He Would Deliver Her From Bondage1
ABOUT twelve o'clock of a hazy3 night, in the month of November, and while Annette, in the hands of Mr. Pringle Blowers, with death-like tenacity4 refuses to yield to his vile5 purposes, a little taunt-rigged schooner6 may be seen stealing her way through the grey mist into Charleston inner harbour. Like a mysterious messenger, she advances noiselessly, gibes7 her half-dimmed sails, rounds to a short distance from an old fort that stands on a ridge8 of flats extending into the sea, drops her anchor, and furls her sails. We hear the rumble9 of the chain, and "aye, aye!" sound on the still air, like the murmur10 of voices in the clouds. A pause is followed by the sharp sound of voices echoing through the hollow mist; then she rides like a thing of life reposing11 on the polished water, her masts half obscured in mist, looming12 high above, like a spectre in gauze shroud13. The sound dies away, and dimly we see the figure of a man pacing the deck from fore-shroud to taffrail. Now and then he stops at the wheel, casts sundry14 glances about the horizon, as if to catch a recognition of some point of land near by, and walks again. Now he places his body against the spokes15, leans forward, and compares the "lay" of the land with points of compass. He will reach his hand into the binnacle, to note the compass with his finger, and wait its traversing motion. Apparently16 satisfied, he moves his slow way along again; now folding his arms, as if in deep study, then locking his hands behind him, and drooping17 his head. He paces and paces for an hour, retires below, and all is still.
Early on the following morning, a man of middle stature18, genteelly dressed, may be seen leaving the craft in a boat, which, rowed by two seamen19, soon reaches a wharf20, upon the landing slip of which he disembarks. He looks pale, and his countenance21 wears a placidness indicating a mind absorbed in reflection. With a carpet-bag in his right hand does he ascend22 the steps to the crown of the wharf, as the boat returns to the mysterious-looking craft. Standing23 on the capsill for a few minutes, his blue eyes wander over the scene, as if to detect some familiar object. The warehouses24 along the wharfs25 wear a dingy26, neglected air; immense piles of cotton bales stand under slender sheds erected27 here and there along the line of buildings which form a curvature declining to the east and west. Again, open spaces are strewn with bales of cotton waiting its turn through the press (a large building near by, from which steam is issuing in successive puffings and roarings); from which compressed bales emerge out of the lower story, followed by a dozen half-naked negroes, who, half-bent, trundle it onward28 into piles, or on board ships. Far above these is spread out a semicircle of dwellings29, having a gloomy and irregular appearance, devoid30 of that freshness and brightness which so distinguish every New England city. The bustle31 of the day is just commencing, and the half-mantled ships, lying unmoved at the wharfs, give out signs of activity. The new comer is about to move on up the wharf, when suddenly he is accosted33 by a negro, who, in ragged34 garb35, touches his hat politely, and says, with a smile, "Yer sarvant, mas'r!"
"Your name, my boy?" returns the man, in a kind tone of voice. The negro, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his old sack coat, seems contemplating36 an answer. He has had several names, both surname and Christian37; names are but of little value to a slave. "Pompe they once called me, but da' calls me Bill now," he answers, eyeing the stranger, suspiciously. "Pompe, Pompe! I've heard that name: how familiar it sounds!" the stranger says to himself.
"One mas'r call me Turtle Tom," rejoins the negro, scratching his head the while.
"Turtle Tom!" reiterates38 the stranger. "Had you no other name coupled with Pompe, when that was the name by which you were recognised?"
The negro will not wait his finishing the sentence. He says he had good old mas'r's name; but good old mas'r-"so dey tells"-dead and gone long time ago. "His name was Marston; and dat war dis child's name den32, God bless 'um!" he answers the stranger.
"Marston, who lived on the banks of the Ashley?" again he enquires39, as his face crimsons40 with excitement.
"Dat war my mas'r; and dem war good old times when I lived dar," returns the negro, significantly nodding his head.
"Then you are the first man I have met, the first I want to see," exclaimed the stranger, grasping the negro by the hand, and, much to his surprise, shaking it heartily41.
"'Taint42 Lorenzo," returns the negro, contemplating the stranger with astonishment43.
