GEORGE GRAY.
I.
“My deah chile, ’tis too bad.”
“Too bad, mother! I tell you I’s agoin’ to run away. Ole Massa can’t
whip dis chile no moah. I’d rather be shot or hab the dogs tear me to
pieces.”
“Hush, chile, hush! you’ll break your ole mudder’s heart, ’cause it’s
a’most done gone smashed afore, an’ now she knows you can neber, neber,
get across the big river an’ de great lake. I tell yer, chile, you
better stay wid ole mas’r if em do whip.”
“Mother, my mine is made up. Massa Jones hab whipped George Gray for de
las time. I hate to leave you, mother, but then I’s agoin’. Some day de
Massa’ll sell me as he did father an’ de res’ of us down South, an’ then
you shall see George no moah, an’ I’d hab no blessed chance for ’scape,
so now I’s goin’ for freedom or I’s goin’ to die. I say ole massa can’t
whip me no moah.”
“De will ob de Lor’ be done, chile; but how is you agoin’ to do it?”
“I’ll tell you mother, ole Massa’ll neber s’pec’ you. He’ll neber look
for George ’bout dis shanty. So I’s agoin’ down to de river an’ cross
down in de skiff, den I goes to de swamp an’ comes carefully back an’
crawls under your bed. When Massa misses me, you can tell him I’s runned
away, an’ he’ll start the horses an’ the men for de swamp, an’ for two
or three days they’ll hunt for George there jus’ as they did for Uncle
Pete; den Massa’ll put me in de papers as a runaway nigger, an’ then
when all is ober heah I’s comin’ out an’ goin’ at de river an’ cross de
mountins till I gits to Canidy.”
“De bressed Lor’, an’ doan yer s’pec’ ole Massa’ll hunt dis shanty
frough an’ frough, chile?”
“Ole Massa’ll never s’pec’ you, mother; you’s been wid him too long. He
never whipped you, an’ when he comes in de mornin’, for to inquire, you
mus’ be prayin’; prayin’ for me that I may be cotched.”
“Bress de Lor’, he mus’ ’ov put all dis in de head of de chile as he put
his son Moses in de bullrushes down dar in de lan’ of Canin. Chile, your
black ole mudder’ll cover you wid her bed like as the ole black hen
covers her chicks when de hawk comes to steal de little ones from dar
mudder’s lub. Now, chile, jus’ you fix it all up an’ de Lor’ ob dat big
feller, Sabot, yes dat was de man, be wid you, an’ it doan matter bout
dis ole woman no moah.”
The above conversation took place many years ago in a cabin in the negro
quarter of the plantation of Samuel Jones on the James river, in
Virginia. Mr. Jones was a thriving planter and an extensive dealer in
slaves. Though in some respects of the better class of slave-breeders,
he inherited many of the legitimate characteristics of the peculiar
institution. Towards the men slaves he was tyrannical in the extreme,
whilst eyeing the fairer and younger among the women with an eye of
lechery.
The plantation had come to him from his father, and with it the family
of John Gray consisting of himself and wife, known for miles around as
“Prayin’ Hanner,” and several children. The father and older children,
all having a slight tinge of the Caucassian about them, Mr. Jones early
sold to southern dealers, retaining only the mother and her infant
George.
The mother, on account of her acknowledged piety and ability to labor,
was assigned a special cabin and for years had done the family laundry
work and baking and discharged other duties of a similar character.
Resigned to her condition, she labored on year after year, ever singing
and praying and with her loyalty all unquestioned. Not so with her
growing boy, however. The white blood that was in him, though limited,
constantly rebelled against his condition, and as his years advanced,
brought on frequent conflicts between him and his master, which
invariably ended in the boy’s being severely whipped. Though feeling for
him, on such occasions, as only a mother can feel, still Hannah Gray
exhorted him to be obedient and submissive. Whenever the master
threatened to sell him south, then it was that her prayers that one of
her kin might be left to her mightily prevailed. The natural
adaptability of the youth secured for him many privileges, and he had
been with his master several times to the national capital and other
points and had picked up much general intelligence, and his mode of
expression had, to some extent, risen above the plantation vernacular.
