Performed at the Winter Garden Theatre, New York, December, 1859.
THE OCTOROON; OR, LIFE IN LOUISIANA.
The Scene is laid in the Delta of the Mississippi River, on the Plantation of Terrebonne. Time — the Present Day.
A Southern home under a Southern sun — The little darkies, "dem's wuss dan' Skeeters." —
Pete, the old servant. George Peyton just arrived home — A Paris lion in a canebreak — Madame
Peyton and the patriarchal home. The good old Judge — Salem Scudder's description of Zoe, the
Octoroon — The two overseers — A confession — The strange relation
Scudder returns to his old trade and takes a photograph — Paul wants his picture took — Pete brings terrible news. Zoe confirms it — George's declaration of his love — "He does not know what I am." The "eighth blood." M'Closky's resolve — Wah-no-tee and Paul — The apparatus at work — The daguerrotype portrait — Paul takes his own likeness, assisted by the Indian — The savage's fear of the machine — Thinks it a deadly weapon — Paul sits for his portrait. The attack — The murder — The letter and the flight — "Terrebonne will be sold, and Zoe will be mine." — The revenge of the Indian, and his grief for Paul.
Preparations for the sale — M'Closky claims the pound of flesh — The slaves are to be sold — Pete on the stump. His address to his "cullur'd brudders" — Darkie enthusiasm.
Ratts, the mate of the Magnolia — Grace, the yellow girl, and her children — "Buy
me, massa?" — Pete on the stand — His indignation at going cheap — No. 4, The Octoroon girl,
Zoe — Consternation of the slaves — M'Closky bids. The assault by George — Bowie knives and
revolvers — Dora's revenge on Zoe, who has taken away her lover — The sale of the Octoroon.
Roll on the cotton bales — Take her guards under — She is freighted down into the solid mud, and can't float — No matter, "Wood up; hang on the safety valve; she'll crawl off on her paddles" — Alarm! the Indian comes. Wah-no-tee, the murderer of Paul accused — Popular fury — Lynch him! Lynch him! — Scudder protects him — Paul's grave discovered, and the missing mail bags brought to light — Evidence strong.
Counsellor Scudder defends the Indian — Scudder on Lynch — A new witness arrives very unexpectedly! — An alteration of the entertainments for that evening — Scudder on M'Closky — Improved and corrected edition! — M'Closky in a fix — The verdict and the seizure of the prisoner.
M'Closky's escape — His Indian destiny — desperate tomahawk and bowie fight — death of the assassin, and
Yah! you bomn'ble fry—git out—a gen'leman can't pass for you.
Hey! laws a massey! why, clar out! drop dat banana! I'll murder this yer crowd,
What's the matter, Pete.
It's dem black trash, Mas'r George; dis ere property wants claring; dem's getting too numerous round; when I gets time I'll kill some on 'em, sure!
They don't seem to be scared by the threat.
Top, you varmin! top till I get enough of you in one place!
Were they all born on this estate?
Guess they nebber was born—dem tings! what, dem?—get away! Born here—dem darkies? What, on
Terrebonne! Don't b'lieve it, Mas'r George; dem black tings never was
Yes, Mas'r George, dey was born here; and old Pete is fonder on 'em dan he is of his fiddle on a Sunday.
What? dem tings—dem?—getaway
So, Pete, you are spoiling those children as usual!
Dat's right, missus! gib it to ole Pete! he's allers in for it. Git away dere! Ya! if dey aint all lighted, like coons, on dat snake fence, just out of shot. Look dar! Ya! ya! Dem debils. Ya!
Pete! do you hear?
Git down dar!—I'm arter you!
You are out early this morning, George.
I was up before daylight. We got the horses saddled, and galloped down the shell road over the Piney Patch; then coasting the Bayou Lake, we crossed the long swamps, by Paul's Path, and so came home again.
Just one month ago I quitted Paris. I left that siren city as I would have left a beloved woman.
No wonder! I dare say you left at least a dozen beloved women there, at the same time.
I feel that I departed amid universal and sincere regret. I left my loves and my creditors equally inconsolable.
George, you are incorrigible. Ah! you remind me so much of your uncle, the judge.
Bless his dear old handwriting, it's all I ever saw of him. For ten years his letters came every quarter-day, with a remittance and a word of advice in his formal cavalier style; and then a joke in the postscript, that upset the dignity of the foregoing. Aunt, when he died, two years ago, I read over those letters of his, and if I didn't cry like a baby—
No, George; say you wept like a man. And so you really kept those foolish letters?
Yes; I kept the letters, and squandered the money.
Ain't he! Yes—when I saw him and Miss Zoe galloping through the green sugar crop, and doing ten dollars' worth of damage at every stride, says I, how like his old uncle he do make the dirt fly.
Oh, aunt! what a bright, gay creature she is!
What, Zoe! Guess that you didn't leave anything female in Europe that can lift an eyelash beside that gal. When she goes along, she just leaves a streak of love behind her. It's a good drink to see her come into the cotton fields—the niggers get fresh on the sight of her. If she ain't worth her weight in sunshine you may take one of my fingers off, and choose which you like.
She need not keep us waiting breakfast, though. Pete, tell Miss Zoe that we are waiting.
Yes, missus. Why, Minnie, why don't you run when you hear, you lazy crittur?
My dear George, you are left in your uncle's will heir to this estate.
Subject to your life interest and an annuity to Zoe, is it not so?
I fear that the property is so involved that the strictest economy will scarcely recover it. My dear husband never kept any accounts, and we scarcely know in what condition the estate really is.
Yes, we do, ma'am; it's in a darned bad condition. Ten years ago the judge took as overseer a bit of Counecticut hardware called M'Closky. The Judge didn't understand accounts—the overseer did. For a year or two all went fine. The Judge drew money like Bourbon whiskey from a barrel, and never turned off the tap. But out it flew, free for everybody or anybody to beg, borrow, or steal. So it went, till one day the judge found the tap wouldn't run. He looked in to see what stopped it, and pulled out a big mortgage. "Sign that," says the overseer; "it's only a formality." "All right," says the Judge, and away went a thousand acres; so at the end of eight years, Jacob M'Closky, Esquire, finds himself proprietor of the richest half of Terrebonne—
But the other half is free.
