The Bondwoman's Narrative (19 page)

Towards Autumn we began to think of changing our habitation, but where to go, or how to go was a serious question. Our garments
were torn, our shoes worn out, and we could not hope to escape observation in so miserable a plight. But to remain there through
the winter was impossible. The frost would destroy our supplies of food, and then we had neither fire nor the means of obtaining
any. All these things we carefully revolved, and in our extremity sometimes half resolved to throw ourselves on the mercy
of our enemy, and know the worst.

The difficulties of my situation were increasing daily. The mind of my companion became seriously effected. Want, fatigue,
exposure, and the long long agonies of mental torture, had deeply wrought on her physical constitution, and impaired her intellect.
She became querelous and complaining, upbraided me as the cause of all her difficulties, and heaped the strangest accusations
of conspiracy on my head. This seemed the bitterest cup of all and I was ready to cry in the language of the Saviour “Father,
if it be possible let this pass from me” but through his infinite goodness I felt to add likewise “Not my will but thine be
done.”

After a time my mistress became decidedly insane, and her insanity partook the most painful character. She fancied herself
pursued by an invisible being, who sought to devour her flesh and crush her bones. She would scream with affright, and
cowering to the ground
crouching to the earth point with her finger to the
ob
dreadful creation of her distempered fancy. “There; there it is, it
is coming, keep him off, keep him off won[’]t you? Oh horrible. He tears my flesh, he drinks my blood. Oh; oh” then falling
to the ground in a paroxysm of the wildest fear. She would remain insensible for a long time. At intervals, however, the light
of her mind,
struggling
struggled
through its enveloping clouds,
and
she would converse rationally as in former times.

One morning I was surprised by the barking of a dog, and the shouts of men. The sounds were evidently near and probably proceeded
from a party of hunter’s [sic]. In a few moments more three men emerged from the wood, and advanced directly towards our cabin.
Flight, had we been so disposed was out of the question, and so cowering in a corner we determined to abide our fate, or rather
I did; for my companion seemed incapable of any connected thought. I heard them talking as they approached.

“Well, it is strange anyhow, but this Cabin must certainly have been inhabited recently. The paths are well worn, and, by
Jove, here’s the print of a footstep too” said one, in a loud coarse voice.

“Where? I can’t see any” said another.

“There in the dew on the grass. Don’t you see it now?”

“Yes, and a woman’s too.”

[“]Some runaway Negro, perhaps, hope we can catch him” and he called his dog.

“No Negro never made such a track as that.”

“I dare say by looking round we shall find out who made it. They can’t be far off” said the third.

“Well we’ll look here first” and suiting his actions to the word he advanced to the door and looked in, but hastily drew back
on seeing us.

“What is it?” inquired his companion.

“Lord help me if I know what it is. Look for yourself.”

The two others now thrust in their heads, took one look at us, and drew back. Had we indeed lost all resemblance to human
beings. We were crouched in the corner beneath our cloaks, and our head the only parts of our persons visible, were disfigured
by matted masses of hair, which feel [fell] over and vailed our faces.

“Shoot at it” said one.

“I believe in my soul, it’s a woman” exclaimed another as my companion slightly moving revealed a part of her person.

With that I threw off the cloak, rose to my feet, and moved towards them. “Gentlemen” I said “we are two poor women, who lost
our way last spring, wandered off here, and here took up our abode, because we could find no other home.”

“A[i]n’t you runaway slaves?” suggested one.

They were hard featured men with little in their appearance to recommend them. I tremblingly answered that I was or had been
a slave.

“And what is she?” they inquired alluding to my companion.

“She was my mistress.”

“Your mistress” and he burst into a loud guffaw.

“A fine story you are telling me, mistresses don’t go wandering about in that manner.”

“Stop” said another one of the trio “there is some mystery here. I heard something about it last spring. What was your master’s
name?”

Not perceiving that any good could come of concealment I told him.

“Yes, that was the name. It is just as she says” he continued addressing the others.

