Manuel Pereira; Or, The Sovereign Rule of South Carolina. F. Colburn Adams

their text-books. If the intermixture is as complex as what you say, I should think some of the judges would be afraid of passing verdict upon their own kin.”

      “Not a whit!” said the pilot; “they know enough for that.”

      “Then you admit there's a chance. It must be an amusing affair, 'pon my soul! when a nice little female has to draw aside her vail before a court of very dignified judges, for the purpose of having her pedigree examined,” said the Captain.

      “Oh! the devil, Cap; your getting all astray—a woman nigger never has the advantage of the law. They always go with the niggers, ah! ha! ha!!”

      “But suppose they're related to some of your big-bugs. What then? Are your authorities so wise and generous that they make allowance for these things,” asked the Captain, innocently.

      “Oh! poh! there you're again: you must live in Charleston a year or two, but you'll have to be careful at first that you don't fall in love with some of our bright gals, and think they're white, before you know it. It doesn't matter seven coppers who they're got by, there's no distinction among niggers in Charleston. I'll put you through some of the bright houses when we get up, and show you some scions of our aristocracy, that are the very worst cases. It's a fact, Cap, these little shoots of the aristocracy invariably make bad niggers. If a fellow wants a real prime, likely nigger wench, he must get the pure African blood. As they say themselves, 'Wherever Buckra-man bin, make bad nigger.'”

      “Well, Pilot, I think we've had enough about mixed niggers for the present. Tell me! do you really think they'll give me trouble with my steward? He certainly is not a black man, and a better fellow never lived,” inquired the Captain earnestly.

      “Nothing else, Cap,” said the pilot. “It's a hard law, I tell you, and if our merchants and business men had a say in it, 'twouldn't last long; ye can't pass him off for a white man nohow, for the thing's 'contrary to law,' and pays so well that them contemptible land-sharks of officers make all the fuss about it, and never let one pass. Just take the infernal fees off, and nobody'd trouble themselves about the stewards. It all goes into old Grimshaw's pocket, and he'd skin a bolt-rope for the grease, and sell the steward if he could get a chance. He has sold a much nearer relation. I'm down upon the law, you'll see, Cap, for I know it plays the dickens with our business, and is a curse to the commerce of the port. Folks what a'n't acquainted with shipping troubles, and a shipowner's interests, think such things are very small affairs. But it's the name that affects us, and when an owner stands at every item in the disbursements, and a heavy bill for keeping his steward, and another for filling his place, or boarding-house accommodations, and then be deprived of his services, he makes a wry face, and either begins to think about another port, or making the rate of freight in proportion to the annoyance. It has an effect that we feel, but don't say much about. I'm a secessionist, but I don't believe in running mad after politics, and letting our commercial interests suffer.”

      “But what if I prove my steward a'n't a colored man?” said the Captain; “they surely won't give me any trouble then. It would pain my feelings very much to see Manuel locked up in a cell for no crime; and then to be deprived of his services, is more than I can stand. If I'd known it before, I'd suffered the torments of thirst, and put for a port farther north.”

      “It'll cost more than it's worth,” said the pilot. “Take my plain advice, Cap; never try that; our lawyers are lusty fellows upon fees; and the feller'd rot in that old nuisance of a jail afore you'd get him out. The process is so slow and entangled, nobody'd know how to bring the case, and ev'ry lawyer'd have an opinion of his own. But the worst of all is that it's so unpopular, you can't get a lawyer worth seven cents to undertake it. It would be as dangerous as an attempt to extricate a martyr from the burning flames. Public opinion in Charleston is controlled by politicians; and an attempt to move in a thing so unpopular would be like a man attempting to speak, with pistols and swords pointed to his head.”

      “Then it's folly to ask justice in your city, is it?” asked the Captain. “But your people are generous, a'n't they? and treat strangers with a courtesy that marks the character of every high-minded society?”

