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Iola Leroy by Frances E.W. Harper

F >> Frances E.W. Harper >> Iola Leroy



IOLA LEROY,

OR

SHADOWS UPLIFTED.

BY

FRANCES E.W. HARPER.




1893, Philadelphia

TO MY DAUGHTER

MARY E. HARPER,

THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED.




INTRODUCTION.


I confess when I first learned that Mrs. Harper was about to write "a
story" on some features of the Anglo-African race, growing out of what
was once popularly known as the "peculiar institution," I had my doubts
about the matter. Indeed it was far from being easy for me to think that
she was as fortunate as she might have been in selecting a subject which
would afford her the best opportunity for bringing out a work of merit
and lasting worth to the race--such a work as some of her personal
friends have long desired to see from her graphic pen. However, after
hearing a good portion of the manuscript read, and a general statement
with regard to the object in view, I admit frankly that my partial
indifference was soon swept away; at least I was willing to wait for
further developments.

Being very desirous that one of the race, so long distinguished in the
cause of freedom for her intellectual worth as Mrs. Harper has had the
honor of being, should not at this late date in life make a blunder
which might detract from her own good name, I naturally proposed to
await developments before deciding too quickly in favor of giving
encouragement to her contemplated effort.

However, I was perfectly aware of the fact that she had much material in
her possession for a most interesting book on the subject of the
condition of the colored people in the South. I know of no other woman,
white or colored, anywhere, who has come so intimately in contact with
the colored people in the South as Mrs. Harper. Since emancipation she
has labored in every Southern State in the Union, save two, Arkansas and
Texas; in the colleges, schools, churches, and the cabins not excepted,
she has found a vast field and open doors to teach and speak on the
themes of education, temperance, and good home building, industry,
morality, and the like, and never lacked for evidences of hearty
appreciation and gratitude.

Everywhere help was needed, and her heart being deeply absorbed in the
cause she willingly allowed her sympathies to impel her to perform most
heroic services.

With her it was no uncommon occurrence, in visiting cities or towns, to
speak at two, three, and four meetings a day; sometimes to promiscuous
audiences composed of everybody who would care to come.

But the kind of meetings she took greatest interest in were meetings
called exclusively for women. In this attitude she could pour out her
sympathies to them as she could not do before a mixed audience; and
indeed she felt their needs were far more pressing than any other class.

And now I am prepared to most fully indorse her story. I doubt whether
she could, if she had tried ever so much, have hit upon a subject so
well adapted to reach a large number of her friends and the public with
both entertaining and instructive matter as successfully as she has done
in this volume.

The grand and ennobling sentiments which have characterized all her
utterances in laboring for the elevation of the oppressed will not be
found missing in this book.

The previous books from her pen, which have been so very widely
circulated and admired, North and South--"Forest Leaves," "Miscellaneous
Poems," "Moses, a Story of the Nile," "Poems," and "Sketches of Southern
Life" (five in number)--these, I predict, will be by far eclipsed by
this last effort, which will, in all probability, be the crowning effort
of her long and valuable services in the cause of humanity.

While, as indicated, Mrs. Harper has done a large amount of work in the
South, she has at the same time done much active service in the
temperance cause in the North, as thousands of this class can testify.

Before the war she was engaged as a speaker by anti-slavery
associations; since then, by appointment of the Women's Christian
Temperance Union, she has held the office of "Superintendent of Colored
Work" for years. She has also held the office of one of the Directors of
the Women's Congress of the United States.

Under the auspices of these influential, earnest, and intelligent
associations, she has been seen often on their platforms with the
leading lady orators of the nation.

Hence, being widely known not only amongst her own race but likewise by
the reformers, laboring for the salvation of the intemperate and others
equally unfortunate, there is little room to doubt that the book will be
in great demand and will meet with warm congratulations from a goodly
number outside of the author's social connections.

Doubtless the thousands of colored Sunday-schools in the South, in
casting about for an interesting, moral story-book, full of practical
lessons, will not be content to be without "IOLA LEROY, OR SHADOWS
UPLIFTED."

