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Antebellum Slave Narratives
Studies in American Popular
History and Culture
JEROME NADELHAFT, General Editor
For a full list of titles in this series, please visit www.routledge.com

Hollywood and the Rise of Daughters of Eve

Physical Culture Pregnant Brides and Unwed Mothers in
Heather Addison Seventeenth-Century Massachusetts
Else L. Hambleton
Homelessness in American Literature
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John Allen and Racial Violence in Wilmington,
North Carolina
No Way of Knowing Leslie H. Hossfeld
Crime, Urban Legends, and the Internet
Pamela Donovan Validating Bachelorhood
Audience, Patriarchy, and
The Making of the Primitive Baptists Charles Brockden Brown’s Editorship
A Cultural and Intellectual History of of the Monthly Magazine and
the Antimission Movement, 1800-1840 American Review
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Women and Comedy in Solo Children and the Criminal Law in

Performance Connecticut, 1635–1855
Phyllis Diller, Lily Tomlin, and Changing Perceptions of Childhood
Roseanne Nancy Hathaway Steenburg
Suzanne Lavin
Books and Libraries in American
The Literature of Immigration and Society during World War II
Racial Formation Weapons in the War of Ideas
Becoming White, Becoming Other, Patti Clayton Becker
Becoming American in the Late
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Linda Joyce Brown American Army Officers’ Wives and
Material Culture, 1840–1880
Popular Culture and the Enduring Robin Dell Campbell
Myth of Chicago, 1871–1968
Lisa Krissoff Boehm The Farm Press, Reform, and Rural
Change, 1895–1920
America’s Fight over Water John J. Fry
The Environmental and Political Effects
of Large-Scale Water Systems State of ‘The Union’
Kevin Wehr Marriage and Free Love in the
Late 1800s
Sandra Ellen Schroer US Textile Production in Historical
Perspective
“My Pen and My Soul Have Ever A Case Study from Massachusetts
Gone Together” Susan M. Ouellette
Thomas Paine and the American
Revolution Women Workers on Strike
Vikki J. Vickers Narratives of Southern Women
Unionists
Agents of Wrath, Sowers of Discord Roxanne Newton
Authority and Dissent in Puritan
Massachusetts, 1630-1655 Hollywood and Anticommunism
Timothy L. Wood HUAC and the Evolution of the Red
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The Quiet Revolutionaries John Joseph Gladchuk
How the Grey Nuns Changed
the Social Welfare Paradigm of Negotiating Motherhood in
Lewiston, Maine Nineteenth-Century American
Susan P. Hudson Literature
Mary McCartin Wearn
Cleaning Up
The Transformation of Domestic The Gay Liberation Youth Movement
Service in Twentieth-Century in New York
New York City “An Army of Lovers Cannot Fail”
Alana Erickson Coble Stephan L. Cohen

Feminist Revolution in Literacy Gender and the American

Women’s Bookstores in the Temperance Movement of the
United States Nineteenth Century
Junko R. Onosaka Holly Berkley Fletcher

Great Depression and the The Struggle For Free Speech in the
Middle Class United States, 1872–1915
Experts, Collegiate Youth and Edward Bliss Foote, Edward Bond
Business Ideology, Foote, and Anti-Comstock Operations
1929–1941 Janice Ruth Wood
Mary C. McComb
The Marketing of Edgar Allan Poe
Labor and Laborers of the Loom Jonathan H. Hartmann
Mechanization and Handloom
Weavers, 1780–1840 Language, Gender, and Citizenship
Gail Fowler Mohanty in American Literature, 1789–1919
Amy Dunham Strand
“The First of Causes to Our Sex”
The Female Moral Reform Movement Antebellum Slave Narratives
in the Antebellum Northeast, Cultural and Political Expressions
1834–1848 of Africa
Daniel S. Wright Jermaine O. Archer
Antebellum Slave Narratives
Cultural and Political Expressions of Africa

Jermaine O. Archer

New York London

First published 2009
by Routledge
270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016

Simultaneously published in the UK

by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2008.

“To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s
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© 2009 Taylor & Francis

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Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Archer, Jermaine O.
Antebellum slave narratives : cultural and political expressions of Africa / by Jermaine
O. Archer.
p. cm.—(Studies in American popular history and culture)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Slave narratives—United States—History and criticism. 2. American
literature—African American authors—History and criticism. 3. Pan-Africanism in
literature. 4. Africa—In literature. 5. Africa—Social life and customs. 6. Africa—
Politics and government. I. Title.
E444.A73 2009
306.3'62092—dc22
2008036728

ISBN 0-203-88168-0 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN10: 0-415-99027-0 (hbk)

ISBN10: 0-203-88168-0 (ebk)

ISBN13: 978-0-415-99027-1 (hbk)

ISBN13: 978-0-203-88168-2 (ebk)
Contents

Preface ix
Acknowledgements xiii

1 “Speaking Guinea and a Mixture of Everything Else”:

The Slave Narratives of Frederick Douglass Revisited 1

2 William Wells Brown: Subtle Whispers of

Slave Culture, Pan-Africanism, and Insurgency 21

3 “Moses Is Got De Charm”:

Harriet Tubman’s Mosaic Persona 38

4 Harriet Jacobs: A Larger Discussion of the

John Kuner Parade and Other Cultural Recollections 54

5 Discourse on the Slave Narrative and a

New Interpretation of Black Anti-Slavery Ideology 71

Notes 89
Bibliography 115
Index 123
Preface

TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!

Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon’s earless den;
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There’s not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.

