The Crisis (Historical Novel) - Winston Churchill

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And it was a relief to know that the sale had not begun.

      As for Eliphalet, he was beginning to like young Brice. He approved of any man from Boston who was not too squeamish to take pleasure in a little affair of this kind.

      As for Stephen, Mr. Hopper brought him back to earth. He ceased trembling, and began to think.

      “Tarnation!” said Eliphalet. “There's my boss, Colonel Carvel across the street. Guess I'd better move on. But what d'ye think of him for a real Southern gentleman?”

      “The young dandy is his nephew, Clarence Colfax. He callates to own this town.” Eliphalet was speaking leisurely, as usual, while preparing to move. “That's Virginia Carvel, in red. Any gals down Boston-way to beat her? Guess you won't find many as proud.”

      He departed. And Stephen glanced absently at the group. They were picking their way over the muddy crossing toward him. Was it possible that these people were coming to a slave auction? Surely not. And yet here they were on the pavement at his very side.

      She wore a long Talma of crimson cashmere, and her face was in that most seductive of frames, a scoop bonnet of dark green velvet, For a fleeting second her eyes met his, and then her lashes fell. But he was aware, when he had turned away, that she was looking at him again. He grew uneasy. He wondered whether his appearance betrayed his purpose, or made a question of his sanity.

      Sanity! Yes, probably he was insane from her point of view. A sudden anger shook him that she should be there calmly watching such a scene.

      Just then there was a hush among the crowd. The beautiful slave-girl was seized roughly by the man in charge and thrust forward, half fainting, into view. Stephen winced. But unconsciously he turned, to see the effect upon Virginia Carvel.

      Thank God! There were tears upon her lashes.

      Here was the rasp of the auctioneer's voice:— “Gentlemen, I reckon there ain't never been offered to bidders such an opportunity as this heah. Look at her well, gentlemen. I ask you, ain't she a splendid creature?”

      Colonel Carvel, in annoyance, started to move on. “Come Jinny,” he said, “I had no business to bring you aver.”

      But Virginia caught his arm. “Pa,” she cried, “it's Mr. Benbow's Hester. Don't go, dear. Buy her for me You know that I always wanted her. Please!”

      The Colonel halted, irresolute, and pulled his goatee Young Colfax stepped in between them.

      “I'll buy her for you, Jinny. Mother promised you a present, you know, and you shall have her.”

      Virginia had calmed.

      “Do buy her, one of you,” was all she said

      “You may do the bidding, Clarence,” said the Colonel, “and we'll settle the ownership afterward.” Taking Virginia's arm, he escorted her across the street.

      Stephen was left in a quandary. Here was a home for the girl, and a good one. Why should me spend the money which meant so much to him. He saw the man Jenkin elbowing to the front. And yet—suppose Mr. Colfax did not get her? He had promised to buy her if he could, and to set her free:

      Stephen had made up his mind: He shouldered his way after Jenkins.

      CHAPTER V. THE FIRST SPARK PASSES

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      “Now, gentlemen,” shouted the auctioneer when he had finished his oration upon the girl's attractions, “what 'tin I bid? Eight hundred?”

      Stephen caught his breath. There was a long pause no one cared to start the bidding.

      “Come, gentlemen, come! There's my friend Alf Jenkins. He knows what she's worth to a cent. What'll you give, Alf? Is it eight hundred?”

      Mr. Jenkins winked at the auction joined in the laugh.

      “Three hundred!” he said.

      The auctioneer was mortally offended. Then some one cried:—“Three hundred and fifty!”

      It was young Colfax. He was recognized at once, by name, evidently as a person of importance.

      “Thank you, Mistah Colfax, suh,” said the auctioneer, with a servile wave of the hand in his direction, while the crowd twisted their necks to see him. He stood very straight, very haughty, as if entirely oblivious to his conspicuous position.

      “Three seventy-five!”

      “That's better, Mistah Jenkins,” said the auctioneer, sarcastically. He turned to the girl, who might have stood to a sculptor for a figure of despair. Her hands were folded in front of her, her head bowed down. The auctioneer put his hand under her chin and raised it roughly. “Cheer up, my gal,” he said, “you ain't got nothing to blubber about now.”

      Hester's breast heaved and from her black eyes there shot a magnificent look of defiance. He laughed. That was the white blood.

      The white blood!

      Clarence Colfax had his bid taken from his lips. Above the heads of the people he had a quick vision of a young man with a determined face, whose voice rang clear and strong,— “Four hundred!”

      Even the auctioneer, braced two ways, was thrown off his balance by the sudden appearance of this new force. Stephen grew red over the sensation he made. Apparently the others present had deemed competition with such as Jenkins and young Colfax the grossest folly. He was treated to much liberal staring before the oily salesman arranged his wits to grapple with the third factor.

      Four hundred from—from—from that gentleman. And the chubby index seemed the finger of scorn.

      “Four hundred and fifty!” said Mr. Colfax, defiantly.

      Whereupon Mr. Jenkins, the New Orleans dealer, lighted a very long cigar and sat down on the coping. The auctioneer paid no attention to this manoeuvre. But Mr. Brice and Mr. Colfax, being very young, fondly imagined that they had the field to themselves, to fight to a finish.

      Here wisdom suggested in a mild whisper to Stephen that there was a last chance to pull out. And let Colfax have the girl? Never. That was pride, and most reprehensible. But second he thought of Mr. Canter and of Nancy, and that was not pride.

      “Four seventy-five!” he cried.

      “Thank you, suh.”

      “Now fur it, young uns!” said the wag, and the crowd howled with merriment.

      “Five hundred!” snapped Mr. Colfax.

      He was growing angry. But Stephen was from New England, and poor, and he thought of the size of his purse. A glance at his adversary showed that his blood was up. Money was plainly no consideration to him, and young Colfax did not seem to be the kind who would relish returning to a young lady and acknowledge a defeat.

      Stephen raised the bid by ten dollars. The Southerner shot up fifty. Again Stephen raised it ten. He was in full possession of himself now, and proof against the thinly veiled irony of the oily man's remarks in favor of Mr. Colfax. In an incredibly short time the latter's impetuosity had brought them to eight hundred and ten dollars.

      Then several things happened very quickly.

      Mr. Jenkins got up from the curb and said, “Eight hundred and twenty-five,” with his cigar in his mouth. Scarcely had the hum of excitement died when Stephen, glancing at Colfax for the next move, saw that young gentleman seized from the rear by his uncle, the tall Colonel. And across the street was bliss Virginia Carvel, tapping her foot on the pavement.

      “What are you about, sir?” the Colonel cried. “The wench isn't worth it.”

      “Mr. Colfax shook himself free.

      “I've got to buy her now, sir,” he cried.

      “I reckon not,” said the

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