Iola Leroy
by
Frances E.W. Harper

Part 1 out of 5

Produced by Suzanne Shell and PG Distributed Proofreaders

IOLA LEROY,

OR

SHADOWS UPLIFTED.

BY

FRANCES E.W. HARPER.

1893, Philadelphia

TO MY DAUGHTER

MARY E. HARPER,

THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED.

INTRODUCTION.

I confess when I first learned that Mrs. Harper was about to write "a
story" on some features of the Anglo-African race, growing out of what
was once popularly known as the "peculiar institution," I had my doubts
about the matter. Indeed it was far from being easy for me to think that
she was as fortunate as she might have been in selecting a subject which
would afford her the best opportunity for bringing out a work of merit
and lasting worth to the race--such a work as some of her personal
friends have long desired to see from her graphic pen. However, after
hearing a good portion of the manuscript read, and a general statement
with regard to the object in view, I admit frankly that my partial
indifference was soon swept away; at least I was willing to wait for
further developments.

Being very desirous that one of the race, so long distinguished in the
cause of freedom for her intellectual worth as Mrs. Harper has had the
honor of being, should not at this late date in life make a blunder
which might detract from her own good name, I naturally proposed to
await developments before deciding too quickly in favor of giving
encouragement to her contemplated effort.

However, I was perfectly aware of the fact that she had much material in
her possession for a most interesting book on the subject of the
condition of the colored people in the South. I know of no other woman,
white or colored, anywhere, who has come so intimately in contact with
the colored people in the South as Mrs. Harper. Since emancipation she
has labored in every Southern State in the Union, save two, Arkansas and
Texas; in the colleges, schools, churches, and the cabins not excepted,
she has found a vast field and open doors to teach and speak on the
themes of education, temperance, and good home building, industry,
morality, and the like, and never lacked for evidences of hearty
appreciation and gratitude.

Everywhere help was needed, and her heart being deeply absorbed in the
cause she willingly allowed her sympathies to impel her to perform most
heroic services.

With her it was no uncommon occurrence, in visiting cities or towns, to
speak at two, three, and four meetings a day; sometimes to promiscuous
audiences composed of everybody who would care to come.

But the kind of meetings she took greatest interest in were meetings
called exclusively for women. In this attitude she could pour out her
sympathies to them as she could not do before a mixed audience; and
indeed she felt their needs were far more pressing than any other class.

And now I am prepared to most fully indorse her story. I doubt whether
she could, if she had tried ever so much, have hit upon a subject so
well adapted to reach a large number of her friends and the public with
both entertaining and instructive matter as successfully as she has done
in this volume.

The grand and ennobling sentiments which have characterized all her
utterances in laboring for the elevation of the oppressed will not be
found missing in this book.

The previous books from her pen, which have been so very widely
circulated and admired, North and South--"Forest Leaves," "Miscellaneous
Poems," "Moses, a Story of the Nile," "Poems," and "Sketches of Southern
Life" (five in number)--these, I predict, will be by far eclipsed by
this last effort, which will, in all probability, be the crowning effort
of her long and valuable services in the cause of humanity.

While, as indicated, Mrs. Harper has done a large amount of work in the
South, she has at the same time done much active service in the
temperance cause in the North, as thousands of this class can testify.

Before the war she was engaged as a speaker by anti-slavery
associations; since then, by appointment of the Women's Christian
Temperance Union, she has held the office of "Superintendent of Colored
Work" for years. She has also held the office of one of the Directors of
the Women's Congress of the United States.

Under the auspices of these influential, earnest, and intelligent
associations, she has been seen often on their platforms with the
leading lady orators of the nation.

Hence, being widely known not only amongst her own race but likewise by
the reformers, laboring for the salvation of the intemperate and others
equally unfortunate, there is little room to doubt that the book will be
in great demand and will meet with warm congratulations from a goodly
number outside of the author's social connections.

Doubtless the thousands of colored Sunday-schools in the South, in
casting about for an interesting, moral story-book, full of practical
lessons, will not be content to be without "IOLA LEROY, OR SHADOWS
UPLIFTED."

WILLIAM STILL.

CONTENTS.

Chapter

I. The Mystery of Market Speech and Prayer Meetings

II. Contraband of War

III. Uncle Daniel's Story

IV. Arrival of the Union Army

V. Release of Iola Leroy

VI. Robert Johnson's Promotion and Religion

VII. Tom Anderson's Death

VIII. The Mystified Doctor

IX. Eugene Leroy and Alfred Lorraine

X. Shadows in the Home

XI. The Plague and the Law

XII. School-girl Notions

XIII. A Rejected Suitor

XIV. Harry Leroy

XV. Robert and his Company

XVI. After the Battle

XVII. Flames in the School-Room

XVIII. Searching for Lost Ones

XIX. Striking Contrasts

XX. A Revelation

XXI. A Home for Mother

XXII. Further Lifting of the Veil

XXIII. Delightful Reunions

XXIV. Northern Experience

XXV. An Old Friend

XXVI. Open Questions

XXVII. Diverging Paths

XXVIII. Dr. Latrobe's Mistake

XXIX. Visitors from the South

XXX. Friends in Council

XXXI. Dawning Affections

XXXII. Wooing and Wedding

XXXIII. Conclusion

Note

CHAPTER I.

MYSTERY OF MARKET SPEECH AND PRAYER-MEETING.

"Good mornin', Bob; how's butter dis mornin'?"

"Fresh; just as fresh, as fresh can be."

"Oh, glory!" said the questioner, whom we shall call Thomas Anderson,
although he was known among his acquaintances as Marster Anderson's Tom.

His informant regarding the condition of the market was Robert Johnson,
who had been separated from his mother in his childhood and reared by
his mistress as a favorite slave. She had fondled him as a pet animal,
and even taught him to read. Notwithstanding their relation as mistress
and slave, they had strong personal likings for each other.

Tom Anderson was the servant of a wealthy planter, who lived in the city
of C----, North Carolina. This planter was quite advanced in life, but
in his earlier days he had spent much of his time in talking politics in
his State and National capitals in winter, and in visiting pleasure
resorts and watering places in summer. His plantations were left to the
care of overseers who, in their turn, employed negro drivers to aid them
in the work of cultivation and discipline. But as the infirmities of age
were pressing upon him he had withdrawn from active life, and given the
management of his affairs into the hands of his sons. As Robert Johnson
and Thomas Anderson passed homeward from the market, having bought
provisions for their respective homes, they seemed to be very
light-hearted and careless, chatting and joking with each other; but
every now and then, after looking furtively around, one would drop into
the ears of the other some news of the battle then raging between the
North and South which, like two great millstones, were grinding slavery
to powder.

As they passed along, they were met by another servant, who said in
hurried tones, but with a glad accent in his voice:--

"Did you see de fish in de market dis mornin'? Oh, but dey war splendid,
jis' as fresh, as fresh kin be."

"That's the ticket," said Robert, as a broad smile overspread his face.
"I'll see you later."

"Good mornin', boys," said another servant on his way to market. "How's
eggs dis mornin'?"

"Fust rate, fust rate," said Tom Anderson. "Bob's got it down fine."

"I thought so; mighty long faces at de pos'-office dis mornin'; but I'd
better move 'long," and with a bright smile lighting up his face he
passed on with a quickened tread.

There seemed to be an unusual interest manifested by these men in the
state of the produce market, and a unanimous report of its good
condition. Surely there was nothing in the primeness of the butter or
the freshness of the eggs to change careless looking faces into such
expressions of gratification, or to light dull eyes with such gladness.
What did it mean?

During the dark days of the Rebellion, when the bondman was turning his
eyes to the American flag, and learning to hail it as an ensign of
deliverance, some of the shrewder slaves, coming in contact with their
masters and overhearing their conversations, invented a phraseology to
convey in the most unsuspected manner news to each other from the
battle-field. Fragile women and helpless children were left on the
plantations while their natural protectors were at the front, and yet
these bondmen refrained from violence. Freedom was coming in the wake of
the Union army, and while numbers deserted to join their forces, others
remained at home, slept in their cabins by night and attended to their
work by day; but under this apparently careless exterior there was an
undercurrent of thought which escaped the cognizance of their masters.
In conveying tidings of the war, if they wished to announce a victory of
the Union army, they said the butter was fresh, or that the fish and
eggs were in good condition. If defeat befell them, then the butter and
other produce were rancid or stale.

Entering his home, Robert set his basket down. In one arm he held a
bundle of papers which he had obtained from the train to sell to the
boarders, who were all anxious to hear from the seat of battle. He
slipped one copy out and, looking cautiously around, said to Linda, the
cook, in a low voice:--

"Splendid news in the papers. Secesh routed. Yankees whipped 'em out of
their boots. Papers full of it. I tell you the eggs and the butter's
mighty fresh this morning."

"Oh, sho, chile," said Linda, "I can't read de newspapers, but ole
Missus' face is newspaper nuff for me. I looks at her ebery mornin' wen
she comes inter dis kitchen. Ef her face is long an' she walks kine o'
droopy den I thinks things is gwine wrong for dem. But ef she comes out
yere looking mighty pleased, an' larffin all ober her face, an' steppin'
so frisky, den I knows de Secesh is gittin' de bes' ob de Yankees.
Robby, honey, does you really b'lieve for good and righty dat dem
Yankees is got horns?"

"Of course not."

"Well, I yered so."

"Well, you heard a mighty big whopper."

"Anyhow, Bobby, things goes mighty contrary in dis house. Ole Miss is in
de parlor prayin' for de Secesh to gain de day, and we's prayin' in de
cabins and kitchens for de Yankees to get de bes' ob it. But wasn't Miss
Nancy glad wen dem Yankees run'd away at Bull's Run. It was nuffin but
Bull's Run an' run away Yankees. How she did larff and skip 'bout de
house. An' den me thinks to myself you'd better not holler till you gits
out ob de woods. I specs 'fore dem Yankees gits froo you'll be larffin
tother side ob your mouf. While you was gone to market ole Miss com'd
out yere, her face looking as long as my arm, tellin' us all 'bout de
war and saying dem Yankees whipped our folks all to pieces. And she was
'fraid dey'd all be down yere soon. I thought they couldn't come too
soon for we. But I didn't tell her so."

"No, I don't expect you did."

"No, I didn't; ef you buys me for a fool you loses your money shore. She
said when dey com'd down yere she wanted all de men to hide, for dey'd
kill all de men, but dey wouldn't tech de women."

"It's no such thing. She's put it all wrong. Why them Yankees are our
best friends."