—William Worsdworth, “To Toussaint L’OVERTURE,” 1803.1

When Arna Bontemps wrote Black Thunder (1936), a historical novel

based on the 1800 Virginia slave conspiracy led by Gabriel Prosser, he must
have had William Wordsworth’s poem in mind when he titled the fourth
section of the book “A Breathing of the Common Wind.”2 Wordsworth,
a renowned poet of the English Romantic movement, opposed what he
believed to be an oppressive French aristocracy and was a staunch sup-
porter of the 1789 Revolution that toppled the regime. 3 His poem To Tous-
saint L’OUVERTURE reveals that he championed the leader of the related
Haitian (formerly San Domingo) rebellion of 1791 in which blacks success-
fully overthrew the French Army and established the fi rst black republic
in the Americas. The Jacobin tradition, the radical faction of the French
Revolution, bequeathed its political principals to the Haitian dissenters and
it was reported that some of the Jacobin immigrants also had a hand in
Gabriel’s scheme. It is this connection of ideological parallels between the
movements that Bontemps explores in Black Thunder.4
Bontemps was inspired to write the book after combing through the
slave narrative collection held at Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee
during the 1930s. He became fascinated with the accounts of slave resis-
tance and was particularly intrigued with Gabriel Prosser.5 Bontemps’s
x Preface
literary treatment of the plot seems to suggest that “a breathing of the com-
mon wind” may have also been a reference to the shared African cultural
currents between the people of San Domingo and the slaves of Virginia. It
was rumored that the Haitian revolution was successful because the insur-
gents engaged in African ritual by sacrificing a pig and drinking the blood
to ensure their victory.6 Bontemps’s Gabriel, on the other hand, distanced
himself from the African beliefs and rituals of his community and a num-
ber of his coconspirators were convinced that such neglect prevented the
successful execution of their plot.7
While the conspiracy became unraveled when two slaves of a neigh-
boring plantation disclosed its details to their masters, even Gabriel ulti-
mately attributed the collapse of the scheme to his failure to ritualistically
acknowledge the gods and take heed to the “signs” that the stars were not
in his favor. Insurgents worried that Gabriel did not spiritually arm him-
self as “Toussaint over yonder in San Domingo” had. They believed that
if Gabriel had only accepted the protective charms fashioned by conjure
doctors and interpreted the poor weather conditions as divine caveats, he
might have achieved his goal. His decision to distance himself from some
of the African beliefs and rituals of his community resulted in the fateful
demise of his plot.8
Given the widespread descriptions of African culture located within
antebellum slave narratives, particularly those published during the Garri-
sonian abolitionist movement, it is small wonder that Bontemps, an excep-
tional scholar on the narrative, includes this material in Black Thunder.9
References to the belief in protective talismans to ward off physical and
spiritual danger are found throughout a number of slave narratives.
Bontemps also hints that he understood the centrality that the ring shout,
one of the many common African cultural threads linking the narratives of
Frederick Douglass, William Wells Brown, Harriet Tubman, and Harriet
Jacobs, had to black spiritual expressions. Describing the galvanization of
the rebels, one of Bontemps’s characters says, “they’ll drop out of the sky
when they hears sticks a-cracking together and drums a-beating. They’ll
come shouting like jackals and hyenas.”10 Perhaps Bontemps was thinking
of Douglass’s recollections of hearing a wild hoarse laugh emerge from a
circle of dancers on his Maryland plantation or of Brown’s telling account
of the ring shout ceremonies he witnessed in St. Louis, New Orleans, and
Tennessee. Or maybe he drew from the North or South Carolinian exam-
ples offered by Jacobs and Tubman. Bontemps certainly had ample exam-
ples from which to choose.
The slave narratives in what becomes the United States are among the
most compelling sources for examining the slaves’ remembrance of Africa.
This investigation is a meditation on the common cultural and political
winds between slaves and their African forebears and contemporaries. While
there are over six thousand extant narratives spanning from 1703 to 1944,
the most significant literary period of the genre occurred between 1836 and
 Preface xi
the 1860s. The narratives of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries
tend to focus on the theme of adventure as the authors were primarily con-
cerned with providing accounts of their own individual escape.11
With the growth of Garrisonian abolitionism in the 1830s the tone of
the slave narratives shifted. Since the texts were now being fi nanced and
produced by a Garrisonian-influenced anti-slavery press, the authors were
given greater leverage to express a class consciousness. No longer did they
have to be silent about the hypocrisy of southern religion or minimize the
wrongs that had been committed against them. This period ushered in a
new wave of what may be referred to as “radical narratives” as the authors
not only called for the preservation of an anti-slavery Christianity and
questioned the morality of the slave-owning class, but also relayed their
connections with African culture.
The narratives are not texts of cultural discontinuity and disruption.12
Rather they are treatises on anti-slavery politics with underlying expres-
sions of cultural memory. This project devotes specific attention to the nar-
ratives of Douglass, Brown, Tubman, and Jacobs because these individuals
not only left us with their rich memoirs, but they also became well- known
activist reformers who offered keen observations on African cultural while
moving in highly visible political circles.
The first chapter lends close attention to the cultural and political atti-
tudes found in the three narratives of Frederick Douglass. Not only does
he offer insightful commentary on religion, dance, and conjuration within
the slave quarters, he also straddled the political fence. Douglass has often
been considered a moderate assimilationist. Yet, his writings and speeches
also demonstrate a political and social “radicalism” that was intrinsic to his
character. While Douglass may have at times realized the practical need to
dismiss the value of African culture given both contemporary perceptions
and his exalted status as an advocate for abolitionism he still in subtle and
even explicit ways demonstrated an appreciation for African culture and a
desire to bring down the slave power by any measure of resistance necessary.
This along with his critique of southern religion and his tendency to differ-
entiate between the Christianity of the slaves and that of the master class
makes Douglass an even more complex figure than we have imagined.
The second chapter provides a similar assessment of William Wells
Brown who, like Douglass, has often been considered a moderate inte-
grationist. Brown’s texts offers a unique perspective to the popular book-
length narratives of the nineteenth century because his cultural views on
culture and radical political ideas can be examined in light of his other
writings. Brown was the only author of slave narratives to also write his-
tories, novels, and dramatic pieces and the chapter on him raises the query
of how each of these genres substantiate or refute the themes he addresses
in his narrative.
The third and fourth chapters probe the slave narratives of two of the
most renowned women of the slavery era—Harriet Tubman and Harriet
xii Preface
Jacobs respectively. Tubman is by far the most noted woman of the slave
class. However, little has been written on her beyond the genre of juvenile
literature. It is suggested in the third chapter that Tubman’s association
with the biblical figure Moses was not limited to her role as “liberator.”
Relying on the anthropological and historical writings of Zora Neale Hur-
ston and others who have explored the conjurational nature of Moses in
the black folk tradition as one who is often associated with African deities,
this chapter concludes that Tubman as a seer, self-proclaimed communi-
cant with God, and root-worker represented Moses in the fullest sense of
African-American spiritual constructions.
The fourth chapter on Jacobs examines her remarkable references to
pharmacopoeia methods that mirrored African healing techniques. Sig-
nificant attention is also given to her intriguing remarks on visions and of
the annual John Kunering parade in North Carolina. While various forms
of Kunering have been documented in regions throughout the African
Diaspora, scholars agree that the festival was confi ned to North Carolina
in the United States. It is postulated here that the parade may have extended
to South Carolina. This chapter also endeavors to answer the question of
whether or not the appropriation of the Canoe or houseboat in the Kuner-
ing festival had something to do with escape or the idea of returning back
to Africa.
The fi nal chapter shows how my research fits within the larger historio-
graphical discussion on the slave narrative and the abolitionist movement.
I offer a new interpretation on U.S. anti-slavery ideology by arguing that
African attempts to thwart the Atlantic slave trade, such as the marabout
movement of seventeenth-century Senegambia, which spurred a string of
resistance movements in the region throughout the eighteenth century,
must be considered when examining the foundations of abolitionism.
The slave narratives not only reflect the individual lives of those few per-
sons fortunate enough to tell their stories but also serve as critical sources
for the slave community as the authors tell of their experiences with slaves
across plantations and states, thus making this project more than an intel-
lectual analysis of a select few who had the opportunity to use such medi-
ums. These memoirs are much more than tales of bondage and freedom.
Indeed, they are vital tools for all students of African-American folklore
and, as will be argued, for uncovering African cultural continuities. When
one wonders how slaves endured their condition, an important part of the
answer can be found in the slaves breathing of the common African wind
that is found throughout the slave narrative.
Acknowledgements

