VI.
“Can you direct us to Dr. Harris?” said a sweet voiced girl to a trim, quick-stepping, rather fashionably dressed young gentleman on the street in the little village of Ashtabula, as she reined up a two-horse team.
“Hem, ’em ’em, Dr. Harris? ’em, why, that is what they call me.”
“Are you the only Dr. Harris in town?”
“’Em, yes, Miss. What can I do for you?”
The letters of the Jefferson attorneys was placed in his hands.
“’Em, hem,” he exclaimed, after reading it. “Freight! we can not ship now; shall have to stow it in our up-town ware-house;” saying which he led the way out to a country home, now occupied as a city residence, where the freight was deposited in a hay-mow, whilst the kind-hearted old Scotchman, Deacon McDonald and his wife most graciously cared for the intrepid drivers for the night.
The young man Ned was soon sent away, but Uncle Jake lingered in the vicinity for considerable time. The winter of 1836 he spent at the Harbor in the family of Deacon Wm. Hubbard, rendering valuable service in “pointing” the walls and plastering the cellar of the house now occupied as a store and residence by Captain Starkey. He is still well remembered by A. F. Hubbard, Esq., whose father offered him a home in his family; but Jake finally left and nothing is known of his subsequent course.
Of the two young ladies so intimately connected with this history, Miss Bushnell ultimately married a Mr. Estabrook, and was for many years one of the most esteemed ladies of Warren, O., and now sleeps in Oakwood Cemetery near that beautiful city. The other joined her destiny with that of her affiance shortly after that memorable ride, and a few weeks since I stood in the little churchyard at Burgh Hill, shrouded as it was in a far-reaching coverlet of snow and copied the following from a small marble headstone:
“MARY P. SUTLIFF,
Died March 1st, 1836.
AE., 23.
First Sec’y of the Female Anti-Slavery Society of Vernon, A. D., 1834.”
CHAPTER IV.
GEORGE GREEN,
OR CONSTANCY REWARDED.
[The circumstances of the following narrative were partially written up when secured by the author.]
“Do you believe you can succeed, George? It is a great undertaking.”
“If we can not succeed, Mary, we can try. This servitude is worse than death.”
“But our master is very good.”
“Yes, master is good and kind, and no harm shall come to him. But no master is as good as freedom.”
“But then the whites have all the power on their side.”
“The whites, Mary! Who are whiter than we—than you and I? You the slave of your own father; I sold from my mother’s arms that my features might not bring disgrace upon a man of position. White folks, indeed!”
“True, George, our lot is a wretched one, but then as you love me, and as master and mistress are so kind, would it not be better to remain quiet, lest we, too, are separated, and all our hopes for life blighted?”
“We are taking a great risk, Mary, but Nat says we can not fail. I sometimes fear that we shall and I know the consequences, and will meet them like a man, for I know you will love me still, Mary.”
“Yes, George, but the love of a poor helpless slave girl can not compensate you for what you may have to endure, perhaps for life itself.”
“Mary, dear as you are to me, liberty for us both or death in attempting to secure it, will be a far greater boon, coupled with your love, than to share that love, however fervent, through a life-long servitude.”
“But, George, don’t you remember how often you have heard master and his guests talk about those strange people, Poles and Greeks they call them, and how they have struggled for freedom, only mostly to make their condition worse?”
“Yes, Mary, and I have heard them tell how they would like to go and help them fight for their liberty. Then I have heard master tell how his own father fought in the war he calls the Revolution, and didn’t the Judge say in his speech last Independence that that is the day, above all others, which proclaims that ‘all men are created free and equal?’ Am I not a man, and should I not be equal to any one who calls himself master and me slave? No, Mary, the die is cast and six hundred slaves—no, men—will strike for freedom on these plantations in less than a week. But there is the horn, and I must go.”
The above conversation took place in the home of a Virginia planter more than sixty years ago. The parties were young, less than twenty; both white, both slaves, for the peculiar institution by no means attached itself to the sable African alone. The fettered were of every hue, from that of ebon blackness to the purest Caucassian white. Slavery knew no sacred ties, but only the bonds of lust. Hence this strange gradation of color, for as the master acknowledged nothing more than a conventional marriage, so he held out no encouragement to the slave women to be virtuous and chaste. The girl Mary was, indeed, the daughter of Mr. Green, her master, and George the son of a high government official, his mother being a servant in the Washington hotel where the official boarded. The boy looked so akin to his father that he was early sold to a slave dealer that the scandal might be hushed. From this dealer he was purchased by Mr. Green, who was indeed a kind-hearted man and treated his slaves with great consideration.