The conflict on this particular occasion had arisen between master and
slave because George had asked the privilege of visiting a young
quadroon of the plantation on whom Jones had fastened his lecherous
eyes. As usual the controversy ended in the young man’s being bound to a
post by some of the hands and then inhumanly flogged by his owner. Stung
to madness, when all were settled for the night, he left his quarters
and sought the cabin of his mother, and there, as we have seen, divulged
his determination to seek a land of freedom. True to his purpose, when
he had gained his mother’s consent, he went down to the river and
unloosing a skiff floated down with the current some distance and then
landing, struck boldly across to a neighboring swamp. Entering this, he
passed on a short distance until he came to a small creek which led
directly to the river. He now divested himself of his clothing which he
safely placed upon his shoulders, and following the cove soon reached
the river into which he plunged, and being an expert swimmer, was soon
on the home side again, and making his way quietly to his mother’s
cabin, where he was safely secreted beneath what he had augured an
impregnable citadel, her bed.
[Illustration:
HANNAH PRAYING.
]
Morning came soon, and the hands sallied from their quarters but with
them came no George Gray. The word spread rapidly and soon reached both
the cabin of Prayin’ Hanner and the mansion that he was missing. As soon
as the proprietor could dress himself and make proper inquiries, he
hastened to the shanty of the mother whom he found at her morning
devotions, having begun them just as she saw his approach. Not wishing
to disturb her he stopped before the door and caught these words of
invocation:
“Bressed Lor’, dey say my poah, dear chile am gone. Am he drown? may de
Lor’ raise de body up dat dis ole black form may follow in its sorrow to
de grabe. Hab he killed hisself? may de Lor’ hab mercy on his soul, for
Geog’ was a bad boy; he made mas’r heaps o’ trouble. O Lor’, if he hab
runned away, may mas’r cotch him agin—not de houn’, but mas’r an’ de
men, an’ den when mas’r Jones whip him, may de bressed Lor’ sen’ down
ole Lija, an’ ’vert his soul, dat he no moah disrember mas’r but dat he
do his will for his ole mudder’s sake, an’ for de sake ob his good
mas’r, an’ for de sake ob dat heben whar de Lor’ is. Dis, Lor’, am de
prayer of poah ole Hanner, amen.”
The prayer ceased and the master entered, only to find, as he inferred
from it, that the intelligence of George’s departure had preceded him,
and farther that the boy had been in there the night before and acted
very strangely; that the mother had advised him to go to his quarters
and be a good boy.
Leaving the woman to her work, he went out and gave orders for a search.
Soon it was discovered that the skiff was gone and directly after it was
found half a mile down the river with footsteps leading towards the
swamp. A pack of hounds belonging on a plantation below was sent for and
search begun in earnest, and kept up unceasingly for three days but
without success, and then the hands were called in. In the meantime
there appeared in the Lynchburg _Herald_ the following:
[Illustration]
$500.00 Reward.
“RUN AWAY from the subscriber, George Gray, a negro, nearly pure,
about twenty-one years old, and weighing one-hundred and fifty
pounds. He talks pretty good English. Five hundred dollars will be
given for him alive.” SAMUEL JONES.
Antwerp, Va., June 25, 1841.
During these days the cabin of Prayin’ Hanner was filled with sacred
songs, earnest prayers and sympathizing visitors, not one of whom, white
or black, as he listened to, or participated in the devotions, supposed
for one moment that he who had called them all forth, that “deah chile,”
was quietly drinking them in. When the nights came, and everything was
still, then George emerged for a little time to rest and refresh
himself.
[Illustration:
GEORGE GRAY’S ESCAPE.
]
Thus matters passed until the fourth night came. The sun set amid
gathering clouds. The returned hunters gathered in their quarters, some
of them to tell how earnestly they had sought to find nothin’; others to
depict their true loyalty to Mar’s Jones, and the whites in their homes
around, to swear vengeance on every nigger caught fleeing. As the storm
broke and the darkness became more intense, George came forth. A little
bundle of clothing, with three days’ rations of food, had been carefully
prepared for him. There was an embrace, tender as though the
participants had been free, a “God bless you, Mother,” a “May de Lor’
still be wid yer as he hab bin,” uttered as earnestly as though by
cultured lips, and mother and son parted, never to see each other again.
George Gray went forth fearlessly into the darkness. The country he knew
for miles around, and for weary hours he made his way directly up the
south bank of the James. Long after midnight the moon arose, and seeking
a fitting place, he crossed the river and just as the first gray
streakings of the dawn appeared, quietly secreted himself in a jungle of
bushes upon the mountain which here comes down close to the river. The
rain had obliterated all traces of his course; he was thought to have
gone in an opposite direction four days before. Thus far his plans had
worked admirably, and feeling safe, he partook of his rations and lay
down to a refreshing sleep.
