Iola Leroy by Frances E.W. Harper

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"Do you think she would go with us?" said Robert.

"I think she's jis' dying to go. Dey say dey can't do nuffin wid her.
Marse Tom's got his match dis time, and I'se glad ob it. I jis' glories
in her spunk."

"How did she come there?"

"Oh, Marse bought her ob de trader to keep house for him. But ef you
seed dem putty white han's ob hern you'd never tink she kept her own
house, let 'lone anybody else's."

"Do you think you can get her away?"

"I don't know; 'cause Marse Tom keeps her mighty close. My! but she's
putty. Beautiful long hair comes way down her back; putty blue eyes, an'
jis' ez white ez anybody's in dis place. I'd jis' wish you could see her
yoresef. I heerd Marse Tom talkin' 'bout her las' night to his brudder;
tellin' him she war mighty airish, but he meant to break her in."

An angry curse rose to the lips of Robert, but he repressed it and
muttered to himself, "Graceless scamp, he ought to have his neck
stretched." Then turning to Tom, said:--

"Get her, if you possibly can, but you must be mighty mum about it."

"Trus' me for dat," said Tom.

Tom was very anxious to get word to the beautiful but intractable girl
who was held in durance vile by her reckless and selfish master, who had
tried in vain to drag her down to his own low level of sin and shame.
But all Tom's efforts were in vain. Finally he applied to the Commander
of the post, who immediately gave orders for her release. The next day
Tom had the satisfaction of knowing that Iola Leroy had been taken as a
trembling dove from the gory vulture's nest and given a place of
security. She was taken immediately to the General's headquarters. The
General was much impressed by her modest demeanor, and surprised to see
the refinement and beauty she possessed. Could it be possible that this
young and beautiful girl had been a chattel, with no power to protect
herself from the highest insults that lawless brutality could inflict
upon innocent and defenseless womanhood? Could he ever again glory in
his American citizenship, when any white man, no matter how coarse,
cruel, or brutal, could buy or sell her for the basest purposes? Was it
not true that the cause of a hapless people had become entangled with
the lightnings of heaven, and dragged down retribution upon the land?

The field hospital was needing gentle, womanly ministrations, and Iola
Leroy, released from the hands of her tormentors, was given a place as
nurse; a position to which she adapted herself with a deep sense of
relief. Tom was doubly gratified at the success of his endeavors, which
had resulted in the rescue of the beautiful young girl and the
discomfiture of his young master who, in the words of Tom, "was mad
enough to bite his head off" (a rather difficult physical feat).

Iola, freed from her master's clutches, applied herself readily to her
appointed tasks. The beautiful, girlish face was full of tender
earnestness. The fresh, young voice was strangely sympathetic, as if
some great sorrow had bound her heart in loving compassion to every
sufferer who needed her gentle ministrations.

Tom Anderson was a man of herculean strength and remarkable courage.
But, on account of physical defects, instead of enlisting as a soldier,
he was forced to remain a servant, although he felt as if every nerve in
his right arm was tingling to strike a blow for freedom. He was well
versed in the lay of the country, having often driven his master's
cotton to market when he was a field hand. After he became a coachman,
he had become acquainted with the different roads and localities of the
country. Besides, he had often accompanied his young masters on their
hunting and fishing expeditions. Although he could not fight in the
army, he proved an invaluable helper. When tents were to be pitched,
none were more ready to help than he. When burdens were to be borne,
none were more willing to bend beneath them than Thomas Anderson. When
the battle-field was to be searched for the wounded and dying, no hand
was more tender in its ministrations of kindness than his. As a general
factotum in the army, he was ever ready and willing to serve anywhere
and at any time, and to gather information from every possible source
which could be of any service to the Union army. As a Pagan might
worship a distant star and wish to call it his own, so he loved Iola.
And he never thought he could do too much for the soldiers who had
rescued her and were bringing deliverance to his race.

"What do you think of Miss Iola?" Robert asked him one day, as they were
talking together.

"I jis' think dat she's splendid. Las' week I had to take some of our
pore boys to de hospital, an' she war dere, lookin' sweet an' putty ez
an angel, a nussin' dem pore boys, an' ez good to one ez de oder. It
looks to me ez ef dey ralely lob'd her shadder. She sits by 'em so
patient, an' writes 'em sech nice letters to der frens, an' yit she
looks so heart-broke an' pitiful, it jis' gits to me, an' makes me mos'
ready to cry. I'm so glad dat Marse Tom had to gib her up. He war too
mean to eat good victuals."

