ONE morning in the early winter, Squire Hyman came to Warrington at a most unusual hour. Comfort and his family were just sitting down to their early breakfast when he was announced. The servant stated that he had declined to join in the meal, but had taken a seat by the sitting-room fire. Lily, who was a prime favorite with the old man, went at once to persuade him to come and breakfast with them. She returned with the unexpected visitor, but no persuasions could induce him to partake with them. He seemed very much disturbed, and said, as he sat down in the chimney-corner, —
"No, I thank you kindly. I just came over to have a little chat, and perhaps get a little neighborly advice, if so be the colonel would be good enough to give it."
"I hope there is nothing wrong with you at home," said Servosse, with real anxiety; for the old man seemed greatly disturbed.
"I'm afraid, Colonel," he replied, with a deep sigh, "that there's a good deal of wrong, a good deal, — a heap more and a heap worse than I had ever counted on."
"Why, no one sick, I hope?" said the colonel.
"No, not sick exactly," was the reply; "worse'n that. The truth is, Colonel, the Ku-Klux took out my boy Jesse last night, and beat him nigh about to death."
"Shocking! You don't say!" burst from his listeners. The meal was abandoned; and, gathering near the old man, they listened to his story.
"You see," he said, "Jesse had been into town yesterday, and came home late last night. So far as I can learn, it must have been nine o'clock or so when he started out: at least, 'twan't far from twelve o'clock when he came through the little piece of timber on the far side of my house (you know the place well, Colonel, and you too, Madam; for you have ridden by it often, — just in the hollow, this side the blacksmith's shop), when all at once a crowd of men burst out of the woods and bushes, all hidden with masks and gowns, and after some parley took him into the woods, tied him to a tree, and beat him horribly with hickories. Jesse said he hadn't no chance to fight at all. They were all on him almost afore he knew it. He did kick about a little, and managed to pull the mask off from one fellow's face. This seemed to make them madder than ever, though they needn't have been; for he says he didn't know the man from Adam, even when he saw his face. However, that didn't make no difference. They took him out and whipped him, because they said he was a 'nigger-loving Radical.'"
"Poor fellow! Is he seriously injured?" asked Comfort in alarm.
"I don't know as to that, Colonel," answered Hyman, "and it don't much matter. He's been whipped, and it could not be worse if he were dead. Indeed," continued the old man as he gazed sadly into the fire, "I would rather know that he was dead. He'd better be dead than be so disgraced! Did you ever know, Colonel, that the Supreme Court of this State once decided that whipping was worse than hanging?"
"No," said Comfort. "I never heard of such a thing."
"They did, though," said the old squire. "I don't recollect the precise case; but you will find it in our reports, if you care to look for it. You see the Legislature had changed the punishment for some crime from hanging to whipping, and had repealed the old law. The result was, that some fellow, who was afterwards convicted of an offense committed before the passage of the act, appealed on the ground that whipping was an aggravation of the death-penalty, and the Court held with him. They were right too, — just right. I'd a heap rather my poor Jesse was dead than to think of him lying there, and mourning and groaning in his shame. If it had been openly done, it would not have been so bad; then he could have killed the man who did it, or been killed in the attempt to get a gentleman's revenge. But to be whipped like a dog, and not even know who did it; to think that the very one who comes to sympathize as a friend may be one of the crowd that did it, — oh! it is too much, too much!"
"Indeed," said the Fool, with an awkward attempt at consolation, "it is too bad; but you must console yourself, Squire, with the reflection that your son has never done any thing to deserve such treatment at his neighbor's hands."
"That's the worst part on't, Colonel," said the old man hotly. "He's a good boy, Jesse is, an' he always has been a good boy. I don't say it 'cause he's mine, nor 'cause he's the only one that's left, but because it's true; and everybody knows it's true. He's never been wild nor dissipated, — not given to drinkin' nor frolickin'. He was nothin' but a boy when the war came on; but when my older boy, Phil, — the same as was killed at Gettysburg, — went away, Jesse took hold as steady and regular as an old man to help me on the plantation. You know I'm gittin' old, and hain't been able to git about much this many a year, so as to look after the hands, an' keep things a-goin' as they ought to be. Well, boy as he was, Jesse raised two as good crops as we've had on the plantation in a long time. Then when they called for the Junior Reserves, toward the last of the war, he went and 'listed in the regular army 'bout Richmond, and took his share of the fightin' from that on. An' when it was over, an' the niggers free, an' all that, he didn't stop to dawdle round, and cuss about it, but went right to work, hired our old niggers, — every one of whom would lay down his life for Jesse, — an' just said to me, 'Now, Dad, don't you have any trouble. You just sit quiet, and smoke yer pipe, an' poke 'round occasionally to see that things is goin' right round the house an' barn-lot, an' keep Ma from grievin' about Phil, and I'll run the plantation.' An' when I told him how bad off I was, owin' for some of the niggers that was now free, and a right smart of security-debts beside, and the State-script and bank-stock worth almost nothin', he didn't wince nor falter, but just said, 'You just be easy, Pa. I'll take care of them things. You must keep Ma's spirits up, and I'll look out for the rest.'