Both being house servants, and thrown much together, an earnest attachment sprang up between them. This was by no means discouraged by master or mistress. Though they could neither read nor write, their natural aptness and constant association with family and guests soon imparted to them a good degree of culture and general information.
The cause of the conversation above referred to was the revelation to Mary by her lover of a plot on the part of about six hundred slaves of the county of Southampton to rise in rebellion and obtain their freedom. From any participation in it she would gladly have dissuaded him, though in perfect sympathy with his feelings, but the proud Anglo-Saxon blood and spirit of George were fully enlisted in the undertaking, and when “Nat Turner’s Insurrection” broke upon the astonished planters there was no braver man in its ranks than George. But six hundred slaves, imperfectly armed as they were, could make but little headway. They were soon defeated. Those who were not captured fled to the Dismal Swamp. Here ordered to surrender, they challenged their pursuers. A furious struggle ensued between the owners and their human chattels, men and women. They were hunted with bloodhounds, and many who were caught were tortured even unto death. Not until the United States troops were called in, was their forlorn hope, struggling for freedom, entirely vanquished.
Among the last to surrender was George. He was tried before a civil court and condemned to be hanged. Ten days only were to elapse before the carrying out of the sentence.
Being a member of a Christian church, Mary sought and obtained, through the influence of her mistress, with whom George had been an especial favorite, permission to visit him in the jail and administer the consolation of religion. Seated by his side but four days before the day of execution, she said:
“George, you made an effort for freedom against my wish, now will you make another, one in which I fully accord?”
“For me there is no hope. Whilst it is hard to part from you, I am not afraid to die.”
“If you are hanged, we must be separated, if you escape it can be no more.”
“Escape! how?”
“Well, listen. You shall exchange clothes with me. Then at my accustomed time of leaving you shall depart, and I will remain in your place. They will not harm me, and so nearly are we of a size, and so close the general resemblance, that you will have no difficulty in passing the guard. Once without the gate, you can easily escape to the woods, the mountains, to a land of liberty. May be——”
“Never can I consent to this. These miserable men would wreak their vengeance on you.”
“Never fear for me, and may be when you are safe in Canada you can provide for my coming to you.”
“If it were possible, but—”
The turnkey gave the signal for departure, and Mary arose and left.
During the next day she carefully prepared a package of provisions and hid it in a secluded place. The day was dark and gloomy, portending a storm. Just at evening she presented herself at the prison door and was readily admitted. Once beside her lover, she again importuned him to make an effort to escape. At last he consented. It was but the work of a moment to exchange clothing, to impart the necessary instructions with regard to the provisions, to pledge one another to eternal constancy, when the door opened and the harsh voice of the keeper exclaimed, “Come, Miss, it is time for you to go.”
It was now storming furiously. Weeping and with a handkerchief applied to his face, as was Mary’s custom when leaving, George passed out and the door immediately closed upon the innocent inmate of the cell.
It was now dark, so that our hero in his new dress had no fear of detection. The provisions were sought and found, and poor George was soon on the road to Canada. But neither he nor Mary had thought of a change of dress for him when he should have escaped, and he walked but a short distance before he felt that a change of his apparel would facilitate his progress. But he dared not go among even his colored associates, for fear of being betrayed. However, he made the best of his way on towards Canada, hiding in the woods by day and traveling by the guidance of the pole star at night.
One morning George arrived on the banks of the Ohio river, and found his journey had terminated unless he could get some one to take him across in a secret manner, for he would not be permitted to cross in any of the ferry boats. He concealed himself in tall grass and weeds near the river to see if he could not secure an opportunity to cross. He had been in his hiding place but a short time, when he observed a man in a small boat, floating near the shore, evidently fishing. His first impulse was to call out to the man and ask him to take him across the river to the Ohio shore, but the fear that he was a slaveholder or one who might possibly arrest him deterred him from it. The man after rowing and floating about for some time, fastened the boat to the root of a tree, and started to a farm house not far distant. This was George’s opportunity, and he seized it. Running down the bank, he unfastened the boat and jumped in, and with all the expertness of one accustomed to a boat, rowed across the river and landed safely on free soil.
