“Not as strange as the man who buys a dress like this one for a runaway slave girl,” says she, and blast me if the tears didn't start again.
Well, there you are; understand 'em if you can. So to cheer her up, and put an end to her foolish talk I came round and took her, across the table this time, with the crockery rattling all over the place, the wine splashing on the floor, and my left knee in a bowl of fruit. It was a fine frenzied business, and pleased me tremendously. When it was over I looked down at her, with the knives and forks scattered round her sleek head, and told her she should run away more often.
She reached over an apple and began to eat it, her eyes smouldering as she looked up at me.
“I shall never have to run again,” she said. “Never, never, never.”
That was all she knew. Our blissful little idyll was coming to an end, for next morning I made a discovery that turned everything topsy-turvy, and drove all thoughts of philosophy out of her head. I had determined to breakfast in the saloon, and leaving her in bed I took a turn round the deck to sharpen my appetite. It seemed to me that we ought to be making Louisville sometime that day, and seeing a bluff old chap leaning at the rail I inquired of him when we might expect to arrive.
He looked at me in amazement, removed his cigar, and says:
“Gawd bless mah soul, suh! Did you say Louisville?”
“Certainly,” says I. “When will we get there?”
“On this boat, suh? Never, 'pon my word.”
“What?” I gazed at the man, thunderstruck.
“This boat, suh, is for St Louis—not Louisville. This is the Mississippi river, suh, not the Ohio. For Louisville you should have caught the J. M. White at Memphis.” He regarded me with some amusement. “Do I take it you have boa'ded the wrong steamer, suh?”
“My God,” says I. “But they told me—” And then I remembered my shouted conversation in the rain with that drivelling buffoon at the steamboat office; the useless old bastard had caught the word “Louis” only, and given me the wrong boat. Which meant that I was some hundreds of miles from where I wanted to be-and Cassy was as far from the free states as ever.
If I was dismayed, you should have seen her; she went blazing wild and hurled a pot of powder at my head, which fortunately missed.
“You fool! You blockhead! Hadn't you the sense to look at the tickets?” So much for all my kindness that she'd been so full of.
“It wasn't my fault,” says I, trying to explain, but she cut me off.
“Do you realise the danger we are in? These are slave states! And we should have been close to Ohio by now! Your idiocy will cost me my freedom!”
“Stuff and nonsense! We can catch a boat from St Louis back to Louisville and be there in two days; where's the danger?”
“For a runaway like me? Turning south again, towards the people who may be coming up river to look for me. Oh, dear Lord, why did I trust an ape like you?”
“Ape, you insolent black slut? Blast you, if you had taken thought yourself, instead of whoring about this last two days like a bitch in heat, you'd have seen we were on the wrong road. D'you expect me to know one river from another in this lousy country?”
Our discussion continued on these lines for a spell, and then we quieted down. There was nothing to be done except wait through an extra two days in the slave states, and while Cassy was fearful of the prolonged risk, she said she supposed we could make Louisville, and then Cincinnati and Pittsburgh, safe enough. However, the shock didn't make our voyage any happier, and we were barely on speaking terms by the time we reached St Louis, where some more bad news awaited us. Although the river was thick with steamboats, traffic was so heavy that there wasn't a state-room, or even a maindeck passage, to be had for two days, which meant that we must kick our heels in a hotel, waiting for the Bostona, which would carry us up the Ohio.