No, it ain't; because, just then, what does the Judge
O, no, it was—
Hold on, now! I'm going to straighten this account clear out. What was this here Scudder? Well, he lived in New York by sittin' with his heels up in front of French's Hotel, and inventin'—
Inventing what?
Improvements—anything, from a stay-lace to a fire-engine. Well, he cut that for the photographing line. He and his apparatus arrived here, took the Judge's likeness and his fancy, who made him overseer right off. Well, sir, what does this Scudder do but introduces his inventions and improvements on this estate. His new cotton gins broke down, the steam sugar-mills burst up, until he finished off with his folly what Mr. M'Closky with his knavery began.
Oh, Salem! how can you say so? Haven't you worked like a horse?
No, ma'am, I worked like an ass—an honest one, and that's all. Now, Mr. George, between the
two overseers, you and that good old lady have come to the ground; that is the state of
things, just as near as I can fix it.
'Tis Zoe.
Oh! I have not spoiled that anyhow. I can't introduce any darned improvement there. Ain't that a cure for old age; it kinder lifts the heart up, don't it?
Poor child! what will become of her when I am gone? If you haven't spoiled her, I fear I have. She has had the education of a lady.
I have remarked that she is treated by the neighbours with a kind of familiar condescension that annoyed me.
Don't you know that she is the natural daughter of the judge, your uncle, and that old lady thar just adored anything her husband cared for; and this girl, that another woman would a hated, she loves as if she'd been her own child.
Aunt, I am prouder and happier to be your nephew and heir to the ruins of Terrebonne, than I would have been to have had half Louisiana without you.
Am I late? Ah! Mr. Scudder, good morning.
Thank'ye. I'm from fair to middlin', like a bamboo cane, much the same all the year round.
No; like a sugar cane — so dry outside, one would never think there was so much sweetness within.
Look here; I can't stand that gal! if I stop here, I
Hi! Debbel's in de pail! Whar's breakfass?
Bless'ee, Missey Zoe, here it be. Dere's a dish of pen-pans—jess taste, Mas'r George—and here's fried bananas; smell 'em, do, sa glosh.
Hole yer tongue, Dido. Whar's de coffee?
Good day, ma'am.
Oh, none for me; I never eat.
Ah! Zoe, girl; are you there?
Take my shawl, Zoe.
I dare say, now, that in Europe you have never met any lady more beautiful in person, or more polished in manners, than that girl.
You are right, sir; though I shrank from expressing that opinion in her presence, so bluntly.
Why so?
It may be considered offensive.
Mr. Peyton is joking.
Never, aunt! I shall never understand how to wound the feelings of any lady; and, if that is the custom here, I shall never acquire it.
Zoe, my dear, what does he mean?
I don't know.
Excuse me, I'll light a cigar.
How can I tell?
Ask him, I want to know; don't say I told you to
I think so; shall I ask him that too?
No, dear. I wish he would make love to me. When he speaks to one he does it so easy, so
gentle; it isn't bar-room style — love lined with drinks — sighs tinged with tobacco—and they
say all the women in Paris were in love with him, which I feel
Good morning, Mr. M'Closky.
Good morning, Mr. Sunnyside, Miss Dora, your servant.
My nephew, Mr. Peyton.
O, how d'ye do, sir?
Hillo! did I tread on ye?
What is the matter with George?
Grace, attend to Mr. M'Closky.
A julep, gal, that's my breakfast, and a bit of cheese,
Hospitality in Europe is a courtesy; here, it is an obligation. We tender food to a stranger, not because he is a gentleman, but because he is hungry.
Aunt, I will take my rifle down to the Atchafalaya. Paul has promised me a bear and a deer
or two. I see my little Nimrod yonder, with his Indian companion. Excuse me ladies. Ho! Paul!
It's a shame to allow that young cub to run over the
The child was a favourite of the Judge, who encouraged his gambols. I couldn't bear to see him put to work.
Come, Paul, are you ready?
I'ss, Mas'r George. Oh, golly! aint dat a pooty gun.
See here, you imps; if I catch you and your red-skin yonder, gunning in my swamps, I'll give you rats, mind — them vagabonds when the game's about shoot my pigs.
You gib me ratten, Mas'r Clostry, but I guess you take a berry long stick to Wahnotee; ugh, he make bacon of you.
Make bacon of me, you young whelp. Do you mean that I'm a pig? — hold on a bit.
Oh, sir! don't, pray don't.
That Indian is a nuisance. Why don't he return to his nation out west.
He's too fond of thieving and whiskey.
No; Wahnotee is a gentle, honest creature, and remains here because he loves that boy with the tenderness of a woman. When Paul was taken down with the swamp fever the Indian sat outside the hut, and neither ate, slept, or spoke for five days, till the child could recognise and call him to his bedside. He who can love so well is honest — don't speak ill of poor Wahnotee.
Wahnotee, will you go back to your people?
Sleugh.
He don't understand; he speaks a mash up of Indian, French, and Mexican. Wahnotee Patira na sepau assa wigiran.
Weal Omenee.
Says he'll go if I'll go with him. He calls me Omenee, the pigeon, and Miss Zoe is Ninemoosha, the sweetheart.
Ninemoosha.
No, Wahnotee, we can't spare Paul.
If Omenee remain Wahnotee will die in Terrebonne.
Now I'm ready.
Zoe, he's going; I want him to stay and make love to me — that's what I came for to-day.
George, I can't spare Paul for an hour or two; he must run over to the landing, the steamer
from New Orleans
I saw the mail bags lying in the shed this morning.
I expect an important letter from Liverpool; away with you, Paul, bring the mail-bags here.
I'm 'most afraid to take Wahnotee to the shed, there's rum there.
Rum!
Come, then, but if I catch you drinkin', oh, laws a mussey, you'll get snakes! I'll gib it you! now mind.
Come, Miss Dora, let me offer you my arm.
Mr. George, I am afraid, if all we hear is true, you have led a dreadful life in Europe.
That's a challenge to begin a description of my feminine adventures.