WILLIAM STILL.




CONTENTS.


Chapter

I. The Mystery of Market Speech and Prayer Meetings

II. Contraband of War

III. Uncle Daniel's Story

IV. Arrival of the Union Army

V. Release of Iola Leroy

VI. Robert Johnson's Promotion and Religion

VII. Tom Anderson's Death

VIII. The Mystified Doctor

IX. Eugene Leroy and Alfred Lorraine

X. Shadows in the Home

XI. The Plague and the Law

XII. School-girl Notions

XIII. A Rejected Suitor

XIV. Harry Leroy

XV. Robert and his Company

XVI. After the Battle

XVII. Flames in the School-Room

XVIII. Searching for Lost Ones

XIX. Striking Contrasts

XX. A Revelation

XXI. A Home for Mother

XXII. Further Lifting of the Veil

XXIII. Delightful Reunions

XXIV. Northern Experience

XXV. An Old Friend

XXVI. Open Questions

XXVII. Diverging Paths

XXVIII. Dr. Latrobe's Mistake

XXIX. Visitors from the South

XXX. Friends in Council

XXXI. Dawning Affections

XXXII. Wooing and Wedding

XXXIII. Conclusion

Note




CHAPTER I.


MYSTERY OF MARKET SPEECH AND PRAYER-MEETING.

"Good mornin', Bob; how's butter dis mornin'?"

"Fresh; just as fresh, as fresh can be."

"Oh, glory!" said the questioner, whom we shall call Thomas Anderson,
although he was known among his acquaintances as Marster Anderson's Tom.

His informant regarding the condition of the market was Robert Johnson,
who had been separated from his mother in his childhood and reared by
his mistress as a favorite slave. She had fondled him as a pet animal,
and even taught him to read. Notwithstanding their relation as mistress
and slave, they had strong personal likings for each other.

Tom Anderson was the servant of a wealthy planter, who lived in the city
of C----, North Carolina. This planter was quite advanced in life, but
in his earlier days he had spent much of his time in talking politics in
his State and National capitals in winter, and in visiting pleasure
resorts and watering places in summer. His plantations were left to the
care of overseers who, in their turn, employed negro drivers to aid them
in the work of cultivation and discipline. But as the infirmities of age
were pressing upon him he had withdrawn from active life, and given the
management of his affairs into the hands of his sons. As Robert Johnson
and Thomas Anderson passed homeward from the market, having bought
provisions for their respective homes, they seemed to be very
light-hearted and careless, chatting and joking with each other; but
every now and then, after looking furtively around, one would drop into
the ears of the other some news of the battle then raging between the
North and South which, like two great millstones, were grinding slavery
to powder.

As they passed along, they were met by another servant, who said in
hurried tones, but with a glad accent in his voice:--

"Did you see de fish in de market dis mornin'? Oh, but dey war splendid,
jis' as fresh, as fresh kin be."

"That's the ticket," said Robert, as a broad smile overspread his face.
"I'll see you later."

"Good mornin', boys," said another servant on his way to market. "How's
eggs dis mornin'?"

"Fust rate, fust rate," said Tom Anderson. "Bob's got it down fine."

"I thought so; mighty long faces at de pos'-office dis mornin'; but I'd
better move 'long," and with a bright smile lighting up his face he
passed on with a quickened tread.

There seemed to be an unusual interest manifested by these men in the
state of the produce market, and a unanimous report of its good
condition. Surely there was nothing in the primeness of the butter or
the freshness of the eggs to change careless looking faces into such
expressions of gratification, or to light dull eyes with such gladness.
What did it mean?

During the dark days of the Rebellion, when the bondman was turning his
eyes to the American flag, and learning to hail it as an ensign of
deliverance, some of the shrewder slaves, coming in contact with their
masters and overhearing their conversations, invented a phraseology to
convey in the most unsuspected manner news to each other from the
battle-field. Fragile women and helpless children were left on the
plantations while their natural protectors were at the front, and yet
these bondmen refrained from violence. Freedom was coming in the wake of
the Union army, and while numbers deserted to join their forces, others
remained at home, slept in their cabins by night and attended to their
work by day; but under this apparently careless exterior there was an
undercurrent of thought which escaped the cognizance of their masters.
In conveying tidings of the war, if they wished to announce a victory of
the Union army, they said the butter was fresh, or that the fish and
eggs were in good condition. If defeat befell them, then the butter and
other produce were rancid or stale.

