“The mouth of the North is stuffed with cotton, and will be kept full as long as it suits us. Good, easy gentlemen, they are so satisfied with their pillows, and other accommodations inside of the car, that they don’t trouble themselves to reflect that we are the engineers, nor to ask where we are going. And when any one does wake up and pipe out in melancholy inquiry, we slam the door in his face, and tell him, I Mind your own business, sir!’ and he leans back on his cotton pillow and goes to sleep again, only whimpering a little that i we might be more polite.’
“They have their fanatics up there. We don’t trouble ourselves to put them down; we make them do it. They get up mobs on our account, to hoot troublesome ministers and editors out of their cities; and their men that they send to Congress invariably do all our dirty work. There’s now and then an exception, it is true; but they only prove the rule.
“If there was any public sentiment at the North for you reformers to fall back upon, you might, in spite of your difficulties, do something; but there is not. They are all implicated with us, except the class of born fanatics, like you, who are walking in that very unfashionable narrow way we’ve heard of.”
“Well,” said Anne, “let us go out of the State, then. I will go anywhere; but I will not stop the work that I have begun.”
CHAPTER LVI
FLIGHT
THE party of fugitives which started for the North was divided into two bands. Harry, Lisette, Tiff, and his two children, assumed the character of a family, of whom Harry took the part of father, Lisette the nurse, and Tiff the man servant. The money which Clayton had given them enabling them to furnish a respectable outfit, they found no difficulty in taking passage under this character, at Norfolk, on board a small coasting-vessel bound to New York. Never had Harry known a moment so full of joyous security as that which found him out at sea in a white-winged vessel, flying with all speed toward the distant port of safety.
Before they neared the coast of New York, however, there was a change in their prospects. The blue sky became darkened, and the sea, before treacherously smooth, began to rise in furious waves. The little vessel was tossed baffling about by contrary and tumultuous winds. When she began to pitch and roll, in all the violence of a decided storm, Lisette and the children cried for fear. Old Tiff exerted himself for their comfort to the best of his ability. Seated on the cabin floor, with his feet firmly braced, he would hold the children in his arms, and remind them of what Miss Nina had read to them of the storm that came down on the Lake of Gennesareth, and how Jesus was in the hinder part of the boat, asleep on a pillow. “And he’s dar yet,” Tiff would say. — .
“I wish they’d wake him up, then,” said Teddy disconsolately; “I don’t like this dreadful noise! What does he let it be so for?”
Before the close of that day the fury of the storm increased; the horrors of the night can only be told by those who have felt the like. The plunging of the vessel, the creaking and straining of the timbers, the hollow and sepulchral sound of waves striking against the hull, and the shiver with which, like a living creature, she seemed to tremble at every shock, were things frightful even to the experienced sailor, much more so to our trembling refugees.
The morning dawned only to show the sailors their bark drifting helplessly toward a fatal shore, whose name is a sound of evil omen to seamen. It was not long before the final crash came, and the ship was wedged among rugged rocks, washed over every moment by the fury of the waves.
All hands came now on deck for the last chance of life. One boat after another was attempted to be launched, but was swamped by the furious waters. When the last boat was essayed, there was a general rush of all on board. It was the last chance for life. In such hours the instinctive fear of death often overbears every other consideration; and the boat was rapidly filled by the hands of the ship, who, being strongest and most accustomed to such situations, were more able to effect this than the passengers. The captain alone remained standing on the wreck, and with him Harry, Lisette, Tiff, and the children.
“Pass along,” said the captain, hastily pressing Lisette on board, simply because she was the first that came to hand.
“For de good Lord’s sake,” said Tiff, “put de chil’en on board; dere won’t be no room for me, and ‘t ain’t no matter! You go ‘board and take care of ‘em,” he said, pushing Harry along.
Harry mechanically sprang into the boat, and the captain after him. The boat was full.
“Oh, do take poor Tiff, — do!” said the children, stretching their hands after their old friend.