"He ought," said Robert, "to be made to live on herrings' heads and cold
potatoes. It makes my blood boil just to think that he was going to have
that lovely looking young girl whipped for his devilment. He ought to be
ashamed to hold up his head among respectable people."

"I tell you, Bob, de debil will neber git his own till he gits him. When
I seed how he war treating her I neber rested till I got her away. He
buyed her, he said, for his housekeeper; as many gals as dere war on de
plantation, why didn't he git one ob dem to keep house, an' not dat nice
lookin' young lady? Her han's look ez ef she neber did a day's work in
her life. One day when he com'd down to breakfas,' he chucked her under
de chin, an' tried to put his arm roun' her waist. But she jis' frew it
off like a chunk ob fire. She looked like a snake had bit her. Her eyes
fairly spit fire. Her face got red ez blood, an' den she turned so pale
I thought she war gwine to faint, but she didn't, an' I yered her say,
'I'll die fust.' I war mad 'nough to stan' on my head. I could hab
tore'd him all to pieces wen he said he'd hab her whipped."

"Did he do it?"

"I don't know. But he's mean 'nough to do enythin'. Why, dey say she
war sole seben times in six weeks, 'cause she's so putty, but dat she
war game to de las'."

"Well, Tom," said Robert, "getting that girl away was one of the best
things you ever did in your life."

"I think so, too. Not dat I specs enytin' ob it. I don't spose she would
think ob an ugly chap like me; but it does me good to know dat Marse Tom
ain't got her."

CHAPTER VI.

ROBERT JOHNSON'S PROMOTION AND RELIGION.

Robert Johnson, being able to meet the army requirements, was enlisted
as a substitute to help fill out the quota of a Northern regiment. With
his intelligence, courage, and prompt obedience, he rose from the ranks
and became lieutenant of a colored company. He was daring, without being
rash; prompt, but not thoughtless; firm, without being harsh. Kind and
devoted to the company he drilled, he soon won the respect of his
superior officers and the love of his comrades.

"Johnson," said a young officer, Captain Sybil, of Maine, who had become
attached to Robert, "what is the use of your saying you're a colored
man, when you are as white as I am, and as brave a man as there is among
us. Why not quit this company, and take your place in the army just the
same as a white man? I know your chances for promotion would be better."

"Captain, you may doubt my word, but to-day I would rather be a
lieutenant in my company than a captain in yours."

"I don't understand you."

"Well, Captain, when a man's been colored all his life it comes a little
hard for him to get white all at once. Were I to try it, I would feel
like a cat in a strange garret. Captain, I think my place is where I am
most needed. You do not need me in your ranks, and my company does.
They are excellent fighters, but they need a leader. To silence a
battery, to capture a flag, to take a fortification, they will rush into
the jaws of death."

"Yes, I have often wondered at their bravery."

"Captain, these battles put them on their mettle. They have been so long
taught that they are nothing and nobody, that they seem glad to prove
they are something and somebody."

"But, Johnson, you do not look like them, you do not talk like them. It
is a burning shame to have held such a man as you in slavery."

"I don't think it was any worse to have held me in slavery than the
blackest man in the South."

"You are right, Johnson. The color of a man's skin has nothing to do
with the possession of his rights."

"Now, there is Tom Anderson," said Robert, "he is just as black as black
can be. He has been bought and sold like a beast, and yet there is not a
braver man in all the company. I know him well. He is a noble-hearted
fellow. True as steel. I love him like a brother. And I believe Tom
would risk his life for me any day. He don't know anything about his
father or mother. He was sold from them before he could remember. He can
read a little. He used to take lessons from a white gardener in
Virginia. He would go between the hours of 9 P.M. and 4 A.M. He got a
book of his own, tore it up, greased the pages, and hid them in his hat.
Then if his master had ever knocked his hat off he would have thought
them greasy papers, and not that Tom was carrying his library on his
head. I had another friend who lived near us. When he was nineteen
years old he did not know how many letters there were in the ABC's. One
night, when his work was done, his boss came into his cabin and saw him
with a book in his hand. He threatened to give him five hundred lashes
if he caught him again with a book, and said he hadn't work enough to
do. He was getting out logs, and his task was ten logs a day. His
employer threatened to increase it to twelve. He said it just harassed
him; it set him on fire. He thought there must be something good in that
book if the white man didn't want him to learn. One day he had an errand
in the kitchen, and he heard one of the colored girls going over the
ABC's. Here was the key to the forbidden knowledge. She had heard the
white children saying them, and picked them up by heart, but did not
know them by sight. He was not content with that, but sold his cap for a
book and wore a cloth on his head instead. He got the sounds of the
letters by heart, then cut off the bark of a tree, carved the letters on
the smooth inside, and learned them. He wanted to learn how to write. He
had charge of a warehouse where he had a chance to see the size and form
of letters. He made the beach of the river his copybook, and thus he
learned to write. Tom never got very far with his learning, but I used
to get the papers and tell him all I knew about the war."