You have been in love, then?
Two hundred and forty-nine times! let me relate you the worst cases.
No! no!
I'll put the naughty parts in French.
I won't hear a word! Oh, you horrible man! go on.
Now, ma'am, I'd like a little business, if agreeable. I bring you news: your banker, old La Fouché, of New Orleans, is dead; the executors are winding up his affairs, and have foreclosed on all overdue mortgages, so Terrebonne is for sale; Here's the
Terrebonne for sale!
Terrebonne for sale, and you, sir, will doubtless become its purchaser.
Well, ma'am, I spose there's no law agin my bidding for it. The more bidders, the better for you. You'll take care, I guess, it don't go too cheap.
Oh, sir, I don't value the place for its price, but for the many happy days I've spent here: that landscape, flat and uninteresting though it may be, is full of charm for me; those poor people, born around me, growing up about my heart, have bounded my view of life; and now to lose that homely scene, lose their black ungainly faces, oh, sir, perhaps you should be as old as I am, to feel as I do, when my past life is torn away from me.
I'd be darned glad if somebody would tear my past life away from
Yes, there is a hope left yet, and I cling to it. The
They owed him over 50,000 dollars.
I cannot find the entry in my husband's accounts; but you, Mr. M'Closky, can doubtless
detect it. Zoe, bring here the Judge's old desk, it is in the library.
You don't expect to recover any of this old debt, do you?
Yes, the firm has recovered itself, and I received a notice two months ago that some settlement might be anticipated.
Why, with principal and interest this debt has been more than doubled in twenty years.
But it may be years yet before it will be paid off, if ever.
If there's a chance of it, there's not a planter round here, who wouldn't lend you the whole cash, to keep your name and blood amongst us. Come, cheer up, old friend.
Ah! Sunnyside, how good you are — so like my poor Peyton.
Curse their old families — they cut me — a bilious, conceited, thin lot of dried up
aristocracy. I hate 'em. Just because my grandfather wasn't some broken-down
Virginia-transplant, or a stingy old Creole — I aint fit to sit down with the same meat with
them — it makes my blood so hot I feel my heart hiss. I'll sweep these Peytons from this
section of the country. Their presence keeps alive the reproach against me, that I ruined
them; yet, if this money should come. Bah! There's no chance of it. Then, if they go they'll
take Zoe — she'll follow them. Darn that girl; she makes me quiver when I think of her; she's
took me for all I'm worth.
It's surely worth the love that dictated it; here are the papers and accounts.
Stop, Zoe; come here! how would you like to rule the house of the richest planter on Atchapalaga — eh? or say the word, and I'll buy this old barrack, and you shall be mistress of Terrebonne.
Oh, sir, do not speak so to me!
Why not? look here, these Peytons are bust, cut'em; I am rich, jine me; I'll set you up grand, and we'll give these first families here our dust, until you'll see their white skins shrivel up with hate and rage; what d'ye say?
Let me pass! Oh, pray, let me go!
What you won't, won't ye? If young George
Do you think they would live here on such terms?
Why not? We'll hire out our slaves and live on their wages.
But I'm not a slave.
No, if you were I'd buy you, if you cost all I'm worth.
Let me pass!
Stop.
Let her pass!
Eh?
Let her pass!
Is that you, Mr. Overseer?
Yes, I'm here, somewhere interferin'.
A pretty mess you've got this estate in —
Yes — me and Co. — we done it; but, as you were senior partner in the concern, I reckon you got the big lick.
What d'ye mean?
Let me proceed by illustration.
Mr. Scudder, I've listened to a great many of your insinuations, and now I'd like to come to an understanding what they mean — if you want a quarrel —
No, I'm the skurriest crittur at a fight you ever see; my legs have been too well brought up to stand and see my body abused; I take good care of myself, I can tell you.
Because I heard that you had traduced my character.
Traduced! Whoever said so, lied. I always said you were the darndest thief that ever escaped a white jail to misrepresent the North to the South.
Take your hand down — take it down.
What d'ye mean?
I mean that before you could draw that bowie-knife, you wear down your back, I'd cut you into shingles. Keep quiet, and let's talk sense. You wanted to come to an understanding, and I'm coming thar as quick as I can. Now, Jacob M'Closky, you despise me because you think I'm a fool; I despise you because I know you to be a knave. Between us we've ruined these Peytons; you fired the Judge and I finished off the widow. Now, I feel bad about my share in the business. I'd give half the balance of my life to wipe out my part of the work. Many a night I've laid awake and thought how to pull them through, till I've cried like a child over the sum I couldn't do; and you know how darned hard 'tis to make a Yankee cry.
Well what's that to me?
Hold on, Jacob, I'm coming to that; I tell ye, I'm such a fool — I can't bear the feeling, it keeps at me like a skin complaint, and if this family is sold up —
What then?
Would you now? why don't you do it?
'Cos I's skeered to try! I never killed a man in my life — and civilization is so strong in me I guess I couldn't do it — I'd like to though!
And all for the sake of that old woman and that young puppy — eh? no other cause to hate — to envy me — to be jealous of me — eh?
Jealous! what for?
Ask the colour in your face; d'ye think I can't read you, like a book? With your New England hypocrisy, you would persuade yourself it was this family alone you cared for; it ain't — you know it ain't — 'tis the "Octoroon;" and you love her as I do, and you hate me because I'm your rival — that's where the tears come from, Salem Scudder, if you ever shed any — that's where the shoe pinches.
Wal, I do like the gal; she's a —
She's in love with young Peyton; it made me curse — whar it made you cry, as it does now; I see the tears on your cheeks now.
Look at 'em, Jacob, for they are honest water from the well of truth. I aint ashamed of it —
I do love the gal; but I ain't jealous of you, because I believe the only sincere feeling
about you is your love for Zoe, and it does your heart good to have her image thar; but I
believe you put it thar to
Fair or foul, I'll have her — take that home with you!
Just turn your face a leetle this way — fix your — let's see — look here.
So?
That's right.
Ugh! she look as though she war gwine to have a tooth drawed!
I've got four plates ready, in case we miss the first shot. One of them is prepared with a self-developing liquid, that I've invented. I hope it will turn out better than most of my notions. Now fix yourself. Are you ready?
