“I will do anything you say,” replied the boy humbly, “but I hate to leave Jesse. O mama, mama, my beautiful mama!” and with a burst of grief he cast himself upon the velvet turf.
The mineralogist lost no time in completing the purchase of Charles, and in a few days they left the town. Then little Jesse, the petted darling of a luxurious home, found himself alone in the power of Anson Pollock. He must wait upon him obsequiously by day, and be ready to answer his call at any hour of the night. Under his enemy’s eye by day and night, hopeless, utterly alone upon the wide waste of waters which represented his life. Oh, how black, boundless, trackless, was the unknown future to this unfortunate child! Once, after his brother was sold, he resisted his master—rebelled with all his puny strength. He was severely flogged. That night he slept in the lonely cabin kept as a sort of prison for refractory slaves. Not a sigh disturbed the silence of the night as he lay in pain, gazing up at the stars which shone so peacefully through the dilapidated roof. He thought himself delirious, or was it indeed possible that God had taken compassion on his loneliness and allowed the comfort and help of communion with the dead! He saw his murdered father and mother. Hand in hand they passed and repassed over the gaping holes in the roof of the hut. His father’s noble, loving face smiled upon him; his mother’s curls moved in the faint breeze, while her loving glance seemed to say: “Courage, courage, we are ever near you.”
“Father, Grace, speak to me!” he shrieked in agony.
Then he seemed to feel their actual presence, tangible though viewless, beside him in the hut. Calmness came to him, and a change grand to see in that slight frame. Unconsciously he asked the question: “How long must I endure before I join you in heaven?”
It seemed to him that he was answered: “Many days, and even years; but fear not, we will never leave thee.”
After that night Jesse’s childhood appeared to slip from him, and he became a man in thought. He studied his master, and matched low cunning with lofty determination. He rebelled no more, was silent, not provoking Anson Pollock’s wrath. The time seemed long and dreary waiting for the freedom he had resolved to have; still he was patient. Sometimes at night, when rolled in his blanket on the hard floor, he would weep over the painful past. Then he would feel the touch of a tiny hand upon his eyelids. It was his mother’s hand; he knew it to be so. Then he would lose himself in sweet dreams and awaken in the morning refreshed and comforted. So the years rolled on until he was sixteen. Meantime, nothing was heard from Charles and his supposed friend. Jesse had made up his mind that Charles was either dead or else lost to him forever.
Jesse was now a man in stature, though still slender, with the same haughty bearing and distinguished appearance that had marked his father. Anson Pollock, upon whom age and the memory of dreadful crimes were making fearful inroads, began to look up to the boy and lean upon him for aid in his various plans for making money. He had spoken to him of making him the overseer, in place of Bill Sampson, and had even hinted at his taking a mate. Then Jesse knew that his probation was nearly over. That spring Pollock, as was the common practice among planters, made out passes for Jesse and sent him to New York in charge of a vessel filled with produce, and charged to bring back necessary merchandise for use on the plantation. Pollock thought the boy still too young to venture to leave him. Indeed Jesse had no such idea when he started on his trip to the North. When the vessel reached New York, Jesse performed all the necessary duties—disposed of the produce, and reloaded the ship for its homeward voyage. The night before they were to sail he sat on the wharf watching the crews of other vessels making ready for departure. His mind was engrossed with thoughts of Charles. He feared some evil had befallen him.
“At any rate,” he said to himself, “I shall never see him again. And must I remain in servitude? Can I do nothing to help myself, since all hope is gone in that direction?” Just then a group of men paused in front of him. They did not know he was a slave.
“Will you give passage to two on board your vessel? You are bound for New Bern in the morning, aren’t you? We’ll pay you what you charge,” said one of the group respectfully.
“Speak to the cap’n,” called out a man standing near; “that’s nuthin’ but a nigger you’re talkin’ to.”
“Well,” said the one who had first addressed him, “you’re a likely boy, anyhow; who do you belong to?”
Jesse arose from his seat, white with passion, and said to the man: “I am no man’s property; I belong to Jesus Christ!” The question had answered itself. When the vessel sailed the next morning, Jesse was far on his road to Boston.
Traveling then was done by stage, and was a slow process; but about a week later he stood beside the stone wall that enclosed the historic Boston Common, and as he watched the cows chewing their peaceful cuds and inhaled deep draughts of freedom’s air, he vowed to die rather than return to Anson Pollock.
He found work in Boston. It mattered not that it was menial work; he was happy. But fate or