"Dat's jis' what I thinks. Ole Miss was jis' tryin to skeer a body. An'
when she war done she jis' set down and sniffled an' cried, an' I war so
glad I didn't know what to do. But I had to hole in. An' I made out I
war orful sorry. An' Jinny said, 'O Miss Nancy, I hope dey won't come
yere.' An' she said, 'I'se jis' 'fraid dey will come down yere and
gobble up eberything dey can lay dere hands on.' An' she jis' looked as
ef her heart war mos' broke, an' den she went inter de house. An' when
she war gone, we jis' broke loose. Jake turned somersets, and said he
warnt 'fraid ob dem Yankees; he know'd which side his brad was buttered
on. Dat Jake is a cuter. When he goes down ter git de letters he cuts up
all kines ob shines and capers. An' to look at him skylarking dere while
de folks is waitin' for dere letters, an' talkin' bout de war, yer
wouldn't think dat boy had a thimbleful of sense. But Jake's listenin'
all de time wid his eyes and his mouf wide open, an' ketchin' eberything
he kin, an' a heap ob news he gits dat way. As to Jinny, she jis'
capered and danced all ober de flore. An' I jis' had to put my han' ober
her mouf to keep ole Miss from yereing her. Oh, but we did hab a good
time. Boy, yer oughter been yere."

"And, Aunt Linda, what did you do?"

"Oh, honey, I war jis' ready to crack my sides larffin, jis' to see what
a long face Jinny puts on wen ole Miss is talkin', an' den to see dat
face wen missus' back is turned, why it's good as a circus. It's nuff to
make a horse larff."

"Why, Aunt Linda, you never saw a circus?"

"No, but I'se hearn tell ob dem, and I thinks dey mus' be mighty funny.
An' I know it's orful funny to see how straight Jinny's face looks wen
she's almos' ready to bust, while ole Miss is frettin' and fumin' 'bout
dem Yankees an' de war. But, somehow, Robby, I ralely b'lieves dat we
cullud folks is mixed up in dis fight. I seed it all in a vision. An'
soon as dey fired on dat fort, Uncle Dan'el says to me: 'Linda, we's
gwine to git our freedom.' An' I says: 'Wat makes you think so?" An' he
says: 'Dey've fired on Fort Sumter, an' de Norf is boun' to whip.'"

"I hope so," said Robert. "I think that we have a heap of friends up
there."

"Well, I'm jis' gwine to keep on prayin' an' b'lievin'."

Just then the bell rang, and Robert, answering, found Mrs. Johnson
suffering from a severe headache, which he thought was occasioned by her
worrying over the late defeat of the Confederates. She sent him on an
errand, which he executed with his usual dispatch, and returned to some
work which he had to do in the kitchen. Robert was quite a favorite with
Aunt Linda, and they often had confidential chats together.

"Bobby," she said, when he returned, "I thinks we ort ter hab a
prayer-meetin' putty soon."

"I am in for that. Where will you have it?"

"Lem me see. Las' Sunday we had it in Gibson's woods; Sunday 'fore las',
in de old cypress swamp; an' nex' Sunday we'el hab one in McCullough's
woods. Las' Sunday we had a good time. I war jis' chock full an' runnin'
ober. Aunt Milly's daughter's bin monin all summer, an' she's jis' come
throo. We had a powerful time. Eberythin' on dat groun' was jis' alive.
I tell yer, dere was a shout in de camp."

"Well, you had better look out, and not shout too much, and pray and
sing too loud, because, 'fore you know, the patrollers will be on your
track and break up your meetin' in a mighty big hurry, before you can
say 'Jack Robinson.'"

"Oh, we looks out for dat. We's got a nice big pot, dat got cracked las'
winter, but it will hole a lot o' water, an' we puts it whar we can tell
it eberything. We has our own good times. An' I want you to come Sunday
night an' tell all 'bout the good eggs, fish, and butter. Mark my words,
Bobby, we's all gwine to git free. I seed it all in a vision, as plain
as de nose on yer face."

"Well, I hope your vision will come out all right, and that the eggs
will keep and the butter be fresh till we have our next meetin'."

"Now, Bob, you sen' word to Uncle Dan'el, Tom Anderson, an' de rest ob
dem, to come to McCullough's woods nex' Sunday night. I want to hab a
sin-killin' an' debil-dribin' time. But, boy, you'd better git out er
yere. Ole Miss'll be down on yer like a scratch cat."

Although the slaves were denied unrestricted travel, and the holding of
meetings without the surveillance of a white man, yet they contrived to
meet by stealth and hold gatherings where they could mingle their
prayers and tears, and lay plans for escaping to the Union army.
Outwitting the vigilance of the patrollers and home guards, they
established these meetings miles apart, extending into several States.

Sometimes their hope of deliverance was cruelly blighted by hearing of
some adventurous soul who, having escaped to the Union army, had been
pursued and returned again to bondage. Yet hope survived all these
disasters which gathered around the fate of their unfortunate brethren,
who were remanded to slavery through the undiscerning folly of those who
were strengthening the hands which were dealing their deadliest blows at
the heart of the Nation. But slavery had cast such a glamour over the
Nation, and so warped the consciences of men, that they failed to read
aright the legible transcript of Divine retribution which was written
upon the shuddering earth, where the blood of God's poor children had
been as water freely spilled.

CHAPTER II.

CONTRABAND OF WAR.

A few evenings after this conversation between Robert and Linda, a
prayer-meeting was held. Under the cover of night a few dusky figures
met by stealth in McCullough's woods.

"Howdy," said Robert, approaching Uncle Daniel, the leader of the
prayer-meeting, who had preceded him but a few minutes.

"Thanks and praise; I'se all right. How is you, chile?"

"Oh, I'm all right," said Robert, smiling, and grasping Uncle Daniel's
hand.

"What's de news?" exclaimed several, as they turned their faces eagerly
towards Robert.

"I hear," said Robert, "that they are done sending the runaways back to
their masters."

"Is dat so?" said a half dozen earnest voices. "How did you yere it?"

"I read it in the papers. And Tom told me he heard them talking about it
last night, at his house. How did you hear it, Tom? Come, tell us all
about it."

Tom Anderson hesitated a moment, and then said:--

"Now, boys, I'll tell you all 'bout it. But you's got to be mighty mum
'bout it. It won't do to let de cat outer de bag."

"Dat's so! But tell us wat you yered. We ain't gwine to say nuffin to
nobody."

"Well," said Tom, "las' night ole Marster had company. Two big
ginerals, and dey was hoppin' mad. One ob dem looked like a turkey
gobbler, his face war so red. An' he sed one ob dem Yankee ginerals, I
thinks dey called him Beas' Butler, sed dat de slaves dat runned away
war some big name--I don't know what he called it. But it meant dat all
ob we who com'd to de Yankees should be free."

"Contraband of war," said Robert, who enjoyed the distinction of being a
good reader, and was pretty well posted about the war. Mrs. Johnson had
taught him to read on the same principle she would have taught a pet
animal amusing tricks. She had never imagined the time would come when
he would use the machinery she had put in his hands to help overthrow
the institution to which she was so ardently attached.

"What does it mean? Is it somethin' good for us?"

"I think," said Robert, a little vain of his superior knowledge, "it is
the best kind of good. It means if two armies are fighting and the
horses of one run away, the other has a right to take them. And it is
just the same if a slave runs away from the Secesh to the Union lines.
He is called a contraband, just the same as if he were an ox or a horse.
They wouldn't send the horses back, and they won't send us back."

"Is dat so?" said Uncle Daniel, a dear old father, with a look of
saintly patience on his face. "Well, chillen, what do you mean to do?"

"Go, jis' as soon as we kin git to de army," said Tom Anderson.

"What else did the generals say? And how did you come to hear them,
Tom?" asked Robert Johnson.

"Well, yer see, Marster's too ole and feeble to go to de war, but his
heart's in it. An' it makes him feel good all ober when dem big ginerals
comes an' tells him all 'bout it. Well, I war laying out on de porch
fas' asleep an' snorin' drefful hard. Oh, I war so soun' asleep dat wen
Marster wanted some ice-water he had to shake me drefful hard to wake me
up. An' all de time I war wide 'wake as he war."

"What did they say?" asked Robert, who was always on the lookout for
news from the battle-field.

"One ob dem said, dem Yankees war talkin' of puttin' guns in our han's
and settin' us all free. An' de oder said, 'Oh, sho! ef dey puts guns in
dere hands dey'll soon be in our'n; and ef dey sets em free dey wouldn't
know how to take keer ob demselves.'"

"Only let 'em try it," chorused a half dozen voices, "an' dey'll soon
see who'll git de bes' ob de guns; an' as to taking keer ob ourselves, I
specs we kin take keer ob ourselves as well as take keer ob dem."

"Yes," said Tom, "who plants de cotton and raises all de crops?"

"'They eat the meat and give us the bones,
Eat the cherries and give us the stones,'

"And I'm getting tired of the whole business," said Robert.

"But, Bob," said Uncle Daniel, "you've got a good owner. You don't hab
to run away from bad times and wuss a comin'."

"It isn't so good, but it might be better. I ain't got nothing 'gainst
my ole Miss, except she sold my mother from me. And a boy ain't nothin'
without his mother. I forgive her, but I never forget her, and never
expect to. But if she were the best woman on earth I would rather have
my freedom than belong to her. Well, boys, here's a chance for us just
as soon as the Union army gets in sight. What will you do?"

"I'se a goin," said Tom Anderson, "jis' as soon as dem Linkum soldiers
gits in sight."

"An' I'se a gwine wid you, Tom," said another. "I specs my ole
Marster'll feel right smart lonesome when I'se gone, but I don't keer
'bout stayin' for company's sake."

"My ole Marster's room's a heap better'n his company," said Tom
Anderson, "an' I'se a goner too. Dis yer freedom's too good to be lef'
behind, wen you's got a chance to git it. I won't stop to bid ole Marse
good bye."

"What do you think," said Robert, turning to Uncle Daniel; "won't you go
with us?"

"No, chillen, I don't blame you for gwine; but I'se gwine to stay.
Slavery's done got all de marrow out ob dese poor ole bones. Ef freedom
comes it won't do me much good; we ole one's will die out, but it will
set you youngsters all up."

"But, Uncle Daniel, you're not too old to want your freedom?"

"I knows dat. I lubs de bery name of freedom. I'se been praying and
hoping for it dese many years. An' ef I warn't boun', I would go wid you
ter-morrer. I won't put a straw in your way. You boys go, and my prayers
will go wid you. I can't go, it's no use. I'se gwine to stay on de ole
place till Marse Robert comes back, or is brought back."

