Stories in Verse Part 4

I cling with Abraham Lincoln to the fact, That they who make a nation truly great Are plain men, scattered in each walk of life.

To them, my words. And if I cut, perchance.

Against the rind of prejudice, and disclose The fruit of truth, it is for the love of truth; And truth, I hold with Joubert, to consist In seeing things and persons as G.o.d sees.

I.

An African, thick lipped, and heavy heeled, With woolly hair, large eyes, and even teeth, A forehead high, and beetling at the brows Enough to show a strong perceptive thought Ran out beyond the eyesight in all things-- A negro with no claim to any right, A savage with no knowledge we possess Of science, art, or books, or government-- Slave from a slaver to the Georgia coast, His life disposed of at the market rate; Yet in the face of all, a plain, true man-- Lowly and ignorant, yet brave and good, Karagwe, named for his native tribe.

His buyer was the planter, Dalton Earl, Of Valley Earl, an owner of broad lands, Whose wife, in some gray daybreak of the past, Had tarried with the night, and pa.s.sed away; But left him, as the marriage ring of death Was slipped upon her finger, a fair child.

He called this daughter Coralline. To him She was a spray of whitest coral, found Upon the coast where death's impatient sea Hems in the narrow continent of life.

II.

Each day brought health and strength to Karagwe.

Each day he worked upon the cotton-field, And every boll he picked had thought in it.

He labored, but his mind was otherwhere; Strange fancies, faced with ignorance and doubt, Came peering in, each jostling each aside, Like men, who in a crowded market-place, Push 'gainst the mob, to see some pageant pa.s.s.

All things were new and wonderful to him.

What were the papers that his owner read?

The marks and characters, what could they mean?

If speech, what then the use of oral speech?

At last by digging round the spreading roots Of this one thought, he found the treasure out-- Knowledge: this was the burden which was borne By these black, busy, ant-like characters.

But how acquire the meaning of the signs?

He found a sc.r.a.p of paper in the lane, And put it by, and saved it carefully, Till once, when all alone, he drew it forth, And gazed at it, and strove to learn its sense.

But while he studied, Dalton Earl rode by, And angered at the indication shown, s.n.a.t.c.hed rudely at the paper in his hand, And tore it up, commanding that the slave Have fifty lashes for this breach of law.

Long on his sentence pondered Karagwe.

Against the law? Who then could make a law Decreeing knowledge to a certain few, To others ignorance? Surely not G.o.d; For G.o.d, the white-haired negro with a text Had said loved justice, and was friend to all.

If man, then the authority was null.

The fifty lashes scourged the slave's bare back, The red blood running down at every stroke, The dark skin clinging ghastly to the lash.

No moan escaped him at the stinging pain.

Tremblingly he stood, and patiently bore all; His heart indignant, shaking his broad breast, Strong as the heart that Hippodamia wept, Which with the cold, intrusive bra.s.s thrust through, Shook even the Greek spear's extremity.

III.

And so the negro's energy, made strong By the one vile argument of the lash, Was given to learn the secret of the books.

He studied in the woods, and by the fall Which shoots down like an arrow from the cliff, Feathered with spray and barbed with hues of flint.

His books were bits of paper printed on, Found here and there, brought thither by the wind.

Once standing near the bottom of the fall And gazing up, he saw upon the verge Of the dark cliff above him, gathering flowers, His master's child, sweet Coralline; she leaned Out over the blank abyss, and smiled.

He climbed the bank, but ere he reached the height, A shriek rang out above the water's roar; The babe had fallen, and a quadroon girl Lay fainting near, upon the treacherous sward.

The babe had fallen, but with no injury yet.

Karagwe slipped down upon a narrow ledge, And reaching out, caught hold the little frock, Whose folds were tangled in a bending shrub, And safely drew the child back to the cliff.

The slave had favors shown him after this, Although he spoke not of the perilous deed, Nor spoke of any merit he had done.

IV.

By being always when he could alone, By wandering often in the woods and fields, He came at last to live in revery.

But little thought is there in revery, But little thought, for most is useless dream; And whoso dreams may never learn to act.

The dreamer and the thinker are not kin.

Sweet revery is like a little boat That idly drifts along a listless stream-- A painted boat, afloat without an oar.