Being now in a free state, he thought he might with perfect safety travel on towards Canada. He had, however, gone but a few miles, when he discovered two men on horseback coming behind him. He felt sure that they could not be in pursuit of him, yet he did not wish to be seen by them, so he turned into another road leading to a house near by. The men followed, and were but a short distance from George, when he ran up to a farm house, before which was standing a farmer-looking man, in a broad-brimmed hat and straight-collared coat, whom he implored to save him from the “slave catchers.” The farmer told him to go into the barn near by; he entered by the front door, the farmer following and closing the door behind George, but remaining outside, gave directions to his hired man as to what should be done with him. The slaveholders had by this time dismounted, and were in front of the barn demanding admittance, and charging the farmer with secreting their slave woman, for George was still in the dress of a woman. The Friend, for the farmer proved to be a member of the Society of Quakers, told the slave-owners that if they wished to search his barn, they must first get an officer and a search warrant. While the parties were disputing, the farmer began nailing up the front door, and the hired man served the back door the same way. The slaveholders, finding that they could not prevail on the Friend to allow them to get the slave, determined to go in search of an officer. One was left to see that the slave did not escape from the barn, while the other went off at full speed to Mt. Pleasant, the nearest town.
George was not the slave of either of these men, nor were they in pursuit of him, but they had lost a woman who had been seen in that vicinity, and when they saw poor George in the disguise of a female, and attempting to elude pursuit, they felt sure they were close upon their victim. However, if they had caught him, although he was not their slave they would have taken him back and placed him in jail, and there he would have remained until his owner arrived.
After an absence of nearly two hours, the slave-owner returned with an officer, and found the Friend still driving large nails into the door. In a triumphant tone, and with a corresponding gesture, he handed the search warrant to the Friend, and said:
“There, sir, now I will see if he can’t get my Nigger.”
“Well,” said the Friend, “thou hast gone to work according to law, and thou canst now go into my barn.”
“Lend me your hammer that I may get the door open,” said the slaveholder.
“Let me see the warrant again.” And after reading it over once more, he said, “I see nothing in this paper which says I must supply thee with tools to open my door; if thou wishest to go in thou must get a hammer elsewhere.”
The sheriff said: “I will go to a neighboring farm and borrow something which will introduce us to Miss Dinah;” and he immediately went off in search of tools.
In a short time the officer returned, and they commenced an assault and battery upon the barn door, which soon yielded; and in went the slaveholder and officer, and began turning up the hay and using all other means to find the lost property; but, to their astonishment, the slave was not there. After all hopes of getting Dinah were gone, the slave-owner, in a rage, said to the Friend:
“My Nigger is not here.”
“I did not tell thee there was anyone here.”
“Yes, but I saw her go in, and you shut the door behind her, and if she wa’nt in the barn what did you nail the door for?”
“Can not I do what I please with my own barn door? Now I will tell thee. Thou need trouble thyself no more, for the person thou art after entered the front door and went out the back door, and is a long way from here by this time. Thou and thy friend must be somewhat fatigued by this time; won’t thee go in and take a little dinner with me?”
We need not say that this cool invitation of the good Quaker was not accepted by the slaveholders.
George in the meantime had been taken to a Friend’s dwelling some miles away, where, after laying aside his female attire, and being snugly dressed up in a straight-collared coat, and pantaloons to match, he was again put on the right road towards Canada.
His passage through Ohio, by the way of Canfield and Warren, was uneventful, but at Bloomfield he was detained several days on account of the presence of some slave hunters from his own state, and who had a description of him among others. In this town is a great marsh or swamp of several thousand acres, at the time of our story all undrained. In the center of this swamp, Mr. Brown, the owner, had erected a small hut, one of the very first special stations built on the Underground Railroad. To this secluded retreat George was taken, and there remained until the departure of his enemies, when he was safely conveyed to Ashtabula Harbor, whence he was given free passage, by the veteran agent, Hubbard, of the Mystic Line in Canada. Arriving at St. Catharines, he began to work upon the farm of Colonel Strut, and also attended a night school, where he showed great proficiency in acquiring the rudiments of an education.