“Clear away, boys, — the boat’s full!” shouted a dozen voices; and the boat parted from the wreck, and sunk in eddies and whirls of boiling waves, foam, and spray, and went, rising and sinking, onward driven toward the shore.
A few, looking backwards, saw a mighty green wave come roaring and shaking its crested head, lift the hull as if it had been an egg-shell, then dash it in fragments upon the rocks. This was all they knew, till they were themselves cast, wet and dripping, but still living, upon the sands.
A crowd of people were gathered upon the shore, who, with the natural kindness of humanity on such occasions, gathered the drenched and sea-beaten wanderers into neighboring cottages, where food and fire, and changes of dry clothing, awaited them.
The children excited universal sympathy and attention, and so many mothers of the neighborhood came bringing offerings of clothing, that their lost wardrobe was soon very tolerably replaced. But nothing could comfort them for the loss of their old friend. In vain the “little dears” were tempted with offers of cake and custard, and every imaginable eatable. They sat with their arms around each other, quietly weeping.
No matter how unsightly the casket may be which holds all the love there is on earth for us, be that love lodged in the heart of the poorest and most uneducated, the whole world can offer no exchange for the loss of it. Tiff’s devotion to these children had been so constant, so provident, so absolute, that it did not seem to them possible they could live a day without him; and the desolation of their lot seemed to grow upon them every hour. Nothing would restrain them. They would go out and look up and down, if, perhaps, they might meet him; but they searched in vain. And Harry, who had attended them, led them back again, disconsolate.
“I say, Fanny,” said Teddy, after they had said their prayers, and lain down in their little bed, “has Tiff gone to heaven?”
“Certainly he has,” said Fanny, “if ever anybody went there.”
“Won’t he come and bring us pretty soon?” said Teddy. “He won’t want to be there without us, will he?”
“Oh, I don’t knowT,” said Fanny. “I wish we could go; the world is so lonesome!”
And, thus talking, the children fell asleep. But it is written in an ancient record, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning;” and, verily, the next morning Teddy started up in bed, and awakened his sister with a cry of joy.
“Oh, Fanny! Fanny! Tiff isn’t dead! I heard him laughing.”
Fanny started up, and, sure enough, there came through the partition which separated their little sleeping-room from the kitchen a sound very much like Tiff’s old, unctuous laugh. One would have thought no other pair of lungs could have rolled out the jolly “Ho! ho! ho!” with such a joyous fullness of intonation.
The children hastily put on their clothes, and opened the door.
“Why, bress de Lord! poppets, here dey is, sure ‘nough! Ho! ho! ho!” said Tiff, stretching out his arms, while both the children ran and hung upon him.
“Oh, Tiff, we are so glad! Oh, we thought you was drowned; we’ve been thinking so all night.”
“No, no, no, bress de Lord! You don’t get shet of Ole Tiff dat ar way! Won’t get shet of him till ye’s fetched up and able to do for yerselves.”
“Oh, Tiff, how did you get away?”
“Laws! why, chil’ens, ‘t was a very strait way. I told de Lord ‘bout it. Says I, ‘Good Lord, you knows I don’t
care nothing ‘bout it on my own ‘count; but ‘pears like dese chil’en is so young and tender, I couldn’t leave dem, noway;’ and so I axed him if he wouldn’t jest please to help me, ‘cause I knowed he had de power of de winds and de sea. Well, sure ‘nough, dat ar big wave toted me clar up right on de sho’; but it tuk my breff and my senses so I didn’t fa’rly know whar I was. And de peoples dat foun’ me took me a good bit ‘way to a house down here, and dey was ‘mazing good to me, and rubbed me wid de hot flannels, and giv me one ting and anoder, so’t I woke up quite peart dis mornin’, and came out to look up my poppets; ‘cause, yer see, it was kinder borne in on my mind dat I should find you. And now yer see, chil’en, you mark my words, de Lord been wid us in six troubles, and in seven, and he’ll bring us to good luck yet. Tell ye, de sea hain’t washed dat ar out o’ me, for all its banging and bruising.” And Tiff chuckled in the fullness of his heart and made a joyful noise.