And nature brought strange meanings to the slave; He loved the breeze, and when he heard it pa.s.s The agitated pines, he fancied it The silken court-dress of the lady Wind, Bustling among the foliage, as she went To waltz the whirlwind on the distant sea.

The negro preacher with the text had said That when men died, the soul lived on and on; If so, of what material was the soul?

The eye could not behold it; why not then The viewless air be filled with living souls?

Not only these, but other shapes and forms Might dwell unseen about us at all times.

If air was only matter rarefied, Why could not things still more impalpable Have real existence? Whence came our thoughts?

As angels came to shepherds in Chaldee; They were not ours. He fancied that most thoughts Were whispered to the soul, or good, or bad.

The bad were like a demon, a vast shape With measureless black wings, that when it dared, Placed its clawed foot upon the necks of men, And with the very shadow of itself, Made their lives darker than a starless night.

He did not strive to picture out the good, Or give to them a figure; but he knew No glory of the sunset could compare With the clear splendor of one n.o.ble deed.

He proudly dreamed that to no other mind Had these imaginings been uttered.

Alas! poor heart, how many have awoke, And found their newest thoughts as old as time-- Their brightest fancies woven in the threads Of ancient poems, history or romance, And knowledge still elusive and far off.

V.

The days that lengthen into years went on.

The quadroon girl who fainted on the cliff Was Ruth; now, blooming into womanhood, She looked on Karagwe, and seeing there Something above the level of the slave, Watched him with interest in all his ways.

At first through pity was she drawn to him.

While both were sitting on a rustic seat, Near the tall mansion where the planter dwelt, A drunken overseer came straggling past, And seeing in the dusk a female form, Swayed up to her, and caught her by the arm, And with an insult, strove to drag her on.

Ruth spoke not; but the negro, with one grasp Upon the white man, caused her quick release.

He turned, and in the face struck Karagwe.

The patient slave did not return the blow, But the next day they tied him to a post, And fifty stripes his naked shoulders flayed.

Stricken in mind at being deeply wronged, Filled with a n.o.ble scorn, that men most learned Would so degrade a brother race of men, He wept at heart; no groan fled through his lips.

Yet in a few days he was forced to go And work beneath the intolerable sun, Picking the cotton-boll, and bearing it In a rude basket, on his wounded back, Up a steep hill-side to the cotton gin.

VI.

Ruth, as she walked the pebbled garden lanes, Or daily in her hundred household cares, Thought of the dark face and n.o.ble heart Of Karagwe, and truly pitied him.

He, when the labor of the day was done, Moved through the dusk, among the dewy leaves, And, darker than the shadows, scaled the wall, And waited in the garden, crouching down Among the foliage of the fragrant trees, Hoping that she again might come that way.

He saw her through the window of the house, Pa.s.s and repa.s.s, and heard her sweetly sing A tender song of love and pity blent; But would not call to her, nor give a sign That he was there; to see her was enough.

Perhaps, if those about her knew he came To meet her in the garden, they would place Some punishment upon her, some restraint, That she, though innocent, might have to bear.

So he pa.s.sed back again to his low cot, And on his poor straw pallet, dreamed of her, As loyally perhaps as Chastelard, Lying asleep upon his palace couch, Dreamed of Queen Mary, and the love he gave.

VII.

Ruth was but tinged with shade, and always seemed Some luscious fruit, with but the slightest hint Of something foreign to the grafted bough Whereon it grew. Her eyes were black, and large, And pa.s.sionate, and proved the deathless soul, That through their portals looked upon the world, Was capable of hatred and revenge.

Her long black lashes hung above their depths, Like lotus leaves o'er some Egyptian spring.

And they were dreamy, too, at intervals, And glowed with tender beauty when she loved.

Her grace made for her such appropriate wear, That, though her gown was of the coa.r.s.est cloth, And though her duty was the lowest kind, It seemed apparel more desirable Than trailing robes of velvet or of silk.

Her voice was full, and sweet, and musical, Soft as the low breathings of an instrument Touched by the unseen fingers of the breeze.

VIII.

The large plantation, next to Dalton Earl's, Was owned by Richard Wain, a hated man-- Hated among his slaves and in the town.