"But, Uncle Daniel," said Robert, "what's the use of praying for a
thing if, when it comes, you won't take it? As much as you have been
praying and talking about freedom, I thought that when the chance came
you would have been one of the first to take it. Now, do tell us why you
won't go with us. Ain't you willing?"

"Why, Robbie, my whole heart is wid you. But when Marse Robert went to
de war, he called me into his room and said to me, 'Uncle Dan'el, I'se
gwine to de war, an' I want you to look arter my wife an' chillen, an'
see dat eberything goes right on de place'. An' I promised him I'd do it,
an' I mus' be as good as my word. 'Cept de overseer, dere isn't a white
man on de plantation, an' I hear he has to report ter-morrer or be
treated as a deserter. An' der's nobody here to look arter Miss Mary an'
de chillen, but myself, an' to see dat eberything goes right. I promised
Marse Robert I would do it, an' I mus' be as good as my word."

"Well, what should you keer?" said Tom Anderson. "Who looked arter you
when you war sole from your farder and mudder, an' neber seed dem any
more, and wouldn't know dem to-day ef you met dem in your dish?"

"Well, dats neither yere nor dere. Marse Robert couldn't help what his
father did. He war an orful mean man. But he's dead now, and gone to see
'bout it. But his wife war the nicest, sweetest lady dat eber I did see.
She war no more like him dan chalk's like cheese. She used to visit de
cabins, an' listen to de pore women when de overseer used to cruelize
dem so bad, an' drive dem to work late and early. An' she used to sen'
dem nice things when they war sick, and hab der cabins whitewashed an'
lookin' like new pins, an' look arter dere chillen. Sometimes she'd try
to git ole Marse to take dere part when de oberseer got too mean. But
she might as well a sung hymns to a dead horse. All her putty talk war
like porin water on a goose's back. He'd jis' bluff her off, an' tell
her she didn't run dat plantation, and not for her to bring him any
nigger news. I never thought ole Marster war good to her. I often
ketched her crying, an' she'd say she had de headache, but I thought it
war de heartache. 'Fore ole Marster died, she got so thin an' peaked I
war 'fraid she war gwine to die; but she seed him out. He war killed by
a tree fallin' on him, an' ef eber de debil got his own he got him. I
seed him in a vision arter he war gone. He war hangin' up in a pit,
sayin' 'Oh! oh!' wid no close on. He war allers blusterin', cussin', and
swearin' at somebody. Marse Robert ain't a bit like him. He takes right
arter his mother. Bad as ole Marster war, I think she jis' lob'd de
groun' he walked on. Well, women's mighty curious kind of folks anyhow.
I sometimes thinks de wuss you treats dem de better dey likes you."

"Well," said Tom, a little impatiently, "what's yer gwine to do? Is yer
gwine wid us, ef yer gits a chance?"

"Now, jes' you hole on till I gits a chance to tell yer why I'se gwine
to stay."

"Well, Uncle Daniel, let's hear it," said Robert.

"I was jes' gwine to tell yer when Tom put me out. Ole Marster died when
Marse Robert war two years ole, and his pore mother when he war four.
When he died, Miss Anna used to keep me 'bout her jes' like I war her
shadder. I used to nuss Marse Robert jes' de same as ef I were his own
fadder. I used to fix his milk, rock him to sleep, ride him on my back,
an' nothin' pleased him better'n fer Uncle Dan'el to ride him
piggy-back."

"Well, Uncle Daniel," said Robert, "what has that got to do with your
going with us and getting your freedom?"

"Now, jes' wait a bit, and don't frustrate my mine. I seed day arter day
Miss Anna war gettin' weaker and thinner, an' she looked so sweet and
talked so putty, I thinks to myself, 'you ain't long for dis worl'.' And
she said to me one day, 'Uncle Dan'el, when I'se gone, I want you to be
good to your Marster Robert.' An' she looked so pale and weak I war
almost ready to cry. I couldn't help it. She hed allers bin mighty good
to me. An' I beliebs in praisin' de bridge dat carries me ober. She
said, 'Uncle Dan'el, I wish you war free. Ef I had my way you shouldn't
serve any one when I'm gone; but Mr. Thurston had eberything in his
power when he made his will. I war tied hand and foot, and I couldn't
help it.' In a little while she war gone--jis' faded away like a flower.
I belieb ef dere's a saint in glory, Miss Anna's dere."

"Oh, I don't take much stock in white folks' religion," said Robert,
laughing carelessly.

"The way," said Tom Anderson, "dat some of dese folks cut their cards
yere, I think dey'll be as sceece in hebben as hen's teeth. I think wen
some of dem preachers brings de Bible 'round an' tells us 'bout mindin
our marsters and not stealin' dere tings, dat dey preach to please de
white folks, an' dey frows coleness ober de meetin'."

"An' I," said Aunt Linda, "neber did belieb in dem Bible preachers. I
yered one ob dem sayin' wen he war dyin', it war all dark wid him. An'
de way he treated his house-girl, pore thing, I don't wonder dat it war
dark wid him."

"O, I guess," said Robert, "that the Bible is all right, but some of
these church folks don't get the right hang of it."

"May be dat's so," said Aunt Linda. "But I allers wanted to learn how to
read. I once had a book, and tried to make out what war in it, but ebery
time my mistus caught me wid a book in my hand, she used to whip my
fingers. An' I couldn't see ef it war good for white folks, why it
warn't good for cullud folks."

"Well," said Tom Anderson, "I belieb in de good ole-time religion. But
arter dese white folks is done fussin' and beatin' de cullud folks, I
don't want 'em to come talking religion to me. We used to hab on our
place a real Guinea man, an' once he made ole Marse mad, an' he had him
whipped. Old Marse war trying to break him in, but dat fellow war spunk
to de backbone, an' when he 'gin talkin' to him 'bout savin' his soul
an' gittin' to hebbin, he tole him ef he went to hebbin an' foun' he war
dare, he wouldn't go in. He wouldn't stay wid any such rascal as he
war."

"What became of him?" asked Robert.

"Oh, he died. But he had some quare notions 'bout religion. He thought
dat when he died he would go back to his ole country. He allers kep' his
ole Guinea name."

"What was it?"

"Potobombra. Do you know what he wanted Marster to do 'fore he died?"
continued Anderson.

"No."

"He wanted him to gib him his free papers."

"Did he do it?"

"Ob course he did. As de poor fellow war dying an' he couldn't sell him
in de oder world, he jis' wrote him de papers to yumor him. He didn't
want to go back to Africa a slave. He thought if he did, his people
would look down on him, an' he wanted to go back a free man. He war
orful weak when Marster brought him de free papers. He jis' ris up in de
bed, clutched dem in his han's, smiled, an' gasped out, 'I'se free at
las'; an' fell back on de pillar, an' he war gone. Oh, but he war
spunky. De oberseers, arter dey foun' out who he war, gin'rally gabe him
a wide birth. I specs his father war some ole Guinea king."

"Well, chillen," said Uncle Daniel, "we's kept up dis meeting long
enough. We'd better go home, and not all go one way, cause de patrollers
might git us all inter trouble, an' we must try to slip home by hook or
crook."

"An' when we meet again, Uncle Daniel can finish his story, an' be ready
to go with us," said Robert.

"I wish," said Tom Anderson, "he would go wid us, de wuss kind."

CHAPTER III.

UNCLE DANIEL'S STORY.

The Union had snapped asunder because it lacked the cohesion of justice,
and the Nation was destined to pass through the crucible of disaster and
defeat, till she was ready to clasp hands with the negro and march
abreast with him to freedom and victory.

The Union army was encamping a few miles from C----, in North Carolina.
Robert, being well posted on the condition of affairs, had stealthily
contrived to call a meeting in Uncle Daniel's cabin. Uncle Daniel's wife
had gone to bed as a sick sister, and they held a prayer-meeting by her
bedside. It was a little risky, but as Mr. Thurston did not encourage
the visits of the patrollers, and heartily detested having them prying
into his cabins, there was not much danger of molestation.

"Well, Uncle Daniel, we want to hear your story, and see if you have
made up your mind to go with us," said Robert, after he had been seated
a few minutes in Uncle Daniel's cabin.

"No, chillen, I've no objection to finishin' my story, but I ain't made
up my mind to leave the place till Marse Robert gits back."

"You were telling us about Marse Robert's mother. How did you get along
after she died?"

"Arter she war gone, ole Marster's folks come to look arter things. But
eberything war lef' to Marse Robert, an' he wouldn't do widout me. Dat
chile war allers at my heels. I couldn't stir widout him, an' when he
missed me, he'd fret an' cry so I had ter stay wid him; an' wen he went
to school, I had ter carry him in de mornin' and bring him home in de
ebenin'. An' I learned him to hunt squirrels, an' rabbits, an' ketch
fish, an' set traps for birds. I beliebs he lob'd me better dan any ob
his kin'. An' he showed me how to read."

"Well," said Tom, "ef he lob'd you so much, why didn't he set you free?"

"Marse Robert tole me, ef he died fust he war gwine ter leave me
free--dat I should neber sarve any one else."

"Oh, sho!" said Tom, "promises, like pie crusts, is made to be broken. I
don't trust none ob dem. I'se been yere dese fifteen years, an' I'se
neber foun' any troof in dem. An' I'se gwine wid dem North men soon's I
gits a chance. An' ef you knowed what's good fer you, you'd go, too."

"No, Tom; I can't go. When Marster Robert went to de front, he called me
to him an' said: 'Uncle Daniel,' an' he was drefful pale when he said
it, 'I are gwine to de war, an' I want yer to take keer of my wife an'
chillen, jis' like yer used to take keer of me wen yer called me your
little boy.' Well, dat jis' got to me, an' I couldn't help cryin', to
save my life."

"I specs," said Tom, "your tear bags must lie mighty close to your eyes.
I wouldn't cry ef dem Yankees would make ebery one ob dem go to de
front, an' stay dere foreber. Dey'd only be gittin' back what dey's been
a doin' to us."

"Marster Robert war nebber bad to me. An' I beliebs in stannin' by dem
dat stans by you. Arter Miss Anna died, I had great 'sponsibilities on
my shoulders; but I war orful lonesome, an' thought I'd like to git a
wife. But dere warn't a gal on de plantation, an' nowhere's roun', dat
filled de bill. So I jis' waited, an' 'tended to Marse Robert till he
war ole 'nough to go to college. Wen he went, he allers 'membered me in
de letters he used to write his grandma. Wen he war gone, I war
lonesomer dan eber. But, one day, I jis' seed de gal dat took de rag off
de bush. Gundover had jis' brought her from de up-country. She war putty
as a picture!" he exclaimed, looking fondly at his wife, who still bore
traces of great beauty. "She had putty hair, putty eyes, putty mouth.
She war putty all over; an' she know'd how to put on style."

