Part 19 (1/2)
Sam arrived at half-past nine, and the Colonel strolled down Broadway with him to the little park at Bowling Green. He found a seat and bade Sam sit down beside him.
The boy watched the expression on his old master's face with dread. He had a pretty clear idea what this interview was to be about and he had made up his mind on the answer. His uncle, who had been freed five years before, had written him a glowing letter about Liberia.
He dreaded the subject.
”You know, of course, Sam,” the Colonel began, ”that your life is now in your own hands and that I can only advise you as a friend.”
”An' I sho's glad ter have ye he'p me, Ma.r.s.e Robert.”
”I'm going to give you the best advice I can. I'm going to advise you to do exactly what I would do if I were in your place.”
”Ya.s.sah.”
”If I were you, Sam, I wouldn't stay in this country. I'd go back to the land of my black fathers, to its tropic suns and rich soil. You can never be a full-grown man here. The North won't have you as such. The hotel wouldn't let you sleep under its roof, in spite of my protest that you were my body-servant. In the South the old shadow of your birth will be with you. If you wish to lift up your head and be a man it can't be here. No matter what comes in the future. If every black man, woman and child were set free to-morrow, there are not enough negroes to live alone. The white man will never make you his equal in the world he is building. I've secured your pa.s.sage to Liberia and I will pay for it without touching the money which I gave you. What do you think of it?”
Sam scratched his head and looked away embarra.s.sed. He spoke timidly at first, but with growing a.s.surance.
”I'se powerful 'fraid dat Liberia's a long way frum home, Ma.r.s.e Robert.”
”It is. But if you wish to be a full-grown man, it's your chance to-day.
It will be the one chance of your people in the future as well. Can you make up your mind to face the loneliness and build your home under your own vine and fig tree? There you can look every man in the face, conscious that you're as good as he is and that the world is yours.”
”I'se feared I ain't got de s.p.u.n.k, Ma.r.s.e Robert.”
”The gold in your pocket will build you a house on public lands. You know how to farm. Africa has a great future. You've seen our life. We've taught you to work, to laugh, to play, to wors.h.i.+p G.o.d, to love your home and your people. You're only twenty years old. I envy you the wealth of youth. I've reached the hilltop of life. Your way is still upward for a quarter of a century. It's the morning of life, boy, and a new world calls you. Will you hear it and go?”
”I'se skeered, Ma.r.s.e Robert,” Sam persisted, shaking his head gravely.
Lee saw the hopelessness of his task and changed his point of appeal.
”What do you think of doing?”
”Who, me?”
”Who else? I can't think for you any longer.”
”Oh, I'll be all right, sah. I foun' er lot er good colored friends in de bordin' house las' night. Wid dat five hundred dollars, I be livin'
in clover here, sah, sho. I done talk wid a feller 'bout goin' in business.”
”What line of business?”
”He gwine ter sho me ter-day, sah.”
”You don't think you might change your mind about Liberia?”
”Na sah. I don't like my uncle dat's ober dar, nohow.”
”Then I can't help you any more, Sam?”
”Na sah, Ma.r.s.e Robert. Y'u been de bes' master any n.i.g.g.e.r eber had in dis worl' an' I ain't nebber gwine ter fergit dat. When I feels dem five hundred dollars in my pocket I des swells up lak I gwine ter bust. I'se dat proud o' myse'f an' my ole marster dat gimme a start. Lordee, sah, hit's des gwine ter be fun fer me ter git long an' I mak' my fortune right here. Ye see ef I don't--”
Lee smiled indulgently.