“How long have you been here?” inquired another.

“All summer nearly.”

“Faith, I wouldn’t stay here a night for all
your master’s
that was once your master’s fortune.”

“May I inquire the reason why?[”]

“Because it is said that a beautiful girl was once murdered here, and that the place is haunted. Haven’t you found it so.”

I replied that a good conscience was a sure protector, and that no spirit had troubled me.

“Well, who would have imagined that our gunning expedition
would have been so profitable. Why these gals will be worth more
to us than all the game in the woods.”

“My mistress is sick and deranged. She has suffered so much” I said. “You will deal tenderly with her.”

“Certainly, if she behaves herself” he answered dryly.

Fortunately
she was in a bo
her mind was in a lucid interval, and she maintained surprising composure, remarking only that the bitterness of death was
past, and that whatever might be her destiny her sufferings could not exceed those she had already felt.

“I make no appeal to your sympathy” she said. “I say nothing of horror or alarm. I do not ask you to consider that possibly
some great misfortune may happen to you, and you may need friends as we need them now. I do not ask you to consider all this,
well knowing that were I not dumb you would be deaf, that neither tears, nor prayers, nor entreaties of ours could move your
purpose whatever that may be.”

“You think meanly of us, Madam” said one of the men. A smile rested on the countenances of the others, perhaps that he should
designate such a miserable looking person by such a term. He observed it.

“Smile if you please” he said “but that woman once graced an exalted station, and I pity the misfortune which seems beyond
hope of remedy.”

“Heaven I fear has turned against us” continued my mistress mournfully. “There is no use battling against fate. Henceforth
come what will I am resigned.”

The passiveness of a settled despair was apparent in all her words and movements.

“Then you will go with us peacefully” said one. “Whither” she inquired, coming forward, and fixing her large sad eyes with
an expression of mournful interest on the speaker’s
face. [“]Will you take me to my father? Heaven knows how gladly I would
go to him.”

Her senses were wandering.

“Not to your father, dear Madam” replied the one, who had formerly addressed her thus, and whom his companions called Horace
“not to your father, but where you will be taken care of.”

“To my husband, then?”

“We could not.”

“Why not?” inquired one of the others.

“He is dead” answered Horace in a low voice. “At least that old lawyer who knows or seems to know everything told me so.”

She caught the word lawyer. An expression of unutterable agony flitted over her
face.

“Not to him” she almost shrieked. “Indeed I cannot go to him.”

“And you shall not, you shall not,” said Horace pityingly. “I will see to that.”

Presently the three men withdrew to a little distance, where they stood and talked, and whispered. I thought that Horace remonstrated
with them, that he objected to some proposal, but I caught only one sentence of their conversation and that was something
about a large reward.

Then they returned to us, and we were led away as sheep are led to the slaughter unresisting, uncomplaining and uncertain
of our fate.

I am half-inclined to believe that my overtaxed brain became bewildered at times like that of my poor dear mistress. I am
sure that they talked of us, tho’ I failed to comprehend the words. I heard them. I understood their meaning, but could attach
to them no sense in any other connection. I had heard them say “He is dead” and yet failed to realize at first that it was
my master of whom they spoke. Then slowly, yet certainly the overpowering conviction was forced upon me, but how did he die?

We were walking along a narrow wood-road—all except my mistress. She was incapable of the exertion, and so they had formed
for her a sort of rude litter which they carried alternately, two at a time, leaving one
at freedom
unemployed to prevent my escape. An unnecessary precaution, since even my strong desire for freedom, now become the object
of my life, could not have induced me to abandon her. The man Horace was walking with me. He looked sad and sympathising.
I might venture to inquire of him “You said, I think, that my master was dead, will you tell me how he died?” I asked.

“By his own hand, in the drawing-room—that ancient one where hung the family pictures” he replied.

“And the mansion?” I inquired.