His words were so far accomplished that, before many days, the little party, rested and refreshed, and with the losses of their wardrobe made up by friendly contributions, found themselves under the roof of some benevolent friends in New York. Thither, in due time, the other detachment of their party arrived, which had come forward under the guidance of Hannibal, by ways and means which, as they may be wanted for others in like circumstances, we shall not further particularize.
Harry, by the kind patronage of friends, soon obtained employment, which placed him and his wife in a situation of comfort.
Milly and her grandson, and Old Tiff and his children, were enabled to hire a humble tenement together; and she, finding employment as a pastry cook in a confectioner’s establishment, was able to provide a very comfortable support, while Tiff presided in the housekeeping department.
After a year or two an event occurred of so romantic a nature that, had we not ascertained it as a positive fact, we should hesitate to insert it in our veracious narrative. Fanny’s mother had an aunt in the Peyton family, a maiden lady of very singular character, who, by habits of great penuriousness, had amassed a large fortune, apparently for no other purpose than that it should, some day, fall into the hands of somebody who would know how to enjoy it. Having quarreled, shortly before her death, with all her other relatives, she cast about in her mind for ways and means to revenge herself on them by placing her property out of their disposal. She accordingly made a will bequeathing it to the heirs of her niece Susan, if any such heirs existed; and, if not, the property was to go to an orphan asylum.
By chance, the lawyer’s letter of inquiry was addressed to Clayton, who immediately took the necessary measures to identify the children and put them in possession of the property.
Tiff now was glorious. “I always knowed it,” he said, “dat Miss Sue’s chil’en would come to luck, and dat de Lord would open a door for them, and he had.”
Fanny, who was now a well-grown girl of twelve years, chose Clayton as her guardian; and by his care she was placed at one of the best New England schools, where her mind and her person developed rapidly. Her brother was placed at school in the same town.
As for Clayton, after some inquiry and consideration, he bought a large and valuable tract of land in that portion of Canada where the climate is least severe, and the land most valuable for culture. To this place he removed his slaves, and formed there a township, which is now one of the richest and finest in the region. Here he built for himself a beautiful residence, where he and his sister live happily together, finding their enjoyment in the improvement of those by whom they are surrounded.
It is a striking comment on the success of Clayton’s enterprise that the neighboring white settlers, who at first looked coldly upon him, fearing he would be the means of introducing a thriftless population among them, have been entirely won over, and that the value of the improvements which Clayton and his tenants have made has nearly doubled the price of real estate in the vicinity. So high a character have his schools borne, that the white settlers in the vicinity have discontinued their own, preferring to have their children enjoy the advantages of those under his and his sister’s patronage and care.
(These statements are all true of the Elgin settlement, founded by Mr. King, a gentleman who removed and settled his slaves in the south of Canada.)
Harry is one of the head men of the settlement, and is rapidly acquiring property and consideration in the community.
A large farm, waving with some acres of fine wheat, with its fences and outhouses in excellent condition, marks the energy and thrift of Hannibal, who, instead of slaying men, is great in felling trees and clearing forests. He finds time, winter evenings, to read, with “none to molest or make afraid.” His oldest son is construing Cæsar’s Commentaries at school, and often reads his lesson of an evening to his delighted father, who willingly resigns the palm of scholarship into his hands.
As to our merry friend Jim, he is the life of the settlement. Liberty, it is true, has made him a little more sober; and a very energetic and capable wife, soberer still; but yet Jim has enough and to spare of drollery, which makes him an indispensable requisite in all social gatherings. He works on his farm with energy, and repels with indignation any suggestion that he was happier in the old times, when he had abundance of money and very little to do.