Night found him again in motion, and by the time morning came he had
made considerable progress. Again he rested and refreshed himself, and
quietly surveyed the prospect for the future. He knew he was a long way
from the Ohio; that much of the way was wild and mountainous, and that
wherever there were people the dangers were greatest. His little stock
of provisions would soon be gone, and then the berries and fruits of the
forest would be his almost sole dependence, only occasionally he might
go down to some bondman’s cabin. With these facts before him he faltered
not, but pressed resolutely forward, only to find as he approached the
river, after weary weeks of vigil, that his master’s advertisement had
preceded him, and that base men were watching that they might claim the
reward. This news came to him from colored men whom he occasionally
contrived to see, for the great humanitarian thoroughfare of the days
_ante bellum_ had its ramifications among the mountains of Virginia, as
well as its broader lines on freer soil, though unlike those of the
latter their officers were of somber hue. Taken in charge by one of
these, George was safely put across the river one stormy night, and in
care of a genuine “broad-brim conductor” on a main trunk line, but not
until his presence had been scented by a pack of white bloodhounds all
too anxious for the recompence of reward, and whose unholy avarice was
equalled only by the wary alertness of the disciple of George Fox.
II.
“O for a thousand tongues to sing
My great Redeemer’s praise;
The glories of my God and King,
The triumphs of His grace.”
Thus sang Azel Tracy as he stood running a wheel in his little shop in
Hartford, Ohio. The last words were uttered in a subdued tone. This
done, the air was continued in a fine specimen of genuine Yankee
whistling, intermingled with occasional snatches from “China,” or
“Coronation.”
It was only a sample of Mr. Tracy’s _railroad_ telegraphy, for the low
attic of his shop, filled, in part, with bits of lumber and parts of
defunct wagons, was an important _station_ and it frequently became
necessary to signal the waiting passengers, of whom nearly one-hundred,
according to the family reckoning, found rest and protection within its
narrow limits, a fact one would scarcely believe as he passes it,
looking to-day almost identical with its appearance fifty years ago.
Notwithstanding Hartford is a historic anti-slavery town, there were not
wanting those within its borders, who for “the recompense of reward,”
would willingly have divulged the presence of any fugitives in keeping
had he known their whereabouts. It was to guard against this class of
persons frequenting his shop that the old wagon-maker had adopted a
musical system of signalizing those in his care. When any danger
threatened, and silence was imperative, he would sing a snatch of some
familiar hymn or whistle its air; but when “the coast was clear,” Hail
Columbia or Yankee Doodle was the signal for “unlimbering.”
On this occasion both the words quoted and the whistling of “Old
Hundred” were considered necessary as a double danger signal, for only
three nights before there had climbed the narrow ladder in the corner of
the shop, drawn it up and let down a board, thus completing the floor,
an individual filling to a “dot” the description given in the hand-bill
previously referred to, and which was already liberally scattered
through Eastern Ohio and Western Pennsylvania. No questions had been
asked and only necessary instructions and provisions given. Thirty-six
hours later two strangers had put in an appearance in the quiet town,
and soon avowed themselves as in quest of the subject of the reward
offered.
They had continued to lounge about the village till this Saturday
afternoon, much of the time in uncomfortable proximity to the Tracy
wagon shop, for they claimed the object of their search had been seen
approaching it, and they were even now directly in its front in the
highway, holding a colloquy with Dudley, the junior Tracy, and at
present, 1894, the inheritor of his father’s trade and shop. “Dud,” as
he is familiarly called, was then a strapping boy in his middle teens,
bare-footed, without coat or vest, tow-headed, and to all appearances a
fine subject for an interview.
“See here, boy,” said one of the strangers, “have you seen anything of a
young nigger about here within a day or two?”
“What do you mean, one of them black fellers like that’n the bill tells
about yonder?”
“Yes, he’s the chap we want to find.”
“Wal, no, I hain’t seen no such feller, but I hearn about him two or
three days ago.”
“How?”
“Why I was a layin’ in the bushes up back of the church and the Gen’ral
an’ Sam Fuller cum along and the Gen’ral sez he, ‘Fuller, that boy’s got
to be got off. They’r arter him.’”
“Who’s the General?”
“Wal, that’s Mr. Bushnell. They say he keeps some of them black ’uns
some times.”
“Tell us what they said.”
“Wal, Fuller he said, ‘What’s going to be done?’ and the Gen’ral said,
‘You come up with the team after dark and take him down to the tow-path
that’s down in Pennsylvanee and tell him to keep north till he came to
some colored fokeses and they’d send him to Jehu and then he’d be all
right.’”