Entering his home, Robert set his basket down. In one arm he held a
bundle of papers which he had obtained from the train to sell to the
boarders, who were all anxious to hear from the seat of battle. He
slipped one copy out and, looking cautiously around, said to Linda, the
cook, in a low voice:--

"Splendid news in the papers. Secesh routed. Yankees whipped 'em out of
their boots. Papers full of it. I tell you the eggs and the butter's
mighty fresh this morning."

"Oh, sho, chile," said Linda, "I can't read de newspapers, but ole
Missus' face is newspaper nuff for me. I looks at her ebery mornin' wen
she comes inter dis kitchen. Ef her face is long an' she walks kine o'
droopy den I thinks things is gwine wrong for dem. But ef she comes out
yere looking mighty pleased, an' larffin all ober her face, an' steppin'
so frisky, den I knows de Secesh is gittin' de bes' ob de Yankees.
Robby, honey, does you really b'lieve for good and righty dat dem
Yankees is got horns?"

"Of course not."

"Well, I yered so."

"Well, you heard a mighty big whopper."

"Anyhow, Bobby, things goes mighty contrary in dis house. Ole Miss is in
de parlor prayin' for de Secesh to gain de day, and we's prayin' in de
cabins and kitchens for de Yankees to get de bes' ob it. But wasn't Miss
Nancy glad wen dem Yankees run'd away at Bull's Run. It was nuffin but
Bull's Run an' run away Yankees. How she did larff and skip 'bout de
house. An' den me thinks to myself you'd better not holler till you gits
out ob de woods. I specs 'fore dem Yankees gits froo you'll be larffin
tother side ob your mouf. While you was gone to market ole Miss com'd
out yere, her face looking as long as my arm, tellin' us all 'bout de
war and saying dem Yankees whipped our folks all to pieces. And she was
'fraid dey'd all be down yere soon. I thought they couldn't come too
soon for we. But I didn't tell her so."

"No, I don't expect you did."

"No, I didn't; ef you buys me for a fool you loses your money shore. She
said when dey com'd down yere she wanted all de men to hide, for dey'd
kill all de men, but dey wouldn't tech de women."

"It's no such thing. She's put it all wrong. Why them Yankees are our
best friends."

"Dat's jis' what I thinks. Ole Miss was jis' tryin to skeer a body. An'
when she war done she jis' set down and sniffled an' cried, an' I war so
glad I didn't know what to do. But I had to hole in. An' I made out I
war orful sorry. An' Jinny said, 'O Miss Nancy, I hope dey won't come
yere.' An' she said, 'I'se jis' 'fraid dey will come down yere and
gobble up eberything dey can lay dere hands on.' An' she jis' looked as
ef her heart war mos' broke, an' den she went inter de house. An' when
she war gone, we jis' broke loose. Jake turned somersets, and said he
warnt 'fraid ob dem Yankees; he know'd which side his brad was buttered
on. Dat Jake is a cuter. When he goes down ter git de letters he cuts up
all kines ob shines and capers. An' to look at him skylarking dere while
de folks is waitin' for dere letters, an' talkin' bout de war, yer
wouldn't think dat boy had a thimbleful of sense. But Jake's listenin'
all de time wid his eyes and his mouf wide open, an' ketchin' eberything
he kin, an' a heap ob news he gits dat way. As to Jinny, she jis'
capered and danced all ober de flore. An' I jis' had to put my han' ober
her mouf to keep ole Miss from yereing her. Oh, but we did hab a good
time. Boy, yer oughter been yere."

"And, Aunt Linda, what did you do?"