We kept under cover for those forty-eight hours, except for one trip that I made down to the steamship office, and to buy one of the new Army Colt revolvers, just in case. At the same time I was able to take a look at the town, which interested me, because in those days St Louis was a great swarming place that never went to bed, and was full of every species of humanity from the ends of America and beyond. There were all the Mississippi characters, steamboat people, niggers, planters, and so on, and in addition the place was choc-a-bloc with military from the Mexican war, with Easterners and Europeans on their way to the Western gold fields, with hunters and traders from the plains, men in red shirts and buckskins, bearded to the eyes and brown as nuts, salesmen and drummers, clergymen and adventurers, ladies in all the splendours of the Eastern salons shuddering delicately away from the sight of some raucous mountain savage crouched vomiting in the muddy roadway with his bare backside, tanned black as mahogany, showing through his cutaway leather leggings. There were skinners with their long whips, sharps in tall hats with paste pins in their shirts, tall hard men chewing tobacco with their long coats thrown back to show the new five- and six-shooters stuck in thefr belts; there was even a fellow in a kilt lounging outside a billiard saloon with a bunch of yarning loafers as they eyed the white and yellow whores, gay as peacocks, tripping by along the boardwalk. From the levee, crammed with bales and boxes and machinery, to the narrow, mud-churned streets uptown, it was all bustle and noise and hurry, and stuck in the middle was the church St Louis was all so proud of, with its Grecian pillars and pointed fresco—just like a London club with a spire stuck on top.
And I was sauntering back to the hotel, smoking a cigar, and congratulating myself that we would be on our way tomorrow, when I chanced to stop outside an office on one of the streets, just to cast an idle eye over the official bills and notices posted there. You know the way of it; you are just gaping for gaping's sake, and then suddenly you see something that shrivels the hairs right down to your backside. There it was, a new bill, staring me full in the face:
ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD!!
I will pay the above sum to any person or persons who
will capture, DEAD or ALIVE, the Murderer and Slave
stealer calling himself TOM ARNOLD, who is wanted for
the brutal killings of George Hiscoe and Thomas Little,
in Marshall County, Mississippi, and stealing away the
female slave, CASSIOPEIA, the property of Jacob Forster, of
Blue Mountain Spring Plantation, Tippah County, Mississippi.
The fugitive is six feet in height, long-legged and well
built, customarily wears a Black Moustache and Whiskers,
and has Genteel Manners. He pretends to be a Texian, but
speaks with a Foreign Accent. Satisfactory proofs of
identity will be required.
ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD!!
Offered in the name and authority of Joseph W. Matthews,
Governor of Mississippi.
I didn't faint away dead on the spot, but I had to hold on to a rail while the full import of it sank in. They had found the bodies, and assumed I had murdered them, and the traps were in full cry. But here-hundreds of miles away? And then I remembered the telegraph. They'd be looking in every town from St Louis to Memphis by now—you'd have thought, with killings happening every day in their savage country, that they wouldn't make such a row over another two: but of course it was the slave-stealing that had really stirred them up. Here was added reason for getting to the free states quickly; in Ohio they wouldn't give a damn how many nigger-beaters' throats I'd cut, especially in such a good cause-I'd learned enough in my brief unhappy experience of the United States to know that it was two countries even then, and they hated each other like poison. Yes, up there I'd be safe, and on trembling legs I hurried back to the hotel, to break the glad news that they were after us with a vengeance.
Cassy gasped and went pale, but she didn't cry, and while I was stamping about chewing my nails and swearing she got out a map which we had bought, and began to study it. Her finger was trembling as she traced the route down fro
m St Louis to the Cairo fork, and then north-east up the Ohio river. At Louisville she stopped.
“Well, what now?” says I. “That's only a two-day journey, and we'll be beyond their reach, won't we?”
She took her head. “You do not understand. The Ohio river is the boundary between the slave states and the free, but even in the free states we are not safe until we have gone well upriver. See—” She traced again. “From Louisville to Cincinnati and far beyond that, we still have slave states on our right hand, first Kentucky and then Virginia. If we were to land on the Indiana or Ohio shores, we should be in free states, but I could still be retaken by the slave-catchers who are thick along the river.”
“But—but—I thought the free state folk sheltered slaves, and helped them. Surely they can't take you off free state soil?”