"How did you get the papers?"

"I used to have very good privileges for a slave. All of our owners were
not alike. Some of them were quite clever, and others were worse than
git out. I used to get the morning papers to sell to the boarders and
others, and when I got them I would contrive to hide a paper, and let
some of the fellow-servants know how things were going on. And our
owners thought we cared nothing about what was going on."

"How was that? I thought you were not allowed to hold meetings unless a
white man were present."

"That was so. But we contrived to hold secret meetings in spite of their
caution. We knew whom we could trust. My ole Miss wasn't mean like some
of them. She never wanted the patrollers around prowling in our cabins,
and poking their noses into our business. Her husband was an awful
drunkard. He ran through every cent he could lay his hands on, and she
was forced to do something to keep the wolf from the door, so she set up
a boarding-house. But she didn't take in Tom, Dick, and Harry. Nobody
but the big bugs stopped with her. She taught me to read and write, and
to cast up accounts. It was so handy for her to have some one who could
figure up her accounts, and read or write a note, if she were from home
and wanted the like done. She once told her cousin how I could write and
figure up. And what do you think her cousin said?"

"'Pleased,' I suppose, 'to hear it.'"

"Not a bit of it. She said, if I belonged to her, she would cut off my
thumbs; her husband said, 'Oh, then he couldn't pick cotton.' As to my
poor thumbs, it did not seem to be taken into account what it would cost
me to lose them. My ole Miss used to have a lot of books. She would let
me read any one of them except a novel. She wanted to take care of my
soul, but she wasn't taking care of her own."

"Wasn't she religious?"

"She went for it. I suppose she was as good as most of them. She said
her prayers and went to church, but I don't know that that made her any
better. I never did take much stock in white folks' religion."

"Why, Robert, I'm afraid you are something of an infidel."

"No, Captain, I believe in the real, genuine religion. I ain't got much
myself, but I respect them that have. We had on our place a dear, old
saint, named Aunt Kizzy. She was a happy soul. She had seen hard times,
but was what I call a living epistle. I've heard her tell how her only
child had been sold from her, when the man who bought herself did not
want to buy her child. Poor little fellow! he was only two years old. I
asked her one day how she felt when her child was taken away. 'I felt,'
she said, 'as if I was going to my grave. But I knew if I couldn't get
justice here, I could get it in another world.'"

"That was faith," said Captain Sybil, as if speaking to himself, "a
patient waiting for death to redress the wrongs of life."

"Many a time," continued Robert, "have I heard her humming to herself in
the kitchen and saying, 'I has my trials, ups and downs, but it won't
allers be so. I specs one day to wing and wing wid de angels,
Hallelujah! Den I specs to hear a voice sayin', "Poor ole Kizzy, she's
done de bes' she kin. Go down, Gabriel, an' tote her in." Den I specs to
put on my golden slippers, my long white robe, an' my starry crown, an'
walk dem golden streets, Hallelujah!' I've known that dear, old soul to
travel going on two miles, after her work was done, to have some one
read to her. Her favorite chapter began with, 'Let not your heart be
troubled, ye believe in God, believe also in Me.'"

"I have been deeply impressed," said Captain Sybil, "with the child-like
faith of some of these people. I do not mean to say that they are
consistent Christians, but I do think that this faith has in a measure
underlain the life of the race. It has been a golden thread woven amid
the sombre tissues of their lives. A ray of light shimmering amid the
gloom of their condition. And what would they have been without it?"

"I don't know. But I know what she was with it. And I believe if there
are any saints in glory, Aunt Kizzy is one of them."

"She is dead, then?"

"Yes, went all right, singing and rejoicing until the last,
'Troubles over, troubles over, and den my troubles will be over. We'll
walk de golden streets all 'roun' in de New Jerusalem.' Now, Captain,
that's the kind of religion that I want. Not that kind which could ride
to church on Sundays, and talk so solemn with the minister about heaven
and good things, then come home and light down on the servants like a
thousand of bricks. I have no use for it. I don't believe in it. I never
did and I never will. If any man wants to save my soul he ain't got to
beat my body. That ain't the kind of religion I'm looking for. I ain't
got a bit of use for it. Now, Captain, ain't I right?"

