The next morning he sent for the overseer, and directed him to take Aaron into the carriage-house, and give him a slight whipping. "Now do it quietly," said he, "and be sure not to cut his skin. I don't want to hear any disturbance. Do it as gently as possible."

The overseer respectfully a.s.sented and went out. Instantly one of the maids, who had chanced to overhear this conversation, stole out of the house, and sought Aaron.

"Look yer," said she, "you know what ma.s.sa say?"

"Know what ma.s.sa say? No! How I know what he say, when he never spoke to me this mornin'?"

"Well, he say to the overseer--'Aaron must be punish--for he take a dram when Mrs. Clay want him to drive for her--you may take him to the carriage-house and whip him, but don't cut him up.' "

"Don't cut him up! Ma.s.sa say so? Well, well, reckon this chile be ready. Overseer mighty good-- he talk so clever--'pears like he thinks I's white sometimes, but the devil in his eye[.] He done wanted, this long time, get a cut at me. I knows what overseers means when they gets too good. Yah! yah! he thinks now his gwine give this chile all he owes him."

The girl's astonished eyes followed Aaron as he leaped over the fence, and ran toward a small grocery that stood at a short distance on the road to town. Here he had no difficulty in procuring a dram; and, having thus fitted himself for the antic.i.p.ated contest, he walked home, and resumed his work.

Soon the overseer called from the carriage-house door--Aaron!"

"Sir?"

"Come here."

In a moment the slave stood before him.

"Aaron, Mr. Clay says you must come into the carriage-house and be whipped."

"Did Ma.s.sa say so?"

"Yes--he says your habit of drinking annoys your mistress so often, that you must be punished for it. He says he has tried to persuade you to leave it off, but it does no good. I don't like to whip you, Aaron, but it is Mr. Clay's orders."

"Well, if Ma.s.sa says so, then it must be so," and he walked quietly into the carriage-house, followed by his kind friend, the overseer, who fastened the door on the inside.

"Now, Mr.--," said Aaron, "you may whip me, if Ma.s.sa says so, but you needn't tie me--I wont be tied."

"Very well," replied the overseer, throwing down the rope which he had in his hand, "you needn't be tied, if you will stand still; but you must take off your coat."

"Yes sir; but if I take off my coat to be whipped, you ought to take yourn off first to whip me."

The man perceived that he had been drinking, and knew he must indulge his whim, if he would obey Mr. Clay's orders to keep quiet--so he pulled off his coat, and Aaron quickly laid his beside it on the floor. Then followed the vest--the slave insisting that Mr.-- should first remove his own. "Now your shirt, Aaron," said he.

"Yes sir, but you must take off yourn first."

This was going further, for quiet's sake, than the overseer had intended; but he hesitated only a moment. It would be best, he thought, to humor him. He had, in truth, long wished for a chance to humble Aaron, and now the time had come.

But, behold! no sooner had he lifted his arms to pull his shirt over his head, than Aaron seized the garment, and twisting it around his neck, held him fast. Then catching the whip, he applied it vigorously to the overseer's naked back, raising the skin at every stroke. His victim screamed, and threatened him with vengeance, but all in vain; the blows fell hard and fast.

Mr. Clay heard the out cry, and grew very angry.

"I told him," said he, "to make no noise, and to be sure not to whip the poor fellow severely. He must be cutting him to pieces."

He hastened to the carriage-house. The door was fastened within, but he could hear the whizzing of the whip, as it descended on the sufferer's back. "Open the door!" he cried. "Didn't I tell you not to whip him hard? Open the door, I say!["]

"O, Mr. Clay! it's Aaron whipping me! I haven't given him a blow."

"Aaron," cried the master, "open the door."

Instantly the slave obeyed. With his right hand, in which he still held the whip that he had used to such good purpose, he opened the door, while with his left he retained his vice-like grasp of the twisted shirt. His face was all complacency, yet his eyes twinkled with mirth, and a roguish smile lurked at the corner of his mouth.

Mr. Clay stood for a few moments mute with astonishment. But when he fully comprehended the strange scene, he burst into a hearty laugh, and although the overseer, as soon as he was released, proceeded to explain to him the manner in which he had been caught, and insisted that he should now be allowed to whip Aaron, his arguments were lost. The master quietly expressed his opinion that there had been whipping, enough--it was not necessary to go any further.

CHAPTER VI.

MASTER NATTIE'S DEATH.

IN April, 1818, Mr. Young having no further need of Peter's services, Master Nattie sent him to his brother, William Gist, to be employed on his plantation. Here Allison was his companion once more, and the pleasure of being together was in part, a compensation to each for the absence of his brother.

