Bricks Without Straw | Page 9

Jes' ax yer Mahs'r fer a silver dollar ter
pay yer fer hevin' ter tote dat er name 'roun' ez long ez yer lives."
She held the child toward its godfather and owner as she spoke, amid a
roar of laughter from her fellow-servants. Desmit good-naturedly threw
a dollar into the child's lap, for which Lorency courtesied, and then held
out her hand.
"What do you want now, gal?" asked Desmit.

"Yer a'n't a gwine ter take sech a present ez dis from a pore cullud gal
an' not so much ez giv' her someting ter remember hit by, is yer?" she
asked with arch persistency.
"There, there," said he laughing, as he gave her another dollar. "Go on,
or I shan't have a cent left."
"All right, Marse Kunnel. Thank ye, Mahs'r," she said, as she walked
off in triumph.
"Oh, hold on," said Desmit; "how old is it, Lorency?"
"Jes' sebben weeks ole dis bressed day, Mahs'r," said the proud mother
as she vanished into the kitchen to boast of her good-fortune in getting
two silver dollars out of Marse Desmit instead of the one customarily
given by him on such occasions. And so the record was made up in the
brass-clasped book of Colonel Potestatem Desmit, the only baptismal
register of the colored man who twenty-six years afterward was
wondering at the names which were seeking him against his will.
697--Nimbus--of Lorency--Male--April 24th,
1840--Sound--Knapp-of-Reeds.
It was a queer baptismal entry, but a slave needed no more--indeed did
not need that. It was not given for his sake, but only for the
convenience of his godfather should the chattel ever seek to run away,
or should it become desirable to exchange him for some other form of
value. There was nothing harsh or brutal or degraded about it. Mr.
Desmit was doing, in a business way, what the law not only allowed
but encouraged him to do, and doing it because it paid.
CHAPTER III.
THE JUNONIAN RITE.
"Marse Desmit?"
"Well?"

"Ef yer please, Mahs'r, I wants ter marry?"
"The devil you do!"
"Yes, sah, if you please, sah."
"What's your name?"
"Nimbus."
"So: you're the curer at Knapp-of-Reeds, I believe?"
"Yes, sah." "That last crop was well done. Mr. Ware says you're one of
the best hands he has ever known."
"Thank ye, Mahs'r," with a bow and scrape.
"What's the gal's name?"
"Lugena, sah."
"Yes, Vicey's gal--smart gal, too. Well, as I've about concluded to keep
you both--if you behave yourselves, that is, as well as you've been
doing--I don't know as there's any reason why you shouldn't take up
with her."
"Thank ye, Mahs'r," very humbly, but very joyfully.
The speakers were the black baby whom Desmit had christened
Nimbus, grown straight and strong, and just turning his first score on
the scale of life, and Colonel Desmit, grown a little older, a little grayer,
a little fuller, and a great deal richer--if only the small cloud of war just
rising on the horizon would blow over and leave his possessions intact.
He believed it would, but he was a wise man and a cautious one, and he
did not mean to be caught napping if it did not.
Nimbus had come from Knapp-of-Reeds to a plantation twenty miles
away, upon a pass from Mr. Ware, on the errand his conversation
disclosed. He was a fine figure of a man despite his ebon hue, and the

master, looking at him, very naturally noted his straight, strong back,
square shoulders, full, round neck, and shapely, well-balanced head.
His face was rather heavy--grave, it would have been called if he had
been white--and his whole figure and appearance showed an earnest
and thoughtful temperament. He was as far from that volatile type
which, through the mimicry of burnt-cork minstrels and the
exaggerations of caricaturists, as well as the works of less disinterested
portrayers of the race, have come to represent the negro to the
unfamiliar mind, as the typical Englishman is from the Punch-and-Judy
figures which amuse him. The slave Nimbus in a white skin would
have been considered a man of great physical power and endurance,
earnest purpose, and quiet, self-reliant character. Such, in truth, he was.
Except the whipping he had received when but a lad, by his master's
orders, no blow had ever been struck him. Indeed, blows were rarely
stricken on the plantations of Colonel Desmit; for while he required
work, obedience, and discipline, he also fed well and clothed warmly,
and allowed no overseer to use the lash for his own gratification, or
except for good cause. It was well known that nothing would more
surely secure dismissal from his service than the free use of the whip.
Not that he thought there was anything wrong or inhuman about the
whipping-post, but it was entirely