“Has already with the servants passed into other [hands].[”]

From all I could gather it appeared that on the next day but one succeeding that of our escape Mr Trappe unexpectedly returned.
Enjoying as he did the freedom of the house he went directly to the apartments of my mistress which he found vacated. Descending
again he encountered Lizzy in one of the passages who in a great state of consternation and alarm informed him that her mistress
had gone no one knew whither. Whether he was prepared for such a contingency, or whether he was betrayed from his usual calm
indifference into something like surprise it is impossible to say, but he made inquiries for my master, and proceeded to
have
hold [an] interview with him.

He was in the south drawing-room, and of course Mr Trappe was admitted to his presence. What might have been the tenor of
their conversation, what secrets were revealed, what disclosures made must remain a mystery. Who can doubt the painfulness
of their character, or the depths of disgrace and exposure that were laid bare? The interview was long, very long, and then
Mr Trappe came gliding out. His seedy black clothes, and blacker eyes
gleamed a moment in the passage. The echo of his stealthy
step was first heard on the porch, and then his retreating form passed rapidly down the long avenue of oaks, and he was seen
no more. The evil his presence always brought with it had been accomplished there. He had brought misery and destruction on
the household. Was not that enough?

Silent and solitary in his apartment, the linden creaking beneath the window remained my master. No one ventured to intrude
on his privacy. Was there no voice in all that sumptuous dwelling with its luxurious appointments to meet the servants going
to and fro, or passing in and out with the whisper “go to him.” Is there no influence there to prefigure even to Mrs Bry what
is then passing in his room, and beneath that roof? Is there no significance in the hours as they pass away, and still he
comes not forth? His dinner is waiting, a sumptuous dinner served on massy plate. The delicate viands breathe a delicious
flavor, the wine leaps and sparkles. His carriage is waiting, he had ordered them to have it in readiness by four o clock.
Four o clock in the afternoon, and that hour passed. It is a long time for him to linger in his room. I never know him to
remain so long before, mused Mrs Bry.

Five o’clock, and still invisible. Something must be wrong. Mrs Bry goes around the house, and looks up at the window; the
shutters are closed. She returns enters the house and seeks the door of his apartment; it is fastened within, and even the
keyhole closed up by bits of crumpled paper. She listens; there is noise. She knocks; there is no answer. She becomes seriously
alarmed and the other servants catch the contagion. There is hurry and confusion, and a great scampering about the rooms.
No one could tell what they are doing or trying to do. On that point they have no definite idea themselves. However they all
say that something is wrong, and it really seems as if they designed that since insuperable obstacles
prevented getting where
the wrong apparently was, they would go at random where it was not.

There is a sort of scream, and a voice in one of the lower rooms. “My God, what is this?”

Mrs Bry hastens; others run to ascertain the nature of the discovery. “It is water” said one “nothing—somebody has spilt some
water.”

“Do you call that water?” inquired the discoverer holding up her finger stained with a dark red substance. “It is blood, that’s
what it is, and so is this, and this.”

And sure enough on the floor were several little pools of clotted gore. Mrs Bry looks upward at the ceiling; that is bloody
too. She comprehends it all in a moment.
immediately above this is the apartment
In great alarm and agitation she rushes out, summons the overseer of the estate, who quietly hears her story, looks at the
blood, remarks that it is very strange, and then forces open the door of my master’s room.

What find they there? The master fallen from his easy chair; fallen on his face to the floor, his garments and the carpet
saturated with the red stream that still oozed slowly from a ghastly wound in his throat.

Lo; the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow on the string.

P
SALMS

Leaving the woods we advanced along an open plain, and thence entered a well-beaten road that led through the midst of a well-populated
district. Our conductors laughed and joked on the strange appearance we all presented and the curiosity of the people, who
sought to discover who and what we were. The novelty of our situation seemed to have wrought favorably on my mistress. She
remained passive and silent, only inquiring now and then where they were taking her, or what they designed to do with her.
And when they answered her evasively she would laugh with a short hysterical sob, and then relapse into silence.