One of my earliest and fondest childhood memories is of my grandmother

opening the wooden chest that my Uncle Bruce had brought back from
his travels in Africa and fortuitously retrieving its items and placing them
before me to let me make of them what I would. Her fascination with its
treasures was matched by my youthful intrigue. The multi-colored gar-
ments, hand crafted statuettes and masks, and glimmering jewelry were
enough to make any five-year-old feel as though they had encountered a
vast wealth of play objects that could lead them on a journey beyond their
imagination. The subtle and unassuming dialogue of cultural instruction
from the senior matriarch of my family marked the early beginnings of my
understanding of who I was and from whom I had come. In many ways the
relationship resembled the connection between Frederick Douglass and his
grandmother Betsy Bailey, and Harriet Jacobs and her grandmother Molly
Hornblow. Much like Betsy and Molly, my grandmother offered valuable
lessons of history and genealogy by making me aware that the continent
from which my ancestors originated was graced with a profound stroke of
intellectual and artistic genius that was as great as any on the globe.
My conception of Africa was never remote or intangible largely because
of Uncle Bruce’s voyage across the Atlantic and my grandmother’s commit-
ment to see to it that I embarked on the same journey as far as a young lad
could without boarding a plane. Before I realized that I was the descendant
of slaves, I knew that I was the descendant of Africans. I am beholden to
my grandmother and other family members for planting the seeds that have
shaped my passion for African-American history.
I am particularly indebted to my dear mother Cheryl Archer, a native
of the Bronx, New York who is of the folk and for the folk. Her strength
and straightforwardness have sustained me. It was my mother’s love for
books that instilled in me a thirst for knowledge. Her children’s happiness
has always been her primary concern and for that I am grateful. My father
Bernardo Archer, an Afro-Costa Rican of Jamaican decent, exemplifies the
leadership and promise of the working class. His dedication to the plight of
dock workers and laborers on banana plantations instilled in me a desire
to give voice to the downtrodden. While working on this project he shared
xiv Acknowledgements
with me his remarkable knowledge of African culture in Latin America and
the British Caribbean.
The work ethic of my siblings Jeff, Junior, Tanya, and Octavius inspires
me to push forward. I am thankful for their examples of consistency and
dedication. My wonderful relatives, the Singleton family of Boston, have
always opened their hearts and it is in large part to them that I owe my
sense of extended kinship. My loving mother-in-law, Vicki Springer, has
made sure her home is my home. Her thoughtfulness is humbling.
Among noteworthy colleagues and friends who have shared insightful
ideas about this project are Sterling Stuckey, Michael Gomez, Douglass
Daniels, Ray Kea, Ralph Crowder, Daniel Black, Rinaldo Murray, Aubrey
Bonnett, Rosalyn Baxandall, Elizabeth Ewen, Amanda Frisken, Anya Den-
nis, Kenya Casey, Jason Young, Walter Rucker, Rahel Kassahun, Ramona
Washington, Kwakiutl Dreher, Angie Beatty, and Dean Rodrigues. While
a list of all my family members and peers would be too lengthy to include
here, I wish to thank them for their encouragement whenever appropriate.
I am because you are.
I extend a most special note of appreciation to my wife Celeste and
our daughter Sanaya. Celeste has provided unparalleled companionship,
understanding, and support. Her drive and inner strength are amazing to
observe. I honor Celeste with deep gratitude for the selfless nurturer that
she is. I know of no one with a purer and kinder spirit. Even at her young
age Sanaya’s zeal and priceless smile serves as a constant reminder that the
tender simplicities of life are indeed its miracles. She is our joy.
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
“Get up!” she sternly said.
“Here is news to frighten even you into being a man for a day.
Senator Garston died last night of heart disease at the Hotel
Belgravia.”
“Good God! We are ruined!” cried Vreeland.
“For all your fortune was in his hands. You have not a scrap of paper
to show for it.”
“What do I care for the money!” she sobbed. “I am alone in the world
now.”
 CHAPTER XV.

IN THE DARK WATERS.

