CHAPTER XIV.

BELOW FIVE POINTS.

It is now the hour of twelve, midnight, on the 23d of December, 1844.

We are in the region of the Five Points, near the Tombs, whose sullen walls look still more ominous and gloomy in the wintery starlight.

Enter the narrow door of the frame-house, which seems toppling to the ground. You hear the sound of the violin, and by the light of tallow candles, inserted in tin sconces which are affixed to the blackened walls, you discover some twenty persons, black, white and chocolate-colored, of all ages and both sexes, dancing and drinking together. It is an orgie--an orgie of crime, drunkenness and rags.

Pass into the next room. By a single light, placed on a table, you discover the features of three or four gamblers,--not gamblers of the gentlemanly stamp, who, in luxurious chambers, prolong the game of "poker" all night long, until the morning breaks, or the champagne gives out,--but gamblers of a lower stamp, ill-dressed fellows, whose highest stake is a shilling, and whose favorite beverage is whisky, and whisky that is only whisky in name, while in fact, it is poison of the vilest sort--whisky classically called "red-eye."

Open a scarcely distinguishable door, at the back of the ruffian who sits at the head of the table. Descend a narrow stairway, or rather ladder, which lands you in the darkness, some twenty feet below the level of the street. Then, in the darkness, feel your way along the passage which turns to the right and left, and from left to right again, until your senses are utterly bewildered. At length, after groping your way in the darkness, over an uneven floor, and between narrow walls; after groping your way you know not how far, you descend a second ladder, ten feet or more, and find yourself confronted by a door. You are at least two stories under ground, and all is dark around you--the sound of voices strikes your ear; but do not be afraid. Find the latch of the door and push it open. A strange scene confronts you.

The Black Senate!

A room or cell, some twenty feet square, is warmed by a small coal stove, which, heated to a red heat, stands in the center, its pipe inserted in the low ceiling, and leading you know not where. Around the stove, by the light of three tallow candles placed upon a packing-box, are grouped some twenty or thirty persons, who listen attentively to the words of the gentleman who is seated by the packing-box.

This gentleman is almost a giant; his chest is broad; his limbs brawny; and his face, black as the "ace of spades," is in strong contrast with his white teeth, white eyeballs, white eyebrows, and white wool. He is a negro, with flat nose, thick lips, and mouth reaching from ear to ear. His almost giant frame is clad in a sleek suit of blue cloth, and he wears a cravat of spotless whiteness.

His auditors are not so fortunate in the way of dress. Of all colors, from jet black to chocolate-brown, they are clad in all sorts of costumes, only alike in raggedness and squalor.

This is the Black Senate, which has met for business to-night, in this den, two stories under ground. Its deliberations, in point of decorum, may well compare with some other senates,--one in especial, where 'Liar!' is occasionally called, fisticuffs exchanged, knives and pistols drawn; and it embraces representatives from all parts of the Union. Whether, like another senate, it has its dramatic characters,--its low clown, melodramatic ruffians, genteel comedian, and high tragedy hero, remains to be seen.

The very black gentleman, by the packing-box--book in one hand and paper and pencil before him--is the speaker of the house. It is our old acquaintance "ROYAL BILL," lately from South Carolina.

"The genelman frum Varginny hab de floor," said the speaker, with true parliamentary politeness.

The gentleman from Virginia was a six-foot mulatto, dressed in a ragged coat and trowsers of iron gray. As he rose there was an evident sensation; white teeth were shown, and "Go in nigga!" uttered encouragingly by more than one of the colored congressmen.

"Dis nigga rise to de point ob ordah. Dis nigga am taught a great many tings by philosopy. One day, in de 'baccy field, dis nigga says to hisself, says he. 'Dat are pig b'longs to massa, so does dis nigga. Dis nigga kill dat pig un eat 'um--dat be stealin'? Lordy Moses--no! It only be puttin' one ting dat b'longs to massa into anoder ting dat also b'longs to massa:'--dat's philosopy--"

"S'pose de nigga be caught?" interrupted a colored gentleman, lighting his pipe at the red-hot stove.

"_Dat_ wouldn't be philosopy," responded the gentleman from Virginia. "It ain't philosopy to be caught. On de contrary it am dam foolishness."

A murmur of assent pervaded the place.

"Soh, reasonin' from de pig, dis nigga wor taught by philosopy to tink a great deal--to tink berry much;--and soh, one day de nigga got a kind o' absen' minded, and walked off, and _forgot to come back_.--Dis nigga actooaly did."

"Dat _wor_ philosopy!" said a voice.

