Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

It would not have been very difficult for any one to see; but it was particularly easy for Martin, whose perceptions were sharpened by his circumstances, to discern; that the stranger's face grew infinitely longer as the domestic-architecture project was developed. Nor, although he made a great effort to be as encouraging as possible, could he prevent his head from shaking once involuntarily, as if it said in the vulgar tongue, upon its own account, “No go!” But he spoke in a cheerful tone, and said, that although there was no such opening as Martin wished, in that city, he would make it matter of immediate consideration and inquiry where one was most likely to exist; and then he made Martin acquainted with his name, which was Bevan; and with his profession, which was physic, though he seldom or never practiced; and with other circumstances connected with himself and family, which fully occupied the time, until they reached the Rowdy Journal Office.

Mr Tapley appeared to be taking his ease on the landing of the first floor; for sounds as of some gentleman established in that region whistling “Rule Britannia” with all his might and main, greeted their ears before they reached the house. On ascending to the spot from whence this music proceeded, they found him recumbent in the midst of a fortification of luggage, apparently performing his national anthem for the gratification of a grey-haired black man, who sat on one of the outworks (a portmanteau), staring intently at Mark, while Mark, with his head reclining on his hand, returned the compliment in a thoughtful manner, and whistled all the time. He seemed to have recently dined, for his knife, a casebottle, and certain broken meats in a handkerchief, lay near at hand. He had employed a portion of his leisure in the decoration of the Rowdy Journal door, whereon his own initials now appeared in letters nearly half a foot long, together with the day of the month in smaller type; the whole surrounded by an ornamental border, and looking very fresh and bold.

“I was a'most afraid you was lost, sir!” cried Mark, rising, and stopping the tune at that point where Britons generally are supposed to declare (when it is whistled) that they never, never, never—

“Nothing gone wrong, I hope, sir?”

“No, Mark. Where's your friend?”

“The mad woman, sir?” said Mr Tapley. “Oh! she's all right, sir.”

“Did she find her husband?”

“Yes, sir. Leastways she's found his remains,” said Mark, correcting himself.

“The man's not dead, I hope?”

“Not altogether dead, sir,” returned Mark; “but he's had more fevers and agues than is quite reconcilable with being alive. When she didn't see him a-waiting for her, I thought she'd have died herself, I did!”

“Was he not here, then?”

“HE wasn't here. There was a feeble old shadow come a-creeping down at last, as much like his substance when she know'd him, as your shadow when it's drawn out to its very finest and longest by the sun, is like you. But it was his remains, there's no doubt about that. She took on with joy, poor thing, as much as if it had been all of him!”

“Had he bought land?” asked Mr Bevan.

“Ah! He'd bought land,” said Mark, shaking his head, “and paid for it too. Every sort of nateral advantage was connected with it, the agents said; and there certainly was ONE, quite unlimited. No end to the water!”

“It's a thing he couldn't have done without, I suppose,” observed Martin, peevishly.

“Certainly not, sir. There it was, any way; always turned on, and no water-rate. Independent of three or four slimy old rivers close by, it varied on the farm from four to six foot deep in the dry season. He couldn't say how deep it was in the rainy time, for he never had anything long enough to sound it with.”

“Is this true?” asked Martin of his companion.

“Extremely probable,” he answered. “Some Mississippi or Missouri lot, I dare say.”

“However,” pursued Mark, “he came from I-don't-know-where-and-all, down to New York here, to meet his wife and children; and they started off again in a steamboat this blessed afternoon, as happy to be along with each other as if they were going to Heaven. I should think they was, pretty straight, if I may judge from the poor man's looks.”

“And may I ask,” said Martin, glancing, but not with any displeasure, from Mark to the negro, “who this gentleman is? Another friend of yours?”

“Why sir,” returned Mark, taking him aside, and speaking confidentially in his ear, “he's a man of colour, sir!”

“Do you take me for a blind man,” asked Martin, somewhat impatiently, “that you think it necessary to tell me that, when his face is the blackest that ever was seen?”

“No, no; when I say a man of colour,” returned Mark, “I mean that he's been one of them as there's picters of in the shops. A man and a brother, you know, sir,” said Mr Tapley, favouring his master with a significant indication of the figure so often represented in tracts and cheap prints.

“A slave!” cried Martin, in a whisper.

“Ah!” said Mark in the same tone. “Nothing else. A slave. Why, when that there man was young—don't look at him while I'm a-telling it—he was shot in the leg; gashed in the arm; scored in his live limbs, like crimped fish; beaten out of shape; had his neck galled with an iron collar, and wore iron rings upon his wrists and ankles. The marks are on him to this day. When I was having my dinner just now, he stripped off his coat, and took away my appetite.”

“Is THIS true?” asked Martin of his friend, who stood beside them.

“I have no reason to doubt it,” he answered, shaking his head “It very often is.”

“Bless you,” said Mark, “I know it is, from hearing his whole story. That master died; so did his second master from having his head cut open with a hatchet by another slave, who, when he'd done it, went and drowned himself; then he got a better one; in years and years he saved up a little money, and bought his freedom, which he got pretty cheap at last, on account of his strength being nearly gone, and he being ill. Then he come here. And now he's a-saving up to treat himself, afore he dies, to one small purchase—it's nothing to speak of. Only his own daughter; that's all!” cried Mr Tapley, becoming excited. “ Liberty for ever! Hurrah! Hail, Columbia!”

“Hush!” cried Martin, clapping his hand upon his mouth; “and don't be an idiot. What is he doing here?”

“Waiting to take our luggage off upon a truck,” said Mark. “He'd have come for it by-and-bye, but I engaged him for a very reasonable charge (out of my own pocket) to sit along with me and make me jolly; and I am jolly; and if I was rich enough to contract with him to wait upon me once a day, to be looked at, I'd never be anything else.”

The fact may cause a solemn impeachment of Mark's veracity, but it must be admitted nevertheless, that there was that in his face and manner at the moment, which militated strongly against this emphatic declaration of his state of mind.

“Lord love you, sir,” he added, “they're so fond of Liberty in this part of the globe, that they buy her and sell her and carry her to market with “em. They've such a passion for Liberty, that they can't help taking liberties with her. That's what it's owing to.”

“Very well,” said Martin, wishing to change the theme. “Having come to that conclusion, Mark, perhaps you'll attend to me. The place to which the luggage is to go is printed on this card. Mrs Pawkins's Boarding House.”

“Mrs Pawkins's boarding-house,” repeated Mark. “Now, Cicero.”

“Is that his name?” asked Martin

“That's his name, sir,” rejoined Mark. And the negro grinning assent from under a leathern portmanteau, than which his own face was many shades deeper, hobbled downstairs with his portion of their worldly goods; Mark Tapley having already gone before with his share.