The Crisis (Historical Novel). Winston Churchill

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      “Sir,” said the Colonel, with some force, “God made the sons of Ham the servants of Japheth's sons forever and forever.”

      “Well, well, we won't quarrel about that, sir,” said Brent, quickly. “If they all treated slaves as you do, there wouldn't be any cry from Boston-way. And as for me, I need hands. I shall see you again, Colonel.”

      “Take supper with me to-night, Lige,” said Mr. Carvel. “I reckon you'll find it rather lonesome without Jinny.”

      “Awful lonesome,” said the Captain. “But you'll show me her letters, won't you?”

      He started out, and ran against Eliphalet.

      “Hello!” he cried. “Who's this?”

      “A young Yankee you landed here this morning, Lige,” said the Colonel. “What do you think of him?”

      “Humph!” exclaimed the Captain.

      “He has no friends in town, and he is looking for employment. Isn't that so, sonny?” asked the Colonels kindly.

      “Yes.”

      “Come, Lige, would you take him?” said Mr. Carvel.

      The young Captain looked into Eliphalet's face. The dart that shot from his eyes was of an aggressive honesty; and Mr. Hopper's, after an attempt at defiance, were dropped.

      “No,” said the Captain.

      “Why not, Lige?”

      “Well, for one thing, he's been listening,” said Captain Lige, as he departed.

      Colonel Carvel began to hum softly to himself:—

      “'One said it was an owl, and the other he said nay,

       One said it was a church with the steeple torn away,

       Look a' there now!'

      “I reckon you're a rank abolitionist,” said he to Eliphalet, abruptly.

      “I don't see any particular harm in keepin' slaves,” Mr. Hopper replied, shifting to the other foot.

      Whereupon the Colonel stretched his legs apart, seized his goatee, pulled his head down, and gazed at him for some time from under his eyebrows, so searchingly that the blood flew to Mr. Hopper's fleshy face. He mopped it with a dark-red handkerchief, stared at everything in the place save the gentleman in front of him, and wondered whether he had ever in his life been so uncomfortable. Then he smiled sheepishly, hated himself, and began to hate the Colonel.

      “Ever hear of the Liberator?”

      “No, sir,” said Mr. Hopper.

      “Where do you come from?” This was downright directness, from which there was no escape.

      “Willesden, Massachusetts.”

      “Umph! And never heard of Mr. Garrison?”

      “I've had to work all my life.”

      “What can you do, sonny?”

      “I cal'late to sweep out a store. I have kept books,” Mr. Hopper vouchsafed.

      “Would you like work here?” asked the Colonel, kindly. The green eyes looked up swiftly, and down again.

      “What'll you give me?”

      The good man was surprised. “Well,” said he, “seven dollars a week.”

      Many a time in after life had the Colonel reason to think over this scene. He was a man the singleness of whose motives could not be questioned. The one and sufficient reason for giving work to a homeless boy, from the hated state of the Liberator, was charity. The Colonel had his moods, like many another worthy man.

      The small specks on the horizon sometimes grow into the hugest of thunder clouds. And an act of charity, out of the wisdom of God, may produce on this earth either good or evil.

      Eliphalet closed with the bargain. Ephum was called and told to lead the recruit to the presence of Mr. Hood, the manager. And he spent the remainder of a hot day checking invoices in the shipping entrance on Second Street.

      It is not our place here to chronicle Eliphalet's faults. Whatever he may have been, he was not lazy. But he was an anomaly to the rest of the young men in the store, for those were days when political sentiments decided fervent loves or hatreds. In two days was Eliphalet's reputation for wisdom made. During that period he opened his mouth to speak but twice. The first was in answer to a pointless question of Mr. Barbo's (aetat 25), to the effect that he, Eliphalet Hopper, was a Pierce Democrat, who looked with complacency on the extension of slavery. This was wholly satisfactory, and saved the owner of these sentiments a broken head. The other time Eliphalet spoke was to ask Mr. Barbo to direct him to a boardinghouse.

      “I reckon,” Mr. Barbo reflected, “that you'll want one of them Congregational boarding-houses. We've got a heap of Yankees in the town, and they all flock together and pray together. I reckon you'd ruther go to Miss Crane's nor anywhere.”

      Forthwith to Miss Crane's Eliphalet went. And that lady, being a Greek herself, knew a Greek when she saw one. The kind-hearted Barbo lingered in the gathering darkness to witness the game which ensued, a game dear to all New Englanders, comical to Barbo. The two contestants calculated. Barbo reckoned, and put his money on his new-found fellow-clerk. Eliphalet, indeed, never showed to better advantage. The shyness he had used with the Colonel, and the taciturnity practised on his fellow-clerks, he slipped off like coat and waistcoat for the battle. The scene was in the front yard of the third house in Dorcas Row. Everybody knows where Dorcas Row was. Miss Crane, tall, with all the severity of side curls and bombazine, stood like a stone lioness at the gate. In the background, by the steps, the boarders sat, an interested group. Eliphalet girded up his loins, and sharpened his nasal twang to cope with hers. The preliminary sparring was an exchange of compliments, and deceived neither party. It seemed rather to heighten mutual respect.

      “You be from Willesden, eh?” said Crane. “I calculate you know the Salters.”

      If the truth were known, this evidence of an apparent omniscience rather staggered Eliphalet. But training stood by him, and he showed no dismay. Yes, he knew the Salters, and had drawed many a load out of Hiram Salters' wood-lot to help pay for his schooling.

      “Let me see,” said Miss Crane, innocently; “who was it one of them Salters girls married, and lived across the way from the meetin'-house?”

      “Spauldin',” was the prompt reply.

      “Wal, I want t' know!” cried the spinster: “not Ezra Spauldin'?”

      Eliphalet nodded. That nod was one of infinite shrewdness which commended itself to Miss Crane. These courtesies, far from making awkward the material discussion which followed; did not affect it in the least.

      “So you want me to board you?” said she, as if in consternation.

      Eliphalet calculated, if they could come to terms. And Mr. СКАЧАТЬ