The stranger is not Lorenzo, but he has heard much of him. What happy recollections its familiar sound recalls: how it strengthens his hopes of success in his mission. The negro tells him he is a labourer on the wharf, and cannot leave to conduct him to an hotel; he will, however, direct the stranger to a comfortable abode44 in Church Street. It is quiet and unostentatious, but will serve his purpose. Placing a piece of money in the negro's hand, he assures him that he is his friend-has much need of his services-will pay him well for their employment. He has equally aroused the negro's curiosity; and, were it nothing more than satisfying that, he would be faithful to his promise to call the same night at seven o'clock. Precisely45 at that hour the negro will fulfil his engagement. The stranger wends his way to Church Street, and up a narrow alley46, on the left hand side, finds comfortable apartments, as directed. Here he makes his toilet, and sallies out to reconnoitre the city. Meanwhile the little craft is entered at the custom-house as a fruiter, bound from New Providence47 to New York, and put in for a harbour. There is something suspicious about a fruiter putting in for a harbour at this season, and many curious glances are cast upon the little captain as he bows to the truth of his entry before the deputy collector.
The stranger has spent the day in viewing the city, and at nightfall, the negro, true to his engagement, presents his sable48 figure at his lodgings49. A servant having shown him up stairs, he is ushered50 into his presence, where, seeming bewildered, he looks about inquiringly, as if doubting the object for which he has been summoned. Abjectly52 he holds his tattered53 cap in his hand, and tremblingly inquires what master wants with him.
"Have confidence, my good fellow," the stranger speaks, with a smile; "my mission is love and peace." He places a chair beside a small table in the centre of the room; bids the negro sit down, which he does with some hesitation54. The room is small; it contains a table, bureau, washstand, bed, and four chairs, which, together with a few small prints hanging from the dingy walls, and a square piece of carpet in the centre of the room, constitute its furniture. "You know Marston's plantation-know it as it was when Marston resided thereon, do you?" enquires the stranger, seating himself beside the negro, who evidently is not used to this sort of familiarity.
"Know 'um well, dat I does," answers the negro, quickly, as if the question had recalled scenes of the past.
"And you know the people, too, I suppose?"
"Da'h people!" ejaculates the negro, with a rhapsody of enthusiasm; "reckon I does."
"Will you recount them."
The negro, commencing with old master, recounts the names of Miss Franconia, Clotilda, Ellen, Aunt Rachel, old Daddy Bob, and Harry55.
"It is enough," says the stranger, "they are all familiar names."
"Did you know my good old master?" interrupts the negro, suddenly, as if detecting some familiar feature in the stranger's countenance.
"No," he replies, measuredly; "but his name has sounded in my ears a thousand times. Tell me where are the children, Annette and Nicholas? and where may I find Franconia?"
The negro shakes his head, and remains56 silent for a few minutes. At length he raises his hand, and in a half-whisper says, "Gone, gone, gone; sold and scattered57, good mas'r. Habn't see dem child dis many a day: reckon da'h done gone down south." He hesitates suddenly, as if calling something to memory; and then, placing his left hand on the stranger's right arm, as he rubs his left across his forehead, stammers58 out-"Mas'r, mas'r, I reckon dis child do know somefin 'bout2 Miss Frankone. Anyhow, mas'r (ye knows I'se nigger do'h, and don't keep up 'quaintance a'ter mas'r sell um), can put ye straight 'bout Missus Rosebrook's house, and reckon how dat lady can put ye straight on Miss Frankone's where'bout." It is what the stranger wants. He has heard of Mrs. Rosebrook before; she will give him the information he seeks; so, turning again to the negro, he tells him that, for a few days at least, he shall require his presence at the same hour in the evening: tonight he must conduct him to Mrs. Rosebrook's sequestered59 villa60.
The watch-tower bell of the guard-house sounds forth61 nine o'clock. The soldier-like sentinel, pacing with loaded musket62, and armed with sharpest steel, cries out in hoarse63 accents, "All's well!" The bell is summoning all negroes to their habitations: our guide, Bill, informs the stranger that he must have a "pass" from a white man before he can venture into the street. "Mas'r may write 'um," he says, knowing that it matters but little from whom it comes, so long as the writer be a white man. The pass is written; the negro partakes of refreshment64 that has been prepared for him at the stranger's request, and they are wending their way through the city. They pass between rows of massive buildings, many of which have an antique appearance, and bear strong signs of neglect; but their unique style of architecture denotes the taste of the time in which they were erected. Some are distinguished65 by heavy stone colonnades66, others by verandas67 of fret-work, with large gothic windows standing in bold outline. Gloomy-looking guard-houses, from which numerous armed men are issuing forth for the night's duty,--patrolling figures with white cross belts, and armed with batons68, standing at corners of streets, or moving along with heavy tread on the uneven69 side-walk,--give the city an air of military importance. The love of freedom is dangerous in this democratic world; liberty is simply a privilege. Again the stranger and his guide (the negro) emerge into narrow lanes, and pass along between rows of small dwellings inhabited by negroes; but at every turn they encounter mounted soldiery, riding two abreast70, heavily armed. "Democracy, boast not of thy privileges! tell no man thou governest with equal justice!" said the stranger to himself, as the gas-light shed its flickers71 upon this military array formed to suppress liberty.
