Iola Leroy by Frances E.W. Harper

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"An' dere's dat ole broken pot we used, ter tell 'bout de war. But
warn't ole Miss hoppin' wen she foun' out you war goin' to de war! I
thought she'd go almos' wile. Now, own up, Robby, didn't you feel kine
ob mean to go off widout eben biddin' her good bye? An' I ralely think
ole Miss war fon' ob yer. Now, own up, honey, didn't yer feel a little
down in de mouf wen yer lef' her."

"Not much," responded Robert. "I only thought she was getting paid back
for selling my mother."

"Dat's so, Robby! yore mudder war a likely gal, wid long black hair, an'
kine ob ginger-bread color. An' you neber hearn tell ob her sence dey
sole her to Georgia?"

"Never," replied Robert, "but I would give everything I have on earth to
see her once more. I _do_ hope, if she is living, that I may meet her
before I die."

"You's right, boy, cause she lub'd you as she lub'd her own life. Many a
time hes she set in my ole cabin an' cried 'bout yer wen you war fas'
asleep. It's all ober now, but I'se gwine to hole up fer dem Yankees dat
gib me my freedom, an' sent dem nice ladies from de Norf to gib us some
sense. Some ob dese folks calls em nigger teachers, an' won't hab nuffin
to do wid 'em, but I jis' thinks dey's splendid. But dere's some
triflin' niggers down yere who'll sell der votes for almost nuffin. Does
you 'member Jake Williams an' Gundover's Tom? Well dem two niggers is de
las' ob pea-time. Dey's mighty small pertaters an' few in a hill."

"Oh, Aunt Linda," said Robert, "don't call them niggers. They are our
own people."

"Dey ain't my kine ob people. I jis' calls em niggers, an' niggers I
means; an' de bigges' kine ob niggers. An' if my John war sich a nigger
I'd whip him an' leave him."

"An' what would I be a doin'," queried John, suddenly rousing up at the
mention of his name.

"Standing still and taking it, I suppose," said Iola, who had been
quietly listening to and enjoying the conversation.

"Yes, an' I'd ketch myself stan'in' still an' takin' it," was John's
plucky response.

"Well, you oughter, ef you's mean enough to wote dat ticket ter put me
back inter slavery," was Aunt Linda's parting shot. "Robby," she
continued, "you 'member Miss Nancy's Jinnie?"

"Of course I do," said Robert.

"She married Mr. Gundover's Dick. Well, dere warn't much git up an' go
'bout him. So, wen 'lection time com'd, de man he war workin' fer tole
him ef he woted de radical ticket he'd turn him off. Well, Jinnie war so
'fraid he'd do it, dat she jis' follered him fer days."

"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Robert. "How did he come out?"

"He certainly was between two fires," interposed Iola.

"Oh, Jinnie gained de day. She jis' got her back up, and said, 'Now ef
yer wote dat ticket ter put me back inter slavery, you take yore rags
an' go.' An' Dick jis' woted de radical ticket. Jake Williams went on de
Secesh side, woted whar he thought he'd git his taters, but he got
fooled es slick es greese."

"How was that?" asked Robert.

"Some ob dem folks, dat I 'spects buyed his wote, sent him some flour
an' sugar. So one night his wife hab company ter tea. Dey made a big
spread, an' put a lot ob sugar on de table fer supper, an' Tom jis' went
fer dat sugar. He put a lot in his tea. But somehow it didn't tase
right, an' wen dey come ter fine out what war de matter, dey hab sent
him a barrel ob san' wid some sugar on top, an' wen de sugar war all
gone de san' war dare. Wen I yeard it, I jis' split my sides a larfin.
It war too good to keep; an' wen it got roun', Jake war as mad as a
March hare. But it sarved him right."

"Well, Aunt Linda, you musn't be too hard on Uncle Jake; you know he's
getting old."

"Well he ain't too ole ter do right. He ain't no older dan Uncle Dan'el.
An' I yered dey offered him $500 ef he'd go on dere side. An' Uncle
Dan'el wouldn't tech it. An' dere's Uncle Job's wife; why didn't she go
dat way? She war down on Job's meanness."