Ready!
Fire! — one, two, three.
Now it's cooking, laws mussey, I feel it all inside, as if it was at a lottery.
So!
Now, it ain't no use trying to get mad, Mas'r Scudder. I'm gwine! I only come back to find Wahnotee; whar is dat i'gnant Ingiun?
You'll find him scenting round the rum store, hitched up by the nose.
Say, Mas'r Scudder, take me in dat telescope?
You got four ob dem dishes ready. Gosh, wouldn't I like to hav myself took! What's de
charge, Mas'r Scudder?
Job had none of them critters on his plantation, else he'd never ha' stood through so many
chapters. Well, that has come out clear, ain't it?
Oh, beautiful! Look, Mr. Peyton.
The apparatus can't mistake. When I travelled round with this machine, the homely folks used to sing out, "Hillo, mister, this ain't like me!" "Ma'am," says I, "the apparatus can't mistake." "But, mister, that ain't my nose." "Ma'am, your nose drawed it. The machine can't err — you may mistake your phiz, but the apparatus don't." "But, sir, it ain't agreeable." "No, ma'am, the truth seldom is."
Mas'r Scudder! Mas'r Scudder!
Hillo! what are you blowing about like a steamboat with one wheel for?
What's the matter?
He's come.
Dass it — I saw'm!
The sheriff from New Orleans has taken possession — Terrebonne is in the hands of the law.
Oh, Mr. Scudder! Dora! Mr. Peyton! come home — there are strangers in the house.
Stay, Mr. Peyton; Zoe, a word!
I'm no judge, dear.
Of course not, you little fool, no one ever made love to you, and you can't understand, I mean that George knows I am an heiress; my fortune would release this estate from debt.
Oh, I see!
If he would only propose to marry me I would accept him, but he don't know that, and he will go on fooling in his slow European way until it is too late.
What's to be done?
You tell him.
What? that he isn't to go on fooling in his slow —
No, you goose! twit him on his silence and abstraction — I'm sure it's plain enough, for he has not spoken two words to me all the day; then joke round the subject, and at last speak out.
Pete, as you came here did you pass Paul and the Indian with the letter bags?
No, sar; but dem vagabonds neber take de 'specable straight road, dey goes by de swamp.
Come, sir!
Now's your time.
They are gone!
Poor child! how sad she looks now she has no resource.
How shall I ask him to stay?
Zoe, will you remain here? I wish to speak to you.
By our ruin, you lose all.
Oh, I'm nothing; think of yourself.
I can think of nothing but the image that remains face to face with me: so beautiful, so simple, so confiding — that I dare not express the feelings that have grown up so rapidly in my heart.
If I dared to speak!
That's just what you must do, and do it at once, or it will be too late.
Has my love been divined?
It has been more than suspected.
Zoe, listen to me then — I shall see this estate pass from me without a sigh, for it possesses no charm for me; the wealth I covet is the love of those around me — eyes that are rich in fond looks — lips that breathe endearing words; the only estate I value is the heart of one true woman, and the slaves I'd have, are her thoughts.
George, George, your words take away my breath!
The world, Zoe, the free struggle of minds and hands is before me; the education bestowed on me by my dear uncle is a noble heritage which no sheriff can seize; with that I can build up a fortune, spread a roof over the heads I love, and place before them the food I have earned; I will work —
Work! I thought none but coloured people worked.
Work, Zoe, is the salt that gives savour to life.
Dora said you were slow — if she could hear you now —
Zoe, you are young; your mirror must have told you that you are beautiful. — Is your heart free?
Free? of course it is!
We have known each other but a few days, but to me those days have been worth all the rest of my life. Zoe, you have suspected the feeling that now commands an utterance — you have seen that I love you.
Me! you love
As my wife — the sharer of my hopes, my ambitions, and my sorrows; under the shelter of your love I could watch the storms of fortune pass unheeded by.
Your birth — I know it. Has not my dear aunt
Zoe, what have I said to wound you?
Nothing; but you must learn what I thought you already knew. George, you cannot marry me, the laws forbid it!
Forbid it?
There is a gulf between us, as wide as your love — as deep as my despair; but, oh tell me, say you will pity me! that you will pity me! that you will not throw me from you like a poisoned thing!
Zoe, explain yourself — your language fills me with shapeless fears.
And what shall I say? I — my mother was — no, no — not her! Why should I refer the blame to her? George, do you see that hand you hold, look at these fingers, do you see the nails are of a blueish tinge?
Yes, near the quick there is a faint blue mark.
Look in my eyes; is not the same colour in the white?
It is their beauty.
Could you see the roots of my hair you would see the same dark fatal mark. Do you know what that is?
No.
That — that is the ineffacable curse of Cain. Of the blood that feeds my heart, one drop in eight is black — bright red as the rest may be, that one drop poisons all the flood; those seven bright drops give me love like yours, hope like yours — ambition like yours — life hung with passions like dew-drops on the morning flowers; but the one black drop gives me despair for I'm an unclean thing — forbidden by the laws — I'm an Octoroon!
Zoe, I love you none the less, this knowledge brings no revolt to my heart, and I can overcome the obstacle.
But
We can leave this country and go far away where none can know.
And our mother, she, who from infancy treated me with such fondness, she who, as you said,
had most reason to spurn me, can she forget what I am? Will she gladly see you wedded to the
child of her husband's slave? No! she would revolt from it as all but you would, and if I
consented to hear the cries of my heart, if I did not crush out my infant
Zoe, must we immolate our lives on her prejudice?
Yes, for I'd rather be black than ungrateful! Ah, George, our race has at least one virtue — it knows how to suffer!
Each word you utter makes my love sink deeper into my heart.
And I remained here to induce you to offer that heart to Dora!
If you bid me do so I will obey you —
No, no! if you cannot be mine, oh, let me not blush when I think of you.
Dearest Zoe!
She loves him! I felt it — and how she can love!
It ain't no use now, you got to gib it up!
Ugh!
It won't do! you got dat bottle of rum hid under your blanket — gib it up now, you — Yar!