"You know how that boy's worked, Colonel, early and late, year after year, as if he had nothing to look forward to in life only payin' his old father's debts, and makin' of us comfortable. He never meddled with nobody else's business, but just stuck to his own all the time, — all the time! An' then to think he should be whipped, by our own folks too, last like a nigger! — and all because he was a Radical!
"S'pose he was a Radical, Colonel: hadn't he a right to be? You're a Radical, ain't ye? and a Carpet-bagger too? Have they any right to take you out an' whip you? I reckon you don't think so; but it's a heap worse to mistreat one of our own folks, — one that fought for the South, and not agin her. Don't ye think so, Colonel?
"Well, it's natural you shouldn't see the difference; but I do. S'pose he was a Radical? He didn't have nothing to say about it, — just went an' voted on 'lection-day, and come home again. Are they goin' to whip men, an' ruin them, for that? I declare, Colonel, I'm an old man, and a man of peace too, and a magistrate; but I swear to God, if I knew who it was that had done this business, I'd let him know I could send a load of buckshot home yet: damned if I wouldn't!
"Beg pardon, Madam," he continued, as he remembered Metta's presence; "but you must allow for the feelings of a father. I'm not often betrayed into such rudeness, Madam, — not often.
"But Colonel," he went on meditatively, "do you know I don't think that was more than half the reason the Ku-Klux beat Jesse?"
"No?" said the Fool. "What else had he done to awaken their animosity?"
"He's been your friend, Colonel, — always your friend; and he thinks, and I think too, that what he's been made to suffer has been more on your account than his own. You know they've been a-threatenin' and warnin' you for some time, and you haven't paid no heed to it. When they rode off last night, they told Jesse he might tell his 'damned Radical Yankee friend Servosse that they were comin' for him next time.'
"Jesse's mighty troubled about it, for he thinks a heap of you all; and he wanted me to come right over here, and let you know, so that, bein' forewarned, you might be fore-armed."
"Poor fellow!" said the Fool. "It was very kind and thoughtful of him. It is altogether too bad that any one should suffer merely for being my friend."
"Well, you know how our people are, Colonel," said the old man, with the impulses of a life still strong upon him to make excuse for that people whose thought he had always indorsed hitherto, and whose acts he had always excused, if he could not altogether approve, — "you know how they are. They can't stand nobody else meddlin' with their institutions; and your ideas are so radical! I shouldn't have wondered if it had been you, — candidly, Colonel, I shouldn't, — but that they should do so to my boy, one that's native here, of good family (if I do say it), and that never troubled nobody, — it's too bad, too bad!"
"Yes, indeed!" said the Fool. "And I must go and see him at once. I don't suppose I can do him any good, but I must let him know how I sympathize with him."
"That brings me around to the rest of my errand," said the old man. "I am so upset by this thing, that I like to have clean forgotten it. He 'llowed you'd be comin' to see him as soon as you heard of it, and he wanted me to tell you that he couldn't see anybody now (not while he's in this condition, you know); but he — he wanted I should say to you — say to you," he repeated, with the tears running over his face, "that he was goin' to Injianny to-night, and he would be glad if you could give him some letters to any friends you may have in the West. You know he can't stay here any more (not after this); and he thought it might be well enough to have some introduction, so as not to be exactly goin' among strangers, you know."
"He will take the train at Verdenton, I suppose," said the Fool.
"Yes, I spose so," answered the old man. "He hain't made no arrangements yet, an' it'll be a hard thing for him to ride there in his condition."
"Has he any particular point to which he wishes to go?"
"None at all — just to get away, you know: that's all he goes for."