“How far is it to the tow-path?”
“O I don’t know; that’s on the canawl where they drive the hosses
hitched to the boats, an’ I never was so fur from hum.”
There was some farther parleying, seemingly entirely satisfactory to the
strangers, then they dropped a “bit” into Dud’s hands, and under the
influence of spurs two horses struck out briskly for the land of the
Pennymights.
“Dud, I say Dud, come here quick,” called the senior Tracy to the boy
who stood gazing after the rapidly receding forms of the horsemen, and
the junior slowly responded to the call.
As soon as Dud was within the door the query was raised, “What did the
gentlemen want?”
“O nothing much, only they asked me if I’d seen the nigger advertised on
the hand-bill yonder?”
“Well, what did you tell them?”
“O not much; I just yawned a little, telling them I heard the Gen’ral
tell Mr. Fuller that he must get the boy down to Clarksville and start
him north for Bishop, who would get him to the lake.”
“Why, Dud, what a—”
“Come now, dad, no accusations. Didn’t I just hear you tuning your
gospel melody as much as to say, ‘Keep still up there,’ and didn’t I
hear you tell mother last night, when you thought we children were
asleep, you didn’t know what to do? But I did, and I’ve done it and now
you needn’t try to keep this thing from me any longer. You’ve thought I
don’t know what’s up, but I guess I’ve seen the last twenty darkies
you’ve holed in the shop and Uncle Sam has taken away, and now that I’ve
got those fellows off, I think you can afford to let me take a hand
after this.”
A look of astonishment, mingled with satisfaction, overspread the
countenance of Azel Tracy at this revelation of the fact that his son
was acquainted with so much of the method of the _road_, a thing of
which he and many another parent, for prudential reasons, tried to keep
their children in ignorance, and taking the hand of the boy he replied,
“You shall have all the hand in it you wish, my son.”
The sun had dropped below the western horizon when the aforesaid
bare-footed boy might have been seen making his way eastward to the home
of farmer Fuller, bearing the following note:
48 to 1001.
Dud has cooked the goose. The feathers are left—they are good for
Fennland, and the parson needs a text for to-morrow. The loft is
good—the cellar better.
LEZA.
As a result of this note, when darkness had settled down upon the earth,
when candles were extinguished alike in farm house and village home, the
old-fashioned buggy of Samuel Fuller stood before the little Hartford
shop, and Dud, the Caucassian, surrendered his seat to an African of
deepest sable, and soon the vehicle was speeding rapidly northward.
III.
Night, sable goddess, had let her curtains down not only upon a day, but
upon a week of toil, for the “Cotter’s Saturday Night” had come to all
alike, and the good people of Gustavus, Ohio, had been several hours in
the Land of Nod; the dome on the old academy and the spires of the
village churches were already casting moonlight shadows eastward, and
good old Parson Fenn was dreaming of “Seventeenthly” in to-morrow’s
sermon, when there came three distinct raps upon his back door. Such
signals were in no wise unusual to him, and he immediately responded to
the call, only to find there a friend from fifteen miles away, and
beside him a dusky figure crouching and trembling as if fearful of the
moonbeams themselves.
“There’s no time to be lost, Parson,” said he from without. “The hounds
are on the track of this game. It has only been by the most
indefatigable energy that he has been kept from their grasp from the
Ohio to near here. Even now they are abreast of us, only lured across
the Pennsylvania line.”
“He can be gotten no farther to-night,” said the Parson musingly, “and
all we can do is to put him in hold and keep him till the day goes by.
You know the rest.”
There was no word of reply, but a figure gliding silently into the
street, a vehicle, with muffled wheels, was headed southward and driven
rapidly away. The parson having partially dressed himself, took a jug of
water from the well, a loaf of bread and a large slice of meat from the
pantry and beckoning the silent figure to follow him, proceeded to a
building on the northwest corner of the square, on the front of which
appeared the name, “George Hezlip.” Passing to the rear, he pushed aside
a door. Both having entered, the door was closed, a light struck and the
strange figure was soon reposing in one of several hogsheads carelessly
stowed away there, whilst good Benjamin Fenn returned to his bed only to
ponder on that mysterious providence which had predestined him to this
materialistic work of salvation.
The Sabbath came, and with it, at the appointed hour, the people to the
village church. The pastor preached with great power from the words,
“Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof.”
That sermon was long a matter of comment among the people, a balm to
some, a firebrand to others, according to the political faith they
entertained, but orthodox to us all after the lapse of many years.