"What did she do?"

"Wen 'lection time 'rived, he com'd home bringing some flour an' meat;
an' he says ter Aunt Polly, 'Ole woman, I got dis fer de wote.' She jis'
picked up dat meat an' flour an' sent it sailin' outer doors, an' den
com'd back an' gib him a good tongue-lashin'. 'Oder people,' she said,
'a wotin' ter lib good, an' you a sellin' yore wote! Ain't you got 'nuff
ob ole Marster, an' ole Marster bin cuttin' you up? It shan't stay
yere.' An' so she wouldn't let de things stay in de house."

"What did Uncle Job do?"

"He jis' stood dere an' cried."

"And didn't you feel sorry for him?" asked Iola.

"Not a bit! he hedn't no business ter be so shabby."

"But, Aunt Linda," pursued Iola, "if it were shabby for an ignorant
colored man to sell his vote, wasn't it shabbier for an intelligent
white man to buy it?"

"You see," added Robert, "all the shabbiness is not on our side."

"I knows dat," said Aunt Linda, "but I can't help it. I wants my people
to wote right, an' to think somethin' ob demselves."

"Well, Aunt Linda, they say in every flock of sheep there will be one
that's scabby," observed Iola.

"Dat's so! But I ain't got no use fer scabby sheep."

"Lindy," cried John, "we's most dar! Don't you yere dat singin'? Dey's
begun a'ready."

"Neber mine," said Aunt Linda, "sometimes de las' ob de wine is de
bes'."

Thus discoursing they had beguiled the long hours of the night and made
their long journey appear short.

Very soon they reached the church, a neat, commodious, frame building,
with a blue ceiling, white walls within and without, and large windows
with mahogany-colored facings. It was a sight full of pathetic interest
to see that group which gathered from miles around. They had come to
break bread with each other, relate their experiences, and tell of their
hopes of heaven. In that meeting were remnants of broken
families--mothers who had been separated from their children before the
war, husbands who had not met their wives for years. After the bread had
been distributed and the handshaking was nearly over, Robert raised the
hymn which Iola had sung for him when he was recovering from his wounds,
and Iola, with her clear, sweet tones, caught up the words and joined
him in the strain. When the hymn was finished a dear old mother rose
from her seat. Her voice was quite strong. With still a lingering light
and fire in her eye, she said:--

"I rise, bredren an' sisters, to say I'm on my solemn march to glory."

"Amen!" "Glory!" came from a number of voices.

"I'se had my trials an' temptations, my ups an' downs; but I feels I'll
soon be in one ob de many mansions. If it hadn't been for dat hope I
'spects I would have broken down long ago. I'se bin through de deep
waters, but dey didn't overflow me; I'se bin in de fire, but de smell ob
it isn't on my garments. Bredren an' sisters, it war a drefful time when
I war tored away from my pore little chillen."

"Dat's so!" exclaimed a chorus of voices. Some of her hearers moaned,
others rocked to and fro, as thoughts of similar scenes in their own
lives arose before them.

"When my little girl," continued the speaker, "took hole ob my dress an'
begged me ter let her go wid me, an' I couldn't do it, it mos' broke my
heart. I had a little boy, an' wen my mistus sole me she kep' him. She
carried on a boardin' house. Many's the time I hab stole out at night
an' seen dat chile an' sleep'd wid him in my arms tell mos' day. Bimeby
de people I libed wid got hard up fer money, an' dey sole me one way an'
my pore little gal de oder; an' I neber laid my eyes on my pore chillen
sence den. But, honeys, let de wind blow high or low, I 'spects to
outwedder de storm an' anchor by'm bye in bright glory. But I'se bin a
prayin' fer one thing, an' I beliebs I'll git it; an' dat is dat I may
see my chillen 'fore I die. Pray fer me dat I may hole out an' hole on,
an' neber make a shipwrack ob faith, an' at las' fine my way from earth
to glory."