"Well, yes, Robert, I think you are more than half right. You ought to
know my dear, old mother who lives in Maine. We have had colored company
at our house, and I never saw her show the least difference between her
colored and white guests. She is a Quaker preacher, and don't believe
in war, but when the rest of the young men went to the front, I wanted
to go also. So I thought it all over, and there seemed to be no way out
of slavery except through the war. I had been taught to hate war and
detest slavery. Now the time had come when I could not help the war, but
I could strike a blow for freedom. So I told my mother I was going to
the front, that I expected to be killed, but I went to free the slave.
It went hard with her. But I thought that I ought to come, and I believe
my mother's prayers are following me."

"Captain," said Robert, rising, "I am glad that I have heard your story.
I think that some of these Northern soldiers do two things--hate slavery
and hate niggers."

"I am afraid that is so with some of them. They would rather be whipped
by Rebels than conquer with negroes. Oh, I heard a soldier," said
Captain Sybil, "say, when the colored men were being enlisted, that he
would break his sword and resign. But he didn't do either. After Colonel
Shaw led his charge at Fort Wagner, and died in the conflict, he got
bravely over his prejudices. The conduct of the colored troops there and
elsewhere has done much to turn public opinion in their favor. I suppose
any white soldier would rather have his black substitute receive the
bullets than himself."

CHAPTER VII.

TOM ANDERSON'S DEATH.

"Where is Tom?" asked Captain Sybil; "I have not seen him for several
hours."

"He's gone down the sound with some of the soldiers," replied Robert.
"They wanted Tom to row them."

"I am afraid those boys will get into trouble, and the Rebs will pick
them off," responded Sybil.

"O, I hope not," answered Robert.

"I hope not, too; but those boys are too venturesome."

"Tom knows the lay of the land better than any of us," said Robert. "He
is the most wide-awake and gamiest man I know. I reckon when the war is
over Tom will be a preacher. Did you ever hear him pray?"

"No; is he good at that?"

"First-rate," continued Robert. "It would do you good to hear him. He
don't allow any cursing and swearing when he's around. And what he says
is law and gospel with the boys. But he's so good-natured; and they
can't get mad at him."

"Yes, Robert, there is not a man in our regiment I would sooner trust
than Tom. Last night, when he brought in that wounded scout, he couldn't
have been more tender if he had been a woman. How gratefully the poor
fellow looked in Tom's face as he laid him down so carefully and
staunched the blood which had been spurting out of him. Tom seemed to
know it was an artery which had been cut, and he did just the right
thing to stop the bleeding. He knew there wasn't a moment to be lost. He
wasn't going to wait for the doctor. I have often heard that colored
people are ungrateful, but I don't think Tom's worst enemy would say
that about him."

"Captain," said Robert, with a tone of bitterness in his voice, "what
had we to be grateful for? For ages of poverty, ignorance, and slavery?
I think if anybody should be grateful, it is the people who have
enslaved us and lived off our labor for generations. Captain, I used to
know a poor old woman who couldn't bear to hear any one play on the
piano."

"Is that so? Why, I always heard that colored people were a musical
race."

"So we are; but that poor woman's daughter was sold, and her mistress
took the money to buy a piano. Her mother could never bear to hear a
sound from it."

"Poor woman!" exclaimed Captain Sybil, sympathetically; "I suppose it
seemed as if the wail of her daughter was blending with the tones of the
instrument. I think, Robert, there is a great deal more in the colored
people than we give them credit for. Did you know Captain Sellers?"

"The officer who escaped from prison and got back to our lines?" asked
Robert.

"Yes. Well, he had quite an experience in trying to escape. He came to
an aged couple, who hid him in their cabin and shared their humble food
with him. They gave him some corn-bread, bacon, and coffee which he
thought was made of scorched bran. But he said that he never ate a meal
that he relished more than the one he took with them. Just before he
went they knelt down and prayed with him. It seemed as if his very hair
stood on his head, their prayer was so solemn. As he was going away the
man took some shingles and nailed them on his shoes to throw the
bloodhounds off his track. I don't think he will ever cease to feel
kindly towards colored people. I do wonder what has become of the boys?
What can keep them so long?"

