Outalissi; a Tale of Dutch Guiana

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Chapter VIII. The Distressing Inquiry.

- ‘O! fatal, fatal day!
When led by false humanity astray,
To save these Christians I became their prey.’
     Old Play.

To an ingenuous mind the pains of dissimulation is always proportioned to the claims, which we think those upon whom we practice it, have upon our affection, gratitude, or candour. Edward Bentinck had great misgivings, not of conscience, (for he could not but be satisfied that he had acted right), but of the consequences of the step which he had taken, to those with whose fate and welfare he scarcely dared acknowledge to himself the depth and nervousness of his sympathy. But what was to be done? He could not disclose to his neighbours at Anne's Grove, the information of which he had been the medium of communication to the

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colonial government, without not only defeating the very object of that communication by promoting the escape of the persons implicated, but gratuitously compromising the safety of his informant, which he had promised not to do. For some days, therefore, he discontinued his customary daily visits; it was not possible, however, in common courtesy, to avoid occasionally calling.

Upon one of these occasions, about a fortnight after his despatch to Colonel Vansomner, (to which he had hitherto received no reply), as he approached the house, he saw in the coffee grounds, a figure, (which might have been a study for the Royal Academy,) of some one apparently observing him with very earnest scrutiny, and who, when he came close to him, made him a very dignified salam.

‘Have you ever seen me before, my friend?’ said Edward Bentinck; for, seeing him upon an English plantation, he concluded that he spoke English.

‘Yes, Massa,’ said Outalissi; for my readers will have recognized the royal savage; ‘I saw you with the lady of this house on the morning of my being landed from those floating shambles when I attempted to escape into the wood, and you spoke angrily, Massa, to the blood-hounds that were baying me. I saw, from the fright the lady was

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in, that you could not help me more effectually.’

‘I am glad to find,’ said Edward, ‘that the wound you received was so trifling as to admit of your working in the field so soon.’

‘Oh,’ said Outalissi, ‘the wound was just what they intended it should be, full of cruelty and short of mercy. I expected they would pursue me when I plunged into the wood, and calculated upon the chance (it was, I knew, my last and only one) of returning to the land of my fathers by the way of a bullet through my head.’

‘But have you no such thing as slavery in your own country?’ said Edward.

‘O yes,’ said Outalissi, ‘plenty of slavery there too; but that is principally from defeat in war, Massa, and a thousand contingencies may restore us to liberty. Besides, from contemplating its possibility from our childhood, our fortitude, when such a misfortune does befall us, is less taken by surprise, and being intimately familiar with all the directions of its pressure upon our bodies as well as minds, we know much better how to humour and adapt ourselves to our condition.

‘In Africa,’ continued Outalissi, ‘there is often scarcely any difference between the master and the slave: they eat, drink, hunt, and work to-

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gether, and the slave becomes sometimes the son or brother of his master by marrying his daughter or sister; but here the master's a tyrant and the slave a dog, without any community of hopes, fears, thoughts, wishes, constitution, or even colour between them, and the only hope that remains to us is that of death;^* but before that comes to me, oh, for one short grapple upon equal ground, and secure from interruption, with that Christian traitor, that ungrateful monster, that bloody tiger, that sea-kite in yonder ship, that at one fell swoop, by coward stealth and treachery, consigned me and all my tribe to this hideous and interminable slavery and exile. Savages, they call us; but you shall hear, Massa.

‘I found him dying on the shore, and I made two of my people bring him in a hammock a long day's journey to our village. Our virgins fed him with their kindly bowls of fever balm and sweet saganate; and when they had restored him to health and strength, supplied him with such articles of cloathing as our simple habits give us any skill in making, begged him to think kindly of us, and to return our humble services to the first poor African

* I have taken the liberty sometimes of improving Outalissi's language a little, (although he spoke very tolerable English,) in order to convey what appears to me the force of his impressions with more clearness. - Note by the Author.

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whom he met with in similar distress; it is not many moons, since he had left us.’