Having finished her speech, she sat down and wiped away the tears that
flowed all the more copiously as she remembered her lost children. When
she rose to speak her voice and manner instantly arrested Robert's
attention. He found his mind reverting to the scenes of his childhood.
As she proceeded his attention became riveted on her. Unbidden tears
filled his eyes and great sobs shook his frame. He trembled in every
limb. Could it be possible that after years of patient search through
churches, papers, and inquiring friends, he had accidentally stumbled on
his mother--the mother who, long years ago, had pillowed his head upon
her bosom and left her parting kiss upon his lips? How should he reveal
himself to her? Might not sudden joy do what years of sorrow had failed
to accomplish? Controlling his feelings as best he could, he rose to
tell his experience. He referred to the days when they used to hold
their meetings in the lonely woods and gloomy swamps. How they had
prayed for freedom and plotted to desert to the Union army; and
continuing, he said: "Since then, brethren and sisters, I have had my
crosses and trials, but I try to look at the mercies. Just think what it
was then and what it is now! How many of us, since freedom has come,
have been looking up our scattered relatives. I have just been over to
visit my old mistress, Nancy Johnson, and to see if I could get some
clue to my long-lost mother, who was sold from me nearly thirty years
ago."

Again there was a chorus of moans.

On resuming, Robert's voice was still fuller of pathos.

"When," he said, "I heard that dear old mother tell her experience it
seemed as if some one had risen from the dead. She made me think of my
own dear mother, who used to steal out at night to see me, fold me in
her arms, and then steal back again to her work. After she was sold
away I never saw her face again by daylight. I have been looking for her
ever since the war, and I think at last I have got on the right track.
If Mrs. Johnson, who kept the boarding-house in C----, is the one who
sold that dear old mother from her son, then she is the one I am looking
for, and I am the son she has been praying for."

The dear old mother raised her eyes. They were clear and tearless. An
expression of wonder, hope, and love flitted over her face. It seemed as
if her youth were suddenly renewed and, bounding from her seat, she
rushed to the speaker in a paroxysm of joy. "Oh, Robby! Robby! is dis
you? Is dat my pore, dear boy I'se been prayin' 'bout all dese years?
Oh, glory! glory!" And overflowing with joyous excitement she threw her
arms around him, looking the very impersonation of rapturous content. It
was a happy time. Mothers whose children had been torn from them in the
days of slavery knew how to rejoice in her joy. The young people caught
the infection of the general happiness and rejoiced with them that
rejoiced. There were songs of rejoicing and shouts of praise. The
undertone of sadness which had so often mingled with their songs gave
place to strains of exultation; and tears of tender sympathy flowed from
eyes which had often been blurred by anguish. The child of many prayers
and tears was restored to his mother.

Iola stood by the mother's side, smiling, and weeping tears of joy. When
Robert's mother observed Iola, she said to Robert, "Is dis yore wife?"

"Oh, no," replied Robert, "but I believe she is your grandchild, the
daughter of the little girl who was sold away from you so long ago. She
is on her way to the farther South in search of her mother."

"Is she? Dear chile! I hope she'll fine her! She puts me in mine ob my
pore little Marie. Well, I'se got one chile, an' I means to keep on
prayin' tell I fine my daughter. I'm _so_ happy! I feel's like a new
woman!"

"My dear mother," said Robert, "now that I have found you, I mean to
hold you fast just as long as you live. Ever since the war I have been
trying to find out if you were living, but all efforts failed. At last,
I thought I would come and hunt you myself and, now that I have found
you, I am going to take you home to live with me, and to be as happy as
the days are long. I am living in the North, and doing a good business
there. I want you to see joy according to all the days wherein you have
seen sorrow. I do hope this young lady will find _her_ ma and that, when
found, she will prove to be your daughter!"

"Yes, pore, dear chile! I specs her mudder's heart's mighty hungry fer
her. I does hope she's my gran'chile."

Tenderly and caressingly Iola bent over the happy mother, with her heart
filled with mournful memories of her own mother.