"O, Daniel," said Aunt Katie, half chidingly, "how you do talk."

"Why, it's true. I 'member when you war de puttiest gal in dese diggins;
when nobody could top your cotton."

"I don't," said Aunt Katie.

"Well, I do. Now, let me go on wid my story. De fust time I seed her, I
sez to myself, 'Dat's de gal for me, an' I means to hab her ef I kin git
her.' So I scraped 'quaintance wid her, and axed her ef she would hab me
ef our marsters would let us. I warn't 'fraid 'bout Marse Robert, but I
warn't quite shore 'bout Gundover. So when Marse Robert com'd home, I
axed him, an' he larf'd an' said, 'All right,' an' dat he would speak to
ole Gundover 'bout it. He didn't relish it bery much, but he didn't
like to 'fuse Marse Robert. He wouldn't sell her, for she tended his
dairy, an' war mighty handy 'bout de house. He said, I mought marry her
an' come to see her wheneber Marse Robert would gib me a pass. I wanted
him to sell her, but he wouldn't hear to it, so I had to put up wid what
I could git. Marse Robert war mighty good to me, but ole Gundover's wife
war de meanest woman dat I eber did see. She used to go out on de
plantation an' boss things like a man. Arter I war married, I had a
baby. It war de dearest, cutest little thing you eber did see; but, pore
thing, it got sick and died. It died 'bout three o'clock; and in de
mornin', Katie, habbin her cows to milk, lef her dead baby in de cabin.
When she com'd back from milkin' her thirty cows, an' went to look for
her pore little baby, some one had been to her cabin an' took'd de pore
chile away an' put it in de groun'. Pore Katie, she didn't eben hab a
chance to kiss her baby 'fore it war buried. Ole Gundover's wife has
been dead thirty years, an' she didn't die a day too soon. An' my little
baby has gone to glory, an' is wingin' wid the angels an' a lookin' out
for us. One ob de las' things ole Gundover's wife did 'fore she died war
to order a woman whipped 'cause she com'd to de field a little late when
her husband war sick, an' she had stopped to tend him. Dat mornin' she
war taken sick wid de fever, an' in a few days she war gone out like de
snuff ob a candle. She lef' several sons, an' I specs she would almos'
turn ober in her grave ef she know'd she had ten culled granchillen
somewhar down in de lower kentry."

"Isn't it funny," said Robert, "how these white folks look down on
colored people, an' then mix up with them?"

"Marster war away when Miss 'Liza treated my Katie so mean, an' when I
tole him 'bout it, he war tearin' mad, an' went ober an' saw ole
Gundover, an' foun' out he war hard up for money, an' he bought Katie
and brought her home to lib wid me, and we's been a libin in clover eber
sence. Marster Robert has been mighty good to me. He stood by me in my
troubles, an' now his trouble's come, I'm a gwine to stan' by him. I
used to think Gundover's wife war jealous ob my Katie. She war so much
puttier. Gundover's wife couldn't tech my Katie wid a ten foot pole."

"But, Aunt Katie, you have had your trials," said Robert, now that
Daniel had finished his story; "don't you feel bitter towards these
people who are fighting to keep you in slavery?"

Aunt Katie turned her face towards the speaker. It was a thoughtful,
intelligent face, saintly and calm. A face which expressed the idea of a
soul which had been fearfully tempest tossed, but had passed through
suffering into peace. Very touching was the look of resignation and hope
which overspread her features as she replied, with the simple child-like
faith which she had learned in the darkest hour, "The Lord says, we must
forgive." And with her that thought, as coming from the lips of Divine
Love, was enough to settle the whole question of forgiveness of injuries
and love to enemies.

"Well," said Thomas Anderson, turning to Uncle Daniel, "we can't count
on yer to go wid us?"

"Boys," said Uncle Daniel, and there was grief in his voice, "I'se
mighty glad you hab a chance for your freedom; but, ez I tole yer, I
promised Marse Robert I would stay, an' I mus' be as good as my word.
Don't you youngsters stay for an ole stager like me. I'm ole an' mos'
worn out. Freedom wouldn't do much for me, but I want you all to be as
free as the birds; so, you chillen, take your freedom when you kin get
it."

"But, Uncle Dan'el, you won't say nothin' 'bout our going, will you?"
said the youngest of the company.

Uncle Daniel slowly arose. There was a mournful flash in his eye, a
tremor of emotion in his voice, as he said, "Look yere, boys, de boy dat
axed dat question war a new comer on dis plantation, but some ob you's
bin here all ob your lives; did you eber know ob Uncle Dan'el gittin'
any ob you inter trouble?"

"No, no," exclaimed a chorus of voices, "but many's de time you've held
off de blows wen de oberseer got too mean, an' cruelized us too much,
wen Marse Robert war away. An' wen he got back, you made him settle de
oberseer's hash."

"Well, boys," said Uncle Daniel, with an air of mournful dignity, "I'se
de same Uncle Dan'el I eber war. Ef any ob you wants to go, I habben't a
word to say agin it. I specs dem Yankees be all right, but I knows Marse
Robert, an' I don't know dem, an' I ain't a gwine ter throw away dirty
water 'til I gits clean."

"Well, Uncle Ben," said Robert, addressing a stalwart man whose towering
form and darkly flashing eye told that slavery had failed to put the
crouch in his shoulders or general abjectness into his demeanor, "you
will go with us, for sure, won't you?"

"Yes," spoke up Tom Anderson, "'cause de trader's done took your wife,
an' got her for his'n now."

As Ben Tunnel looked at the speaker, a spasm of agony and anger darkened
his face and distorted his features, as if the blood of some strong
race were stirring with sudden vigor through his veins. He clutched his
hands together, as if he were struggling with an invisible foe, and for
a moment he remained silent. Then suddenly raising his head, he
exclaimed, "Boys, there's not one of you loves freedom more than I do,
but--"

"But what?" said Tom. "Do you think white folks is your bes' friends?"

"I'll think so when I lose my senses."

"Well, now, I don't belieb you're 'fraid, not de way I yeard you talkin'
to de oberseer wen he war threatnin' to hit your mudder. He saw you
meant business, an' he let her alone. But, what's to hinder you from
gwine wid us?"

"My mother," he replied, in a low, firm voice. "That is the only thing
that keeps me from going. If it had not been for her, I would have gone
long ago. She's all I've got, an' I'm all she's got."

It was touching to see the sorrow on the strong face, to detect the
pathos and indignation in his voice, as he said, "I used to love Mirandy
as I love my life. I thought the sun rose and set in her. I never saw a
handsomer woman than she was. But she fooled me all over the face and
eyes, and took up with that hell-hound of a trader, Lukens; an' he gave
her a chance to live easy, to wear fine clothes, an' be waited on like a
lady. I thought at first I would go crazy, but my poor mammy did all she
could to comfort me. She would tell me there were as good fish in the
sea as were ever caught out of it. Many a time I've laid my poor head on
her lap, when it seemed as if my brain was on fire and my heart was
almost ready to burst. But in course of time I got over the worst of
it; an' Mirandy is the first an' last woman that ever fooled me. But
that dear old mammy of mine, I mean to stick by her as long as there is
a piece of her. I can't go over to the army an' leave her behind, for if
I did, an' anything should happen, I would never forgive myself."

"But couldn't you take her with you," said Robert, "the soldiers said we
could bring our women."

"It isn't that. The Union army is several miles from here, an' my poor
mammy is so skeery that, if I were trying to get her away and any of
them Secesh would overtake us, an' begin to question us, she would get
skeered almost to death, an' break down an' begin to cry, an' then the
fat would be in the fire. So, while I love freedom more than a child
loves its mother's milk, I've made up my mind to stay on the plantation.
I wish, from the bottom of my heart, I could go. But I can't take her
along with me, an' I don't want to be free and leave her behind in
slavery. I was only five years old when my master and, as I believe,
father, sold us both here to this lower country, an' we've been here
ever since. It's no use talking, I won't leave her to be run over by
everybody."

A few evenings after this interview, the Union soldiers entered the town
of C----, and established their headquarters near the home of Thomas
Anderson.

Out of the little company, almost every one deserted to the Union army,
leaving Uncle Daniel faithful to his trust, and Ben Tunnel hushing his
heart's deep aspirations for freedom in a passionate devotion to his
timid and affectionate mother.

CHAPTER IV.

ARRIVAL OF THE UNION ARMY.

A few evenings before the stampede of Robert and his friends to the
army, and as he sat alone in his room reading the latest news from the
paper he had secreted, he heard a cautious tread and a low tap at his
window. He opened the door quietly and whispered:--

"Anything new, Tom?"

"Yes."

"What is it? Come in."

"Well, I'se done bin seen dem Yankees, an' dere ain't a bit of troof in
dem stories I'se bin yerin 'bout 'em."

"Where did you see 'em?"

"Down in de woods whar Marster tole us to hide. Yesterday ole Marse sent
for me to come in de settin'-room. An' what do you think? Instead ob
makin' me stan' wid my hat in my han' while he went froo a whole
rigamarole, he axed me to sit down, an' he tole me he 'spected de
Yankees would want us to go inter de army, an' dey would put us in front
whar we'd all git killed; an' I tole him I didn't want to go, I didn't
want to git all momached up. An' den he said we'd better go down in de
woods an' hide. Massa Tom and Frank said we'd better go as quick as eber
we could. Dey said dem Yankees would put us in dere wagons and make us
haul like we war mules. Marse Tom ain't libin' at de great house jis'
now. He's keepin' bachellar's hall."

"Didn't he go to the battle?"

"No; he foun' a pore white man who war hard up for money, an' he got him
to go."

"But, Tom, you didn't believe these stories about the Yankees. Tom and
Frank can lie as fast as horses can trot. They wanted to scare you, and
keep you from going to the Union army."

"I knows dat now, but I didn't 'spect so den."

"Well, when did you see the soldiers? Where are they? And what did they
say to you?"

"Dey's right down in Gundover's woods. An' de Gineral's got his
headquarters almos' next door to our house."

"That near? Oh, you don't say so!"