Outalissi then went on to relate pretty nearly the same story as that which Edward had before learned from Robert Jackson.

‘I trust,’ said Edward, ‘you will find your situation here more supportable than you expect, Outalissi. I think I can answer at least for one member of the family doing all she can to make it so.’

‘True, massa,’ said Outalissi, ‘if the lady of the house were not a Christian, I should think her an angel, and with the other slaves should almost worship her; but we are brought up in Africa with the same horror and loathing of a Christian or white man as we are of serpents and scorpions; with us the name of Christian implies all that's cruel, treacherous, venomous, and deadly, massa! and it's difficult not to shrink from it, even when it appears under a form so passing fair and lovely as yon white angel's. But, O massa, here are other forms approaching, which cannot betray, for they cannot deceive me.’

At this moment Mr. Cotton appeared with his director, Mr. Hogshead; Outalissi did not utter another word, but by his change of eye, a slight quiver in his upper lip, and the tumultuous move-

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ment of his chest as he resumed his labour, he spoke more eloquently to Edward Bentinck than if he had drawn the contrast between Matilda and her father and his prime minister in the strongest language.

After exchanging the usual salutations with Edward Bentinck, Mr. Cotton immediately proceeded with him to the house, leaving his director to superintend the cultivation of his coffee till his return.

Matilda had been copying, from an engraving of a celebrated picture in the collection of the late Duke of Orleans, the figure of an Egyptian Sorceress with her familiar spirit on her finger, and mechanically imitating the wild drapery of the figure before her, she had thrown her shawl lightly over her head like a hood, from beneath which the curls of her beautiful hair hung rather loosely over her temples as she bent forward to her drawing; her eyes appeared animated with the same pensive archness, and her sweet lips to be unconsciously reflecting the same half unmasked smile as those in the gipsy portrait. On this she was engaged so intently that she did not for a minute perceive the entrance of her father and his companion, the latter of whom was so completely spell-bound, that he involuntarily put his hand on

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Mr. Cotton's arm to prolong the indulgence of his admiration. But Mr. Cotton, who could not be insensible of his daughter's personal attractions, was, perhaps, only induced, by such an intimation that he was by no means singular in his perception of them, the more hastily to interrupt his companion's contemplation of them by announcing rather loudly, ‘Mr. Bentinck, my love!’

‘'Pon my word, papa,’ said Matilda, starting and snatching her mantle from her head, ‘Mr. Bentinck has been such a stranger for some days that I think it requires some apology in you to introduce him so abruptly.’

‘It's too late to make a stranger of Mr. Bentinck now,’ said Mr. Cotton, significantly; ‘but come, put away your rattletraps, whilst they bring us some refreshment, as I cannot stay loitering here long with so many new hands to look after, and your friend, Mr. Schwartz, coming here every day to teach them that they are as good as their master.’

‘Now, papa,’ said Matilda, ‘you have begun, you know, and I declare I will defend Mr. Schwartz; - if he teaches the negroes that they may be equal in the next world; he teaches them also that their only claim to be so, will depend upon their good conduct and honest endeavours to act right in

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this, in whatever state of life it may have pleased Providence to place them, with which it is not the design of Christianity to interfere, so long as that state admits of their full and free observance of the worship and duties of Christianity.’

‘He teaches them a doctrine,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘upon the truth of which depends their master's condemnation; can they be taught that God's estimation of character depends upon a conformity to restraints and principles, of which they see all their masters live in open derision and defiance, without losing all respect for their masters?’

‘Must their masters always live so?’ said Matilda.

‘Well, my dear, a bargain is a bargain,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘I promised that I would not interfere with you, and I will not. The Christianity you put into them, I must flog out of them, that's all, or I perceive we shall all get our throats cut together.’

‘O papa, that's cruel,’ said Matilda, ‘and makes me cruel, I cannot continue to instruct them upon such terms,’ and she left the room, but returned in five minutes, having apparently been shedding tears.