Once beginning to earn money, George did not forget his promise to use all means in his power to get Mary out of slavery. He, therefore, labored with all his might to obtain money with which to employ some one to go back to Virginia for Mary. After nearly six month’s labor at St. Catharines, he employed an English missionary to go and see if the girl could be purchased, and at what price. The missionary went accordingly, but returned with the sad intelligence that on account of Mary’s aiding George to escape, the court had compelled Mr. Green to sell her out of the State, and she had been sold to a Negro-trader and taken to the New Orleans market. As all hope of getting the girl was now gone, George resolved to quit the American continent forever. He immediately took passage in a vessel laden with timber, bound for Liverpool, and in five weeks from the time he was standing on a quay of the great English seaport. With little education, he found many difficulties in the way of getting a respectable living. However, he obtained a situation as porter in a large house in Manchester, where he worked during the day, and took private lessons at night. In this way he labored for three years, and was then raised to the position of clerk. George was so white as easily to pass for Caucassian, and being somewhat ashamed of his African descent, he never once mentioned the fact of his having been a slave. He soon became a partner in the firm that employed him, and was now on the road to wealth.
In the year 1842, just ten years after, George Green, for so he called himself, arrived in England, he visited France, and spent some days at Dunkirk.
It was towards sunset, on a warm day in the month of October, that Mr. Green, after strolling some distance from the Hotel de Leon, entered a burial ground and wandered long alone among the silent dead, gazing upon the many green graves and marble tombstones of those who once moved on the theatre of busy life, and whose sounds of gayety once fell upon the ear of man. All nature was hushed in silence, and seemed to partake of the general melancholy which hung over the quiet resting-place of departed mortals. After tracing the varied inscriptions which told the characters or conditions of the departed, and viewing the mounds beneath which the dust of mortality slumbered, he had reached a secluded spot, near to where an aged weeping willow bowed its thick foliage to the ground, as though anxious to hide from the scrutinizing gaze of curiosity the grave beneath it. Mr. Green seated himself upon a marble tomb, and began to read Roscoe’s Leo X., a copy of which he had under his arm. It was then about twilight, and he had scarcely read half a page, when he observed a lady dressed in black, and leading a boy some five years old up one of the paths; and as the lady’s black veil was over her face, he felt somewhat at liberty to eye her more closely. While looking at her, the lady gave a scream and appeared to be in a fainting position, when Mr. Green sprang from his seat in time to save her from falling to the ground. At this moment an elderly gentleman was seen approaching with a rapid step, who, from his appearance, was evidently the lady’s father, or one intimately connected with her. He came up, and in a confused manner asked what was the matter. Mr. Green explained as well as he could. After taking up the smelling bottle, which had fallen from her hand, and holding it a short time to her face, she soon began to revive. During all this time the lady’s veil had so covered her face that Mr. Green had not seen it. When she had so far recovered as to be able to raise her head, she again screamed, and fell back in the arms of the old man. It now appeared quite certain that either the countenance of George Green, or some other object, was the cause of these fits of fainting; and the old gentleman, thinking it was the former, in rather a petulant tone, said, “I will thank you, sir, if you will leave us alone.” The child whom the lady was leading had now set up a squall; and amid the death-like appearance of the lady, the harsh look of the old man, and the cries of the boy, Mr. Green left the grounds and returned to his hotel.
Whilst seated by the window, and looking out upon the crowded street, with every now and then the strange scene in the grave-yard vividly before him, Mr. Green thought of the book he had been reading, and remembering that he had left it on the tomb, where he had suddenly dropped it when called to the assistance of the lady, he immediately determined to return in search of it. After a walk of some twenty minutes, he was again over the spot where he had been an hour before, and from where he had been so uncermoniously expelled by the old man. He looked in vain for the book; it was nowhere to be found; nothing save the bouquet which the lady had dropped, and which lay half buried in the grass from having been trodden upon, indicated that any one had been there that evening. Mr. Green took up the bunch of flowers, and again returned to the hotel.
After passing a sleepless night, and hearing the clock strike six, he dropped into a sweet sleep, from which he did not awake until roused by the rap of a servant, who, entering the room, handed him a note which ran as follows:—
“Sir: I owe an apology for the inconvenience to which you were subjected last evening, and if you will honor us with your presence to dinner to-day at four o’clock, I shall be most happy to give you due satisfaction. My servant will be in waiting for you at half-past three.
I am, sir, your obedient servant,
J. Devenant.
October 23.”
To George Green, Esq.
The servant who handed this note to Mr. Green informed him that the bearer was waiting for a reply. He immediately resolved to accept the invitation, and replied accordingly. Who this person was, and how his name and hotel where he was stopping had been found out, was indeed a mystery. However, he waited somewhat impatiently for the hour when he was to see his new acquaintance, and get the mysterious meeting in the grave-yard solved.
