Book: The Crisis, Complete

W >> Winston Churchill >> The Crisis, Complete




Mrs. Colfax's gaze rested languidly on her niece's faces which glowed
with indignation.

"You get this terrible habit of argument from Comyn," she said. "He ought
to send you to boarding-school. How mean of Mr. Vance not to come! You've
been talking with that old reprobate Whipple. Why does Comyn put up with
him?"

"He isn't an old reprobate," said Virginia, warmly.

"You really ought to go to school," said her aunt. "Don't be eccentric.
It isn't fashionable. I suppose you wish Clarence to go into a factory."

"If I were a man," said Virginia, "and going into a factory would teach
me how to make a locomotive or a cotton press, or to build a bridge, I
should go into a factory. We shall never beat the Yankees until we meet
them on their own ground."

"There is Mr. Vance now," said Mrs. Colfax, and added fervently, "Thank
the Lord!"




CHAPTER IX

A QUIET SUNDAY IN LOCUST STREET

IF the truth were known where Virginia got the opinions which she
expressed so freely to her aunt and cousin, it was from Colonel Carvel
himself. The Colonel would rather have denounced the Dred Scott decision
than admit to Judge Whipple that one of the greatest weaknesses of the
South lay in her lack of mechanical and manufacturing ability. But he had
confessed as much in private to Captain Elijah Brent. The Colonel would
often sit for an hour or more, after supper, with his feet tucked up on
the mantel and his hat on the back of his head, buried in thought. Then
he would saunter slowly down to the Planters' House bar, which served the
purposes of a club in those days, in search of an argument with other
prominent citizens. The Colonel had his own particular chair in his own
particular corner, which was always vacated when he came in at the door.
And then he always had three fingers of the best Bourbon whiskey, no more
and no less, every evening.

He never met his bosom friend and pet antagonist at the Planters' House
bar. Judge Whipple, indeed, took his meals upstairs, but he never
descended,--it was generally supposed because of the strong slavery
atmosphere there. However, the Judge went periodically to his friend's
for a quiet Sunday dinner (so called in derision by St. Louisans), on
which occasions Virginia sat at the end of the table and endeavored to
pour water on the flames when they flared up too fiercely.

The Sunday following her ride to Bellegarde was the Judge's Sunday,
Certain tastes which she had inherited had hitherto provided her with
pleasurable sensations while these battles were in progress. More than
once had she scored a fair hit on the Judge for her father,--to the
mutual delight of both gentlemen. But to-day she dreaded being present at
the argument. Just why she dreaded it is a matter of feminine psychology
best left to the reader for solution.

The argument began, as usual, with the tearing apart limb by limb of the
unfortunate Franklin Pierce, by Judge Whipple.

"What a miserable exhibition in the eyes of the world," said the Judge.
"Franklin Pierce of New Hampshire" (he pronounced this name with infinite
scorn) "managed by Jefferson Davis of Mississippi!"

"And he was well managed, sir," said the Colonel.

"What a pliant tool of your Southern slaveholders! I hear that you are to
give him a plantation as a reward."

"No such thing, sir."

"He deserves it," continued the Judge, with conviction. "See the
magnificent forts he permitted Davis to build up in the South, the
arsenals he let him stock. The country does not realize this. But the day
will, come when they will execrate Pierce before Benedict Arnold, sir.
And look at the infamous Kansas-Nebraska act! That is the greatest crime,
and Douglas and Pierce the greatest criminals, of the century."

"Do have some more of that fried chicken, Judge," said Virginia.

Mr. Whipple helped himself fiercely, and the Colonel smiled.

"You should be satisfied now," said he. "Another Northern man is in the
White House."

"Buchanan!" roared the Judge, with his mouth full.

"Another traitor, sir. Another traitor worse than the first. He swallows
the Dred Scott decision, and smirks. What a blot on the history of this
Republic! O Lord!" cried Mr. Whipple, "what are we coming to? A Northern
man, he could gag and bind Kansas and force her into slavery against the
will of her citizens. He packs his Cabinet to support the ruffians you
send over the borders. The very governors he ships out there, his
henchmen, have their stomachs turned. Look at Walker, whom they are
plotting against in Washington. He can't stand the smell of this
Lecompton Constitution Buchanan is trying to jam down their throats.
Jefferson Davis would have troops there, to be sure that it goes through,
if he had his way. Can't you see how one sin leads to another, Carvel?
How slavery is rapidly demoralizing a free people?"

"It is because you won't let it alone where it belongs, sir," retorted
the Colonel. It was seldom that he showed any heat in his replies. He
talked slowly, and he had a way of stretching forth his hand to prevent
the more eager Judge from interrupting him.