"Oh, honey, I war jis' ready to crack my sides larffin, jis' to see what
a long face Jinny puts on wen ole Miss is talkin', an' den to see dat
face wen missus' back is turned, why it's good as a circus. It's nuff to
make a horse larff."

"Why, Aunt Linda, you never saw a circus?"

"No, but I'se hearn tell ob dem, and I thinks dey mus' be mighty funny.
An' I know it's orful funny to see how straight Jinny's face looks wen
she's almos' ready to bust, while ole Miss is frettin' and fumin' 'bout
dem Yankees an' de war. But, somehow, Robby, I ralely b'lieves dat we
cullud folks is mixed up in dis fight. I seed it all in a vision. An'
soon as dey fired on dat fort, Uncle Dan'el says to me: 'Linda, we's
gwine to git our freedom.' An' I says: 'Wat makes you think so?" An' he
says: 'Dey've fired on Fort Sumter, an' de Norf is boun' to whip.'"

"I hope so," said Robert. "I think that we have a heap of friends up
there."

"Well, I'm jis' gwine to keep on prayin' an' b'lievin'."

Just then the bell rang, and Robert, answering, found Mrs. Johnson
suffering from a severe headache, which he thought was occasioned by her
worrying over the late defeat of the Confederates. She sent him on an
errand, which he executed with his usual dispatch, and returned to some
work which he had to do in the kitchen. Robert was quite a favorite with
Aunt Linda, and they often had confidential chats together.

"Bobby," she said, when he returned, "I thinks we ort ter hab a
prayer-meetin' putty soon."

"I am in for that. Where will you have it?"

"Lem me see. Las' Sunday we had it in Gibson's woods; Sunday 'fore las',
in de old cypress swamp; an' nex' Sunday we'el hab one in McCullough's
woods. Las' Sunday we had a good time. I war jis' chock full an' runnin'
ober. Aunt Milly's daughter's bin monin all summer, an' she's jis' come
throo. We had a powerful time. Eberythin' on dat groun' was jis' alive.
I tell yer, dere was a shout in de camp."

"Well, you had better look out, and not shout too much, and pray and
sing too loud, because, 'fore you know, the patrollers will be on your
track and break up your meetin' in a mighty big hurry, before you can
say 'Jack Robinson.'"

"Oh, we looks out for dat. We's got a nice big pot, dat got cracked las'
winter, but it will hole a lot o' water, an' we puts it whar we can tell
it eberything. We has our own good times. An' I want you to come Sunday
night an' tell all 'bout the good eggs, fish, and butter. Mark my words,
Bobby, we's all gwine to git free. I seed it all in a vision, as plain
as de nose on yer face."

"Well, I hope your vision will come out all right, and that the eggs
will keep and the butter be fresh till we have our next meetin'."

"Now, Bob, you sen' word to Uncle Dan'el, Tom Anderson, an' de rest ob
dem, to come to McCullough's woods nex' Sunday night. I want to hab a
sin-killin' an' debil-dribin' time. But, boy, you'd better git out er
yere. Ole Miss'll be down on yer like a scratch cat."

Although the slaves were denied unrestricted travel, and the holding of
meetings without the surveillance of a white man, yet they contrived to
meet by stealth and hold gatherings where they could mingle their
prayers and tears, and lay plans for escaping to the Union army.
Outwitting the vigilance of the patrollers and home guards, they
established these meetings miles apart, extending into several States.

Sometimes their hope of deliverance was cruelly blighted by hearing of
some adventurous soul who, having escaped to the Union army, had been
pursued and returned again to bondage. Yet hope survived all these
disasters which gathered around the fate of their unfortunate brethren,
who were remanded to slavery through the undiscerning folly of those who
were strengthening the hands which were dealing their deadliest blows at
the heart of the Nation. But slavery had cast such a glamour over the
Nation, and so warped the consciences of men, that they failed to read
aright the legible transcript of Divine retribution which was written
upon the shuddering earth, where the blood of God's poor children had
been as water freely spilled.




CHAPTER II.


CONTRABAND OF WAR.