"Yes, I do. An', oh, golly, ain't I so glad! I jis' stole yere to told
you all 'bout it. Yesterday mornin' I war splittin' some wood to git my
breakfas', an' I met one ob dem Yankee sogers. Well, I war so skeered,
my heart flew right up in my mouf, but I made my manners to him and
said, 'Good mornin', Massa.' He said, 'Good mornin'; but don't call me
"massa."' Dat war de fust white man I eber seed dat didn't want ter be
called 'massa,' eben ef he war as pore as Job's turkey. Den I begin to
feel right sheepish, an' he axed me ef my marster war at home, an' ef he
war a Reb. I tole him he hadn't gone to de war, but he war Secesh all
froo, inside and outside. He war too ole to go to de war, but dat he war
all de time gruntin' an' groanin', an' I 'spected he'd grunt hisself to
death."

"What did he say?"

"He said he specs he'll grunt worser dan dat fore dey get froo wid him.
Den he axed me ef I would hab some breakfas,' an' I said, 'No, t'ank
you, sir.' 'An' I war jis' as hungry as a dorg, but I war 'feared to
eat. I war 'feared he war gwine to pizen me."

"Poison you! don't you know the Yankees are our best friends?"

"Well, ef dat's so, I'se mighty glad, cause de woods is full ob dem."

"Now, Tom, I thought you had cut your eye-teeth long enough not to let
them Anderson boys fool you. Tom, you must not think because a white man
says a thing, it must be so, and that a colored man's word is no account
'longside of his. Tom, if ever we get our freedom, we've got to learn to
trust each other and stick together if we would be a people. Somebody
else can read the papers as well as Marse Tom and Frank. My ole Miss
knows I can read the papers, an' she never tries to scare me with big
whoppers 'bout the Yankees. She knows she can't catch ole birds with
chaff, so she is just as sweet as a peach to her Bobby. But as soon as I
get a chance I will play her a trick the devil never did."

"What's that?"

"I'll leave her. I ain't forgot how she sold my mother from me. Many a
night I have cried myself to sleep, thinking about her, and when I get
free I mean to hunt her up."

"Well, I ain't tole you all. De gemman said he war 'cruiting for de
army; dat Massa Linkum hab set us all free, an' dat he wanted some more
sogers to put down dem Secesh; dat we should all hab our freedom, our
wages, an' some kind ob money. I couldn't call it like he did."

"Bounty money," said Robert.

"Yes, dat's jis' what he called it, bounty money. An' I said dat I war
in for dat, teeth and toe-nails."

Robert Johnson's heart gave a great bound. Was that so? Had that army,
with freedom emblazoned on its banners, come at last to offer them
deliverance if they would accept it? Was it a bright, beautiful dream,
or a blessed reality soon to be grasped by his willing hands? His heart
grew buoyant with hope; the lightness of his heart gave elasticity to
his step and sent the blood rejoicingly through his veins. Freedom was
almost in his grasp, and the future was growing rose-tinted and
rainbow-hued. All the ties which bound him to his home were as ropes of
sand, now that freedom had come so near.

When the army was afar off, he had appeared to be light-hearted and
content with his lot. If asked if he desired his freedom, he would have
answered, very naively, that he was eating his white bread and believed
in letting well enough alone; he had no intention of jumping from the
frying-pan into the fire. But in the depths of his soul the love of
freedom was an all-absorbing passion; only danger had taught him
caution. He had heard of terrible vengeance being heaped upon the heads
of some who had sought their freedom and failed in the attempt. Robert
knew that he might abandon hope if he incurred the wrath of men whose
overthrow was only a question of time. It would have been madness and
folly for him to have attempted an insurrection against slavery, with
the words of McClellan ringing in his ears: "If you rise I shall put you
down with an iron hand," and with the home guards ready to quench his
aspirations for freedom with bayonets and blood. What could a set of
unarmed and undisciplined men do against the fearful odds which beset
their path?

Robert waited eagerly and hopefully his chance to join the Union army;
and was ready and willing to do anything required of him by which he
could earn his freedom and prove his manhood. He conducted his plans
with the greatest secrecy. A few faithful and trusted friends stood
ready to desert with him when the Union army came within hailing
distance. When it came, there was a stampede to its ranks of men ready
to serve in any capacity, to labor in the tents, fight on the fields, or
act as scouts. It was a strange sight to see these black men rallying
around the Stars and Stripes, when white men were trampling them under
foot and riddling them with bullets.

CHAPTER V.

THE RELEASE OF IOLA LEROY.

"Well, boys," said Robert to his trusted friends, as they gathered
together at a meeting in Gundover's woods, almost under the shadow of
the Union army, "how many of you are ready to join the army and fight
for your freedom."

"All ob us."

"The soldiers," continued Robert, "are camped right at the edge of the
town. The General has his headquarters in the heart of the town, and one
of the officers told me yesterday that the President had set us all
free, and that as many as wanted to join the army could come along to
the camp. So I thought, boys, that I would come and tell you. Now, you
can take your bag and baggage, and get out of here as soon as you
choose."

"We'll be ready by daylight," said Tom. "It won't take me long to pack
up," looking down at his seedy clothes, with a laugh. "I specs ole
Marse'll be real lonesome when I'm gone. An' won't he be hoppin' mad
when he finds I'm a goner? I specs he'll hate it like pizen."

"O, well," said Robert, "the best of friends must part. Don't let it
grieve you."

"I'se gwine to take my wife an' chillen," said one of the company.

"I'se got nobody but myself," said Tom; "but dere's a mighty putty
young gal dere at Marse Tom's. I wish I could git her away. Dey tells me
dey's been sellin' her all ober de kentry; but dat she's a reg'lar
spitfire; dey can't lead nor dribe her."

"Do you think she would go with us?" said Robert.

"I think she's jis' dying to go. Dey say dey can't do nuffin wid her.
Marse Tom's got his match dis time, and I'se glad ob it. I jis' glories
in her spunk."

"How did she come there?"

"Oh, Marse bought her ob de trader to keep house for him. But ef you
seed dem putty white han's ob hern you'd never tink she kept her own
house, let 'lone anybody else's."

"Do you think you can get her away?"

"I don't know; 'cause Marse Tom keeps her mighty close. My! but she's
putty. Beautiful long hair comes way down her back; putty blue eyes, an'
jis' ez white ez anybody's in dis place. I'd jis' wish you could see her
yoresef. I heerd Marse Tom talkin' 'bout her las' night to his brudder;
tellin' him she war mighty airish, but he meant to break her in."

An angry curse rose to the lips of Robert, but he repressed it and
muttered to himself, "Graceless scamp, he ought to have his neck
stretched." Then turning to Tom, said:--

"Get her, if you possibly can, but you must be mighty mum about it."

"Trus' me for dat," said Tom.

Tom was very anxious to get word to the beautiful but intractable girl
who was held in durance vile by her reckless and selfish master, who had
tried in vain to drag her down to his own low level of sin and shame.
But all Tom's efforts were in vain. Finally he applied to the Commander
of the post, who immediately gave orders for her release. The next day
Tom had the satisfaction of knowing that Iola Leroy had been taken as a
trembling dove from the gory vulture's nest and given a place of
security. She was taken immediately to the General's headquarters. The
General was much impressed by her modest demeanor, and surprised to see
the refinement and beauty she possessed. Could it be possible that this
young and beautiful girl had been a chattel, with no power to protect
herself from the highest insults that lawless brutality could inflict
upon innocent and defenseless womanhood? Could he ever again glory in
his American citizenship, when any white man, no matter how coarse,
cruel, or brutal, could buy or sell her for the basest purposes? Was it
not true that the cause of a hapless people had become entangled with
the lightnings of heaven, and dragged down retribution upon the land?

The field hospital was needing gentle, womanly ministrations, and Iola
Leroy, released from the hands of her tormentors, was given a place as
nurse; a position to which she adapted herself with a deep sense of
relief. Tom was doubly gratified at the success of his endeavors, which
had resulted in the rescue of the beautiful young girl and the
discomfiture of his young master who, in the words of Tom, "was mad
enough to bite his head off" (a rather difficult physical feat).

Iola, freed from her master's clutches, applied herself readily to her
appointed tasks. The beautiful, girlish face was full of tender
earnestness. The fresh, young voice was strangely sympathetic, as if
some great sorrow had bound her heart in loving compassion to every
sufferer who needed her gentle ministrations.

Tom Anderson was a man of herculean strength and remarkable courage.
But, on account of physical defects, instead of enlisting as a soldier,
he was forced to remain a servant, although he felt as if every nerve in
his right arm was tingling to strike a blow for freedom. He was well
versed in the lay of the country, having often driven his master's
cotton to market when he was a field hand. After he became a coachman,
he had become acquainted with the different roads and localities of the
country. Besides, he had often accompanied his young masters on their
hunting and fishing expeditions. Although he could not fight in the
army, he proved an invaluable helper. When tents were to be pitched,
none were more ready to help than he. When burdens were to be borne,
none were more willing to bend beneath them than Thomas Anderson. When
the battle-field was to be searched for the wounded and dying, no hand
was more tender in its ministrations of kindness than his. As a general
factotum in the army, he was ever ready and willing to serve anywhere
and at any time, and to gather information from every possible source
which could be of any service to the Union army. As a Pagan might
worship a distant star and wish to call it his own, so he loved Iola.
And he never thought he could do too much for the soldiers who had
rescued her and were bringing deliverance to his race.

"What do you think of Miss Iola?" Robert asked him one day, as they were
talking together.

"I jis' think dat she's splendid. Las' week I had to take some of our
pore boys to de hospital, an' she war dere, lookin' sweet an' putty ez
an angel, a nussin' dem pore boys, an' ez good to one ez de oder. It
looks to me ez ef dey ralely lob'd her shadder. She sits by 'em so
patient, an' writes 'em sech nice letters to der frens, an' yit she
looks so heart-broke an' pitiful, it jis' gits to me, an' makes me mos'
ready to cry. I'm so glad dat Marse Tom had to gib her up. He war too
mean to eat good victuals."

"He ought," said Robert, "to be made to live on herrings' heads and cold
potatoes. It makes my blood boil just to think that he was going to have
that lovely looking young girl whipped for his devilment. He ought to be
ashamed to hold up his head among respectable people."