The services ended and dinner over, the Parson sat down to his
study-table and penned the following:—
5—9—081—1001—S——s——g.
XXX. In Rome when the white rabbit hangs high the Prætor leads the
Vestal band by linden fields, that he may hear the tuning of the
great profaner’s voice ere the game goes to Quintus Anno Mundi.
49—1001—U.g.r.r.
The note thus written, was sealed and given to a trusty lad who soon
placed it in the hands of an athletic, theological nimrod living in the
village, whose love of humanity and admiration for universal redemption
were only equalled by that of his affection for his dog, his gun and
fishing tackle. When he had read the note, he bade the messenger tell
the Parson “When the stars are out,” and proceeded at once to change his
Sunday garb for a hunting suit.
The bell had already rung for the evening service, and the villagers and
the country folk were thronging to the church when two horsemen, on
jaded steeds, came down from the north and reigned up at the tavern
across from Hezlip’s store and requested refreshments for themselves and
horses. The animals were taken in charge by the hostler whilst the
riders proceeded to the bar-room and washed and cleaned themselves from
the effects of their dusty ride.
Waiting supper, they had a private interview with the landlord in which
they stated that they were in pursuit of a young negro who had crossed
the Ohio river a few days before and been secreted by an old Quaker.
They had traced him as far north as Hartford. There they had been
decoyed into Pennsylvania whilst they believed that the fugitive had
been run into a line farther west. After going as far north as Espyville
they had come across to see if they could not regain the trail.
They were informed, in return, that there were persons in the
neighborhood in the employ of the Underground Railroad, of whom the old
Parson was the chief, and that it was thought from the energy with which
he had preached that morning that there must be a passenger somewhere
about. At the least, Boniface assured the officials, for such they had
avowed themselves, that after supper he would show them one of the
company’s waiting rooms which he had accidentally discovered.
Twilight had deepened into evening; the “Gustavus House” bell was
ringing refreshments for two, and Parson Fenn was praying fervently,
“Lord, send sure deliverance to him that fleeth from oppression, and
bring to naught the efforts of them that pursue for blood money,” just
as a square-rigged form, with elastic step, and showing great power of
endurance stepped into the rear of the Hezlip building. Shoving open the
door the man uttered a low whistle which was immediately responded to,
and a dusky form emerged from one of the hogsheads and followed the
leader without a word. Passing through the fields a short distance, they
crossed the public highway beyond the churchyard and took to the woods
on the right. With rapid strides they passed across fields and through
forests for several miles until, leaving the little hamlet of
Lindenville to the right, they descended to the Pymatuning flats where
the guide deposited his ward in one of those little “hay barns,” so
common on the Reserve forty years ago. Returning by the home of the
owner, whom he signaled at his bed-room window, he left the laconic
instruction, “Feed the yearling steer,” and pressed rapidly on to regain
his home, which he did shortly after midnight.
Supper ended at the tavern, the host took a lantern and led his guests
across the street to the basement of the store, where the jug, emptied
of its contents, and fragments of the bread and meat were readily found,
and an accidental application of the hand to the inner surface of the
extemporized bed-room showed it still warm from the contact of human
flesh.
The language which escaped the foiled pursuers when they found how near
they had probably been to the object of their pursuit, was far more
forcible than classic. They would have instituted a pursuit at once but
Boniface told them such a thing would be useless there, for the old
Parson, who was expounding Calvinism across the way, and a young
Universalist in the village, who were perfectly at loggerheads on
matters of theology, were so in unison on the matter of running off
fugitives that they would make it hotter than —— for any one who should
assist them, as the most of the community were on the side of the
“road.” He advised that they go to Ashtabula, where the runaway would
probably take boat for Canada, as their best plan.
This advise they accepted, and after a night’s rest and some
observations made about the village in the morning, they departed
northward, and in due time drew up at the “American” in Jefferson where
their presence soon attracted the attention of a “road official.”
Having breakfast, our liberal theologian sauntered through the village,
taking in the dimensions of the strangers and noting their departure
northward, then, waiting until the sun had passed the meridian, he took
his gun upon his shoulder and struck eastward as though meaning to make
the Kinsman forests. Reaching a convenient point, he changed his course,
and an hour before sunset threw down a half dozen squirrels upon the
doorstep of the man whose slumbers he had disturbed the previous night.
There was a little good-natured parleying as to who should dress the
game, then busy hands were at work, and as the sun sank behind the
western woodlands the family and hunter-guest sat down to a feast that
would have tempted the appetite of a king.