A few evenings after this conversation between Robert and Linda, a
prayer-meeting was held. Under the cover of night a few dusky figures
met by stealth in McCullough's woods.

"Howdy," said Robert, approaching Uncle Daniel, the leader of the
prayer-meeting, who had preceded him but a few minutes.

"Thanks and praise; I'se all right. How is you, chile?"

"Oh, I'm all right," said Robert, smiling, and grasping Uncle Daniel's
hand.

"What's de news?" exclaimed several, as they turned their faces eagerly
towards Robert.

"I hear," said Robert, "that they are done sending the runaways back to
their masters."

"Is dat so?" said a half dozen earnest voices. "How did you yere it?"

"I read it in the papers. And Tom told me he heard them talking about it
last night, at his house. How did you hear it, Tom? Come, tell us all
about it."

Tom Anderson hesitated a moment, and then said:--

"Now, boys, I'll tell you all 'bout it. But you's got to be mighty mum
'bout it. It won't do to let de cat outer de bag."

"Dat's so! But tell us wat you yered. We ain't gwine to say nuffin to
nobody."

"Well," said Tom, "las' night ole Marster had company. Two big
ginerals, and dey was hoppin' mad. One ob dem looked like a turkey
gobbler, his face war so red. An' he sed one ob dem Yankee ginerals, I
thinks dey called him Beas' Butler, sed dat de slaves dat runned away
war some big name--I don't know what he called it. But it meant dat all
ob we who com'd to de Yankees should be free."

"Contraband of war," said Robert, who enjoyed the distinction of being a
good reader, and was pretty well posted about the war. Mrs. Johnson had
taught him to read on the same principle she would have taught a pet
animal amusing tricks. She had never imagined the time would come when
he would use the machinery she had put in his hands to help overthrow
the institution to which she was so ardently attached.

"What does it mean? Is it somethin' good for us?"

"I think," said Robert, a little vain of his superior knowledge, "it is
the best kind of good. It means if two armies are fighting and the
horses of one run away, the other has a right to take them. And it is
just the same if a slave runs away from the Secesh to the Union lines.
He is called a contraband, just the same as if he were an ox or a horse.
They wouldn't send the horses back, and they won't send us back."

"Is dat so?" said Uncle Daniel, a dear old father, with a look of
saintly patience on his face. "Well, chillen, what do you mean to do?"

"Go, jis' as soon as we kin git to de army," said Tom Anderson.

"What else did the generals say? And how did you come to hear them,
Tom?" asked Robert Johnson.

"Well, yer see, Marster's too ole and feeble to go to de war, but his
heart's in it. An' it makes him feel good all ober when dem big ginerals
comes an' tells him all 'bout it. Well, I war laying out on de porch
fas' asleep an' snorin' drefful hard. Oh, I war so soun' asleep dat wen
Marster wanted some ice-water he had to shake me drefful hard to wake me
up. An' all de time I war wide 'wake as he war."

"What did they say?" asked Robert, who was always on the lookout for
news from the battle-field.

"One ob dem said, dem Yankees war talkin' of puttin' guns in our han's
and settin' us all free. An' de oder said, 'Oh, sho! ef dey puts guns in
dere hands dey'll soon be in our'n; and ef dey sets em free dey wouldn't
know how to take keer ob demselves.'"

"Only let 'em try it," chorused a half dozen voices, "an' dey'll soon
see who'll git de bes' ob de guns; an' as to taking keer ob ourselves, I
specs we kin take keer ob ourselves as well as take keer ob dem."

"Yes," said Tom, "who plants de cotton and raises all de crops?"

"'They eat the meat and give us the bones,
Eat the cherries and give us the stones,'

"And I'm getting tired of the whole business," said Robert.

"But, Bob," said Uncle Daniel, "you've got a good owner. You don't hab
to run away from bad times and wuss a comin'."

"It isn't so good, but it might be better. I ain't got nothing 'gainst
my ole Miss, except she sold my mother from me. And a boy ain't nothin'
without his mother. I forgive her, but I never forget her, and never
expect to. But if she were the best woman on earth I would rather have
my freedom than belong to her. Well, boys, here's a chance for us just
as soon as the Union army gets in sight. What will you do?"