"An' as de nigga is in bad health, he am on his way to Canada, whar de climate am good for nigga's pulmonaries. An' fur fear de nigga mought hurt people's feelin', he trabels by night; an' fur fear he mought be axed questi'n which 'ud trubble him to ansaw, he carries dese sartificats--"

He showed his certificates--a revolving pistol and a knife. And each one of the colored congressmen produced certificates of a similar character from their rags.

"Lor', philosopy am a dam good ting!"

"Don't sweah, nigga!--behabe yesself!"

"Read us nudder won ob dem good chap'er from de Bible, Mistaw Speakaw," cried a dark gentleman, addressing old Royal.-"'_Ehud, I hab a message from God to dee!_' Yah-hah-hah!"

"Yah-hah-a-what!" chorused the majority of the congress, showing their teeth and shaking their woolly heads together.

"Jis tell us som'thin' more about yer ole massa, dat you lick last night," cried a voice.

"Dat am an ole story," said old Royal, with dignity. "Suffis it to say, dat about five o'clock last ebenin', I took massa Harry from de house whar he'd been licked, de night afore, and tuk him in a carriage and put 'im aboard de cars at Princeton. I gib him some brandy likewise. His back was berry sore--"

Here one of the gentlemen broke in with a parody of a well-known song--

"Oh, carry me back to ole Varginny-- My back am berry sore--"

He began, in rich Ethiopian bass.

"Silence nigga!" said old Royal, sternly, yet, showing his white teeth in a broad grin. "He am in New York at the present time, at de Astor House, I 'spec'; an' de Bloodhoun' am with him--"

"De kidnapper!"

"De nigger-catcher!"

Cries like these resounded from twenty throats; and by the way in which knives and pistols were produced and brandished, it was evident that there was a cordial feeling--almost too cordial--entertained by the congress, toward our old friend, Bloodhound.

"To business," said old Royal, surveying the motley crowd. "I hab come to visit you to-night by d'rection ob _somebody dat you don't know_. It am ob de last importance dat you all get yesselves out o' dis town to Canada as quick as de Lord 'ill let you. Darfore I hab provided you wid dem revolvers,"--he pointed to the pistols, "and derfore I am here, to send you on yer ways, for de kidnappers am about."

"Oh, dam de kidnappers!" was the emphatic remark of a dark gentleman; and it was chorused by the congress unanimously.

"It am berry easy to say 'dam de kidnappers,'--berry easy to say dam--dam's a berry short word; but s'pose de kidnapper hab you, and tie you, and take you down south--eh, nigga? w'at den?"

But before the gentlemen could reply to this pointed question of old Royal's, a circumstance took place which put an entire new face upon the state of affairs.

The door was burst open, and two persons tumbled into the room, heels over head. Descending the stairs in the darkness, these persons had missed their footing, and fell. The door gave way before their united weight, and they rolled into the room in a style more forcible than graceful.

When these persons recovered themselves and rose to their feet, they found themselves encircled by some thirty uplifted knives,--every knife grasped by the hand of a brawny negro. And the cry which greeted them was by no means pleasant to hear:--

"Death to the kidnappers!"

"We're fooled. It's a trap," cried one of the persons--our old friend Bloodhound.

"Trap or no trap, I'll cut the heart of the damned nigger that comes near me," cried the other person, who was none other than our friend Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal, South Carolina.

The cloak had fallen from his shoulders, the cap from his brow. He stood erect, his tall form clad in black, with a gold chain on the breast, dilating in every muscle. His face, with its large eyes and bushy whiskers--a face by no means unhandsome, as regards mere _animal_ beauty--was convulsed with rage. And even as he started to his feet, he drew a revolver from his belt, and stood at bay, the very picture of ferocity and desperation. While his right hand grasped the revolver, his left hand flourished a bowie-knife. Harry Royalton was dangerous.

By his side was the short, stout figure of the Bloodhound, encased to his chin in a rough overcoat, and, with his stiff, gray hairs straggling from beneath his seal-skin cap over his prominent cheek-bones. His small gray eyes, twinkling under his bushy brows, glanced around with a look half desperation, half fear.

And around the twain crowded the negroes, every hand grasping a knife; every face distorted with hatred; and old Royal, in his sleek blue dress and white cravat, prominent in that group of black visages and ragged forms.

"They've got us! Judas Iscar-i-ot! It's a trap, my boy. We'll have to cut ourselves loose."

"Back, you dogs!" shouted Harry, with the attitude and look of command. "The first one that lays a finger on me I'll blow him to ----!"

There was a pause of a moment, ere the conflict began. Thirty uplifted knives, awaited only a look, a gesture, from old Royal.