No tue Wahnotee.
Ha, ha! he tinks it's a gun; you ign'ant Injiun, it can't hurt you! Stop, here's dem dishes — plates — dat's what he call 'em, all fix, I see Mas'r Scudder do it often — tink I can take likeness — stay dere, Wahnotee.
No, carabine tue.
I must operate and take my own likeness too — how
Hugh!
Den you hab glass ob rum.
Rum!
Dat wakes him up. Coute Wahnotee in omenee dit, go Wahnotee, poina la fa, comb a pine tree, la revieut sala, la fa.
Firewater!
Yes, den a glass ob firewater, now den.
Where are they? Ah, yonder goes the Indian!
De time he gone just 'bout enough to cook dat dish plate.
Yonder is the boy — now is my time! What's he doing; is he asleep?
Dam dat Injun! is dat him creeping dar? I daren't move fear to spile myself.
Hooraw! the bags are mine — now for it!
Dis way — dis way.
Dis way, genl'men; now Solon — Grace — dey's hot and tirsty — sangaree, brandy, rum.
Well, what d'ye say, Lafouche — d'ye smile?
I hope we don't intrude on the family.
You see dat hole in dar, sar.
And for substance to walk out.
Fine southern style that, eh!
There's one name on the list of slaves scratched, I see.
Yes; No. 49, Paul, a quadroon boy, aged thirteen.
He's missing.
Run away, I suppose.
What, Picayune Paul, as we called him, that used to come aboard my boat? — poor little
darkey, I hope not; many
Nebber supply no more, sar — nebber dance again. Massa Ratts, you hard him sing about de place where de good niggers go, de last time?
Well!
Well, he gone dar hisself; why, I tink so — cause we missed Paul for some days, but nebber tout nothin, till one night dat Inginn Wahnotee suddenly stood right dare mongst us — was in his war paint, and mighty cold and grave — he sit down by de fire. "Whar's Paul?" I say — he smoke and smoke, but nebber look out ob de fire; well knowing dem critters, I wait a long time — den he say, "Wahnotee, great chief;" den I say nothing — smoke anoder time — last, rising to go, he turn round at door, and say berry low — oh, like a woman's voice, he say, "Omenee Pangeuk," — dat is, Paul is dead — nebber see him since.
That red-skin killed him.
So we believe; and so mad are the folks around, that if they catch the red-skin they'll lynch him sure.
Lynch him! Darn his copper carcass, I've got a set of Irish deck-hands aboard that just loved that child; and after I tell them this, let them get a sight of the red-skin, I believe they would eat him, tomahawk and all. Poor little Paul!
What was he worth?
Well, near on 500 dollars.
Gentlemen, the sale takes place at three. Good morning, Colonel. It's near that now, and there's still the sugar-houses to be inspected. Good day, Mr. Thibodeaux — shall we drive down that way? Mr. Lafouche, why, how do you do, sir? you're looking well.
Sorry I can't return the compliment.
Salem's looking a kinder hollowed out.
What, Mr. Ratts, are you going to invest in swamps.
No; I want a nigger.
Hush.
Eh! wass dat?
Mr. Sunnyside, I can't do this job of shewin' round the folks; my stomach goes agin it. I want Pete here a minute.
I'll accompany them, certainly.
We must excuse Scudder, friends. I'll see you round the estate.
Good morning, Mrs. Peyton.
This way, gentlemen,
I say, I'd like to say summit soft to the old woman; perhaps it wouldn't go well, would it?
No; leave it alone.
Darn it, when I see a woman in trouble, I feel like selling the skin off my back.
Go outside there; listen to what you hear, then go down to the quarters and tell the boys, for I can't do it. Oh, get out.
He said, I want a nigger; laws, mussey! what am going to cum ob us!
My dear aunt, why do you not move from this painful scene? go with Dora to Sunnyside.
Mr. George — I'm going to say somethin' that has been chokin' me for some time. I know you'll excuse it — thar's Miss Dora — that girl's in love with you; yes, sir, her eyes are startin' out of her head with it; now her fortune would redeem a good part of this estate.
Why, George, I never suspected this!
I did, aunt, I confess, but —
And you hesitated, from motives of delicacy?
No, ma'am, here's the plan of it; Mr. George is in love with Zoe.
Scudder!
George!
Hold on now! things have got so jamned in on top of us, we aint got time to put kid gloves
on to handle them. He loves Zoe, and has found out that she loves him.
Why didn't you mention this before?
Why, because
Oh, George — my son, let me call you — I do not speak for my own sake, nor for the loss of the estate, but for the poor people here; they will be sold, divided, and taken away — they have been born here. Heaven has denied me children, so all the strings of my heart have grown around and and amongst them, like the fibres and roots of an old tree in its native earth. Oh, let all go, but save them! with them around us, if we have not wealth, we shall at least have the home that they alone can make —
My dear mother — Mr. Scudder — you teach me what I ought to do; if Miss Sunnyside will accept me as I am, Terrebonne shall be saved, I will sell myself, but the slaves shall be protected.
Don't say that, ma'am; don't say that to a man that loves another gal; he's going to do a heroic act, don't spile it.
But Zoe is only an Octoroon.
She's won this race agin the white anyhow; it's too late now to start her pedigree.
Come, Mrs. Peyton, take my arm; hush! here's the other one; she's a little too thoroughbred — too much of the greyhound, but the heart's there, I believe.
Poor Mrs. Peyton.
Miss Sunnyside, permit me a word, a feeling of delicacy has suspended upon my lips an avowal, which —
In a word — I have seen and admired you!
If you would pardon the abruptness of the question, I would ask you — Do you think the sincere devotion of my life to make yours happy, would succeed?
You are silent?
Mr. Peyton, I presume you have hesitated to make this avowal, because you feared in the
present condition of affairs here, your object might be misconstrued; and that your attention
was rather to my fortune than myself.
No, I hesitated, because an attachment I had formed before I had the pleasure of seeing you, had not altogether died out.
Because, Miss Sunnyside, I have not learned to lie.
Good gracious — who wants you to?
I do, but I can't do it; no, the love I speak of is not such as you suppose, — it is a passion that has grown up here, since I arrived; but it is a hopeless, mad, wild feeling, that must perish.