“Of course they can!” There were tears in her eyes now. “Oh, if we could be sure of finding an abolitionist settlement, or an underground railroad station, all would be well, but how do we know? There are laws forbidding people in Ohio to aid runaways slaves are caught and dragged back across the river daily by these bands of catchers, with their guns and dogs! And with the time we have lost here, notices of my running from Memphis will have reached the Kentucky shore—my name will have been added to the list of the other poor hunted creatures trying to escape north!”
“Well, what the blazes can we do?”
She traced on the map again. “We must stay aboard our steamboat all the way to Pittsburgh, if indeed the boats run so far in this weather.[38] If not, they will at least take us far enough up the Ohio to catch a train from one of the eastern Ohio towns into Pennsylvania. Once we are in Pittsburgh we can laugh at all the slave-catchers in the South—and you will be far beyond the reach of the Mississippi law.”
Well, that was a comforting thought. “How long does it take?” says I.
“To Pittsburgh by boat? Five days.” She bit her lip and began to tremble again. “Within a week from now I shall be either free or dead.”
I wish she'd thought of some other way of putting it, and it crossed my mind that I might be a good deal safer parting company with her. On the other hand, a boat to Pittsburgh was the fastest way home, and if we kept to our cabin the whole way we should come through safe. They don't look for runaway slaves in staterooms. They might look there for a murderer, though—and blast it, I hadn't even done the murders! Could I fob them off on her if the worst came to the worst? But it wouldn't—there must be a limit to the distance they could chase us.
It was in a fine state of the shakes that we boarded the Bostona the next morning, and I didn't know an easy moment until we had passed the Cairo fork that night and were steaming up the Ohio. I drank a fair amount, and Cassy sat gazing out towards the northern shore, but early on the second morning we reached Louisville without incident, and I began to breath again. Evening saw us at Cincinnati and Cassy was in a fever of anxiety for the boat to move off again; Cincinnati, although on the Ohio side, was a great place for slave-catchers, and she cried with relief when the side-wheel started at last and we churned on upriver.
But at breakfast time next day there was a rude awakening. The weather had grown colder and colder throughout our journey, and now when you looked overside there were great cakes of dirty brown and green ice riding down the current, and a powdering of snow lying on the Ohio bank. The fellows in the saloon were of opinion that the boat would go no farther than Portsmouth, if that far; the captain wouldn't risk her in this kind of weather.
And sure enough, down comes the captain presently, all gravity and grey whiskers, to announce to the saloon that he couldn't make Portsmouth this trip, on account of the ice, but would put in at Fisher's Landing, which was three miles short of the town, and set anyone ashore that wanted to go. The rest he would carry back to Cincinnati.
They raised a tremendous howl at this, waving their tickets and demanding their money back, and one tubby little chap in gold glasses cries out angrily:
“Intolerable! Fisher's Landing is on the Kentucky shore—how am Ito be in Portsmouth tonight? There won't be a ferry running in this weather.”
The captain said he was sorry; the Ohio side was out of the question, because the ice was thick all down the north channel.
“But I must be in Portsmouth tonight!” fumes the tubby man. “Perhaps you don't know me, captain—Congressman Smith, Albert J. Smith, at your service. It is imperative that I be in Portsmouth to support my congressional colleague, Mr Lincoln, at tonight's meeting.”
“Well, I'm sorry, Congressman Smith,” says the captain, “but if you were going to support the President, I couldn't land you in Ohio today.”
“Infamous!” cries the little chap. “Why, I've come from Evansville for this, and Mr Lincoln has broken his journey home specially for this meeting, and is awaiting me in Portsmouth. Really, captain, when matters of such national importance as the slave question are to be discussed by eminent—”
“The slave question!” cries the captain. “Well, sir, you may land in Kentucky for me, let me tell you, and I hope they welcome you warmly!”
And off he stumped, red in the face, leaving the little chap wattling and cursing. I didn't have to be told the captain was a Southerner, but I was vastly intrigued to find my path crossing so close to Mr Lincoln's again. That seemed to me a good reason for turning back to Cindnnati, and giving Portsmouth a wide berth. He and his sharp eyes and embarrassing questions were the last things I wanted to meet just now.