That gentleman, grinning until his white teeth were visible almost from ear to ear, said calmly--"Dis am a revivin' time, wid showers of grace! Some nigga shut dat door and make 'um fast."

His words were instantly obeyed; one of the thirty closed the door and bolted it.

"Now, massa Harry," said old Royal, grinning and showing the whites of his eyes, "dis am a fav'oble opportunity fur savin' your poor lost soul. How you back feel, ole boy? Want a leetle more o' de same sort, p'raps? S'pose you draw dat trigger? Jis try. Lor a massa, why dere's enough niggas here to eat you up widout pepper or salt."

Harry laid his finger on the trigger and fired, at the same moment stepping suddenly backward, with the intention of planting himself against the wall. But he forgot the negroes behind him. As he fired, his heels were tripped up; his ball passed over old Royal's head. Harry was leveled to the floor, and in an instant old Royal's giant-like gripe was on his throat. And by his side, wriggling in the grasp of a huge negro, black as ink, and strong as Hercules, our friend Bloodhound, rubbed his face against the floor.

Over and around these central figures gathered the remainder of the band, filling the den with their shouts--

"Death to the dam kidnappers!"

"Yah-hah! Cut their dam throats!"

Cries like these, interspersed with frightful howls, filled the place.

The Bloodhound moaned pitifully; and Harry, with the suffocating gripe of old Royal on his throat, and his back yet raw from the lashes of the previous night, could not repress a groan of agony.

It was a critical moment.

"Do you know, massa Harry,"--and old Royal bent his face down until Harry felt his breath upon his cheek--"Do you know, massa Harry, dat you are not berry far from glory? Kingdom-come am right afore, ole boy--and you am booked--hah! yah!--wid a through ticket."

Old Royal, (who had laid down his pistol,) took a knife from one of the negroes, and, tightening his gripe and pressing his knee more firmly on Harry's breast, he passed the glittering blade before his eyes.

"Oh!" groaned Royalton. The groan was wrung from him by intolerable agony.

"Let me up--a-h!" cried Bloodhound, in a smothered voice, as his face was pressed against the hard boards.

"Death to the dam kidnappers!"

Old Royalton clenched the knife with his left hand, and placed its point against Harry's breast.

"You am bound for glory, massa--" and a negro held a candle over Harry's face, as old Royal spoke.

At this critical moment, even as Harry's life hung on a thread, a violent knocking was heard at the door, and a voice resounded through its panels--

"Old Royal, old Royal, I say! Let me in, quick! quick!"

"Open the door, nigga. It's massa Harry's brack brudder. Let um in, so he can see his brudder bound for glory!"

The door was opened, and Randolph, pale as death, came rushing to the light. Wrapped in the cloak, which concealed his pistols and knives, and which hung about his tall form in heavy folds, he advanced with a footstep at once trembling and eager.

His pale face was stamped with hatred; his blue eyes shone with vengeance, as he at a glance beheld the pitiful condition of his brother.

"Soh, brother of mine, we have met again!" he cried, in a voice which was hoarse and deep with the thirst of vengeance.

"Why, he's whitaw dan his white brudder!" cried the negro who held the light.

"Release him," cried Randolph--"Release him, I say! Tie that fellow there;" he touched Bloodhound with his foot; "close the door. You'll see a fight worth seeing; a fight between the master and slave, between brother and brother. Do you hear me, Royal? Let him get up,--"

"But massa 'Dolph!" hesitated old Royal.

"Up, I say!" and Randolph flung his cap and cloak to the floor, and drew two bowie-knives from his belt. "Up, I say! You have heard my history from old Royal?" he glanced around among the negroes.

"Yah-hah! an' ob de lashes dat you gib dis dam kidnapper!" said the negro who held the candle.

"Then stand by and see us settle our last account," cried Randolph. "Let him get up, old Royal."

Old Royal released his hold, and Harry slowly arose to his feet, and stood face to face with his brother.

"Good evening, brother," said Randolph. "We have met again, and for the last time. One of us will not leave this place alive. Take your choice of knives, brother. I will fight you with my left hand; I swear it by my mother's name!"

Harry looked around with a confused glance--

"It is easy for you to talk," he said, brushing his hand over his forehead and eyes, as if in effort to collect his scattered senses. "Even if I kill you, these niggers will kill me. They will not let me leave the door alive, even if I master you."

"Old Royal, you know my history; and you know how this man has treated me and my sister--his own flesh and blood. Now swear to me, that in case he is the victor in the contest that is about to take place, you will let him go from this place free and unharmed?"

"I--I--swear it massa 'Dolph; I swear it by de Lord!"