Aunt Linda was induced to stay until the next morning, and then gladly
assisted Robert's mother in arranging for her journey northward. The
friends who had given her a shelter in their hospitable home, learned to
value her so much that it was with great reluctance they resigned her to
the care of her son. Aunt Linda was full of bustling activity, and her
spirits overflowed with good humor.

"Now, Harriet," she said, as they rode along on their return journey,
"you mus' jis' thank me fer finin' yore chile, 'cause I got him to come
to dat big meetin' wid me."

"Oh, Lindy," she cried, "I'se glad from de bottom ob my heart ter see
you's all. I com'd out dere ter git a blessin', an' I'se got a double
po'tion. De frens I war libin' wid war mighty good ter me. Dey lib'd wid
me in de lower kentry, an' arter de war war ober I stopped wid 'em and
helped take keer ob de chillen; an' when dey com'd up yere dey brought
me wid 'em. I'se com'd a way I didn't know, but I'se mighty glad I'se
com'd."

"Does you know dis place?" asked Aunt Linda, as they approached the
settlement.

"No'n 'deed I don't. It's all new ter me."

"Well, dis is whar I libs. Ain't you mighty tired? I feels a little
stiffish. Dese bones is gittin' ole."

"Dat's so! But I'se mighty glad I'se lib'd to see my boy 'fore I crossed
ober de riber. An' now I feel like ole Simeon."

"But, mother," said Robert, "if you are ready to go, I am not willing to
let you. I want you to stay ever so long where I can see you."

A bright smile overspread her face. Robert's words reassured and
gladdened her heart. She was well satisfied to have a pleasant aftermath
from life on this side of the river.

After arriving home Linda's first thought was to prepare dinner for her
guests. But, before she began her work of preparation, she went to the
cupboard to get a cup of home-made wine.

"Here," she said, filling three glasses, "is some wine I made myself
from dat grape-vine out dere. Don't it look nice and clar? Jist taste
it. It's fus'rate."

"No, thank you," said Robert. "I'm a temperance man, and never take
anything which has alcohol in it."

"Oh, dis ain't got a bit ob alcohol in it. I made it myself."

"But, Aunt Linda, you didn't make the law which ferments grape-juice and
makes it alcohol."

"But, Robby, ef alcohol's so bad, w'at made de Lord put it here?"

"Aunt Lindy," said Iola, "I heard a lady say that there were two things
the Lord didn't make. One is sin, and the other alcohol."

"Why, Aunt Linda," said Robert, "there are numbers of things the Lord
has made that I wouldn't touch with a pair of tongs."

"What are they?"

"Rattlesnakes, scorpions, and moccasins."

"Oh, sho!"

"Aunt Linda," said Iola, "the Bible says that the wine at last will bite
like a serpent and sting like an adder."

"And, Aunt Linda," added Robert, "as I wouldn't wind a serpent around my
throat, I don't want to put something inside of it which will bite like
a serpent and sting as an adder."

"I reckon Robby's right," said his mother, setting down her glass and
leaving the wine unfinished. "You young folks knows a heap more dan we
ole folks." "Well," declared Aunt Linda, "you all is temp'rence to de
backbone. But what could I do wid my wine ef we didn't drink it?"

"Let it turn to vinegar, and sign the temperance pledge," replied
Robert.

"I don't keer 'bout it myself, but I don't 'spect John would be willin'
ter let it go, 'cause he likes it a heap."

"Then you must give it up for his sake and Job's," said Robert. "They
may learn to like it too well."

"You know, Aunt Linda," said Iola, "people don't get to be drunkards all
at once. And you wouldn't like to feel, if Job should learn to drink,
that you helped form his appetite."

"Dat' so! I beliebs I'll let dis turn to winegar, an' not make any
more."

"That's right, Aunt Linda. I hope you'll hold to it," said Robert,
encouragingly.

Very soon Aunt Linda had an excellent dinner prepared. After it was over
Robert went with Iola to C----, where her friend, the bishop, was
awaiting her return. She told him the wonderful story of Robert's
finding his mother, and of her sweet, childlike faith.