But this joy was transient. Early in the ensuing summer, young Master Andrew came from Alabama for a short visit. He brought news of the health and prosperity of those who had gone with him the year before, and gave glowing descriptions of the beauty of the country. The rich bottom lands, with their grand old trees, the cl.u.s.tering vines and graceful flowering shrubs, and, above all, the abundance of game in the forests, afforded exhaustless topics of discourse.

When he returned, he took Allison with him.

Peter was left all alone, and his heart was very heavy. There was no one now to whom he could communicate all his little trials; none that would sympathize with his griefs. He had nothing but work to divert his thoughts during the day; and at night his dreams, sleeping or waking, were all of that dear brother, that had for so many years trod by his side the rugged path to which they two were doomed.

Soon after the departure of his nephew, Master Nattie's health was observed to fail; and though for a long time he struggled against disease, and would not own that he was ill, yet he was at last obliged to yield. His const.i.tution was worn out by intemperance and the indulgence of evil pa.s.sions; and now, no medicine could r.e.t.a.r.d the steady approach of the Death Angel.

Twice a week, during the summer, Peter was accustomed to go to market. Then he never failed to visit his old master; and as he saw his sunken eye and hollow cheek, and noted his vacant wandering stare, his heart sank within him.

He did not regard his master with affection. Who could love old Nattie Gist? But the sale, ah! if he should die, there would, of course, be an auction, and the traders would be there, and then, adieu to the last hope he had cherished, of one day joining his beloved brother.

The unhappy old man continued to fail. Death stays not at the behest of kings or generals how then should the faint prayer of a poor slave-boy impede his progress?

In loneliness and gloom pa.s.sed the last days of the wretched man.

His housekeeper and cook, Aunt Mary, was his constant nurse. She understood all his wants, and she had learned patiently to bear all his caprices. Her will--her very womanhood--had been crushed into submission to his authority; for though a slave called her his wife, she had for years been forced to disregard her marriage ties, as well as her own honor, in order to indulge the base pa.s.sions of the tyrant.

Now, in the death-hour, the down-trodden woman moistened his parched lips, all heedless of the curses which they uttered. Her hand smoothed his pillow, administered his medicine, and surrounded him with all possible comforts.

Death advanced. On Sat.u.r.day morning, the thirteenth of September, when, according to his custom, Peter went in to see him, the final struggle had commenced. His brother William and the doctor were standing by the bed. Silently they witnessed his agony as he strove with the King of Terrors. There was no light of Christian hope in his glazing eye, no love in his obdurate heart. He would resist--he would live! Why should he die? This world had been gloomy. No love-light had shone upon his path-- no gentle hand had led him through the labyrinths of evil to the Author of all good. And as his lips had loved cursing, why should he look for blessings now? Could he hope for a better life than he had chosen here? Fearful was the frown upon his face as he was forced to yield to the great Conqueror. He struggled --groaned--gasped--he was gone.

Silently they closed his eyes, and horror sat upon every countenance.

They buried him, and raised a stone to his memory. Ah! he chose his own remembrancers! Poor Levin and his fellows need no stone to tell them that a monster lived.

After the funeral Mr. Wm. Gist conveyed the greater part of his brother's property to his place for safe keeping. A will was found conveying to his favorite nephew, Levi Gist, the house and lot in Lexington, as well as all the servants. Whatever money he possessed he left in legacies to his other relatives.

At the time of his death, Master Nattie owned but eleven slaves--the six that went first to Alabama. Aunt Mary, with her two sons, and Allison and Peter. The others he had sold some time before.

Aunt Mary was left in town to take care of the house, till young master Levi should come to take possession of his property. As she went through the familiar rooms, and arranged and re-arranged the furniture, she had time to think. The past rose before her--the dark repulsive past. She bad been young, but it was so long ago--it was hardly worth her while to think of all the hopes that cheered her youth. She was married--and her husband's love shone for a brief time on her pathway; too soon, alas! to be shadowed by the dark pa.s.sions of her absolute master. Two babes had nestled on her bosom, and they, too, were branded with her humiliation.

Now, he was dead--he would curse her life no longer. Ha! what a pang came with that half-uttered gratulation! Dead--and she who had served him so faithfully--who had meekly borne his wrathful curses, and patiently endured the degradation to which he had reduced her--she to whom he was indebted for all the comfort his home had known for years--who had attended him by day and night till the grave closed above his head--she was coolly given to his nephew, to be transported hundreds of miles away. How her great eyes flashed at the thought, as, with her hand upraised, in the solitary room where her master died, she swore she would not go!

Her husband, a native African, named Sam, who still spoke but broken English, was soon to be free, according to contract with his importer. Sam had the spirit of a prince. To live always as a slave he would not consent; and, lest he should kill himself or his master, his liberty was promised him at a stipulated time.