Here! since you arrived! Impossible; you have seen no one; whom can you mean?
Me.
Forgive him, Dora, for he knew no better until I told him. Dora, you are right; he is incapable of any but sincere and pure feelings — so are you. He loves me — what of that? you know you can't be jealous of a poor creature like me. If he caught the fever, were stung by a snake, or possessed of any other poisonous or unclean thing, you could pity, tend, love him through it, and for your gentle care he would love you in return. Well, is he not thus afflicted now? I am his love — he loves an Octoroon.
Oh, Zoe, you break my heart!
At college they said I was a fool — I must be. At New Orleans they said, "She's pretty, very pretty, but no brains." I'm afraid they must be right; I can't understand a word of all this.
Dear Dora, try to understand it with your heart. You love George, you love him dearly, I know it, and you deserve to be loved by him; he will love you — he must — his love for me will pass away — it shall; you heard him say it was hopeless. Oh, forgive him and me!
I'm sorry to intrude, but the business I came upon will excuse me.
Here is my nephew, sir.
Perhaps I had better go.
Wal, as it consarns you, perhaps you better had.
Consarns Zoe?
I don't know, she may as well hear the hull of it. Go on, Colonel — Colonel Pointdexter, ma'am — the mortgagee, auctioneer, and general agent.
I — I found them.
And you purloined them?
Hold on, you'll see. Go on, Colonel.
The list of your slaves in incomplete — it wants one.
The boy Paul — we know it.
No, sir, you have omitted the Octoroon girl, Zoe.
Zoe!
Me!
At the time the judge executed those free-papers to his infant slave, a judgment stood recorded against him; while that was on record he had no right to make away with his property. That judgment still exists — under it and others this estate is sold to-day. Those free-papers ain't worth the sand that's on 'em.
Zoe, a slave! It is impossible!
It is certain, Madam; the Judge was negligent, and, doubtless, forgot this small formality.
But the creditors will not claim the gal?
Excuse me; one of the principal mortgagees has made the demand.
Hold on yere, George Peyton, you sit down there, you're trembling so, you'll fall down directly — this blow has staggered me some.
Oh, Zoe, my child! don't think too hardly of your poor father.
I shall do so if you weep — see, I'm calm.
Calm as a tombstone, and with about as much life — I see it in your face.
It cannot be! It shall not be!
Hold your tongue — it must; be calm — darn the the things, the proceeds of this sale won't
cover the debts of the estate; consarn those Liverpool English fellers, why couldn't they send
something by the last mail? Even a letter, promising something — such is the feeling round
amongst the
Zoe, they shall not take you from us while I live.
Don't be a fool; they'd kill you, and then take her, just as soon as — stop, Old Sunnyside, he'll buy her! that'll save her.
No, it won't; we have confessed to Dora that we love each other. How can she then ask her father to free me?
What in thunder made you do that?
Because it was the truth, and I had rather be a slave with a free soul than remain free with a slavish, deceitful heart. My father gives me freedom — at least he thought so — may heaven bless him for the thought, bless him for the happiness he spread around my life. You say the proceeds of the sale will not cover his debts — let me be sold then, that I may free his name — I give him back the liberty he bestowed upon me, for I can never repay him the love he bore his poor Octoroon child, on whose breast his last sigh was drawn, into whose eyes he looked with the last gaze of affection.
Oh! my husband! I thank heaven you have not lived to see this day.
George, leave me! I would be alone a little while.
Zoe!
Do not weep, George — dear George, you now see what a miserable thing I am.
Zoe!
I wish they could sell
Go now, George — leave me — take her with you.
Cum yer now — stand round, cause I've got to talk to you darkies — keep dem children quiet — don't make no noise, de missus up dar har us.
Go on, Pete.
Genl'men, my coloured frens and ladies, dar's mighty bad news gone round. Dis yer prop'ty to
be sold — old Terrebonne — whar
Oo! — Oo!
Hold quiet, you trash o' niggers! tink anybody wants you to cry? Who's you to set up screching? — be quiet! But dis ain't all. Now, my culled brethren, gird up your lines, and listen — hold on yer bret — it's a comin — we taught dat de niggers would belong to de ole missus, and if she lost Terrebonne, we must live dere allers, and we would hire out, and bring our wages to ole Missus Peyton.
Ya! ya! Well —
Hush! I tell ye, taint so — we can't do it — we've got to be sold —
Sold!
Will you hush? she will hear you. Yes! I listen dar jess now — dar was ole lady cryin —
Massa George — ah! you seen dem big tears in his eyes. Oh, Massa Scudder, he did'nt cry
zackly, both ob his eye and cheek look like de bad Bagou in law season — so dry dat I cry for
him.
Oh, bless um! Bless Mas'r George.
Hole yer tongues. Yes, for you, for me, for dem little ones, dem folks cried. Now den, if Grace dere wid her chilr'n were all sold, she'll begin streetchin' like a cat. She didn't mind how kind old Judge was to her; and Solon, too, he'll holler, and break de ole lady's heart.
No, Pete; no, I won't. I'll bear it.
I don't tink you will any more, but dis here will, cause de family spile Dido, dey has. She nebber was worth much 'a dat nigger.
How dar you say dat? you black nigger, you. I fetch as much as any odder cook in Louisiana.
What's de use of your takin' it kind, and comfortin' de missus heart, if Minnie dere, and Louise, and Marie, and Julia, is to spile it?
We won't, Pete; we won't.
We'll do it, Pete; we'll do it.
Hush! hark! I tell ye dar's somebody in dar. Who is it?
It's Missy Zoe. See! see!
Come along; she har what we say, and she's cryin' fore us. None o' ye ig'rant niggars could cry for yerselves like dat. Come here quite; now quite.
Oh! must I learn from these poor wretches how much I owe, and how I ought to pay the debt? Have I slept upon the benefits I received, and never saw, never felt, never knew that I was forgetful and ungrateful? Oh, my father! my dear, dear father! forgive your poor child; you made her life too happy, and now these tears will flow; let me hide them till I teach my heart. Oh, my — my heart!