"And you?" Randolph turned to the negroes.

"We does jist as old Royal says," cried the one who held the candle; and the rest muttered their assent.

"Take your choice of knives, brother," said Randolph, as his eyes shone with deadly light, and his face, already pale, grew perfectly colorless: "The handles are toward you; take your choice. Remember I am to fight you with my left hand. You are weak, brother, from the wounds on your back. With my left hand I will fight and kill you."

Harry Royalton took one of the knives--they were ivory handled, silver mounted, and their blades were long, sharp and glittering--and at the same time surveyed his brother from head to foot.

"I can kill him," he thought, and smiled; and then said aloud, "I am ready."

The negroes formed a circle; old Royal held the light, and the brothers stood in the center, silently surveying each other, ere the fatal contest began. Every eye remarked the contrast between their faces. Harry's face flushed with long-pent-up rage, and Randolph's, pallid as a corpse, yet with an ominous light in his eyes. Both tall and well formed; both clad in black, which showed to advantage, their broad chests and muscular arms; there was, despite the color of their eyes and hair, some trace of a family likeness in their faces.

"Come, brother, begin," said Randolph, in a low voice, which was heard distinctly through the profound stillness. "Remember that I am your slave, and that when I have killed you, I, with sister Esther, also your slave, will inherit one seventh of the Van Huyden estate,--remember how you have lashed and hounded us,--remember the dying words of our father--and then defend yourself: for I must kill you, brother. Come!"

Raising the knife with his left hand, he drew his form to its full height, and stood on his defense.

You might have heard a pin drop in that crowded cellar.

"You damned slave!" shouted Harry, and at the same time, rushed forward, clutching his knife in his right hand. His face was inflamed with rage, his eye steady, his hand firm, and the point of his knife was aimed at his brother's heart.

The intention was deadly, but the knife never harmed Randolph's heart. Even as Harry rushed forward, his knees bent under him, and he fell flat on his face, and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. Overcome by the violence of his emotions, which whirled all the blood in his body, in a torrent to his head, he had sunk lifeless on the floor, even as he sprang forward to plunge his knife into his brother's heart.

Randolph, who had prepared himself to meet his brother's blow, was thunderstruck by this unexpected incident.

"De Lord hab touck him," cried old Royal; "he am dead."

Dead! At that word, revenge, vengeance, the memory of his wrongs, and of his brother's baseness, all glided from Randolph's heart, like snow before the flame. In vain he tried to combat this sudden change of feeling. Dead! The word struck him to the soul. He dropped his knife, and sinking on one knee, he placed upon the other the head of his lifeless brother. Harry's eyes were closed, as if in death; his lips hung apart, his face was colorless.

"De Lord hab touck him," again cried old Royal; and his remark was welcomed by a burst of laughter from the thirty negroes, which broke upon the breathless stillness, like the yell of so many devils.

"He is not dead: he has only fainted. Water! water!" cried Randolph. But he cried in vain.

"Dis nigga am not agoin' to gib him one drop to cool him parched tongue," said old Royal, showing his teeth. "What say, niggas?"

"Not a drop! not a dam drop!"

Reaching forth his hand, Randolph seized his cap and cloak, and then started to his feet, with the insensible form of Harry in his arms. Without a word, he moved to the door.

"Massa 'Dolph, massa 'Dolph!" shouted old Royal. "By de Lord, you don't take him from dis place;" and he endeavored to place himself between Randolph and the door.

Randolph saw the determination which was written on his face, and saw the looks and heard the yells of the thirty negroes; and then, without a word, felled old Royal to the floor. One blow of his right hand, planted on the negro's breast, struck him down like an ox under the butcher's ax. When old Royal, mad with rage, rose to his feet again, Randolph had disappeared--disappeared with his brother, whom he bore in his arms to upper air.

"Let's after um," shouted the foremost of the negroes.

Old Royal stepped to the door, (which Randolph had closed after him,) but stopped abruptly on the threshold, as if arrested by a sudden thought.

"Dis nigga meet you 'gin, massa 'Dolph," he muttered, and then, pointing to something which was folded up in one corner, he said, "Dar's game fur you niggas!"

He pointed to the form of poor Bloodhound, who, tied and gagged, lay helpless and groaning on the floor.

It was, perhaps, the most remarkable hour in Bloodhound's life. His hands and feet tightly bound, a coarse handkerchief wound over his mouth, and tied behind his neck, he was deprived of the power of speech or motion. But the power of vision remained. His small gray eyes twinkled fearfully, as he beheld the faces of the thirty negroes--faces that were convulsed with rage, resembling not so much the visages of men as of devils. And he could also hear. He heard the yell from thirty throats, a yell which was chorused with certain words, mingling his own name with an emphatic desire for his blood--his life.