"The welfare of the whole South, as matters now stand, sir, depends upon
slavery. Our plantations could not exist a day without slave labor. If
you abolished that institution, Judge Whipple, you would ruin millions of
your fellow-countrymen,--you would reduce sovereign states to a situation
of disgraceful dependence. And all, sir," now he raised his voice lest
the Judge break in, "all, sir, for the sake of a low breed that ain't fit
for freedom. You and I, who have the Magna Charta and the Declaration of
Independence behind us, who are descended from a race that has done
nothing but rule for ten centuries and more, may well establish a
Republic where the basis of stability is the self-control of the
individual--as long as men such as you and I form its citizens. Look at
the South Americans. How do Republics go there? And the minute you and I
let in niggers, who haven't any more self-control than dogs, on an equal
basis, with as much of a vote as you have,--niggers, sir, that have lived
like wild beasts in the depths of the jungle since the days of Ham,
--what's going to become of our Republic?"

"Education," cried the Judge.

But the word was snatched out of his mouth.

"Education isn't a matter of one generation. No, sir, nor two, nor three,
nor four. But of centuries."

"Sir," said the Judge, "I can point out negroes of intelligence and
learning."

"And I reckon you could teach some monkeys to talk English, and recite
the catechism, and sing emotional hymns, if you brought over a couple of
million from Africa," answered the Colonel, dryly, as he rose to put on
his hat and light a cigar.

It was his custom to offer a cigar to the Judge, who invariably refused,
and rubbed his nose with scornful violence.

Virginia, on the verge of leaving, stayed on, fascinated by the turn the
argument had taken.

"Your prejudice is hide-bound, sir," said Mr. Whipple.

"No, Whipple," said the Colonel, "when God washed off this wicked earth,
and started new, He saw fit to put the sons of Ham in subjection. They're
slaves of each other in Africa, and I reckon they're treated no better
than they are here. Abuses can't be helped in any system, sir, though we
are bettering them. Were the poor in London in the days of the Edwards as
well off as our niggers are to-day?"

The Judge snorted.

"A divine institution!" he shouted. "A black curse! Because the world has
been a wicked place of oppression since Noah's day, is that any reason
why it should so continue until the day of Judgment?"

The Colonel smiled, which was a sign that he was pleased with his
argument.

"Now, see here, Whipple," said he. "If we had any guarantee that you
would let us alone where we are, to manage our slaves and to cultivate
our plantations, there wouldn't be any trouble. But the country keeps on
growing and growing, and you're not content with half. You want
everything,--all the new states must abolish slavery. And after a while
you will overwhelm us, and ruin us, and make us paupers. Do you wonder
that we contend for our rights, tooth and nail? They are our rights."

"If it had not been for Virginia and Maryland and the South, this nation
would not be in existence."

The Colonel laughed.

"First rate, Jinny," he cried. "That's so."

But the Judge was in a revery. He probably had not heard her.

"The nation is going to the dogs," he said, mumbling rather to himself
than to the others. "We shall never prosper until the curse is shaken
off, or wiped out in blood. It clogs our progress. Our merchant marine,
of which we were so proud, has been annihilated by these continued
disturbances. But, sir," he cried, hammering his fist upon the table
until the glasses rang, "the party that is to save us was born at
Pittsburgh last year on Washington's birthday. The Republican Party,
sir."

"Shucks!" exclaimed Mr. Carvel, with amusement, "The Black Republican
Party, made up of old fools and young Anarchists, of Dutchmen and
nigger-worshippers. Why, Whipple, that party's a joke. Where's your
leader?"

"In Illinois," was the quick response.

"What's his name?"

"Abraham Lincoln, sir," thundered Mr. Whipple. "And to my way of thinking
he has uttered a more significant phrase on the situation than any of
your Washington statesmen. 'This government,' said he to a friend of
mine, 'cannot exist half slave and half free.'"

So impressively did Mr. Whipple pronounce these words that Mr. Carvel
stirred uneasily, and in spite of himself, as though he were listening to
an oracle. He recovered instantly.

"He's a demagogue, seeking for striking phrases, sir. You're too
intelligent a man to be taken in by such as he."

"I tell you he is not, sir."

"I know him, sir," cried the Colonel, taking down his feet. "He's an
obscure lawyer. Poor white trash! Torn down poor! My friend Mr.
Richardson of Springfield tells me he is low down. He was born in a log
cabin, and spends most of his time in a drug-store telling stories that
you would not listen to, Judge Whipple."