I want to get to Ophelensis to-night.
Father, come here.
Why, Dora, what's the matter? your eyes are red.
Are they? thank you. I don't care, they were blue this morning, but it don't signify now.
My darling! who has been teasing you?
Never mind. I want you to buy Terrebonne.
Buy Terrebonne! What for?
No matter — buy it!
It will cost me all I'm worth — this is folly, Dora.
Is my plantation at Comptableau worth this?
Nearly — perhaps.
Sell it, then, and buy this.
Are you mad, my love?
Do you want me to stop here and
Good gracious! no.
Then I'll do it, if you don't.
I will! I will! But for heaven's sake go — here comes the crowd.
Now, gentleman, we shall proceed to business. It ain't necessary for me to dilate, describe, or enumerate; Terrabonne is known to you as one of the richest bits of sile in Louisiana, and its condition reflects credit on them as had to keep it. I'll trouble you for that piece of baccy, Judge — thank you — so, gentlemen, as life is short, we'll start right off. The first lot on here is the estate in block, with its sugar-houses, stock machines, implements, good dwelling-houses and furniture; if there is no bid for the estate and stuff we'll sell it in smaller lots. Come, Mr. Thibodeaux, a man has a chance once in his life — here's yours.
Go on. What's the reserve bid?
The first mortgagee bids forty thousand dollars.
Forty-five thousand.
Fifty thousand.
When you have done joking, gentlemen, you'll say one hundred and twenty thousand, it carried that easy on mortgage.
I'm waiting on your fifty thousand bid.
Eighty thousand.
Don't be afraid, it ain't going for that, Judge.
We're getting on.
One hundred —
One hundred thousand bid for this mag —
One hundred and ten thousand —
Good again — one hundred and —
Twenty.
And twenty thousand bid. Squire Sunnyside is going to sell this at fifty thousand advance
to-morrow
I guess he ain't left home yet, Colonel.
I shall knock it down to the squire — going — gone — for 120,000 dollars.
I got more than I can work now.
Then buy the hands along with the property. Now,
Hold your tongue!
Nine.
A thousand.
Thank you, massa Ratts, I die for you, sar; hold up for me, sar.
Look here, the boy knows and likes me, Judge; let him come my way.
Go on — I'm dumb.
One thousand bid.
No. 2, the yellow girl Grace, with two children, Saul aged 4, and Victoria 5.
That's Solon's wife and children, Judge.
Buy me, massa Ratts, do buy me, sar.
What in thunder should I do with you and those devils on board my boat?
Wash, sar — cook, sar — anyting.
Eight hundred agin then — I'll go it.
Nine.
I'm broke, Solon — I can't stop the Judge.
What's the matter, Ratts? I'll lend you all you want. Go it if you're a mind to.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Oh, oh!
The devil I am!
All right, Judge, I thought there was a mistake. I must keep you, Captain, to the eleven hundred.
Go it.
Eleven hundred — going — going — sold!
No. 3, Pete, a house servant.
Dat's me — yer, I'm comin' — stand around dar.
Aged seventy-two.
What's dat? a mistake, sar — forty-six.
Lame.
But don't mount to nuffin — kin work cannel. Come Judge! pick up — now's your time, sar.
One hundred dollars.
What, sar? me! for me — look ye here!
Five hundred.
Massa George — ah no, sar — don't buy me — keep your money for some udder dat is to be sold. I aint no count, sar.
Five hundred bid — it's a good price.
Gentlemen, we are all acquainted with the circumstances of this girl's position, and I feel sure that no one here will oppose the family who desires to redeem the child of our esteemed and noble friend, the late Judge Peyton.
Hear! bravo! hear!
While the proceeds of this sale promises to realize less than the debts upon it, it is my duty to prevent any collusion for the depreciation of the property.
Darn ye! you're a man as well as an auctioneer, aint ye?
What is offered for this slave?
One thousand dollars.
Two thousand.
Three thousand.
Five thousand.
I bid seven thousand, which is the last dollar this family possesses.
Eight.
Nine.
Bravo!
Ten. It's no use, Squire.
Jacob M'Closky, you shan't have that girl. Now, take care what you do. Twelve thousand.
Shan't I! Fifteen thousand. Beat that any of ye.
Fifteen thousand bid for the Octoroon.
Twenty thousand.
Bravo!
Twenty-five thousand.
Oh! oh!
Yelping hound — take that
Hold on, George Peyton — stand back. This is your own house; we are under your uncle's roof;
recollect yourself. And, strangers, ain't we forgittin' there's a lady present.
He didn't ought to bid against a lady.
Oh, that's it, is it? then I'd like to hire a lady to go to auction and buy my hands.
Gentlemen, I believe none of us have two feelings about the conduct of that man; but he has
the law on his side — we may regret, but we must respect it. Mr. M'Closky has bid twenty-five
thousand dollars for the Octoroon. Is there any other bid? For the first time, twenty-five
thousand — last time!
How long before we start, captain?
Just as soon as we put this cotton on board.
One hundred and forty-nine bales. Can you take any more?
Not a bale. I've got engaged eight hundred bales at the next landing, and one hundred hogsheads of sugar at Patten's Slide — that'll take my guards under — hurry up thar.
Wood's aboard.
All aboard then.
Sign that receipt, captain, and save me going up to the clerk.
See here — there's a small freight of turpentine in the fore-hold there, and one of the
barrels leaks; a spark from
You be darned! go and try it if you've a mind to.
Captain, you've loaded up here until the boat is sunk so deep in the mud she won't float.
What's the matter?
We got him!
Who?
The Inginn!
Wahnotee? where is he? d'ye call running away from a fellow catching him?
Here he comes.
Where? where?
Hold on! stan' round thar! no violence — the critter don't know what we mean.
Let him answer for the boy then.
Down with him — lynch him.
Lynch him!
Stan' back, I say! I'll nip the first that lays a a finger on him. Pete, speak to the red-skin.
Whar's Paul, Wahnotee? what's come ob de child?
Paul wunce — Paul pangeuk.
Pangeuk — dead.
Mort!
And you killed him?
Hold on!
Um, Paul reste?