Senator David Alynton’s first duty on reaching the Hotel Belgravia

was to hold a private conference with the confidential friend in whose
rooms the Senator-elect had so strangely died. The body of the dead
millionaire had been removed at once to his own personal
apartments at the Hotel Plaza, where the travelers found assembled
Garston’s lawyer, his physician, with his body servant. The private
secretary was in charge, under the superintendence of a cool
representative of the International Trust Company.
It touched Alynton to the heart, this lonely death chamber; for it
seemed that “there was no one left to mourn for Logan.”
It is true that Mrs. Katharine Vreeland, in deepest black, was
kneeling silently there at the foot of the coffin, ostentatiously
supported by Mrs. Volney McMorris, whose social splendors were
judiciously darkened for the time being by bits of crepe, like the
veiling of the “bright work” on a fire engine at an old Volunteer
Department funeral.
“Are there no near family relatives?” asked Alynton, in a muffled
voice, as he gazed upon the majestic frame of the man who had
fought himself up from disgrace to the Tantalus cup of triumph. It
seemed a dreary, a lonely, an unwept taking-off!
“It seems not,” guardedly answered the Trust Company’s factotum.
“We have his will in charge. The young lady kneeling there will be a
large beneficiary, and besides her, there is only one other legatee,
who it seems is a ward of Mrs. Elaine Willoughby, the great woman
stock operator.”
Senator Alynton started in surprise. “As the late Mr. Garston was
only a Senator-elect, I presume there will be no Governmental notice
taken of his decease.
“We look, therefore, to you, Senator Alynton, to Mr. Haygood
Apchurch, his old friend (in whose rooms he died) and to these two
interested young women beneficiaries, for all directions as to the
funeral.”
“That is,” hastily added the Trust Company’s Cerberus, “if no swarm
of hungry relatives, no duplicate wives nor mysterious claimants turn
up when the Associated Press dispatches have been read all over
America.
“Such things have happened before.”
“It seems strange,” mused Alynton, after giving a few brief directions,
“that such a man lived and died entirely unloved.”
But goaded on by self-interest, he hastened away to the “Circassia,”
after vainly telephoning all over New York for Harold Vreeland. The
“rising star” was in a dark eclipse!
At the Hotel Savoy, the suave head clerk, with a sigh, admitted that
the young banker’s habits were now very “irregular.”
“He has not been seen to-day. He went out very early,” was the
clerk’s report, and he vaguely indicated Vreeland’s principal
operations with an upward sweep of his lily-white hand.
The clerk was a purist in manner, and only beginning himself to drink
secretly. He was not yet in the dark waters!
Senator Alynton found Mrs. Elaine Willoughby strictly denied to all
visitors. It was to the clear-eyed cripple that he gravely handed his
card.
“Please say to Mrs. Willoughby that I must see her before Senator
Garston’s funeral. I am at the Waldorf, and will come at once on her
summons.”
On his way to the Belgravia, Senator Alynton read the “copious
accounts” in the leading journals. The case seemed to be a clear
one. The newspapers confirmed Mr. Haygood Apchurch’s statement
that the dead millionaire had borrowed his friend’s apartments to use
a couple of weeks in briefing up a great speech upon “the financial
situation.” A speech destined never to be delivered!
In fact, some of the drafts of the future masterpiece, and the usual
personal contents of a rich man’s pocketbook were the only papers
found in the rooms. There was not even the foundation stone of a
mystery.
The checks, railway passes, club cards, etc., were not accompanied
by a single family paper.
It was “justly remarked by all that the country had sustained a great
loss in the counsels of so distinguished and successful a Western
money magnate as James Garston,” etc., in the usual vein.
Alynton glanced over the platitudes as to being “cut off in his prime,”
the usual references, de rigueur, to the “zenith of his powers,” and
his being a man of “an already national reputation”—the lightly
tossed journalistic wreath of immortelles!
One or two daring writers had timidly referred to the long fight which
had raised the deceased from a working Western low-grade lawyer
in a mining town to a money power in the financial centers of the
East and West.
“That no immediate family falls heir to the honorable record of the
departed is an element of sadness crowning a lonely career,
embittered by many hard struggles with fate.”
Such perfunctory phrases covered the gap between the unknown
past of the “man who had arrived” and the lonely splendor of his final
elevation.
After Alynton had satisfied himself that Mr. Haygood Apchurch knew
nothing whatever of Garston’s past, the distinguished member of the
secret syndicate drove rapidly down to Judge Hiram Endicott’s office.
His mind was now agitated with fears of the future of the sugar
speculating syndicate of a “few friends.”
In his feverish haste to make the living safe he had already forgotten
the unloved dead man. He had not disturbed the silent grief of the
repentant woman who bent over the pale silent lips now sealed in
death.
The eyes were sightless now which had thrilled their unspoken
messages into her very soul.
And the stormy heart of James Garston was as cold and pulseless
as the marble wherein the tenantless shell would soon lie in the long
rest.
Suddenly Katharine Vreeland threw up her arms and fell at the feet
of her woman friend, wildly sobbing—
“There lies the only heart in God’s world that ever beat for me!”
“Ah! Some one loved him after all,” mused the Trust Company’s
financial representative. “She deserves her good fortune. I wonder
does she know of the other one?” His mind was busied with curious
conjectures as to the source of the dead man’s generosity.
But the gates of the past were swung forever. The trembling heart of
the “Western heiress” held a secret that was now sealed behind the
mask of Garston’s waxen face.
For the strong man, loyal in his darling sin, was true as steel to the
last, and the hidden crime of two lives “left no dark plume as a
token.”
Alynton, closeted with Judge Endicott, was now urgent in his
demand that Mrs. Elaine Willoughby should at once erase the name
of the dead Senator from the dangerous document held by her in a
mysterious trust. “That document must never see the light.” It must
be destroyed at once, and a new “round robin” signed.
“It will have to be surrendered now, and a new one made,” anxiously