"Yes," said the Fool thoughtfully; then, after a moment, he continued decisively, "See here, Squire! You tell the boy not to trouble himself about the matter, but keep quiet, and I will arrange it for him. He must not think of going to-night, but you may give out that he has gone. I will come for him to-night, and bring him here; and after a time he can go West, and find himself among friends."
This arrangement was carried out, almost against the will of the one most concerned; and it was under the roof of the "carpet-bagger" that the outraged "native" found refuge before he fled from the savage displeasure of the people who could not suffer him to differ with them in opinion.
In his behalf the fool wrote a letter to the Reverend Theophilus Jones, detailing to him the event which this chapter narrates, and the condition of the young man at that time. To this letter he received the following reply: —
WEDGEWORTH, KAN.
MY DEAR SIR, — Your very interesting letter has awakened strange memories. It is only twelve years ago that Brother James Stiles and myself were interrupted in the midst of a gospel service at a place called Flat Rock by a mob, which was said to have been put upon our track by your neighbor Nathaniel Hyman, because we preached the word of God as it had been delivered unto us, and denounced the sin of slavery according to the light that was given us.
We were sorely beaten with many stripes; but we continued instant in prayer for them who did despitefully use us, calling out to each other to be of good cheer, and, even in the midst of their scourging, praying, in the words of the blessed Saviour on the cross, —
"Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."
When they loosed our bonds, we gave thanks that we were permitted to bear testimony to the truth, even with our blood, and went on our way rejoicing, tarrying not in those coasts, however, since we perceived that this people were joined to their idols, and given up to sin. We said unto our persecutors, in the words of the apostle, "The Lord reward thee according to thy works."
Verily, the Lord hath heard the cry of his servants, and hath not forgotten their stripes. My heart was hushed with holy awe when I read in your letter that the son of this man, who caused us to be scourged, had suffered a like chastisement at the hands of wicked men — perhaps the very hands by which we were smitten aforetime. Through all these years the God of Sabaoth hath not forgotten our cry, nor to reward the evil-doers according to their works." Well may we exclaim, as we look back at these intervening years of wonder-working events, "What hath God wrought!" As the war went on, and I saw the bulwarks of slavery crumbling away, until finally the light of freedom shone upon the slave, I rejoiced at the wonderful power of God, who wrought out the ends of his glory through the instrumentality of human passion and human greed. How it reproached our weak murmurings and want of faith! Who could have believed that all the evils which slavery was for so many years piling up as a sin-offering in mockery of the Most High and his mandates, — the blood, the tears, the groans, and woes of God's stricken and crying people, — were so soon to become the forces which should destroy the oppressor, root and branch! Ah! if that grand old St. John of this new dispensation of liberty — John Brown — could have foreseen this in the hour of his ignominious death! But perhaps he did see it, and the sting of death was removed by the beatific vision.
Nothing of it all, however, has so humbled and terrified me as this immediate and fearful retribution visited on one of my persecutors. God knows I had never entertained feelings of malice or revenge towards them. I have never forgotten to pray for these, my enemies, as we are commanded to do in the canon of Holy Scripture; but I had never thought to see the hand of God thus visibly stretched forth to avenge my wrongs. The very thought has humbled me more than I can express, and I have been moved to ask myself whether this occasion does open to me a way of duty which is in strictest harmony with the dictates of our holy religion. The young man who has suffered for his father's sin, and of whom you speak so highly, you say desires to escape from what he considers his shame, though it ought to be deemed his glory. Why not let him come hither, my friend, — for as such I can not but esteem you henceforth, — and let me thank the good Father by succoring the son of him who persecuted me? Gladly, humbly, will I perform this duty as an act of praise and thanksgiving to Him who ruleth and over-ruleth all things to his glory. Faithfully, as He was faithful to me, would I perform such trust, tenderly and humbly, so that the young man should never know whose hand was extended to do him kindness. Please to consider this suggestion, and, if it accord with your views, send him to me, assured that I will intermit no effort in his behalf.
I am in truth,
Thy servant and brother in the Lord,
THEOPHILUS JONES
The Fool knew that the fanatic was in serious earnest, and that, despite his ready assumption of the divine act as having been performed in his individual behalf, there was a sort of chivalric devotion to what he deemed duty and religion, which would make him untiring in the performance of his self-imposed trust. So the castigated son of the old squire went to the free West to begin life anew under the protection and patronage of the man whose back was striped at his father's instigation, in the good old days "befo' the wah."