Ford's groans and cries were painful to hear, but his brother acted like a
madman; rushing hither and thither, with a heavy bludgeon in his hand,
with which he indiscriminately beat the fences and whatever came in his
way, crying "Oh my brother, my poor brother! Who has murdered my poor
brother?"
Physicians came to the aid of the wounded man who at first thought he
might recover, but in a climate like that of Virginia it was impossible.
His friends did all they could to save him, but the poor wretch lingered
a few days and died. Thus ended the life of a bad man and a hard master.
And who will wonder, if his slaves rejoiced to hear of his death? If they
must be sold to pay his debts, they could not fall into the hands of a
more heartless tyrant. Who then can blame those feeble women and helpless
children, long held as chattels in his iron grasp, if they are grateful
that the man-stealer is no more?
This Ford was a fair specimen of that class, known in more modern parlance
as a "Border Ruffian." Such as are at this time endeavoring, by their
swaggering and bullying, to cast on the fair fields of Kansas the deep
curse of Slavery--a curse which, like the poison of the deadly Upas,
blights all within its influence: the colored and the white man, the slave
and the master.
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