said the excited millionaire.
“We owe safety to our living associates, and perfect faith to our allied
friends of the Sugar Syndicate.”
“Perhaps as Mrs. Willoughby was a close friend of Garston’s she
may know some of the details of his early life. I wish that you would
have her guide me. Go and see her. I am in practical charge of the
funeral, and so shall be very busy.”
“What can she know?” demanded the old lawyer.
“I’m told by the Trust Company’s man that he has left half of his great
fortune to a young ward of Mrs. Willoughby’s—some young girl.”
There was a tinkling sound of breakage.
Alynton gazed curiously at the old Judge as he slowly picked up the
fragments of his shattered eyeglasses.
“You are right. Do nothing till you hear from me. I will go to her, and
come to you at the Waldorf,” said the startled lawyer. “She should
know of this at once.”
“Thank God! He knows nothing of Garston’s mad pursuit of Elaine in
marriage and his schemes about her child. He even thinks them
friends. Better so. But, the girl must return at once. Death has made
her way smooth.” And Endicott went sighing on his way.
Telephoning for Hugh Conyers, the old advocate hastened to the
“Circassia” to a conference with the white-faced invalid who burst
into a storm of tears when Endicott told her the story of the strange
legacy.
“Let Hugh cable at once to Stockholm. Have them come back here
by Havre, without a moment’s delay. Let him sign all three of our
names, and let him also send a separate cable to Sara that Romaine
is to know nothing of the death, and not a word as yet, of this strange
legacy. I will inform her of that myself,” she sobbed. “It is all so
strange, so ghastly,” she murmured.
The self-protective instinct of the mother brought to her a new life.
“No one knows; no one even suspects. There is not a single whisper.
Thank God!” And then she vowed on her knees, when left alone, to
be brave and true for the child’s sake.
And Hiram Endicott respected her imperial grief. When he returned
from dispatching Conyers to recall the fatherless child, he mused: “It
is better that I should know nothing more, for there is a strange
tangle here.”
And so he was not astonished when his client bade him come back
to her on the morrow to escort her to the room of Garston’s last
solemn public reception.
“I must see him again for Romaine’s sake. I must look once more
upon the face of the father of my child,” was the solemn voice of
Nature sweeping away all the meshes of the frail barrier of human
hatred which had held them apart.
“God is merciful,” she murmured. “Romaine shall never know, and
only learn to wonder over the benefaction of an unknown but
generous hand.
“And now, his public name, his barren honors can never be soiled by
man’s cold sneer. It is the blessed nepenthe of the silent grave.”
Elaine Willoughby was recalled to a need of stern and instant action
by Endicott’s demand for the document, the vastly dangerous paper
whose existence now alarmed Senator Alynton. And all alert, she
bade her schoolboy servitor summon Roundsman Daly instantly.
“I must forego my full vengeance on Vreeland,” she murmured, “to
save my friends. The paper once regained, I can leave the Street
forever, but Vreeland’s silence must be first assured. It is better to
steal it from its hiding-place, and not wait to trap him there.”
She was keenly suspicious of Justine Duprez, who, hollow-eyed and
half-defiant, now demanded an absence of a few days on urgent
private affairs. The girl’s burning fever of fear for her lover was
almost an ecstasy of jealous agony. She feared a coming storm.
With a single touch of the bell, the Lady of Lakemere called in the
private detective. “Detain that woman here, even by the strongest
use of force, till Roundsman Daly comes,” she said, with flashing
eyes.
“She is dangerous. Remember! force if needed. And, do not lose her
from your sight an instant.”
In ten minutes, Daly, with a strange light of battle in his eyes, stood
before Mrs. Willoughby. “It is now just the time to spring the trap!” he
said. “I have two men steadily on watch down in South Fifth Avenue.
Vreeland has been lurking around here to warn Justine to meet him
at once. He intends, I am sure, to leave the country, for I have
already arrested Helms and the letter-carrier, Mulholland. You must
act, and at once, or you will lose the bird.”
“Then,” cried Elaine Willoughby, turning ashen in her heart-sinking,
“hasten to the rooms yourself. Arrest him! Get the paper! It must
come to me alone, whatever happens—remember that. There is
human life, public honor and the happiness of innocent hearts all
hanging on your success. For God’s sake, hasten! Bring me that
paper!” A ferocious joy gleamed in Daly’s eyes.
He felt for his Colt’s police pistol and his steel handcuffs.
“Hold the Frenchwoman tightly. Lock her up by force! I will be here in
an hour, and the paper shall reach no one’s eyes but mine.
“But as to Justine, let Dobson arrest her, and handcuff her. Give her
a good frightening, but watch her that she does herself no harm.”
As Daly stole down the side stairs of the “Circassia,” there was a
muffled scream as the handcuffs closed on the plump wrists of
Justine Duprez. It was the beginning of the end, and Harold
Vreeland had lost his last friend. He was in the jaws of Fate now.
“Dobson has made sure. Now for my man, and to pay off old
scores!” cried Dan Daly, as he sprang into a carriage.
“To South Fifth Avenue!” he cried. “Drive like hell. I’ll make you rich
for a year!” he sharply commanded.
Far away, crouching in the squalid room, watching the frail door and
listening for the sound of a well-known footstep, haggard-eyed and
desperate, Harold Vreeland waited like a wolf at bay. His brain,
burning with alcohol, was now reeling with the violence of his
emotions.
“Only to square her with money, to get her away to the rendezvous in
Paris, or to see her safely in hiding among the French déclassées
here till she can sneak away. Then I’ll remove the paper, and after
that take the first steamer and seek safety and revenge!
“I can get a steerage suite at Hoboken. There are several steamers
to-morrow morning. No one will know, and I’ve money enough left for
a whole year.” He felt for the twenty bills of a thousand dollars each
which he had held back from the check begged from Garston. A
legacy of unsuspected shame!
Tired and wearied, he returned again and again to his brandy flask.
And then his head dropped and his cigar fell from his hand as he
dropped into a half-drunken stupor.
He awoke at a slight noise and raised his head. He fixed his glazed
eyes on the door.
“She is coming!” he muttered. “I’ll get the paper out now, and all will