They have reached the outskirts72 of the city, and are approaching a pretty villa, which the negro, who has been explaining the nature and duties of this formidable display of citizen soldiery, points to, as the peaceful home of the Rosebrook family. Brighter and brighter, as they approach, glares the bright light of a window in the north front. "I wish Mas'r Rosebrook owned me," says the negro, stopping at the garden gate, and viewing the pretty enclosure ere he opens it. "If ebery mas'r and missus war as kind as da'h is, dar wouldn't be no need o' dem guard-houses and dem guardmen wid dar savage73 steel," he continues, opening the gate gently, and motioning the stranger to walk in. Noiselessly he advances up the brick walk to the hall entrance, and rings the bell. A well-dressed negro man soon makes his appearance, receives him politely, as the guide retires, and ushers74 him into a sumptuously75 furnished parlour. The Rosebrook negroes quickly recognise a gentleman, and detecting it in the bearing of the stranger they treat him as such. Mrs. Rosebrook, followed by her husband, soon makes her appearance, saluting76 the stranger with her usual suavity77. "I have come, madam," he says, "on a strange mission. With you I make no secret of it; should I be successful it will remove the grief and anxiety of one who has for years mourned the fate of her on whom all her affections seem to have centred. If you will but read this it will save the further recital78 of my mission." Thus saying, he drew a letter from his pocket, presented it, and watched her countenance as line by line she read it, and, with tears glistening79 in her eyes, passed it to her husband.
"I am, good sir, heartily glad your mission is thus laudable. Be at home, and while you are in the city let our home be yours. Franconia is here with us to-night; the child you search after is also with us, and it was but to-day we learned the cruelties to which she has been subjected during the last few years. Indeed, her fate had been kept concealed80 from us until a few weeks ago, and to-day, having escaped the brutal81 designs of a ruffian, she fled to us for protection, and is now concealed under our roof-"
"Yes, poor wretch-it is too true!" rejoins Rosebrook. "But something must be done as quickly as possible, for if Pringle Blowers regains82 her she will be subjected to tortures her frame is too delicate to bear up under. There must be no time lost, not a day!" he says, as Mrs. Rosebrook quickly leaves the room to convey the news to Franconia, who, with Annette, is in an adjoining apartment.
Like a hunted deer, Annette's fears were excited on hearing the stranger enter; Franconia is endeavoring to quiet them. The poor slave fears the ruffian's pursuit, trembles at each foot-fall upon the door-sill, and piteously turns to her old friend for protection. Blowers, maddened with disappointment, would rather sacrifice her to infamy83 than sell her for money to a good master. The price of a pretty slave is no object with this boasting democrat,--the gratification of his carnal desires soars supreme84. Rosebrook knows this, as the abject51 woman does to her sorrow.
As Rosebrook and the stranger sit conversing85 upon the object of his mission, and the best way to effect it, this good woman returns leading by the arm a delicately-formed girl, whose blonde countenance is shadowed with an air of melancholy86 which rather adds to her charms than detracts from her beauty. The stranger's eye rests upon her,--quickly he recognises Clotilda's features, Clotilda's form, and gentleness; but she is fairer than Clotilda, has blue eyes, and almost golden hair. She hesitates as her eyes meet the stranger's. "Do not fear, my child," speaks Franconia, whose slender figure follows her into the room. Assured that the stranger is her friend, she is introduced to him, and modestly takes her seat on a chair by the window. The stranger's name is Maxwell, and on hearing it announced Franconia anticipated the pleasure of meeting with her old friend, through whose agency she effected Clotilda's escape. Advancing towards him with extended hand, she looks enquiringly in his face, saying, "Am I mistaken?" She shakes her head, doubtingly. "No! it is not my friend Maxwell," she continues.
"No!" rejoins the stranger; "he is my cousin: by his directions I have come here. I have brought a letter from his wife Clotilda, whose dear deliverer you were; and whose thoughts now daily recur87 to you, to your love and kindness to her, with undying brightness." "Ah!" interrupts Franconia, welcoming him with a fervent88 heart, "I knew Clotilda would never forget Annette; I knew she would remember me; I knew her ardent89 soul would give forth its measure of gratitude90. Happy am I that you have come-though years have rolled by since I gave up all hopes of the joyous91 consummation-to relieve this sorrowing child," she says, running to Annette, and with tears of joy in her eyes, exclaiming, "My child! my child! you 'll yet be saved. The ruffian who tortured you to-day will torture you no more-no more!" And she kisses the sorrowing girl's cheek, as tears of sympathy gush92 into her eyes.