But Cassy wouldn't have it; even landing in Kentucky was preferable to Cincinnati, and she pointed out that the farther I was upriver the safer I'ld be. She was sure there must be a ferry running at Portsmouth; it was only a short walk along the shore, she said, and once across we could journey inland to Columbus and from there quickly to Pittsburgh.
If she didn't mind, I didn't, because I felt we must be beyond pursuit by now, but I noticed she hesitated at the gangplank, scanning the shore at Fisher's Landing, and her steps were slow as we walked over the creaking wooden stage. Suddenly she stopped, caught my arm, and whispered:
“Let us go back! I never thought to stand on this soil again—I feel evil hanging over us. Oh, we shouldn't have landed! Please, let us go back quickly, before it's too late!”
But it was too late even then, for the steamboat, having landed about a dozen of us, including the incensed Congressman, was already backing away from the stage, her whistle whooping like a lost soul. Cassy shuddered beside me, and pulled her veil more tightly round her face. Truth to tell, I didn't care for the look of the place much myself; just the stage, and a mean little tavern, and bleak scrubby country stretching away on both sides.
However, there was nothing for it now. The other passengers crowded round the tavern, asking about a ferry, and the yokel there opined that there might be one later that day, but with the ice he couldn't be sure. The others decided to wait and see, but Cassy insisted that we should push on along the bank; we could see Portsmouth in the distance on the far shore, and it did seem there would be a better chance of a ferry there.
So we set off together, carrying our bags, along the lonely little road that wound among the trees by the river. It was a cold, grey afternoon, with a keen wind sighing among the branches, and through the trunks the brown Ohio ran by, with the massive floes grinding and booming in the brown water. There was low cloud and a threat of snow, and a dank chill in the air that was not just the weather. Cassy was silent as we walked, but her words still sounded in my ears, and although I told myself we were safe enough by this time, surely, I found myself ever glancing back along the deserted muddy track, lying drear and silent under the winter sky.
We must have walked about an hour, and although it was still early afternoon it seemed to me to be growing darker, when we saw buildings ahead, and came to a tiny village on the river bank. We were nearly opposite Portsmouth by now, and already some lights were twinkling across the water. The river here seemed to be more choked with ice t
han ever, stirring and heaving but moving only gently downstream.
The keeper of the tavern that served the place laughed to scorn our inquiries about a ferry; however, in his opinion the ice would freeze again overnight, and then we could walk across. He couldn't give us beds, but we were welcome to couch down for the night, and in the meantime he could give us fried ham and coffee.
“We should have stayed at Fisher's Landing,” says I, but Cassy just sank down wearily on a bench without replying. I offered her some coffee but she shook her head, and when I reminded her it was only for one night, she whispered:
“It is very near us now—I can feel the dark shadow coming closer. Oh, God! Oh, God! Why did I set foot on this accursed shore again!”
“What bloody shadow?” snaps I, for she had my nerves like fiddle strings. “We're snug enough here, girl, within spitting distance of Ohio! We've come this far, in God's name; who's going to stop us now?”
And as though in answer to my question, from somewhere down the road outside, came the yelping and baying of hounds.
Cassy started, and I own that my heart took a sudden leap, although what's a dog barking, after all? And then came the sound of footsteps, and men's voices, and presently the door was shoved open, and half a dozen or so rough fellows came in and bawled for the landlord to bring them a jug of spirits and some food. I didn't like the look of them by half, big tough-looking men with pistols in their belts and two of them carrying rifles; their leader was a tall, black-bearded villain with a broken nose who gave me a hard stare and a curt good day and then strode to the door to curse the dogs leashed up outside. I felt Cassy sink shuddering against me, and just caught her whisper:
“Slave-catchers! Oh, God help us!”
Flash For Freedom! Page 26