Bloodhound was an old man; his hair was gray with the snows of sixty years, spent in the practice of all the virtues; but Bloodhound felt a peculiar sensation gather about his heart, at this most remarkable moment of his life.

"Bring forrad de pris'ner," said old Royal, resuming his seat by the packing-box. "Put 'um on him feet. Take de kankercher from him jaw."

He was obeyed. Bloodhound stood erect in the center of the group, his hands and feet tied, but his tongue free. The light, uplifted in the hand of a brawny negro, fell fully upon his _corded_ face, with its gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and wide mouth. Bloodhound's hands shook,--not with cold, for the place was suffocatingly warm,--and Bloodhound trembled in every atom of his short thick-set body. Glancing before him, then to the right and left, and then backward over each shoulder, he saw black faces everywhere, and black hands grasping sharp knives, confronted him at every turn.

"You am a berry handsum man," said old Royal, encouragingly. "Jist look at um, niggas. Do you know de pris'ner?"

The replies to this query came so fast and thick, that we are unable to put them all upon paper.

"He stole me fader!"

"He took me mother from Fildelfy and sold her down south."

"He kidnapped my little boy."

"Dam kidnapper! he stole my wife!"

"I knows him, I does--he does work for da man dat sells niggas in Baltimore."

"Don't you know how he tuk de yaller gal away from Fildelfy, making b'lieve dat her own fader was a-dyin', and sent for her?"

Such were a few of the responses to old Royal's question. It was evident that Bloodhound was _known_. And, although his hair had grown gray in the practice of all the virtues, it did not give him much pleasure to find that he was known; for he felt that he was in the hands of the wicked.

"Don't hurt me, niggers, don't hurt me! I wasn't after any of you, upon my word, I wasn't. I've allays been good to the niggers, when I could get a chance,--don't hurt me!"

"Oh! we won't go fur to hurt massa, will we niggas?" replied old Royal.

"O' cos not. Don't tink of sich a ting!! Yah-hah!"

"You see I've got a child at home," faltered Bloodhound, "that is to say, two or three of 'em. You wouldn't go to hurt the father of a family, would you?"

"Does you know massa, dat you mos' make dis nigga cry," cried old Royal, with an infernal grin. "Niggas, 'scure dis tear! He am de fader ob a family, dis good man am."

Old Royal wiped away a tear,--that is, an imaginary tear,--and then surveyed the faces of his colored brethren, with a look that turned Bloodhound's heart to ice. He felt that he was lost.

"Don't, don't, d-o-n-'-t!" he shrieked, in agony of fear, "d-o-n-'-t!"

"Why, who's a-touchin' you? Dar am not a single, solitary, blessed soul, layin' a fingaw on you."

As old Royal spoke, he made a sign with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It was obeyed by a huge negro who stood behind Bloodhound,--he struck the wretched man on the back of the head, with the stock of a revolver,--struck him with all the force of his brawny arm,--and the hard, dull sound of the blow, was heard distinctly, even above the fiendish shouts of the negroes.

"Oh! don't, d-o-n-'-t!" shrieked Bloodhound, as the blood spurted over his hair and forehead, and even into his eyes; "don't, d-o-n-'-t!"

Another blow.--from behind,--brought him to his knees. And then the thirty, or as many as could get near him, closed round him, shouting and yelling and striking. Every face was distorted with rage; every hand grasped a knife. Old Royal, who calmly surveyed the scene, saw the backs and faces of the negroes; saw the knives glittering, as they rose and fell; but Bloodhound was not to be seen. But his cries were heard, as he madly grappled with the knives which stabbed him,--for his bonds had been cut by one of the band,--and these cries, thick and husky, as though his utterance was choked by blood, would have moved a heart of stone. But every shriek only seemed to give new fire to the rage of the negroes; and gathering closer round the miserable man, they lifted their knives, dripping with his blood, and struck and struck and struck again, until his cries were stilled. As he uttered the last cry, he sprang madly into light, for a moment, shook his bloody hands above his head, and then fell to rise no more.

You would not have liked to have seen the miserable thing which was stretched on the floor, in the center of that horrible circle, a miserable, mangled, shapeless thing, which, only a moment ago, was a living man.

"Now genelmen," said old Royal, calmly, "de business bein' done, dis meetin' stand adjourn till furder ordaw. Niggas, I tink you'd bettaw cut stick."

PART THIRD.

"THROUGH THE SILENT CITY."

DECEMBER 24, 1844.