‘My dear Matilda,’ said her father, embracing her as he met her, having risen to return to his

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grounds, ‘I am sorry that I spoke so harshly; I will not break my word with you or suffer the religion of the negroes to influence my conduct towards them one way or the other; perhaps one day something may yet be conceded to the character of your unworthy father, for his affection to you and his protection of your goodness. We will never renew this controversy, but you know what has occurred to discompose me a little at present. Mr. Bentinck, I will not drag you out again in the sun, but I hope I shall find you on my return, and that you will stay and dine with us.’

‘If you had not called this morning, Mr. Bentinck,’ said Matilda, as soon as her father had left the room, ‘I believe I should have sent to request you to walk over. The Dutch frigate that lays in the harbour has been down here, and carried Captain Légere and his vessel the Harpy to Paramaribo, and my father is in daily expectation of being apprehended as a party concerned in the cargo (which is notoriously illegal) and confined in the close miserable dungeon of a criminal gaol in the fort there. Now, we know that the Dutch authorities here would have taken no notice of any information if they had received it, of their own accord, nor indeed could they, without the greatest injustice, as when they overlook nine importations,

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if they punish for the tenth, the parties prosecuted become victims of oppression, because of partiality, instead of being examples of justice. We are afraid, therefore, that some one has conveyed information to the British commissioners, and in this case, if the evidence is conclusive, we have no hope of escaping, as the authorities would be exposed, through the report of the commissioners to the British government, to the censure of their own; and this French Captain Légere has often declared that if they inflicted the penalties of the abolition laws upon him, that he would not suffer alone, but that all who had made a cat's-paw of him should suffer with him. I endeavour, in my father's presence, to controul my uneasiness and pursue my usual occupations, as I believe he is more anxious on my account than his own; but that naturally only increases my agitation, and indeed I am very unhappy, for if my father's punishment should not extend to his expulsion from the colony, it probably will to his long temporary removal from hence, where of course I cannot stay without him. It must be a sapless heart that takes no root in a domicile of even a few years, and this has been mine all my life. My father,’ continued Matilda, her voice almost faultering, and with look of some reproach at Edward

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Bentinck, ‘thought that the commissioners' intelligence must have been derived from you, as you were present when the unhappy Africans were put on shore; but I had too good an opinion of Mr. Bentinck to think it possible, that without at least some intimation of what he might think his duty, he would compromise the safety of a family, of which he has now for several weeks been almost an inmate; but, perhaps, he has received some directions from his superiors, which it was the object of his call this morning to communicate or execute.’

‘There is nothing in life,’ replied Edward, that I would not sooner forfeit than the good opinion of Miss Cotton, because I know her good opinion could only be permanently won by my never suffering any selfish wishes or feelings to make me swerve from the honest and disinterested convictions of my own conscience. There are cases in which the discernment of duty is so difficult, and the arguments for and against any particular line of conduct so nearly equipoised, that the only safe and honourable decision for a Christian is to turn the scale against himself, and let his own inclinations kick the beam. But I assure you, Miss Cotton, that I have received no directions or communication whatever from my superiors

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upon the subject, nor have I any object whatever in my visit here this morning, but to inquire after your health, and enjoy the pleasure of your society.’

‘Then,’ said Matilda, overlooking the equivocal character of the whole answer, in the decisive, although limited negative of the latter part of it, and betraying quite undesignedly, that the implication of Mr. Bentinck's character was by no means an inconsiderable ingredient in her distress, ‘half my anxiety is at an end. I was sure you were incapable of such duplicity. But good gracious, Mr. Bentinck, you have been devouring one of my gloves; I must beg you to restore it to me, although you have almost destroyed it. I assure you, you will find one of the biscuits on the table a much better thing.’

‘This is better than either,’ said Edward, seizing (with both his own) the hand extended by Matilda for the glove, which he had nearly twisted and bit to pieces in his embarrassment under his examination, and touching it with his lips.