Just as Captain Sybil and Robert were wondering at the delay of Tom and
the soldiers they heard the measured tread of men who were slowly
bearing a burden. They were carrying Tom Anderson to the hospital,
fearfully wounded, and nigh to death. His face was distorted, and the
blood was streaming from his wounds. His respiration was faint, his
pulse hurried, as if life were trembling on its frailest cords.

Robert and Captain Sybil hastened at once towards the wounded man. On
Robert's face was a look of intense anguish, as he bent pityingly over
his friend.

"O, this is dreadful! How did it happen?" cried Robert.

Captain Sybil, pressing anxiously forward, repeated Robert's question.

"Captain," said one of the young soldiers, advancing and saluting his
superior officer, "we were all in the boat when it struck against a mud
bank, and there was not strength enough among us to shove her back into
the water. Just then the Rebels opened fire upon us. For awhile we lay
down in the boat, but still they kept firing. Tom took in the whole
situation, and said: 'Someone must die to get us out of this. I
mought's well be him as any. You are soldiers and can fight. If they
kill me, it is nuthin'.' So Tom leaped out to shove the boat into the
water. Just then the Rebel bullets began to rain around him. He received
seven or eight of them, and I'm afraid there is no hope for him."

"O, Tom, I wish you hadn't gone. O, Tom! Tom!" cried Robert, in tones of
agony.

A gleam of grateful recognition passed over the drawn features of Tom,
as the wail of his friend fell on his ear. He attempted to speak, but
the words died upon his lips, and he became unconscious.

"Well," said Captain Sybil, "put him in one of the best wards. Give him
into Miss Leroy's care. If good nursing can win him back to life, he
shall not want for any care or pains that she can bestow. Send
immediately for Dr. Gresham."

Robert followed his friend into the hospital, tenderly and carefully
helped to lay him down, and remained awhile, gazing in silent grief upon
the sufferer. Then he turned to go, leaving him in the hands of Iola,
but hoping against hope that his wounds would not be fatal.

With tender devotion Iola watched her faithful friend. He recognized her
when restored to consciousness, and her presence was as balm to his
wounds. He smiled faintly, took her hand in his, stroked it tenderly,
looked wistfully into her face, and said, "Miss Iola, I ain't long fer
dis! I'se 'most home!"

"Oh, no," said Iola, "I hope that you will soon get over this trouble,
and live many long and happy days."

"No, Miss Iola, it's all ober wid me. I'se gwine to glory; gwine to
glory; gwine to ring dem charmin' bells. Tell all de boys to meet me in
heben; dat dey mus' 'list in de hebenly war."

"O, Mr. Tom," said Iola, tenderly, "do not talk of leaving me. You are
the best friend I have had since I was torn from my mother. I should be
so lonely without you."

"Dere's a frien' dat sticks closer dan a brudder. He will be wid yer in
de sixt' trial, an' in de sebbent' he'll not fo'sake yer."

"Yes," answered Iola, "I know that. He is all our dependence. But I
can't help grieving when I see you suffering so. But, dear friend, be
quiet, and try to go to sleep."

"I'll do enythin' fer yer, Miss Iola."

Tom closed his eyes and lay quiet. Tenderly and anxiously Iola watched
over him as the hours waned away. The doctor came, shook his head
gravely, and, turning to Iola, said, "There is no hope, but do what you
can to alleviate his sufferings."

As Iola gazed upon the kind but homely features of Tom, she saw his eyes
open and an unexpressed desire upon his face.

Tenderly and sadly bending over him, with tears in her dark, luminous
eyes, she said, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," said Tom, with laboring breath; "let me hole yore han', an' sing
'Ober Jordan inter glory' an' 'We'll anchor bye and bye.'"

Iola laid her hand gently in the rough palm of the dying man, and, with
a tremulous voice, sang the parting hymns.

Tenderly she wiped the death damps from his dusky brow, and imprinted
upon it a farewell kiss. Gratitude and affection lit up the dying eye,
which seemed to be gazing into the eternities. Just then Robert entered
the room, and, seating himself quietly by Tom's bedside, read the death
signs in his face.

"Good-bye, Robert," said Tom, "meet me in de kingdom." Suddenly a look
of recognition and rapture lit up his face, and he murmured, "Angels,
bright angels, all's well, all's well!"

Slowly his hand released its pressure, a peaceful calm overspread his
countenance, and without a sigh or murmur Thomas Anderson, Iola's
faithful and devoted friend, passed away, leaving the world so much
poorer for her than it was before. Just then Dr. Gresham, the hospital
physician, came to the bedside, felt for the pulse which would never
throb again, and sat down in silence by the cot.

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