"I would listen to anything he said," replied the Judge. "Poor white
trash, sir! The greatest men rise from the people. A demagogue!" Mr.
Whipple fairly shook with rage. "The nation doesn't know him yet. But
mark my words, the day will come when it will. He was ballotted for
Vice-President in the Philadelphia convention last year. Nobody paid any
attention to that. If the convention had heard him speak at Bloomington,
he would have been nominated instead of Fremont. If the nation could have
heard him, he would be President to-day instead of that miserable
Buchanan. I happened to be at Bloomington. And while the idiots on the
platform were drivelling, the people kept calling for Lincoln. I had
never heard of him then. I've never forgot him since. He came ambling out
of the back of the hall, a lanky, gawky looking man, ridiculously ugly,
sir. But the moment he opened his mouth he had us spellbound. The
language which your low-down lawyer used was that of a God-sent prophet,
sir. He had those Illinois bumpkins all worked up,--the women crying,
and some of the men, too. And mad! Good Lord, they were mad--'We will say
to the Southern disunionists,' he cried,--'we will say to the Southern
disunionists, we won't go out of the Union, and you shan't.'"

There was a silence when the Judge finished. But presently Mr. Carvel
took a match. And he stood over the Judge in his favorite attitude,
--with his feet apart,--as he lighted another cigar.

"I reckon we're going to have war, Silas," said he, slowly; "but don't
you think that your Mr. Lincoln scares me into that belief. I don't count
his bluster worth a cent. No sirree! It's this youngster who comes out
here from Boston and buys a nigger with all the money he's got in the
world. And if he's an impetuous young fool; I'm no judge of men."

"Appleton Brice wasn't precisely impetuous," remarked Mr. Whipple. And he
smiled a little bitterly, as though the word had stirred a memory.

"I like that young fellow," Mr. Carvel continued. "It seems to be a kind
of fatality with me to get along with Yankees. I reckon there's a screw
loose somewhere, but Brice acted the man all the way through. He goa a
fall out of you, Silas, in your room, after the show. Where are you
going, Jinny?"

Virginia had risen, and she was standing very erects with a flush on her
face, waiting for her father to finish.

"To see Anne Brinsmade," she said. "Good-by, Uncle Silas."

She had called him so from childhood. Hers was the one voice that seemed
to soften him--it never failed. He turned to her now with a movement that
was almost gentle. "Virginia, I should like you to know my young Yankee,"
said he.

"Thank you, Uncle Silas," said the girl, with dignity, "but I scarcely
think that he would care to know me. He feels so strongly."

"He feels no stronger than I do," replied the Judge.

"You have gotten used to me in eighteen years, and besides," she flashed,
"you never spent all the money you had in the world for a principle."

Mr. Whipple smiled as she went out of the door.

"I have spent pretty near all," he said. But more to himself than to the
Colonel.

That evening, some young people came in to tea, two of the four big
Catherwood boys, Anne Brinsmade and her brother Jack, Puss Russell and
Bert, and Eugenie Renault. But Virginia lost her temper. In an evil
moment Puss Russell started the subject of the young Yankee who had
deprived her of Hester. Puss was ably seconded by Jack Brinsmade, whose
reputation as a tormentor extended far back into his boyhood. In vain;
did Anne, the peacemaker, try to quench him, while the big Catherwoods
and Bert Russell laughed incessantly. No wonder that Virginia was angry.
She would not speak to Puss as that young lady bade her good night. And
the Colonel, coming home from an evening with Mr, Brinsmade, found his
daughter in an armchair, staring into the sitting-room fire. There was no
other light in the room Her chin was in her hand, and her lips were
pursed.

"Heigho!" said the Colonel, "what's the trouble now?"

"Nothing," said Virginia.

"Come," he insisted, "what have they been doing to my girl?"

"Pa!"

"Yes, honey."

"I don't want to go to balls all my life. I want to go to
boarding-school, and learn something. Emily is going to Monticello after
Christmas. Pa, will you let me?"

Mr. Carvel winced. He put an arm around her. He, thought of his lonely
widowerhood, of her whose place Virginia had taken.

"And what shall I do?" he said, trying to smile.

"It will only be for a little while. And Monticello isn't very far, Pa."

"Well, well, there is plenty of time to think it over between now and
January," he said. "And now I have a little favor to ask of you, honey."

"Yes?" she said.

The Colonel took the other armchair, stretched his feet toward the blaze,
and stroked his goatee. He glanced covertly at his daughter's profile.
Twice he cleared hip throat.

"Jinny?"