Supper over, the guest challenged the host to take him to an appointment
he had a few miles north, which was acceded to, and whilst the latter
was getting ready the former went on the way a little to look after a
_trap_ he had set sometime before. An hour later and a vehicle with two
men in the seat and a straw-covered bundle beneath was driven rapidly
towards Jefferson. Arrived within a mile of the town, a halt was called
under cover of a little clump of trees, one of the men alighted and
stirred up the straw from which emerged a human figure. These two took a
field path to the village, whilst the driver turned a little out of the
public highway to await returns.
Twenty minutes later there was a rap at the side door of bluff Ben
Wade’s home.
“Who the d—l is there?” said a gruff voice from an upper window.
“‘Thribble X’ from ‘A Thousand and One,’” was the quick response.
“What the h—l do you want at this time of night.”
“I have a white rabbit.”
“Take the black k—ss to Atkins; he’ll stuff his hide.”
A half hour more and the “white rabbit” was stowed in the capacious
garret of “Anno Mundi” and “Thribble X” was being driven at a gay pace
toward the confines of Old Trumbull.
IV.
A company of persons awaiting a western bound train stood chatting with
the veteran Seely upon the platform at Girard, Pa. Among them, evidently
well up in the sixties, was a man of unusually muscular frame. His
countenance was open and pleasant, but mostly enveloped in a heavy beard
of almost snowy whiteness. Judging from the appearance of his eyes, he
was endowed with a more than average gift of language. Indeed he was the
central figure in the company. The “Toledo” rolled up and as the group
passed into the coach a colored man seated a little back took a close
survey of this individual. As they seated themselves in his rear, the
negro arose, passed to the front of the car and turning round placed his
eyes squarely upon the face of the old gentleman. Thus he stood until
Springfield was passed, until Conneaut was nearly reached. Feeling
annoyed himself, and noticing that the gaze was attracting the attention
of his fellow passengers, the gentleman arose and going forward said:
“Stranger, let us have this out. I can tolerate this impertinence no
longer.”
“No ’pertinence, massa, no’ ’pertinence at all,” responded the negro, “I
knowed yer the minit yer comed aboard.”
“You know me? I never saw you before that I remember.”
“Bery like, bery like, massa, you’s named Shipman, and doan yer remember
the ‘white rabbit’ yer crawled on the hands and knees wid through the
tater patch arter you’d got him out of the cellar whar the old Parson
had stowed him. Dis chile hab never forgot that face though it had no
whiskers then. The Lor’ bress yer, massa, doan yer ’member so long ago?”
and the overjoyed man held out his hand which was grasped in a hearty
shake by that of his whiter brother.
Seating themselves together, the colored man told the story of his early
servitude, and how, armed with no weapon but a butcher knife for
defense, he had made that long flight across the mountains without one
sense of fear until he had crossed into Ohio and learned that men were
there watching for him to claim the reward offered for his return.
“But how,” queried the venerable Shipman, “did you get along after I
left you?”
“Lor’ bress you, massa, de next mornin’ that ole swearer, Massa Wade, he
comed over to dat Massa Atkins an’ he say, ‘Doan sen’ dat black k—ss to
de harb’r, kase h—ll’s a watchin’ for him.’ So dey sen me on anuder road
to Erie an’ put me on the ‘Thomas Jefferson,’ the name of that great
author of _liberty_ from ole Virginy, and soon I was safe in Canidy.”
“And what then?” said Uncle Charley.
“An’ den, Massa Shipman, George Gray went to work to earn money to buy
his old mother, but when he had enough he learned she was dead, so he
bought him a little home, and then the great wah comed and set all his
people free, an’ so now he’s jus’ agoin’ down inter that country to see
if Massa Jones hab eber heard from dat ‘deah chile’ who was ‘drown,’ or
‘killed hisself’ or ‘runned away.’ But here am my stoppin’ place, an’
may the good Lor’ bress and save Massa Shipman forever, am the prayer ob
de White Rabbit.”
There was another hearty hand-shaking, amid the cheerings of the little
throng who had been attentive listeners to the conversation, mutual
pledges to meet on the “other shore,” and the old ex-conductor from
“station 1001, U. g. r. r.,” and his sable passenger parted company
under far pleasanter circumstances than they did in the long ago on the
doorstep of Anno Mundi in the village home of Giddings and Wade.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
End of Project Gutenberg's From Dixie to Canada, by Homer Uri Johnson