The Rising Son; or, the Antecedents and Advancement of the Colored RaceBrown, William Wells
History
The Rising Son; or, the Antecedents and Advancement of the Colored Race
Brown, William Wells
African Americans -- Biography; African Americans -- History; Black race; Slavery -- United States
“One of the men went into the house, related what I had said, and the
company came out. The leader, whom they all addressed as ‘Cap,’ began
to question me with regard to my skill in such complaints. He soon
became satisfied, untied me, and we entered the sick man’s chamber. My
hands were so numb from the tightness of the cord which bound my arms,
that I walked up and down the room for some minutes, rubbing my hands,
and contemplating the situation. The man lay upon a bed of straw, his
arms and legs bound to the bedstead to keep him from injuring himself
and others. He had, in his agony, bitten his tongue and lips, and his
mouth was covered with bloody froth, while the glare of his eyes was
fearful. His wife, the only woman in the house, sat near the bed with
an infant upon her lap, her countenance pale and anxious, while the
company of men seemed to be the most desperate set I had ever seen.
“I determined from the first to try to impress them with the idea
that I had derived my power to relieve pain from some supernatural
source. While I was thus thinking the matter over, ‘Cap’ was limping
up and down the room, breathing an oath at nearly every step, and
finally said to me,--‘Come, come, old boy, take hold lively; I want
to get home, for this d--d old hip of mine is raising h--l with me.’
I said to them,--‘Now, gentlemen, I’ll give this man complete relief
in less than ten minutes from the time I lay my hands on him; but I
must be permitted to retire to a room alone, for I confess that I have
dealings with the devil, and I must consult with him.’ Nothing so
charms an ignorant people as something that has about it the appearance
of superstition, and I did not want these men to see the syringe, or
to know of its existence. The woman at once lighted a tallow candle,
handed it to ‘Cap,’ and pointed to a small room. The man led the way,
set the light down, and left me alone. I now took out my case, adjusted
the needle to the syringe, filled it with a solution of the acetate of
morphia, put the little instrument into my vest pocket, and returned to
the room.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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