Hugh vieu
Here, stay!
Weenee Paul.
The Inginn means that he buried him there! Stop! here's a bit of leather;
Paul!
He confesses it; the Indian got drunk, quarrelled with him, and killed him.
Here are evidences of the crime; this rum bottle half emptied — this photagraphic apparatus smashed — and there are marks of blood and footsteps around the shed.
What more d'ye want — aint that proof enough? Lynch him!
Lynch him! Lynch him!
Stan' back, boys! he's an Inginn — fair play.
Try him then — try him on the spot of his crime.
Try him! try him!
Don't let him escape!
I'll see to that.
Come — form a court then, choose a jury — we'll fix this varmin.
What's the matter?
We've caught this murdering Inginn, and are going to try him.
Poor little Paul — poor little nigger!
This business goes agin me, Ratts — 'taint right.
We're ready; the jury's empannelled — go ahead — who'll be accuser?
M'Closky.
Me!
Yes; you was the first to hail Judge Lynch.
Well what's the use of argument, whar guilt sticks out so plain; the boy and Inginn were alone when last seen.
Who says that?
Everybody — that is, I heard so.
Say what you know — not what you heard.
I know then that the boy was killed with that tomahawk — the red-skin owns it — the signs of violence are all round the shed — this apparatus smashed — ain't it plain that in a drunken fit he slew the boy, and when sober concealed the body yonder?
That's it — that's it.
Who defend's the Indian?
I will; for it is agin my natur' to b'lieve him guilty; and if he be, this ain't the place, nor you the authority to try him. How are we sure the boy is dead at all? There are no witnesses but a rum bottle and an old machine. Is it on such evidence you'd hang a human being?
His own confession.
I appeal against your usurped authority; this Lynch law is a wild and lawless proceeding. Here's a pictur' for a civilized community to afford; yonder, a poor ignorant savage, and round him a circle of hearts, white with revenge and hate, thirsting for his blood; you call yourselves judges — you ain't — you're a jury of executioners. It is such scenes as these that bring disgrace upon our Western life.
Evidence! Evidence! give us evidence, we've had talk enough; now for proof.
Yes, yes! Proof, proof.
Where am I to get it? the proof is here, in my heart!
A photographic plate.
Me?
You! You slew him with that tomahawk, and as you stood over his body with the letter in your hand, you thought that no witness saw the deed, that no eyes was on you, but there was, Jacob M'Closky, there was — the eye of the Eternal was on you — the blessed sun in heaven, that looking down struck upon this plate the image of the deed. Here you are, in the very attitude of your crime!
'Tis false!
'Tis true! the apparatus can't lie. Look there, jurymen,
What court of law would receive such evidence?
Stop,
Try him! try him.
Who'll be accuser?
I will! Fellow citizens, you are convened and assembled here under a higher power than the
law. What's the law? when the ship's abroad on the ocean — when the army is before the enemy —
where in thunder's the law? it is in the hearts of brave men who can tell right from wrong,
and from whom justice can't be bought. So it is here, in the Wilds of the West, where our
hatred of crime is measured by the
Go on — Go on.
No! I won't go on, that man's down, I won't strike him even with words. Jacob, your accuser is that picter of the crime — let that speak — defend yourself.
Seize him then!
Stop! Search him, we may find more evidence.
Would you rob me first, and murder me afterwards?
Lynch him! — lynch him! — down with him!
Silence in the court — stand back, let the gentlemen of the jury retire, consult, and return their verdict.
I'm responsible for the crittur — go on.
See Inginn, look dar,
Ugh!
Ya! as he? Closky tue Paul — kill de child with your tomahawk dar, 'twasn't you, no — ole Pete allus say so. Poor Inginn lub our little Paul.
What say ye, gentlemen? Is the prisoner guilty, or is he not guilty?
Guilty!
And what is to be his punishment?
Death!
Ugh!
The Inginn, by thunder!
You's a dead man, mas'r; you've got to b'lieve dat.
No! If I must die, give me up to the laws, but save me from the tomahawk of the savage; you are a white man, you'll not leave one of your own blood to be butchered by the scalping knife of the redskin.
Hold on now, Jacob, we've got to figure that out; let us look straight at the thing. Here we are on the confines of civilization; it ain't our sile, I believe, rightly; Natur' has said that where the white man sets his foot the red man and the black man shall up sticks and stan' round. Now, what do we pay for that possession? In cash? No — in kind — that is, in protection and forbearance, in gentleness, and in all them goods that show the critturs the difference between the Christian and the Savage. Now what have you done to shew 'em the distinction? for darn me if I can find out.
For what I've done let me be tried.
Oh, you have been fairly and honestly tried, and convicted: Providence has chosen your executioner — I shan't interfere.
Oh! sar! hi, Mas'r Scudder, don't leave Mas'r'Closky like dat — don't, sar — tain't what a good Christian would do.
D'ye hear that, Jacob? — this old nigger, the grandfather of the boy you murdered, speaks for you — don't that go through ye — d'ye feel it? Go on, Pete, you've woke up the Christian here, and the old hoss responds.
Wahnotee!
No, Inginn, we deal justice here, not revenge; tain't you he has injured, 'tis the white man, whose laws he has offended.
Away with him! put him down the hatch till we rig his funeral.
Fifty against one! Oh! if you were alone — if I had ye one by one in the swamp, I'd rip ye all.
Dis way, Mas'r 'Closky, take care, sar.
Off with him quick — here come the ladies.
Shall we soon start, Captain?
Yes, ma'am; we've only got a — take my hand, ma'am, to steady you — a little account to square, and we're off.
A fog is rising.
Swamp mist; soon clear off.
Good night.
Good night, ma'am — good night.
Now to business.
Oh! law, sar. Dat debbel, 'Closky — he tore hisself from de gentleman — knock me down — take away my light, and throwed it on de turpentine barrels — de ship's on fire!
Ha, ha, ha! I've given them something to remember how they treated Jacob M'Closky. Made my
way from one end of the vessel to the other, and now the road to escape is clear before me —
and thus to secure it!
Paul.
Devils! — you here! — stand clear!
Paul.
You won't! — die, fool!