The bishop, a kind, fatherly man, said, "Miss Iola, I hope that such
happiness is in store for you. My dear child, still continue to pray and
trust. I am old-fashioned enough to believe in prayer. I knew an old
lady living in Illinois, who was a slave. Her son got a chance to come
North and beg money to buy his mother. The mother was badly treated, and
made up her mind to run away. But before she started she thought she
would kneel down to pray. And something, she said, reasoned within her,
and whispered, 'Stand still and see what I am going to do for you.' So
real was it to her that she unpacked her bundle and desisted from her
flight. Strange as it may appear to you, her son returned, bringing
with him money enough to purchase her freedom, and she was redeemed from
bondage. Had she persisted in running away she might have been lost in
the woods and have died, exhausted by starvation. But she believed, she
trusted, and was delivered. Her son took her North, where she could find
a resting place for the soles of her feet."

That night Iola and the bishop left for the South.

CHAPTER XXI.

A HOME FOR MOTHER.

After Iola had left the settlement, accompanied by Robert as far as the
town, it was a pleasant satisfaction for the two old friends to settle
themselves down, and talk of times past, departed friends, and
long-forgotten scenes.

"What," said Mrs. Johnson, as we shall call Robert's mother, "hab become
ob Miss Nancy's husband? Is he still a libin'?"

"Oh, he drunk hisself to death," responded Aunt Linda.

"He used ter be mighty handsome."

"Yes, but drink war his ruination."

"An' how's Miss Nancy?"

"Oh, she's com'd down migh'ly. She's pore as a church mouse. I thought
'twould com'd home ter her wen she sole yer 'way from yore chillen.
Dere's nuffin goes ober de debil's back dat don't come under his belly.
Do yo 'member Miss Nancy's fardder?"

"Ob course I does!"

"Well," said Aunt Linda, "he war a nice ole gemmen. Wen he died, I said
de las' gemmen's dead, an' dere's noboddy ter step in his shoes."

"Pore Miss Nancy!" exclaimed Robert's mother. "I ain't nothin' agin her.
But I wouldn't swap places wid her, 'cause I'se got my son; an' I
beliebs he'll do a good part by me."

"Mother," said Robert, as he entered the room, "I've brought an old
friend to see you. Do you remember Uncle Daniel?"

Uncle Daniel threw back his head, reached out his hand, and manifested
his joy with "Well, Har'yet! is dis you? I neber 'spected to see you in
dese lower grouns! How does yer do? an' whar hab you bin all dis time?"

"O, I'se been tossin' roun' 'bout; but it's all com'd right at las'.
I'se lib'd to see my boy 'fore I died."

"My wife an' boys is in glory," said Uncle Daniel. "But I 'spects to see
'em 'fore long. 'Cause I'se tryin' to dig deep, build sure, an' make my
way from earth ter glory."

"Dat's de right kine ob talk, Dan'el. We ole folks ain't got long ter
stay yere."

They chatted together until Job and Salters came home for supper. After
they had eaten, Uncle Daniel said:--

"We'll hab a word ob prayer."

There, in that peaceful habitation, they knelt down, and mingled their
prayers together, as they had done in by-gone days, when they had met by
stealth in lonely swamps or silent forests.

The next morning Robert and his mother started northward. They were well
supplied with a bountiful luncheon by Aunt Linda, who had so thoroughly
enjoyed their sojourn with her. On the next day he arrived in the city
of P----, and took his mother to his boarding-house, until he could find
a suitable home into which to install her. He soon came across one which
just suited his taste, but when the agent discovered that Robert's
mother was colored, he told him that the house had been previously
engaged. In company with his mother he looked at several other houses in
desirable neighborhoods, but they were constantly met with the answer,
"The house is engaged," or, "We do not rent to colored people."

At length Robert went alone, and, finding a desirable house, engaged it,
and moved into it. In a short time it was discovered that he was
colored, and, at the behest of the local sentiment of the place, the
landlord used his utmost endeavors to oust him, simply because he
belonged to an unfashionable and unpopular race. At last he came across
a landlord who was broad enough to rent him a good house, and he found a
quiet resting place among a set of well-to-do and well-disposed people.