      “Yes!—but society in South Carolina has nothing to do with the law; our laws are gloriously ancient. I wish, Cap, I could only open your ideas to the way our folks manage their own affairs. I'm opposed to this law that imprisons stewards, because it affects commerce, but then our other laws are tip-top. It was the law that our legislature made to stop free niggers from coming from the abolition States to destroy the affections of our slaves. Some say, the construction given to it and applied to stewards of foreign vessels a'n't legal, and wasn't intended; but now it's controlled by popular will—the stewards a'n't legislators, and the judges know it wouldn't be popular, and there's nobody dare meddle with it, for fear he may be called an abolitionist. You better take my advice, Cap: ship the nigger, and save yourself and Consul Mathew the trouble of another fuss,” continued the pilot.

      “That I'll never do! I've made up my mind to try it, and won't be driven out of a port because the people stand in fear of a harmless man. If they have any souls in them, they'll regard with favor a poor sailor driven into their port in distress. I've sailed nearly all over the world, and I never got among a people yet that wouldn't treat a shipwrecked sailor with humanity. Gracious God! I've known savages to be kind to poor shipwrecked sailors, and to share their food with them. I can't, pilot, imagine a civilization so degraded, nor a public so lost to common humanity, as to ill treat a man in distress. We've said enough about it for the present. I'll appeal to Mr. Grimshaw's feelings, when I get to the city; and I know, if he's a man, he'll let Manuel stay on board, if I pledge my honor that he won't leave the craft.”

      “Humph!—If you knew him as well as I do, you'd save your own feelings. His sympathies don't run that way,” said the pilot.

      The Janson had now crossed the bar, and was fast approaching Fort Sumpter. Manuel had overheard enough of the conversation to awaken fears for his own safety. Arising from the mattrass, in a manner indicating his feeble condition, he called Tommy, and walking forward, leaned over the rail near the fore-rigging, and inquired what the Captain and the pilot were talking about. Observing his fears, the little fellow endeavoured to quiet him by telling him they were talking about bad sailors.

      “I think it is me they are talking about. If they sell me for slave in Charleston, I'll kill myself before a week,” said he in his broken English.

      “What's that you say, Manuel?” inquired the first mate as he came along, clearing up the decks with the men.

      “Pilot tell Captain they sell me for slave in South Carolina. I'd jump overboard 'fore I suffer him,” said he.

      “Oh, poh! don't be a fool; you a'n't among Patagonians, Manuel; you won't have to give 'em leg for your life. They don't sell foreigners and outlandish men like you for slaves in Carolina—it's only black folks what can't clothe the'r words in plain English. Yer copper-colored hide wouldn't be worth a sixpence to a nigger-trader—not even to old Norman Gadsden, that I've heard 'em tell so much about in the Liverpool docks. He's a regular Jonathan Wild in nigger-dealing; his name's like a fiery dragon among the niggers all over the South; and I hearn our skipper say once when I sailed in a liner, that niggers in Charleston were so 'fraid of him they'd run, like young scorpions away from an old he-devil, when they saw him coming. He sells white niggers, as they call 'em, and black niggers—any thing that comes in his way, in the shape of saleable folks. But he won't acknowledge the corn when he goes away from home, and swears there's two Norman Gadsdens in Charleston; that he a'n't the one! When a man's ashamed of his name abroad, his trade must be very bad at home, or I'm no sailor,” said the mate.

      “Ah, my boys!” said the pilot in a quizzical manner, as he came to where several of the men were getting the larboard anchor ready to let go—“if old Norman Gadsden gets hold of you, you're a gone sucker. A man what's got a bad nigger has only got to say Old Gadsden to him, and it's equal to fifty paddles. The mode of punishment most modern, and adopted in all the workhouses and places of punishment in South Carolina, is with the paddle, a wooden instrument in, the shape of a baker's peel; with a blade from three to five inches wide, and from eight to ten long. This is laid on the posteriors—generally