One suggestion more we almost hesitate to make, lest it should give rise to unfounded reports; but we are obliged to speak the truth. Anne Clayton, on a visit to a friend’s family in New Hampshire, met with Livy Ray, of whom she had heard Nina speak so much, and very naturally the two ladies fell into a most intimate friendship; visits were exchanged between them, and Clayton, on first introduction, discovered the lady he had met in the prison in Alexandria. The most intimate friendship exists between the three, and, of course, in such cases reports will arise; but we assure our readers we have never heard of any authentic foundation for them; so that, in this matter, we can clearly leave every one to predict a result according to their own fancies.
We have now two sketches, with which the scenery of our book must close.
CHAPTER LVII
CLEAR SHINING AFTER RAIN
CLAYTON had occasion to visit New York on business.
He never went without carrying some token of remembrance from the friends in his settlement to Milly, now indeed far advanced in years, while yet, in the expressive words of Scripture, “her eye was not dim, nor her natural force abated.”
He found her in a neat little tenement in one of the outer streets of New York, surrounded by about a dozen children, among whom were blacks, whites, and foreigners. These she had rescued from utter destitution in the streets, and was giving to them all the attention and affection of a mother.
“Why, bless you, sir,” she said to him pleasantly, as he opened the door, “it’s good to see you once more! How is Miss Anne?”
“Very well, Milly. She sent you this little packet; and you will find something from Harry and Lisette, and all the rest of your friends in our settlement. Ah! are these all your children, Milly?”
“Yes, honey; mine and de Lord’s. Dis yer’s my second dozen. De fust is all in good places and doing well. I keeps my eye on ‘em, and goes round to see after ’em a little now and then.”
“And how is Tomtit?”
“Oh, Tomtit’s doing beautiful, thank ‘e, sir. He’s ‘come a Christian, and jined the church; and they has him to wait and tend at the anti-slavery office, and he does well.”
“I see you have black and white here,” said Clayton, glancing around the circle.
“Laws, yes,” said Milly, looking complacently around; “I don’t make no distinctions of color, — I don’t believe in them. White chil’en, when they ‘haves themselves, is jest as good as black, and I loves ’em jest as well.”
“Don’t you sometimes think it a little hard you should have to work so in your old age?”
“Why, bress you, honey, no! I takes comfort of my money as I goes along. Dere’s a heap in me yet,” she said, laughing. “I’
s hoping to get dis yer batch put out and take in anoder afore I die. You see,” she said, “dis yer’s de way I took to get my heart whole. I found it was getting so sore for my chil’en I’d had took from me, ‘pears like the older I grow’d the more I thought about ‘em; but long’s I keeps doing for chil’en it kinder eases it. I calls ’em all mine; so I’s got good many chil’en now.”
We will inform our reader, in passing, that Milly, in the course of her life, on the humble wages of a laboring woman, took from the streets, brought up, and placed in reputable situations, no less than forty destitute children.
(These circumstances are true of an old colored woman in New York, known by the name of Aunt Katy, who in her youth was a slave, and who is said to have established among these destitute children the first Sunday-school in the city of New York.)
When Clayton returned to Boston, he received a note, written in a graceful female hand, from Fanny, expressing her gratitude for his kindness to her and her brother, and begging that he would come and spend a day with them at their cottage in the vicinity of the city. Accordingly, eight o’clock the next morning found him whirling in the cars through green fields and pleasant meadows, garlanded with flowers and draped with bending elms, to one of those peaceful villages which lie like pearls on the bosom of our fair old mother, Massachusetts.
Stopping at — station, he inquired his way up to a little eminence which commanded a view of one of those charming lakes which open their blue eyes everywhere through the New England landscape. Here, embowered in blossoming trees, stood a little Gothic cottage, a perfect gem of rural irregularity and fanciful beauty. A porch in the front of it was supported on pillars of cedar, with the rough bark still on, around which were trained multitudes of climbing roses, now in full flower. From the porch a rustic bridge led across a little ravine into a summer-house, which was built like a nest into the branches of a great oak which grew up from the hollow below the knoll on which the house stood.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 125
