dey sha’n’t, oh,
dey _sha’nt’!’_–yo’ po’ mammy will kill you fust!”
Once, when she was tucking him back in its cradle again, the other child