"Yes, Pa" (without turning her head).

"Jinny, I was going to speak of this young. Brice. He's a stranger here,
and he comes of a good family, and--and I like him."

"And you wish me to invite him to my party," finished Virginia.

The Colonel started. "I reckon you guessed it," he said.

Virginia remained immovable. She did not answer at once. Then she said:

"Do you think, in bidding against me, that he behaved, like a gentleman?"

The Colonel blundered.

"Lord, Virginia," he said, "I thought you told the judge this afternoon
teat it was done out of principle."

Virginia ignored this. But she bit her lip

"He is like all Yankees, without one bit of consideration for a woman. He
knew I wanted Hester."

"What makes you imagine that he thought of you at all, my dear?" asked
her father, mildly, "He does not know you."

This time the Colonel scored certainly. The firelight saved Virginia.

"He overheard our conversation," she answered.

"I reckon that he wasn't worrying much about us. And besides, he was
trying to save Hester from Jennings."

"I thought that you said that it was to be my party, Pa," said Virginia,
irrelevantly.

The Colonel looked thoughtful, then he began to laugh.

"Haven't we enough Black Republican friends?" she asked.

"So you won't have him?" said the Colonel.

"I didn't say that I wouldn't have him," she answered.

The Colonel rose, and brushed the ashes from his goat.

"By Gum!" he said. "Women beat me."




CHAPTER X

THE LITTLE HOUSE

When Stephen attempted to thank Judge Whipple for going on Hester's bond,
he merely said, "Tut, tut."

The Judge rose at six, so his man Shadrach told Stephen. He had his
breakfast at the Planters' House at seven, read the Missouri Democrat,
and returned by eight. Sometimes he would say good morning to Stephen and
Richter, and sometimes he would not. Mr. Whipple was out a great part of
the day, and he had many visitors. He was a very busy man. Like a great
specialist (which he was), he would see only one person at a time. And
Stephen soon discovered that his employer did not discriminate between
age or sex, or importance, or condition of servitude. In short, Stephen's
opinion of Judge Whipple altered very materially before the end of that
first week. He saw poor women and disconsolate men go into the private
room ahead of rich citizens, who seemed content to wait their turn on the
hard wooden chairs against the wall of the main office. There was one
incident in particular, when a well-dressed gentleman of middle age paced
impatiently for two mortal hours after Shadrach had taken his card into
the sanctum. When at last he had been admitted, Mr. Richter whispered to
Stephen his name. It was that of a big railroad man from the East. The
transom let out the true state of affairs.

"See here, Callender," the Judge was heard to say, "you fellows don't
like me, and you wouldn't come here unless you had to. But when your road
gets in a tight place, you turn up and expect to walk in ahead of my
friends. No, sir, if you want to see me, you've got to wait."

Mr. Callender made some inaudible reply, "Money!" roared the Judge, "take
your money to Stetson, and see if you win your case."

Mr. Richter smiled at Stephen, as if in sheer happiness at this
vindication of an employer who had never seemed to him to need a defence.

Stephen was greatly drawn toward this young German with the great scar on
his pleasant face. And he was itching to know about that scar. Every day,
after coming in from dinner, Richter lighted a great brown meerschaum,
and read the St. Louis 'Anzeiger' and the 'Westliche Post'. Often he sang
quietly to himself:

"Deutschlands Sohne
Laut ertone
Euer Vaterlandgesang.
Vaterland! Du Land des Ruhmes,
Weih' zu deines Heiligthumes
Hutern, uns and unser Schwert."

There were other songs, too. And some wonderful quality in the German's
voice gave you a thrill when you heard them, albeit you could not
understand the words. Richter never guessed how Stephen, with his eyes on
his book, used to drink in those airs. And presently he found out that
they were inspired.

The day that the railroad man called, and after he and the Judge had gone
out together, the ice was broken.

"You Americans from the North are a queer people, Mr. Brice," remarked
Mr. Richter, as he put on his coat. "You do not show your feelings. You
are ashamed. The Judge, at first I could not comprehend him--he would
scold and scold. But one day I see that his heart is warm, and since then
I love him. Have you ever eaten a German dinner, Mr. Brice? No? Then you
must come with me, now."

It was raining, the streets ankle-deep in mud, and the beer-garden by the
side of the restaurant to which they went was dreary and bedraggled. But
inside the place was warm and cheerful. Inside, to all intents and
purposes, it was Germany. A most genial host crossed the room to give Mr.
Richter a welcome that any man might have envied. He was introduced to
Stephen.

"We were all 'Streber' together, in Germany," said Richter.