Rosebrook handed Franconia the letter, which she read as her face brightened with joy. "Good Clotilda! how happy she must be! How generous, how kind, how true dear Maxwell was to her; and they are living together so comfortably, and have such a nice family growing up; but she wants her slave child! A slave mother never forgets her slave offspring!" she exclaims, with enthusiastic delight, as she reads and re-reads the letter. Back she paces to Annette, lays her right arm gently over her shoulder, and pats her cheek with her left hand: "Annette will see her mother, yet. There is an all-protecting hand guiding us through every ill of life. Be of good cheer, my child; never despond while there is a hope left; bury the horrors of the past in the brighter prospect93 of the future." And leading her to the table she seats her by her side and reads the letter aloud, as with joy the forlorn girl's feelings bound forth. We need scarcely tell the reader that Clotilda's letter was read in listening silence, and ran thus:--"Nassau, New Providence, "October 24, 18-. "My Dear Franconia,
"My thoughts have never ceased to recur to you, nor to my dear Annette. You were a mother and a deliverer to me; I know-though I have not received a word in reply to any of my letters-you have been a mother to my child. As you know, I dare not write as much as I would, lest this letter fall into the hands of those whose interest it is to perpetuate94 our enslavement. I hope you are happy with a good husband, as I am. Years have rolled by since we parted, and many have been the scenes and changes through which I have passed, but they were all pleasant changes, each for brighter and happier prospects95. I was married to him who, with you, effected my escape, a few weeks after landing at Harbour Island. Since then we have resided in Nassau, where my husband, who loves me dearly, pursues an extensive and lucrative96 business, and we both move in the best society of the place. We have a pretty family of three children, the oldest nine years old, and the youngest five. How my heart would leap with joy if I thought you would accept an invitation to come and see me, to spend a few weeks with me, and see yourself how comfortable and happy a slave may be! Perhaps I should not say happy, for I never can be truly happy without my Annette. Something haunts my mind whenever I recur to her,--which is every day. And then I have written so many letters to which no answers have been returned; but, a whispering angel, as if to console me, says, Franconia will be her mother, and you will yet see her.
"The gentleman who bears this letter is my husband's cousin. He has all my husband's generosity97 of character, and will seek you for the purpose of finding Annette, and bearing her safely to me. He has proffered98 his services, and sworn to carry out his object; and being on his way to New York for the purpose of entering into business with his uncle now in that city, will touch at Charleston, for the object herein stated. Further his object, my dear Franconia, and that heaven will reward the hand that in mercy helps the enslaved, "Is the prayer of your grateful "CLOTILDA MAXWELL."
"I knew mother would never forget me; I knew she would come back to me, would be kind to me, as she used to be, and save me from such cruelty as I have suffered. Several times have I resolved on putting an end to my unhappy existence, but as often did something say to me, 'live hoping-there is a better day coming.' God guides, governs, and raises up the weary soul," says Annette, in touching99 accents, as Franconia finished reading the letter.
While this conversation is progressing, and the plan of getting Annette out of the city being devised, a nice supper, at Mrs. Rosebrook's request, is being prepared in the adjoining room. To this the stranger is invited, and all sit down in a happy circle. Franconia seems invested with new life; Annette forgets for the time her troubles; Mrs. Rosebrook, who does the honours of the table, wishes every ill-used slave could find means of escaping into freedom; and Deacon Rosebrook says he will join heart and hand in getting the forlorn girl free from her base purchaser.
收听单词发音 |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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schooner
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gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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stature
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seamen
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wharf
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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warehouses
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wharfs
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| 码头，停泊处 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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bustle
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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garb
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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reiterates
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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enquires
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| 打听( enquire的第三人称单数 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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crimsons
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| 变为深红色（crimson的第三人称单数形式） | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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abjectly
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| 凄惨地； 绝望地； 糟透地； 悲惨地 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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stammers
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| n.口吃，结巴( stammer的名词复数 )v.结巴地说出( stammer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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verandas
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| 阳台，走廊( veranda的名词复数 ) | |
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batons
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| n.（警察武器）警棍( baton的名词复数 )；（乐队指挥用的）指挥棒；接力棒 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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regains
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| 复得( regain的第三人称单数 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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