"I tell you, Bob, de debil will neber git his own till he gits him. When
I seed how he war treating her I neber rested till I got her away. He
buyed her, he said, for his housekeeper; as many gals as dere war on de
plantation, why didn't he git one ob dem to keep house, an' not dat nice
lookin' young lady? Her han's look ez ef she neber did a day's work in
her life. One day when he com'd down to breakfas,' he chucked her under
de chin, an' tried to put his arm roun' her waist. But she jis' frew it
off like a chunk ob fire. She looked like a snake had bit her. Her eyes
fairly spit fire. Her face got red ez blood, an' den she turned so pale
I thought she war gwine to faint, but she didn't, an' I yered her say,
'I'll die fust.' I war mad 'nough to stan' on my head. I could hab
tore'd him all to pieces wen he said he'd hab her whipped."

"Did he do it?"

"I don't know. But he's mean 'nough to do enythin'. Why, dey say she
war sole seben times in six weeks, 'cause she's so putty, but dat she
war game to de las'."

"Well, Tom," said Robert, "getting that girl away was one of the best
things you ever did in your life."

"I think so, too. Not dat I specs enytin' ob it. I don't spose she would
think ob an ugly chap like me; but it does me good to know dat Marse Tom
ain't got her."

CHAPTER VI.

ROBERT JOHNSON'S PROMOTION AND RELIGION.

Robert Johnson, being able to meet the army requirements, was enlisted
as a substitute to help fill out the quota of a Northern regiment. With
his intelligence, courage, and prompt obedience, he rose from the ranks
and became lieutenant of a colored company. He was daring, without being
rash; prompt, but not thoughtless; firm, without being harsh. Kind and
devoted to the company he drilled, he soon won the respect of his
superior officers and the love of his comrades.

"Johnson," said a young officer, Captain Sybil, of Maine, who had become
attached to Robert, "what is the use of your saying you're a colored
man, when you are as white as I am, and as brave a man as there is among
us. Why not quit this company, and take your place in the army just the
same as a white man? I know your chances for promotion would be better."

"Captain, you may doubt my word, but to-day I would rather be a
lieutenant in my company than a captain in yours."

"I don't understand you."

"Well, Captain, when a man's been colored all his life it comes a little
hard for him to get white all at once. Were I to try it, I would feel
like a cat in a strange garret. Captain, I think my place is where I am
most needed. You do not need me in your ranks, and my company does.
They are excellent fighters, but they need a leader. To silence a
battery, to capture a flag, to take a fortification, they will rush into
the jaws of death."

"Yes, I have often wondered at their bravery."

"Captain, these battles put them on their mettle. They have been so long
taught that they are nothing and nobody, that they seem glad to prove
they are something and somebody."

"But, Johnson, you do not look like them, you do not talk like them. It
is a burning shame to have held such a man as you in slavery."

"I don't think it was any worse to have held me in slavery than the
blackest man in the South."

"You are right, Johnson. The color of a man's skin has nothing to do
with the possession of his rights."

"Now, there is Tom Anderson," said Robert, "he is just as black as black
can be. He has been bought and sold like a beast, and yet there is not a
braver man in all the company. I know him well. He is a noble-hearted
fellow. True as steel. I love him like a brother. And I believe Tom
would risk his life for me any day. He don't know anything about his
father or mother. He was sold from them before he could remember. He can
read a little. He used to take lessons from a white gardener in
Virginia. He would go between the hours of 9 P.M. and 4 A.M. He got a
book of his own, tore it up, greased the pages, and hid them in his hat.
Then if his master had ever knocked his hat off he would have thought
them greasy papers, and not that Tom was carrying his library on his
head. I had another friend who lived near us. When he was nineteen
years old he did not know how many letters there were in the ABC's. One
night, when his work was done, his boss came into his cabin and saw him
with a book in his hand. He threatened to give him five hundred lashes
if he caught him again with a book, and said he hadn't work enough to
do. He was getting out logs, and his task was ten logs a day. His
employer threatened to increase it to twelve. He said it just harassed
him; it set him on fire. He thought there must be something good in that
book if the white man didn't want him to learn. One day he had an errand
in the kitchen, and he heard one of the colored girls going over the
ABC's. Here was the key to the forbidden knowledge. She had heard the
white children saying them, and picked them up by heart, but did not
know them by sight. He was not content with that, but sold his cap for a
book and wore a cloth on his head instead. He got the sounds of the
letters by heart, then cut off the bark of a tree, carved the letters on
the smooth inside, and learned them. He wanted to learn how to write. He
had charge of a warehouse where he had a chance to see the size and form
of letters. He made the beach of the river his copybook, and thus he
learned to write. Tom never got very far with his learning, but I used
to get the papers and tell him all I knew about the war."

"How did you get the papers?"

"I used to have very good privileges for a slave. All of our owners were
not alike. Some of them were quite clever, and others were worse than
git out. I used to get the morning papers to sell to the boarders and
others, and when I got them I would contrive to hide a paper, and let
some of the fellow-servants know how things were going on. And our
owners thought we cared nothing about what was going on."

"How was that? I thought you were not allowed to hold meetings unless a
white man were present."

"That was so. But we contrived to hold secret meetings in spite of their
caution. We knew whom we could trust. My ole Miss wasn't mean like some
of them. She never wanted the patrollers around prowling in our cabins,
and poking their noses into our business. Her husband was an awful
drunkard. He ran through every cent he could lay his hands on, and she
was forced to do something to keep the wolf from the door, so she set up
a boarding-house. But she didn't take in Tom, Dick, and Harry. Nobody
but the big bugs stopped with her. She taught me to read and write, and
to cast up accounts. It was so handy for her to have some one who could
figure up her accounts, and read or write a note, if she were from home
and wanted the like done. She once told her cousin how I could write and
figure up. And what do you think her cousin said?"

"'Pleased,' I suppose, 'to hear it.'"

"Not a bit of it. She said, if I belonged to her, she would cut off my
thumbs; her husband said, 'Oh, then he couldn't pick cotton.' As to my
poor thumbs, it did not seem to be taken into account what it would cost
me to lose them. My ole Miss used to have a lot of books. She would let
me read any one of them except a novel. She wanted to take care of my
soul, but she wasn't taking care of her own."

"Wasn't she religious?"

"She went for it. I suppose she was as good as most of them. She said
her prayers and went to church, but I don't know that that made her any
better. I never did take much stock in white folks' religion."

"Why, Robert, I'm afraid you are something of an infidel."

"No, Captain, I believe in the real, genuine religion. I ain't got much
myself, but I respect them that have. We had on our place a dear, old
saint, named Aunt Kizzy. She was a happy soul. She had seen hard times,
but was what I call a living epistle. I've heard her tell how her only
child had been sold from her, when the man who bought herself did not
want to buy her child. Poor little fellow! he was only two years old. I
asked her one day how she felt when her child was taken away. 'I felt,'
she said, 'as if I was going to my grave. But I knew if I couldn't get
justice here, I could get it in another world.'"

"That was faith," said Captain Sybil, as if speaking to himself, "a
patient waiting for death to redress the wrongs of life."

"Many a time," continued Robert, "have I heard her humming to herself in
the kitchen and saying, 'I has my trials, ups and downs, but it won't
allers be so. I specs one day to wing and wing wid de angels,
Hallelujah! Den I specs to hear a voice sayin', "Poor ole Kizzy, she's
done de bes' she kin. Go down, Gabriel, an' tote her in." Den I specs to
put on my golden slippers, my long white robe, an' my starry crown, an'
walk dem golden streets, Hallelujah!' I've known that dear, old soul to
travel going on two miles, after her work was done, to have some one
read to her. Her favorite chapter began with, 'Let not your heart be
troubled, ye believe in God, believe also in Me.'"

"I have been deeply impressed," said Captain Sybil, "with the child-like
faith of some of these people. I do not mean to say that they are
consistent Christians, but I do think that this faith has in a measure
underlain the life of the race. It has been a golden thread woven amid
the sombre tissues of their lives. A ray of light shimmering amid the
gloom of their condition. And what would they have been without it?"

"I don't know. But I know what she was with it. And I believe if there
are any saints in glory, Aunt Kizzy is one of them."

"She is dead, then?"

"Yes, went all right, singing and rejoicing until the last,
'Troubles over, troubles over, and den my troubles will be over. We'll
walk de golden streets all 'roun' in de New Jerusalem.' Now, Captain,
that's the kind of religion that I want. Not that kind which could ride
to church on Sundays, and talk so solemn with the minister about heaven
and good things, then come home and light down on the servants like a
thousand of bricks. I have no use for it. I don't believe in it. I never
did and I never will. If any man wants to save my soul he ain't got to
beat my body. That ain't the kind of religion I'm looking for. I ain't
got a bit of use for it. Now, Captain, ain't I right?"

"Well, yes, Robert, I think you are more than half right. You ought to
know my dear, old mother who lives in Maine. We have had colored company
at our house, and I never saw her show the least difference between her
colored and white guests. She is a Quaker preacher, and don't believe
in war, but when the rest of the young men went to the front, I wanted
to go also. So I thought it all over, and there seemed to be no way out
of slavery except through the war. I had been taught to hate war and
detest slavery. Now the time had come when I could not help the war, but
I could strike a blow for freedom. So I told my mother I was going to
the front, that I expected to be killed, but I went to free the slave.
It went hard with her. But I thought that I ought to come, and I believe
my mother's prayers are following me."

"Captain," said Robert, rising, "I am glad that I have heard your story.
I think that some of these Northern soldiers do two things--hate slavery
and hate niggers."

"I am afraid that is so with some of them. They would rather be whipped
by Rebels than conquer with negroes. Oh, I heard a soldier," said
Captain Sybil, "say, when the colored men were being enlisted, that he
would break his sword and resign. But he didn't do either. After Colonel
Shaw led his charge at Fort Wagner, and died in the conflict, he got
bravely over his prejudices. The conduct of the colored troops there and
elsewhere has done much to turn public opinion in their favor. I suppose
any white soldier would rather have his black substitute receive the
bullets than himself."

CHAPTER VII.

TOM ANDERSON'S DEATH.

"Where is Tom?" asked Captain Sybil; "I have not seen him for several
hours."

"He's gone down the sound with some of the soldiers," replied Robert.
"They wanted Tom to row them."

"I am afraid those boys will get into trouble, and the Rebs will pick
them off," responded Sybil.

"O, I hope not," answered Robert.

"I hope not, too; but those boys are too venturesome."

"Tom knows the lay of the land better than any of us," said Robert. "He
is the most wide-awake and gamiest man I know. I reckon when the war is
over Tom will be a preacher. Did you ever hear him pray?"

"No; is he good at that?"

"First-rate," continued Robert. "It would do you good to hear him. He
don't allow any cursing and swearing when he's around. And what he says
is law and gospel with the boys. But he's so good-natured; and they
can't get mad at him."