‘No, Mr. Bentinck!’ said Matilda, withdrawing her hand firmly, but not resentfully, from his grasp, ‘I must not permit this misunderstanding for a single moment; I will not deny the esteem I entertain for you, lest I should be guilty of the very

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duplicity from which I have this moment but too unreservedly, perhaps, expressed my joy in your exculpation; but I entreat you for your own sake, not to think of any thing further, it is impossible.’

‘The esteem of Miss Cotton,’ said Edward, ‘is much too great a treasure to allow me to run the slightest risk of losing it by any encroachment on her generosity; but our thoughts will not always be restrained, even by the consciousness of their presumption.’

‘I must correct you again,’ said Matilda, ‘presumption is a word inapplicable to the real and sober nature of the case, there would be no presumption, Mr. Bentinck, in your entertaining such thoughts; but the irremovable distance of our situation and circumstances makes them absolute insanity in either of us.’

‘We are both young,’ said Edward, ‘can that distance never be diminished?’

‘Never!’ said Matilda. ‘You belong to a profession which deprives you of all controul over your own movements and actions; you have no security even of remaining in the colony for a single day, and during the life of my father, every tie off affection and duty bind me here.’

Edward only replied by a deep sigh.

‘You are too honourable, I know,’ said Ma-

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tilda, ‘to deceive me, and I perceive that you cannot deceive yourself; let this, therefore, be the last time you compel me to renew the subject. I am not old, but you are, perhaps, still younger as a man, than I am as a woman. You have a profession, which has already conferred on you such distinction and honour as many a lion-heart has wooed all his life through unnoticed dangers, hardships, and sufferings, without obtaining, and you have powerful friends at home to find you opportunities of winning the fullest plume of glory; go, therefore, where glory waits you, and some twenty years hence, when your name, like that of Nelson or Wellington, is alike conspicuous in the East, the West, the North, and the South, and blazes with unrivalled lustre round the world, if Surinam and your humble acquaintance there, should ever recur to your recollection, remember, that amongst them there was one who had the courage to declare to you, that she could only value the glory, even of a Nelson or Wellington, in exact proportion to the amount of self-subduction, generosity, and forbearance that had been practised in the progress of its acquisition.’

‘Let me,’ said Edward, ‘keep this memorial of so noble an injunction,’ drawing at the same time a little Indian plait of grass from Matilda's

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work box and tying it round his neck, ‘I will not exchange it for the riband of the Garter; - if I cannot wear then both, and the principles which I shall ever associate with this are incompatible with the attainment of the other.’

‘I cannot forbid such a request as that,’ said Matilda, ‘but do not misconstrue my acquiescence’ -

‘A soldier to Mr. Bentinck!’ said a servant entering at this moment -

‘I will come out to him immediately,’ said Edward.

Matilda changed colour, thinking it might be an order for her father's apprehension; ‘Pray return, Mr. Bentinck,’ said she, ‘I am alarmed now at the sight of every stranger.’

In a few minutes, after conversing with the messenger, Edward returned into the room with an air of great vexation, to say that he had not brought a word of intelligence concerning Captain Légere or her father; but that a fresh detachment had come down to relieve him at the outpost, and he was ordered to return with his men immediately to Paramaribo, in the same boats that had brought down the relief-guard, for which the tide would not allow him above an hour or two before he embarked; that he must, therefore, abruptly take his

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leave, and beg her to make his excuses to Mr. Cotton; ‘and as this may possibly be the last interview (and is at all events the last for an indefinite time) which the restless life I have embraced will allow me to hope for; O pardon,’ said Edward, again raising her hand to his lips, ‘my thus once more expressing the great value I shall ever attach to the friendship of Miss Cotton.’

Matilda did not think it necessary to rebuke him again at that moment, and the agitation she betrayed, although relieved from all immediate apprehensions for her father, was not perhaps to Edward the least agreeable reply that she could make him. She merely said, however, a little tremulously, ‘Good bye, Mr. Bentinck, I sincerely wish you well!’