CHAPTER XXII.

FURTHER LIFTING OF THE VEIL.

In one of those fearful conflicts by which the Mississippi was freed
from Rebel intrusion and opened to commerce Harry was severely wounded,
and forced to leave his place in the ranks for a bed in the hospital.

One day, as he lay in his bed, thinking of his former home in
Mississippi and wondering if the chances of war would ever restore him
to his loved ones, he fell into a quiet slumber. When he awoke he found
a lady bending over him, holding in her hands some fruit and flowers. As
she tenderly bent over Harry's bed their eyes met, and with a thrill of
gladness they recognized each other.

"Oh, my son, my son!" cried Marie, trying to repress her emotion, as she
took his wasted hand in hers, and kissed the pale cheeks that sickness
and suffering had blanched. Harry was very weak, but her presence was a
call to life. He returned the pressure of her hand, kissed it, and his
eyes grew full of sudden light, as he murmured faintly, but joyfully:--

"Mamma; oh, mamma! have I found you at last?"

The effort was too much, and he immediately became unconscious.

Anxious, yet hopeful, Marie sat by the bedside of her son till
consciousness was restored. Caressingly she bent over his couch,
murmuring in her happiness the tenderest, sweetest words of motherly
love. In Harry's veins flowed new life and vigor, calming the
restlessness of his nerves.

As soon as possible Harry was carried to his mother's home; a home
brought into the light of freedom by the victories of General Grant.
Nursed by his mother's tender, loving care, he rapidly recovered, but,
being too disabled to re-enter the army, he was honorably discharged.

Lorraine had taken Marie to Vicksburg, and there allowed her to engage
in confectionery and preserving for the wealthy ladies of the city. He
had at first attempted to refugee with her in Texas, but, being foiled
in the attempt, he was compelled to enlist in the Confederate Army, and
met his fate by being killed just before the surrender of Vicksburg.

"My dear son," Marie would say, as she bent fondly over him, "I am
deeply sorry that you are wounded, but I am glad that the fortunes of
war have brought us together. Poor Iola! I _do_ wonder what has become
of her? Just as soon as this war is over I want you to search the
country all over. Poor child! How my heart has ached for her!"

Time passed on. Harry and his mother searched and inquired for Iola, but
no tidings of her reached them.

Having fully recovered his health, and seeing the great need of
education for the colored people, Harry turned his attention toward
them, and joined the new army of Northern teachers.

He still continued his inquiries for his sister, not knowing whether or
not she had succumbed to the cruel change in her life. He thought she
might have passed into the white basis for the sake of bettering her
fortunes. Hope deferred, which had sickened his mother's heart, had
only roused him to renewed diligence.

A school was offered him in Georgia, and thither he repaired, taking his
mother with him. They were soon established in the city of A----. In
hope of finding Iola he visited all the conferences of the Methodist
Church, but for a long time his search was in vain.

"Mamma," said Harry, one day during his vacation, "there is to be a
Methodist Conference in this State in the city of S----, about one
hundred and fifty miles from here. I intend to go and renew my search
for Iola."

"Poor child!" burst out Marie, as the tears gathered in her eyes, "I
wonder if she is living."

"I think so," said Harry, kissing the pale cheek of his mother; "I don't
feel that Iola is dead. I believe we will find her before long."

"It seems to me my heart would burst with joy to see my dear child just
once more. I am glad that you are going. When will you leave?"

"To-morrow morning."

"Well, my son, go, and my prayers will go with you," was Marie's tender
parting wish.

Early next morning Harry started for the conference, and reached the
church before the morning session was over. Near him sat two ladies, one
fair, the other considerably darker. There was something in the fairer
one that reminded him forcibly of his sister, but she was much older and
graver than he imagined his sister to be. Instantly he dismissed the
thought that had forced itself into his mind, and began to listen
attentively to the proceedings of the conference.

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