"You were all what?" asked Stephen, interested.

"Strivers, you might call it in English. In the Vaterland those who seek
for higher and better things--for liberty, and to be rid of oppression
--are so called. That is why we fought in '48 and lost. And that is why we
came here, to the Republic. Ach! I fear I will never be the great lawyer
--but the striver, yes, always. We must fight once more to be rid of the
black monster that sucks the blood of freedom--vampire. Is it not so in
English?"

Stephen was astonished at this outburst.

"You think it will come to war?"

"I fear,--yes, I fear," said the German, shaking his head. "We fear. We
are already preparing."

"Preparing? You would fight, Richter? You, a foreigner?"

"A foreigner!" cried Richter, with a flash of anger in his blue eyes that
died as suddenly as it came,--died into reproach. "Call me not a
foreigner--we Germans will show whether or not we are foreigners when the
time is ripe. This great country belongs to all the oppressed. Your
ancestors founded it, and fought for it, that the descendants of mine
might find a haven from tyranny. My friend, one-half of this city is
German, and it is they who will save it if danger arises. You must come
with me one night to South St. Louis, that you may know us. Then you will
perhaps understand, Stephen. You will not think of us as foreign swill,
but as patriots who love our new Vaterland even as you love it. You must
come to our Turner Halls, where we are drilling against the time when the
Union shall have need of us."

"You are drilling now?" exclaimed Stephen, in still greater astonishment.
The German's eloquence had made him tingle, even as had the songs.

"Prosit deine Blume!" answered Richter, smiling and holding up his glass
of beer. "You will come to a 'commerce', and see.

"This is not our blessed Lichtenhainer, that we drink at Jena. One may
have a pint of Lichtenhainer for less than a groschen at Jena. Aber," he
added as he rose, with a laugh that showed his strong teeth, "we
Americans are rich."

As Stephen's admiration for his employer grew, his fear of him waxed
greater likewise. The Judge's methods of teaching law were certainly not
Harvard's methods. For a fortnight he paid as little attention to the
young man as he did to the messengers who came with notes and cooled
their heels in the outer office until it became the Judge's pleasure to
answer them. This was a trifle discouraging to Stephen. But he stuck to
his Chitty and his Greenleaf and his Kent. It was Richter who advised him
to buy Whittlesey's "Missouri Form Book," and warned him of Mr. Whipple's
hatred for the new code. Well that he did! There came a fearful hour of
judgment. With the swiftness of a hawk Mr. Whipple descended out of a
clear sky, and instantly the law terms began to rattle in Stephen's head
like dried peas in a can. It was the Old Style of Pleading this time,
without a knowledge of which the Judge declared with vehemence that a
lawyer was not fit to put pen to legal cap.

"Now, sir, the pleadings?" he cried.

"First," said Stephen, "was the Declaration. The answer to that was the
Plea. The answer to that was the Replication. Then came the Rejoinder,
then the Surrejoinder, then the Rebutter, then the Surrebutter. But they
rarely got that far," he added unwisely.

"A good principle in Law, sir," said the Judge, "is not to volunteer
information."

Stephen was somewhat cast down when he reached home that Saturday
evening. He had come out of his examination with feathers drooping. He
had been given no more briefs to copy, nor had Mr. Whipple vouchsafed
even to send him on an errand. He had not learned how common a thing it
is with young lawyers to feel that they are of no use in the world.
Besides, the rain continued. This was the fifth day.

His mother, knitting before the fire in her own room, greeted him with
her usual quiet smile of welcome. He tried to give her a humorous account
of his catechism of the morning, but failed.

"I am quite sure that he doesn't like me," said Stephen.

His mother continued to smile.

"If he did, he would not show it," she answered.

"I can feel it," said Stephen, dejectedly.

"The Judge was here this afternoon," said his mother.

"What?" cried Stephen. "Again this week? They say that he never calls in
the daytime, and rarely in the evening. What did he say?"

"He said that some of this Boston nonsense must be gotten out of you,"
answered Mrs. Brice, laughing. "He said that you were too stiff. That you
needed to rub against the plain men who were building up the West. Who
were making a vast world-power of the original little confederation of
thirteen states. And Stephen," she added more earnestly, "I am not sure
but what he is right."

Then Stephen laughed. And for a long time he sat staring into the fire.

"What else did he say?" he asked, after a while.

"He told me about a little house which we might rent very cheaply. Too
cheaply, it seems. The house is on this street, next door to Mr.
Brinsmade, to whom it belongs. And Mr. Whipple brought the key, that we
might inspect it to-morrow."

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