be ready for a start.”
With a knife, he sprang back the loose plating from the door frame.
Standing on a chair, he had already grasped the paper in his
trembling hand when the door suddenly gave way with a crash, and
three burly men leaped into the room.
He sprang to the floor, but strong arms seized him.
For the first time in his life, Harold Vreeland felt the snapping of
handcuffs. “The jig is up!” cried Daly, facing the astounded culprit.
“I arrest you, Harold Vreeland, for robbing the United States mail,”
cried a deputy marshal; but Dan Daly had already wrenched the
stolen document from the hand of the ruined trickster. He
remembered the last injunctions of the woman he served.
It was now safely hidden in his breast and lying against the picture of
the girl whom Daly had sworn to make the happiest wife in New
York. The one who would rule his little home!
“Hold on to him, boys!” cried Daly, as he stepped away into a side
room and anxiously gazed at the paper which he had recovered.
Yes, it was the same one, for he had only waited weeks to catch the
scoundrel with the document in his unlawful possession. The secret
of the hiding-place was his alone. He called the schoolboy a
“shadow” no longer, for the work was done.
“Take my carriage. Get back and tell the mistress that I have got the
paper she wants. Speak to no one else; and tell her that Vreeland
will be put in a cell alone in Ludlow Street Jail as a United States
prisoner. He’ll have no chance to talk!
“I’ll follow you up soon, see her, and then go and have him stowed
away. I will bring the paper up to her myself. Hurry now, for God’s
sake! I’ll take Helms and that French devil away later. Tell her not to
breathe a word to a living soul. I am acting outside of the law.
“Any one of the stolen letters that we found with Helms will do to
convict him with. I’ve got one here to show up,” mused Daly, “and
now the three wretches up there will all be eager to confess. It only
remains to nab that scoundrel Alberg, and to face him with the
returned Wilmot woman. It’s nearly all over. My God! What’s that?”
Dan Daly sprang back into the main room, pistol in hand, as a
deafening explosion rang out. His eyes rested on a body lying at his
feet.
“How did this happen?” he yelled, as one of the detectives excitedly
knelt over Harold Vreeland lying there dying on the floor.
The last words came faintly to Vreeland’s trembling lips, flecked with
a bloody froth:
“Justine, poor girl, tell her—money—oh, God!—water!—water!”—
muttered the dying man, as his head fell back. He lay there, the man
of art and graces—the man who had played out the lone hand in Life
—dead at their feet, with the steel bands still upon his pulseless
wrists. It was a barren victory!
“It was all done quick as a flash, Dan!” whispered the disgraced
detective. “He was seemingly docile, and asked me for a drink of
water as you went out. I turned to get it. He had seen me put back
my pistol.
“With his handcuffed hands he swiftly plucked it out, then one touch
of the trigger, and there he lies.”
“It is the will of God,” said Daly, gravely. “There’ll be no newspaper
scandal and public exposure now. He has gone before the higher
court. Wait here. Let no one enter. We must call it a drink suicide.”
Daly leaped away like a leopard on the chase to be the first to seal
Mrs. Willoughby’s lips forever as to this happening, and to hand over
the document which had cost the dead scoundrel his life. With grave
faces, the detectives watched the stiffening form upon the floor. The
“rising star” had set forever!
Only the silent, weeping, widowed woman at the Hotel Savoy knew
the whirlwind of baffled hate which had filled Vreeland’s wretched
breast as he staggered away from his wife’s rooms that morning.
Their quarrel had been the unveiling of an unpunished crime—a
tangle of sin and shame.
For smarting under the loss of a “financial backer” who could not
refuse him money advances, Vreeland had faced his wife with the
direct query, so long withheld, as to her separate property.
“You must now aid me with your cash, money, property or whatever
else you have. Garston’s death leaves me without a friend.”
Standing among the scattered pyramids of fashion’s evening
uniforms, Katharine Vreeland turned her bright, defiant eyes upon
the half-insane speculator. How she despised him in her guilty heart!
“I have neither money nor friends. All I had to hope for died with
James Garston. You were not man enough to demand an accounting
of the living.
“And now death pays all debts. I have absolutely nothing to show—”
Vreeland had seized his wife’s wrist.
“You were his—”
“Ward,” quietly retorted the beautiful rebel.
“And, sir, you took me as I took you, on trust! They told me that you
were rich. I find you out to be a mere coward—a fool and a weakling,
too! You have thrown away the handsome fortune which James
Garston gave you. What has become of your own money?
“And your humbug ‘business interests’ down in Wall Street. Were
you, too, only an ‘outside agent’ for Mrs. Willoughby—a mere paper
screen for her speculations? What have you to show me?”
Vreeland’s whitened face proved his silent rage. “Our paths separate
here!” bitterly said Katharine Vreeland. “If you have nothing, I have
less. Not even a husband! Do you see that door?” she cried, with
flashing eyes.
“Never cross its threshold again. Leave me to my dead friend, my
dead hopes, my dead heart—and my poverty.” She was brave to the
last, even in her abandonment.
With a last curse, lost upon the ears of the defiant woman now
hidden in her own room, Vreeland had turned away to his flight,
leaving his wife penniless, and he departed with but one last mad
hope.
To bear away Justine Duprez, the only witness, to rescue the
incriminating document, and then divide with the artful Frenchwoman
the remaining twenty thousand dollars of the loan forced from
Garston. For his deserted wife he had not even a thought!
“Once safe in Paris, Justine can easily hide me there. I can easily
extort a fortune from Mrs. Willoughby and her rich associates.
Justine can marry and have her petit hôtel. The document will be a
wellspring of flowing golden treasure.”
And so in his last hours of life, the woman whom he would once
have sacrificed became his only hope, and to draw her to his
presence at their only safe trysting place he had gone to the
“Circassia” for the last time. But she could not see his furtive signals,
his hovering around. She herself was under lock and key now!
The artful schemer proved in death the truth of Mr. James Potter’s
favorite adage, for his punishment “came around, like everything