"Yes, Robert, there is not a man in our regiment I would sooner trust
than Tom. Last night, when he brought in that wounded scout, he couldn't
have been more tender if he had been a woman. How gratefully the poor
fellow looked in Tom's face as he laid him down so carefully and
staunched the blood which had been spurting out of him. Tom seemed to
know it was an artery which had been cut, and he did just the right
thing to stop the bleeding. He knew there wasn't a moment to be lost. He
wasn't going to wait for the doctor. I have often heard that colored
people are ungrateful, but I don't think Tom's worst enemy would say
that about him."

"Captain," said Robert, with a tone of bitterness in his voice, "what
had we to be grateful for? For ages of poverty, ignorance, and slavery?
I think if anybody should be grateful, it is the people who have
enslaved us and lived off our labor for generations. Captain, I used to
know a poor old woman who couldn't bear to hear any one play on the
piano."

"Is that so? Why, I always heard that colored people were a musical
race."

"So we are; but that poor woman's daughter was sold, and her mistress
took the money to buy a piano. Her mother could never bear to hear a
sound from it."

"Poor woman!" exclaimed Captain Sybil, sympathetically; "I suppose it
seemed as if the wail of her daughter was blending with the tones of the
instrument. I think, Robert, there is a great deal more in the colored
people than we give them credit for. Did you know Captain Sellers?"

"The officer who escaped from prison and got back to our lines?" asked
Robert.

"Yes. Well, he had quite an experience in trying to escape. He came to
an aged couple, who hid him in their cabin and shared their humble food
with him. They gave him some corn-bread, bacon, and coffee which he
thought was made of scorched bran. But he said that he never ate a meal
that he relished more than the one he took with them. Just before he
went they knelt down and prayed with him. It seemed as if his very hair
stood on his head, their prayer was so solemn. As he was going away the
man took some shingles and nailed them on his shoes to throw the
bloodhounds off his track. I don't think he will ever cease to feel
kindly towards colored people. I do wonder what has become of the boys?
What can keep them so long?"

Just as Captain Sybil and Robert were wondering at the delay of Tom and
the soldiers they heard the measured tread of men who were slowly
bearing a burden. They were carrying Tom Anderson to the hospital,
fearfully wounded, and nigh to death. His face was distorted, and the
blood was streaming from his wounds. His respiration was faint, his
pulse hurried, as if life were trembling on its frailest cords.

Robert and Captain Sybil hastened at once towards the wounded man. On
Robert's face was a look of intense anguish, as he bent pityingly over
his friend.

"O, this is dreadful! How did it happen?" cried Robert.

Captain Sybil, pressing anxiously forward, repeated Robert's question.

"Captain," said one of the young soldiers, advancing and saluting his
superior officer, "we were all in the boat when it struck against a mud
bank, and there was not strength enough among us to shove her back into
the water. Just then the Rebels opened fire upon us. For awhile we lay
down in the boat, but still they kept firing. Tom took in the whole
situation, and said: 'Someone must die to get us out of this. I
mought's well be him as any. You are soldiers and can fight. If they
kill me, it is nuthin'.' So Tom leaped out to shove the boat into the
water. Just then the Rebel bullets began to rain around him. He received
seven or eight of them, and I'm afraid there is no hope for him."

"O, Tom, I wish you hadn't gone. O, Tom! Tom!" cried Robert, in tones of
agony.

A gleam of grateful recognition passed over the drawn features of Tom,
as the wail of his friend fell on his ear. He attempted to speak, but
the words died upon his lips, and he became unconscious.

"Well," said Captain Sybil, "put him in one of the best wards. Give him
into Miss Leroy's care. If good nursing can win him back to life, he
shall not want for any care or pains that she can bestow. Send
immediately for Dr. Gresham."

Robert followed his friend into the hospital, tenderly and carefully
helped to lay him down, and remained awhile, gazing in silent grief upon
the sufferer. Then he turned to go, leaving him in the hands of Iola,
but hoping against hope that his wounds would not be fatal.

With tender devotion Iola watched her faithful friend. He recognized her
when restored to consciousness, and her presence was as balm to his
wounds. He smiled faintly, took her hand in his, stroked it tenderly,
looked wistfully into her face, and said, "Miss Iola, I ain't long fer
dis! I'se 'most home!"

"Oh, no," said Iola, "I hope that you will soon get over this trouble,
and live many long and happy days."

"No, Miss Iola, it's all ober wid me. I'se gwine to glory; gwine to
glory; gwine to ring dem charmin' bells. Tell all de boys to meet me in
heben; dat dey mus' 'list in de hebenly war."

"O, Mr. Tom," said Iola, tenderly, "do not talk of leaving me. You are
the best friend I have had since I was torn from my mother. I should be
so lonely without you."

"Dere's a frien' dat sticks closer dan a brudder. He will be wid yer in
de sixt' trial, an' in de sebbent' he'll not fo'sake yer."

"Yes," answered Iola, "I know that. He is all our dependence. But I
can't help grieving when I see you suffering so. But, dear friend, be
quiet, and try to go to sleep."

"I'll do enythin' fer yer, Miss Iola."

Tom closed his eyes and lay quiet. Tenderly and anxiously Iola watched
over him as the hours waned away. The doctor came, shook his head
gravely, and, turning to Iola, said, "There is no hope, but do what you
can to alleviate his sufferings."

As Iola gazed upon the kind but homely features of Tom, she saw his eyes
open and an unexpressed desire upon his face.

Tenderly and sadly bending over him, with tears in her dark, luminous
eyes, she said, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," said Tom, with laboring breath; "let me hole yore han', an' sing
'Ober Jordan inter glory' an' 'We'll anchor bye and bye.'"

Iola laid her hand gently in the rough palm of the dying man, and, with
a tremulous voice, sang the parting hymns.

Tenderly she wiped the death damps from his dusky brow, and imprinted
upon it a farewell kiss. Gratitude and affection lit up the dying eye,
which seemed to be gazing into the eternities. Just then Robert entered
the room, and, seating himself quietly by Tom's bedside, read the death
signs in his face.

"Good-bye, Robert," said Tom, "meet me in de kingdom." Suddenly a look
of recognition and rapture lit up his face, and he murmured, "Angels,
bright angels, all's well, all's well!"

Slowly his hand released its pressure, a peaceful calm overspread his
countenance, and without a sigh or murmur Thomas Anderson, Iola's
faithful and devoted friend, passed away, leaving the world so much
poorer for her than it was before. Just then Dr. Gresham, the hospital
physician, came to the bedside, felt for the pulse which would never
throb again, and sat down in silence by the cot.

"What do you think, Doctor," said Iola, "has he fainted?"

"No," said the doctor, "poor fellow! he is dead."

Iola bowed her head in silent sorrow, and then relieved the anguish of
her heart by a flood of tears. Robert rose, and sorrowfully left the
room.

Iola, with tearful eyes and aching heart, clasped the cold hands over
the still breast, closed the waxen lid over the eye which had once
beamed with kindness or flashed with courage, and then went back, after
the burial, to her daily round of duties, feeling the sad missing of
something from her life.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MYSTIFIED DOCTOR.

"Colonel," said Dr. Gresham to Col. Robinson, the commander of the post,
"I am perfectly mystified by Miss Leroy."

"What is the matter with her?" asked Col. Robinson. "Is she not faithful
to her duties and obedient to your directions?"

"Faithful is not the word to express her tireless energy and devotion to
her work," responded Dr. Gresham. "She must have been a born nurse to
put such enthusiasm into her work."

"Why, Doctor, what is the matter with you? You talk like a lover."

A faint flush rose to the cheek of Dr. Gresham as he smiled, and said,
"Oh! come now, Colonel, can't a man praise a woman without being in love
with her?"

"Of course he can," said Col. Robinson; "but I know where such
admiration is apt to lead. I've been there myself. But, Doctor, had you
not better defer your love-making till you're out of the woods?"

"I assure you, Colonel, I am not thinking of love or courtship. That is
the business of the drawing-room, and not of the camp. But she did
mystify me last night."

"How so?" asked Col. Robinson.

"When Tom was dying," responded the doctor, "I saw that beautiful and
refined young lady bend over and kiss him. When she found that he was
dead, she just cried as if her heart was breaking. Well, that was a new
thing to me. I can eat with colored people, walk, talk, and fight with
them, but kissing them is something I don't hanker after."

"And yet you saw Miss Leroy do it?"

"Yes; and that puzzles me. She is one of the most refined and lady-like
women I ever saw. I hear she is a refugee, but she does not look like
the other refugees who have come to our camp. Her accent is slightly
Southern, but her manner is Northern. She is self-respecting without
being supercilious; quiet, without being dull. Her voice is low and
sweet, yet at times there are tones of such passionate tenderness in it
that you would think some great sorrow has darkened and overshadowed her
life. Without being the least gloomy, her face at times is pervaded by
an air of inexpressible sadness. I sometimes watch her when she is not
aware that I am looking at her, and it seems as if a whole volume was
depicted on her countenance. When she smiles, there is a longing in her
eyes which is never satisfied. I cannot understand how a Southern lady,
whose education and manners stamp her as a woman of fine culture and
good breeding, could consent to occupy the position she so faithfully
holds. It is a mystery I cannot solve. Can you?"

"I think I can," answered Col. Robinson.

"Will you tell me?" queried the doctor.

"Yes, on one condition."

"What is it?"

"Everlasting silence."

"I promise," said the doctor. "The secret between us shall be as deep as
the sea."

"She has not requested secrecy, but at present, for her sake, I do not
wish the secret revealed. Miss Leroy was a slave."

"Oh, no," said Dr. Gresham, starting to his feet, "it can't be so! A
woman as white as she a slave?"

"Yes, it is so," continued the Colonel. "In these States the child
follows the condition of its mother. This beautiful and accomplished
girl was held by one of the worst Rebels in town. Tom told me of it and
I issued orders for her release."

"Well, well! Is that so?" said Dr. Gresham, thoughtfully stroking his
beard. "Wonders will never cease. Why, I was just beginning to think
seriously of her."

"What's to hinder your continuing to think?" asked Col. Robinson.

"What you tell me changes the whole complexion of affairs," replied the
doctor.

"If that be so I am glad I told you before you got head over heels in
love."

"Yes," said Dr. Gresham, absently.

