III.
The traveler who has been swept along on the Nickle Plate or Lake Shore Rail Road over the Black Swamp country and onward through Cleveland, Ashtabula and Erie, seeing little that savors of roughness, except perchance the gulches about the Forest City, the bluffs at Euclid and Little Mountain in the distance, would little think as he crosses the unpretentious bridges spanning Six-Mile-Creek, east of Erie, that just a little way back it passed through some wild and rugged country; yet such is the fact. Down through a deep gorge come its crystal waters, whilst high above them on its precipitate banks the hemlock has cast its somber shadows for centuries. Into a thin, scarcely accessible portion of this gorge came years ago John Cass, and took possession of a primitive “carding works,” where he diligently plied his craft, rearing his sons and daughters to habits of industry, frugality, virtue, and a love of their little church, which is situated some two miles away on an elevated plateau, which, from its largely Celtic population has acquired the appelation of “Wales.”
The little Celts of this rural community were very much surprised one winter day to see their old pastor, Parson Rice, who resided at Wattsburg, go dashing by the school-house with a colored man in his sleigh. Never before had their unsophisticated eyes seen such a sight, and what they that day beheld was the all-engrossing theme in the homes of the Joneses, the Williamses and the Davises that night.
As for Parson Rice, he kept right on down, down, until he reached the carding works of his worthy parishioner, where the woolly head of Charley was safely hidden amid fleeces of a far whiter hue.
In this retreat he remained for some time, and was taught his letters by the young Casses, William, Edward, Jane and the others. When, at length, it was deemed safe to remove him, he was taken by Mrs. Cass to the office of the True American in the city. From this, after a little delay, he was conveyed to the home of Col. Jas. Moorhead, who passed him on to Parson Nutting, at State Line, by whom he was duly forwarded to Knowlton Station, Westfield, New York.
Though the temperature was below zero, it was again getting hot for Charley, for vigilant eyes all along the line were watching for the young nigger whose return to his master was sure to bring $500, and that he had reached the lake shore was now a well ascertained fact, and unusual activity was noticed among the kidnapping crew.
It was a bitter cold day, with the snow flying and drifting, that Mr. Knowlton’s spanking team of jet blacks, still well remembered by many a Westfielder, came out of his yard attached to a sleigh, in the bottom of which was a package evidently of value, as it was carefully covered with blankets and robe. Under a tight rein the team headed eastward, and with almost the fleetness of the wind passed Portland, Brocton, and turning at the old Pemberton stand, in Fredonia, made Pettit Station. Here Charley was made safe and happy for the night, and the next day was landed safely in the Queen’s Dominion from Black Rock.