else, to the man who waited,” and he only waited in vain, for Justine
Duprez’s footfall. But, grim Death found him out red-handed in his
miserable treachery.
Judge Endicott was closeted with Mrs. Willoughby as Roundsman
Dan Daly sprang into the room and led the trembling woman to a
corner.
When they were alone, Daly whispered:
“Just step into your own room and see if this is all right.
“For God’s sake, never tell a human soul how you got it back. I have
gone beyond my duty to get this into your hands. I would be cast off
the force, punished and disgraced.”
The old lawyer heard Elaine Willoughby’s cry of affright when Daly
told her that Vreeland lay dead by his own hand in the squalid
trysting place of sin.
Hugh Conyers, with a fine prescience of some coming tragedy, had
held the boy messenger under his own eye in the rooms where he
sat guarding Justine until her partner in crime should have been
seized.
“Let no one know, not even him!” begged Daly. “Let the world always
think it to have been a suicide induced by drink and overspeculation.
I can cover it all up.
“Your daughter is safe now. Trust to no one but Conyers. Tell him the
whole story, for, he loves the very ground you walk on.”
There was a strange pallor on Elaine’s face as she laid her finger on
her lips.
“You have saved the happiness of three women, their future, and
their peace of heart and soul. Do not stir. I must have time to think,”
she whispered, as she glided away.
Murmuring, “Dead! dead! in all his unfinished villainy!” she walked
calmly back into the room where the old lawyer awaited her final
answer to Senator Alynton’s urgent prayers.
“Go, my friend! Go! Bring Senator Alynton here at once,” cried the
desperate woman.
“In your presence only, I will return to him the document which he
demands. And its return marks my divorce for life from the Street. I
have signed my last check for stocks, and my heart says Never
Again!
“Go quickly; for when Romaine arrives I wish to be only the Lady of
Lakemere. I have stepped down and out. I abdicate! There’s no
longer a Queen of the Street.
“Noel Endicott can close up all my affairs under your directions.”
“And, Vreeland?” anxiously cried Judge Endicott. The woman’s lips
trembled. “I shall never see him again,” she faltered.
“Go now, for my strength fails, and I wish to be rid of the dangerous
trust forever—this terrible paper which is lying a weight upon my
heart.”
When the old advocate hastened away, then Elaine Willoughby
turned like a tigress at bay.
“Bring Conyers here. I must think! Think! You may yet save us all!”
The policeman darted away.
In five minutes, Daly had recounted the whole story to Hugh
Conyers, who sat holding the woman’s trembling hands.
“I must go back now. Give me your orders. The newspapers are all
that I fear! We must outwit them.”
“Is there not a French restaurant on the ground floor of this haunt
down there?” said Conyers.
“Yes, yes!” impatiently cried Daly.
“Then,” calmly answered Hugh Conyers, “the story goes as follows:
Vreeland, after a hard-drinking bout, had secretly wandered, half-
mad, upstairs and took his life in the first room found open.
“You will remove his body to the Elmleaf apartments. I will send
young Kelly down there to prepare Bagley for the last visit of his
master.”
“And must I notify the Coroner when the body is there?” demanded
the Roundsman, in admiration of the plan.
“Yes, and tell your own story. Keep the deputy marshals quiet. I’ll see
that they are all well rewarded. I will telephone down to the Wall
Street office that Mr. Vreeland has died by accident. I will meet
Maitland, Wyman and Noel Endicott at the Elmleaf.
“One of them can go over and notify Vreeland’s wife, and so, the
whole thing rests safely in our hands.”
“Helms and Mulholland?” questioned Roundsman Daly.
“Let them be safely locked up in Ludlow Street Jail, separately. The
poor letter-carrier will soon confess, and he can be pardoned. He
has only been a tool. Helms can be allowed to leave the country. He
will never talk!
“And to-night, I will face Justine with Martha Wilmot, and then have
her whole confession.”
“That scoundrel, Doctor Alberg?” moodily demanded Daly, as he
moved to the door.
“He will never be heard of after the news of Vreeland’s suicide is
published. Let him slink away; that will be the easiest way to get rid
of him.”
When Daly had departed, Mrs. Willoughby clasped both Conyers’
hands in her trembling palms. The grateful light in her eyes was
shadowed with tears.
“You would save me, Hugh?” she faltered.
“All trouble, all annoyance, all sorrow,” said the journalist, as he rose.
“I must be busy now. See no one. Speak to no one, and above all
never tell Endicott nor Alynton nor any single living soul the
baseness of the man who lies dead down there.”
“You are my saviour,” she murmured; “I will obey; I have only one
matter to close up with Senator Alynton, and then, I am free,” she
said with downcast eyes.
As Conyers went sadly away, he moodily added: “And that is to
answer ‘Yes’ to his offer of his hand and fortune.”
Hugh Conyers was absent, engaged in throwing the mantle of
charity about Vreeland’s sudden death, when Senator Alynton was
led into Elaine’s presence by Judge Endicott.
It was only a matter of a few moments for the load to be lifted from
the woman’s agitated heart. “There is no receipt needed,” gravely
said Endicott.
“Of course the possession of such a paper is as dangerous to friend
as foe. I have no fears that any one will ever call on Mrs. Willoughby
for it again.”
Alynton gazed upon the troubled face of the woman whose empire
over his heart only grew more perfect day by day.
“I must come to you at another time. Can I write?” he murmured. And
Elaine Willoughby bowed her head in silence then, for his speaking
eyes told the story of a life’s hopes. He forebore, in sheer mercy, to
press his suit upon her now.
The great Senatorial millionaire gazed uneasily at Endicott. “I heard
a strange rumor down at the Waldorf from young Wiltshire, about
Vreeland’s individual failure on the Street being announced.”
“Not another word, I beg, Senator,” hurriedly said the old lawyer,
courteously taking his arm.
“My client has been too sadly shocked,” and with the promise of his
own return in the evening, Endicott led his captive away.
“Thank God! They know nothing as yet!” cried the Lady of Lakemere,
as she called Mary Kelly to her side.
It seemed to the agitated woman that the iron jaws of fate had closed
just behind her, and in her grateful heart she saw her only champion,
Hugh Conyers—strong, brave, true, silent and tender. Her loyal and
silent knight!
The words of honest Dan Daly came back to her now. A rosy blush