Dr. Gresham was a member of a wealthy and aristocratic family, proud of
its lineage, which it could trace through generations of good blood to
its ancestral isle. He had become deeply interested in Iola before he
had heard her story, but after it had been revealed to him he tried to
banish her from his mind; but his constant observation of her only
increased his interest and admiration. The deep pathos of her story, the
tenderness of her ministrations, bestowed alike on black and white, and
the sad loneliness of her condition, awakened within him a desire to
defend and protect her all through her future life. The fierce clashing
of war had not taken all the romance out of his nature. In Iola he saw
realized his ideal of the woman whom he was willing to marry. A woman,
tender, strong, and courageous, and rescued only by the strong arm of
his Government from a fate worse than death. She was young in years, but
old in sorrow; one whom a sad destiny had changed from a light-hearted
girl to a heroic woman. As he observed her, he detected an undertone of
sorrow in her most cheerful words, and observed a quick flushing and
sudden paling of her cheek, as if she were living over scenes that were
thrilling her soul with indignation or chilling her heart with horror.
As nurse and physician, Iola and Dr. Gresham were constantly thrown
together. His friends sent him magazines and books, which he gladly
shared with her. The hospital was a sad place. Mangled forms, stricken
down in the flush of their prime and energy; pale young corpses,
sacrificed on the altar of slavery, constantly drained on her
sympathies. Dr. Gresham was glad to have some reading matter which might
divert her mind from the memories of her mournful past, and also furnish
them both with interesting themes of conversation in their moments of
relaxation from the harrowing scenes through which they were constantly
passing. Without any effort or consciousness on her part, his friendship
ripened into love. To him her presence was a pleasure, her absence a
privation; and her loneliness drew deeply upon his sympathy. He would
have merited his own self-contempt if, by word or deed, he had done
anything to take advantage of her situation. All the manhood and
chivalry of his nature rose in her behalf, and, after carefully
revolving the matter, he resolved to win her for his bride, bury her
secret in his Northern home, and hide from his aristocratic relations
all knowledge of her mournful past. One day he said to Iola:--

"This hospital life is telling on you. Your strength is failing, and
although you possess a wonderful amount of physical endurance, you must
not forget that saints have bodies and dwell in tabernacles of clay,
just the same as we common mortals."

"Compliments aside," she said, smiling; "what are you driving at,
Doctor?"

"I mean," he replied, "that you are running down, and if you do not quit
and take some rest you will be our patient instead of our nurse. You'd
better take a furlough, go North, and return after the first frost."

"Doctor, if that is your only remedy," replied Iola, "I am afraid that I
am destined to die at my post. I have no special friends in the North,
and no home but this in the South. I am homeless and alone."

There was something so sad, almost despairing in her tones, in the
drooping of her head, and the quivering of her lip, that they stirred
Dr. Gresham's heart with sudden pity, and, drawing nearer to her, he
said, "Miss Leroy, you need not be all alone. Let me claim the privilege
of making your life bright and happy. Iola, I have loved you ever since
I have seen your devotion to our poor, sick boys. How faithfully you, a
young and gracious girl, have stood at your post and performed your
duties. And now I ask, will you not permit me to clasp hands with you
for life? I do not ask for a hasty reply. Give yourself time to think
over what I have proposed."

CHAPTER IX.

EUGENE LEROY AND ALFRED LORRAINE.

Nearly twenty years before the war, two young men, of French and Spanish
descent, sat conversing on a large verandah which surrounded an ancient
home on the Mississippi River. It was French in its style of
architecture, large and rambling, with no hint of modern improvements.

The owner of the house was the only heir of a Creole planter. He had
come into possession of an inheritance consisting of vast baronial
estates, bank stock, and a large number of slaves. Eugene Leroy, being
deprived of his parents, was left, at an early age, to the care of a
distant relative, who had sent him to school and college, and who
occasionally invited him to spend his vacations at his home. But Eugene
generally declined his invitations, as he preferred spending his
vacations at the watering places in the North, with their fashionable
and not always innocent gayeties. Young, vivacious, impulsive, and
undisciplined, without the restraining influence of a mother's love or
the guidance of a father's hand, Leroy found himself, when his college
days were over, in the dangerous position of a young man with vast
possessions, abundant leisure, unsettled principles, and uncontrolled
desires. He had no other object than to extract from life its most
seductive draughts of ease and pleasure. His companion, who sat opposite
him on the verandah, quietly smoking a cigar, was a remote cousin, a
few years older than himself, the warmth of whose Southern temperament
had been modified by an infusion of Northern blood.

Eugene was careless, liberal, and impatient of details, while his
companion and cousin, Alfred Lorraine, was selfish, eager, keen, and
alert; also hard, cold, methodical, and ever ready to grasp the main
chance. Yet, notwithstanding the difference between them, they had
formed a warm friendship for each other.

"Alfred," said Eugene, "I am going to be married."

Lorraine opened his eyes with sudden wonder, and exclaimed: "Well,
that's the latest thing out! Who is the fortunate lady who has bound you
with her silken fetters? Is it one of those beautiful Creole girls who
were visiting Augustine's plantation last winter? I watched you during
our visit there and thought that you could not be proof against their
attractions. Which is your choice? It would puzzle me to judge between
the two. They had splendid eyes, dark, luminous, and languishing; lovely
complexions and magnificent hair. Both were delightful in their manners,
refined and cultured, with an air of vivacity mingled with their repose
of manner which was perfectly charming. As the law only allows us one,
which is your choice? Miss Annette has more force than her sister, and
if I could afford the luxury of a wife she would be my choice."

"Ah, Alf," said Eugene, "I see that you are a practical business man. In
marrying you want a wife to assist you as an efficient plantation
mistress. One who would tolerate no waste in the kitchen and no disorder
in the parlor."

"Exactly so," responded Lorraine; "I am too poor to marry a mere parlor
ornament. You can afford to do it; I cannot."

"Nonsense, if I were as poor as a church mouse I would marry the woman I
love."

"Very fine sentiments," said Lorraine, "and were I as rich as you I
would indulge in them also. You know, when my father died I had great
expectations. We had always lived in good style, and I never thought for
a moment he was not a rich man, but when his estate was settled I found
it was greatly involved, and I was forced to face an uncertain future,
with scarcely a dollar to call my own. Land, negroes, cattle, and horses
all went under the hammer. The only thing I retained was the education I
received at the North; that was my father's best investment, and all my
stock in trade. With that only as an outfit, it would be madness for me
to think of marrying one of those lovely girls. They remind me of
beautiful canary birds, charming and pretty, but not fitted for the wear
and tear of plantation life. Well, which is your choice?"

"Neither," replied Eugene.

"Then, is it that magnificent looking widow from New Orleans, whom we
met before you had that terrible spell of sickness and to whom you
appeared so devoted?"

"Not at all. I have not heard from her since that summer. She was
fascinating and handsome, but fearfully high strung."

"Were you afraid of her?"

"No; but I valued my happiness too much to trust it in her hands."

"Sour grapes!" said Lorraine.

"No! but I think that slavery and the lack of outside interests are
beginning to tell on the lives of our women. They lean too much on their
slaves, have too much irresponsible power in their hands, are narrowed
and compressed by the routine of plantation life and the lack of
intellectual stimulus."

"Yes, Eugene, when I see what other women are doing in the fields of
literature and art, I cannot help thinking an amount of brain power has
been held in check among us. Yet I cannot abide those Northern women,
with their suffrage views and abolition cant. They just shock me."

"But your mother was a Northern woman," said Eugene.

"Yes; but she got bravely over her Northern ideas. As I remember her,
she was just as much a Southerner as if she had been to the manor born.
She came here as a school-teacher, but soon after she came she married
my father. He was easy and indulgent with his servants, and held them
with a very loose rein. But my mother was firm and energetic. She made
the niggers move around. No shirking nor dawdling with her. When my
father died, she took matters in hand, but she only outlived him a few
months. If she had lived I believe that she would have retrieved our
fortune. I know that she had more executive ability than my father. He
was very squeamish about selling his servants, but she would have put
every one of them in her pocket before permitting them to eat her out of
house and home. But whom _are_ you going to marry?"

"A young lady who graduates from a Northern seminary next week,"
responded Eugene.

"I think you are very selfish," said Lorraine. "You might have invited
a fellow to go with you to be your best man."

"The wedding is to be strictly private. The lady whom I am to marry has
negro blood in her veins."

"The devil she has!" exclaimed Lorraine, starting to his feet, and
looking incredulously on the face of Leroy. "Are you in earnest? Surely
you must be jesting."

"I am certainly in earnest," answered Eugene Leroy. "I mean every word I
say."

"Oh, it can't be possible! Are you mad?" exclaimed Lorraine.

"Never was saner in my life."

"What under heaven could have possessed you to do such a foolish thing?
Where did she come from."

"Right here, on this plantation. But I have educated and manumitted her,
and I intend marrying her."

"Why, Eugene, it is impossible that you can have an idea of marrying one
of your slaves. Why, man, she is your property, to have and to hold to
all intents and purposes. Are you not satisfied with the power and
possession the law gives you?"

"No. Although the law makes her helpless in my hands, to me her
defenselessness is her best defense."

"Eugene, we have known each other all of our lives, and, although I have
always regarded you as eccentric, I never saw you so completely off your
balance before. The idea of you, with your proud family name, your vast
wealth in land and negroes, intending to marry one of them, is a mystery
I cannot solve. Do explain to me why you are going to take this
extremely strange and foolish step."

"You never saw Marie?"

"No; and I don't want to."

"She is very beautiful. In the North no one would suspect that she has
one drop of negro blood in her veins, but here, where I am known, to
marry her is to lose caste. I could live with her, and not incur much if
any social opprobrium. Society would wink at the transgression, even if
after she had become the mother of my children I should cast her off and
send her and them to the auction block."

"Men," replied Lorraine, "would merely shrug their shoulders; women
would say you had been sowing your wild oats. Your money, like charity,
would cover a multitude of faults."

"But if I make her my lawful wife and recognize her children as my
legitimate heirs, I subject myself to social ostracism and a senseless
persecution. We Americans boast of freedom, and yet here is a woman whom
I love as I never loved any other human being, but both law and public
opinion debar me from following the inclination of my heart. She is
beautiful, faithful, and pure, and yet all that society will tolerate is
what I would scorn to do."

"But has not society the right to guard the purity of its blood by the
rigid exclusion of an alien race?"

"Excluding it! How?" asked Eugene.

"By debarring it from social intercourse."

"Perhaps it has," continued Eugene, "but should not society have a
greater ban for those who, by consorting with an alien race, rob their
offspring of a right to their names and to an inheritance in their
property, and who fix their social status among an enslaved and outcast

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Iola LeroybyFrances E.W. Harper

Part 1 out of 5

Iola Leroy
by
Frances E.W. Harper