"I'se a goin," said Tom Anderson, "jis' as soon as dem Linkum soldiers
gits in sight."

"An' I'se a gwine wid you, Tom," said another. "I specs my ole
Marster'll feel right smart lonesome when I'se gone, but I don't keer
'bout stayin' for company's sake."

"My ole Marster's room's a heap better'n his company," said Tom
Anderson, "an' I'se a goner too. Dis yer freedom's too good to be lef'
behind, wen you's got a chance to git it. I won't stop to bid ole Marse
good bye."

"What do you think," said Robert, turning to Uncle Daniel; "won't you go
with us?"

"No, chillen, I don't blame you for gwine; but I'se gwine to stay.
Slavery's done got all de marrow out ob dese poor ole bones. Ef freedom
comes it won't do me much good; we ole one's will die out, but it will
set you youngsters all up."

"But, Uncle Daniel, you're not too old to want your freedom?"

"I knows dat. I lubs de bery name of freedom. I'se been praying and
hoping for it dese many years. An' ef I warn't boun', I would go wid you
ter-morrer. I won't put a straw in your way. You boys go, and my prayers
will go wid you. I can't go, it's no use. I'se gwine to stay on de ole
place till Marse Robert comes back, or is brought back."

"But, Uncle Daniel," said Robert, "what's the use of praying for a
thing if, when it comes, you won't take it? As much as you have been
praying and talking about freedom, I thought that when the chance came
you would have been one of the first to take it. Now, do tell us why you
won't go with us. Ain't you willing?"

"Why, Robbie, my whole heart is wid you. But when Marse Robert went to
de war, he called me into his room and said to me, 'Uncle Dan'el, I'se
gwine to de war, an' I want you to look arter my wife an' chillen, an'
see dat eberything goes right on de place'. An' I promised him I'd do it,
an' I mus' be as good as my word. 'Cept de overseer, dere isn't a white
man on de plantation, an' I hear he has to report ter-morrer or be
treated as a deserter. An' der's nobody here to look arter Miss Mary an'
de chillen, but myself, an' to see dat eberything goes right. I promised
Marse Robert I would do it, an' I mus' be as good as my word."

"Well, what should you keer?" said Tom Anderson. "Who looked arter you
when you war sole from your farder and mudder, an' neber seed dem any
more, and wouldn't know dem to-day ef you met dem in your dish?"

"Well, dats neither yere nor dere. Marse Robert couldn't help what his
father did. He war an orful mean man. But he's dead now, and gone to see
'bout it. But his wife war the nicest, sweetest lady dat eber I did see.
She war no more like him dan chalk's like cheese. She used to visit de
cabins, an' listen to de pore women when de overseer used to cruelize
dem so bad, an' drive dem to work late and early. An' she used to sen'
dem nice things when they war sick, and hab der cabins whitewashed an'
lookin' like new pins, an' look arter dere chillen. Sometimes she'd try
to git ole Marse to take dere part when de oberseer got too mean. But
she might as well a sung hymns to a dead horse. All her putty talk war
like porin water on a goose's back. He'd jis' bluff her off, an' tell
her she didn't run dat plantation, and not for her to bring him any
nigger news. I never thought ole Marster war good to her. I often
ketched her crying, an' she'd say she had de headache, but I thought it
war de heartache. 'Fore ole Marster died, she got so thin an' peaked I
war 'fraid she war gwine to die; but she seed him out. He war killed by
a tree fallin' on him, an' ef eber de debil got his own he got him. I
seed him in a vision arter he war gone. He war hangin' up in a pit,
sayin' 'Oh! oh!' wid no close on. He war allers blusterin', cussin', and
swearin' at somebody. Marse Robert ain't a bit like him. He takes right
arter his mother. Bad as ole Marster war, I think she jis' lob'd de
groun' he walked on. Well, women's mighty curious kind of folks anyhow.
I sometimes thinks de wuss you treats dem de better dey likes you."