flamed upon her cheeks as she fled away from the tender-hearted
Mary Kelly’s watchful eyes. “Some day he shall know all, he shall
know my whole heart.”
And when the telegraph messenger, just then arriving, had departed,
she fell back in a happy swoon of delight, for she had read the words
which filled her with sweet surcease of sorrow:
“Coming Saturday; Touraine. Love from Sara and Romaine.”
It was nearly midnight when Justine Duprez’s broken sobs
concluded her last hastily constructed tissue of lies. The schoolboy
guard had inadvertently yielded up to her the news of Harold
Vreeland’s death in a moment of youthful pride. And she was
scheming to free herself now of the inconvenient steel jewelry which
had so broken her spirit. It was a sauve qui peut!
When faced by Conyers, with Martha Wilmot at his side, in the
presence of her sternly silent mistress, Justine caught at the last
straw. She knew all the weaknesses of her mistress’ womanly heart.
“I know why poor Monsieur Vreeland killed himself. He loved my
mistress madly, and he feared that the rich Senator Alynton was
going to marry her. He had bribed me to tell him all about Senator
Alynton’s visits and of the love-making. He was surely half-mad
when he married that heartless woman.
“Poor Vreeland! He suffered from a hopeless love! He feared that
Alynton would marry my mistress, and he feared, too, that he would
then be discharged from the Wall Street business.” Mrs. Willoughby
was trembling in a silent rage.
She dared not face a new whirlwind of gossip, and so, the sly
Frenchwoman had saved herself.
“But, you stole your mistress’ letter and gave it to him,” coldly broke
in Conyers. He realized, too, that the story of Senator Alynton’s love-
making would desperately compromise Mrs. Willoughby, and the
maid could easily poison the public mind.
“I did not!” stoutly ejaculated the lying Frenchwoman. “Vreeland
bribed the German doctor—that cowardly scoundrel Alberg—to have
this very woman here steal the love-letter, and she secretly gave it to
Alberg, and then he gave it to Vreeland. They are both liars!
“I was afraid of Vreeland. He threatened to have me discharged,”
sobbed Justine. “And I know that my mistress was very near to
loving him at one time. The whole truth will come out at my trial. I am
innocent. I shall demand the aid of the French Consul.” Conyers and
Elaine shuddered at this threat of noisy publicity.
“You met him at your rooms,” angrily broke in Conyers, who now saw
Elaine’s agony. The girl had skillfully hidden her face in her hands. It
was her last chance.
“He paid me well for my trouble. I am poor, so poor, and I was afraid
that I might be accused of stealing the letter. He himself spirited this
lying woman away. And I am to be sacrificed! The public shall be my
generous jury. I will tell the story to the whole world. You dare not
ruin me!”
Conyers’ eyes met his beloved one’s in an awkward silence. Then
he returned once more to the attack. “There were the tell-tale wires
and the criminal tapping of the telegraph and telephone.” Conyers
was less harsh in his accusations now, for even Martha Wilmot was
appalled by the Frenchwoman’s audacity. Justine Duprez felt firmer
ground under her now. Her glib answer was ready!
“Vreeland undoubtedly paid the letter-carrier and the janitor. He was
madly determined to prevent the marriage with Alynton, at any cost.
He knew that the Senator disliked him, and would soon cast him out.
You can call those two men before me here. I will face the whole
world, and tell them how the poor young man died for a love which
he had been led into. Why did my mistress pick him up? For a
summer’s amusement? The fine lady’s game. She drove poor
Hathorn to madness. And, she is, of course, a fine lady!”
Hugh Conyers was called from the room, leaving Elaine Willoughby
trembling there, with her pale cheeks tinged with a sudden flame.
There was no defense against this flood of vulgar abuse. Her soul
recoiled at the threatened publicity. The sanctity of her heart was
being violated by this brutal traitress, now alert in the defense of her
liberty. And there were the dangerous secrets of the Sugar ring to
keep! She was now paying the price of her own rashness.
Conyers soon returned, and led his beautiful charge to the end of the
room.
“Alberg has escaped!” he whispered. “He sailed from Hoboken on a
Norwegian tramp steamer to-day. Daly reports that Helms and
Mulholland have been eagerly racing to confess.
“Mulholland blames the drink curse, and says that Vreeland paid him
to help steal a rival’s love-letters, ‘only to beat the game’ of that
hated one. Helms stubbornly stands out and swears that Vreeland
bribed the electrician to tap the wires so as to overhear
Mrs. Willoughby’s lawyer talking over the impending marriage. So
you see, the lying jade will have witnesses to back up her story.”
“What must I do? Tell me, Hugh. You are my only friend,” faltered
Elaine, grasping his arm convulsively. “There is my child. Think of
the agony to her—the shame of such disclosures! My new-found
darling!”
“Yes, and there are the newspaper scandals to fear—the worst
feature. We could not try these people and dare to openly prove the
real facts. Even a French maid’s gossip and babble can find
believers,” sadly said Hugh, with averted eyes. He well knew the
callous gossips!
“You would only estrange Alynton, plunge your daughter into a
useless sorrow, and your whole life story would be bruited abroad. I
can not bear to see you disgraced, Elaine,” he faltered.
“I have a plan,” he said slowly. “Keep the woman Justine here. I will
pay her and ship her off to Paris. Dan Daly will see that she goes.
Let us only frighten her! She will be only too glad to escape her
rightful punishment—the lying jade! You have recovered your
dangerous document. You do not need Martha Wilmot now. Let me
separate these people at once!
“Martha goes back first to England. Alberg is gone, and of course the
nurse can not be convicted. There is no direct evidence. I will have
Mulholland quietly released; Daly can answer for him. Helms we will
call quits with, on his frankly signing a full confession, naming only
himself, and I give him a passage over to Hamburg. And this will
stop Justine’s mouth forever.”
“And the disposition of Justine?” murmured the white-faced woman.
“She stays here only till Vreeland is buried, and I then will have her
properly paid off before the Consul, and see her on the French
steamer myself. I know the French Consul very well. She will never
return. It is the only way to bury the whole past in Vreeland’s grave.
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