The clock on the neighboring church had scarcely ceased striking three, when the servant announced that a carriage had called for Mr. Green. In less than half an hour he was seated in a most sumptuous barouche, drawn by two beautiful iron grays, and rolling along over a splendid gravel road, completely shaded by large trees which appeared to have been the accumulated growth of centuries. The carriage soon stopped in front of a low villa, and this too was imbedded in magnificent trees covered with moss. Mr. Green alighted and was shown into a superb drawing-room, the walls of which were hung with fine specimens from the hands of the great Italian painters, and one by a German artist representing a beautiful monkish legend connected with “The Holy Catharine,” an illustrious lady of Alexandra. The furniture had an antique and dignified appearance. High-backed chairs stood around the room; a venerable mirror stood on the mantle shelf; rich curtains of crimson damask hung in folds at either side of the large windows; and a rich Turkish carpet covered the floor. In the center stood a table covered with books, in the midst of which was an old-fashioned vase filled with fresh flowers, whose fragrance was exceedingly pleasant. A faint light, together with the quietness of the hour, gave a beauty, beyond description, to the whole scene.
Mr. Green had scarcely seated himself upon the sofa, when the elderly gentleman whom he had met the previous evening made his appearance, followed by the little boy, and introduced himself as Mr. Devenant. A moment more, and a lady—a beautiful brunette—dressed in black, with long curls of a chestnut color hanging down her cheeks, entered the room. Her eyes were of a dark hazel, and her whole appearance indicated that she was a native of a southern clime. The door at which she entered was opposite to where the two gentlemen were seated. They immediately arose; and Mr. Devenant was in the act of introducing her to Mr. Green, when he observed that the latter had sunk back upon the sofa, and the last word that he remembered to have heard was, “It is she.” After this all was dark and dreary; how long he remained in this condition it was for another to tell. When he awoke he found himself stretched upon the sofa with his boots off, his neckerchief removed, shirt-collar unbuttoned, and his head resting upon a pillow. By his side sat the old man, with the smelling bottle in one hand, and a glass of water in the other, and the little boy standing at the foot of the sofa. As soon as Mr. Green had so far recovered as to be able to speak, he said:
“Where am I, and what does this mean?”
“Wait awhile,” replied the old man, “and I will tell you all.”
After a lapse of some ten minutes he rose from the sofa, adjusted his apparel, and said:
“I am now ready to hear anything you have to say.”
“You were born in America?” said the old man.
“Yes,” he replied.
“And you were acquainted with a girl named Mary?” continued the old man.
“Yes, and I loved her as I can love none other.”
“That lady whom you met so mysteriously last evening is Mary,” replied Mr. Devenant.
George Green was silent, but the fountains of mingled grief and joy stole out from beneath his eyelashes, and glistened like pearls upon his pale and marble-like cheeks. At this juncture the lady again entered the room. Mr. Green sprang from the sofa, and they fell into each other’s arms, to the surprise of the old man and little George, and to the amusement of the servants, who had crept up one by one, and were hidden behind the doors or loitering in the hall. When they had given vent to their feelings, they resumed their seats, and each in turn related the adventures through which they had passed.
“How did you find out my name and address?” asked Mr. Green.
“After you had left us in the grave-yard, our little George said, ‘O, mamma, if there ain’t a book!’ and picked it up and brought it to us. Papa opened it, and said, ‘The gentleman’s name is written in it, and here is a card of the Hotel de Leon, where I suppose he is stopping.’ Papa wished to leave the book, and said it was all a fancy of mine that I had ever seen you before, but I was perfectly convinced that you were my own George Green. Are you married?”
“No, I am not.”
“Then, thank God!” exclaimed Mrs. Devenant, for such her name.
The old man, who had been silent all this time, said:
“Now, sir, I must apologize for the trouble you were put to last evening.”
“And are you single now?” asked Mr. Green, addressing the lady.
“Yes,” she replied.
“This is indeed the Lord’s doings,” said Mr. Green, at the same time bursting into a flood of tears.
Although Mr. Devenant was past the age when men should think upon matrimonial subjects, yet this scene brought vividly before his eyes the days when he was a young man, and had a wife living, and he thought it was time to call their attention to dinner, which was then waiting. We need scarcely add that Mr. Green and Mrs. Devenant did very little towards diminishing the dinner that day.
After dinner the lovers (for such we have to call them) gave their experience from the time that George Green left the jail, dressed in Mary’s clothes. Up to that time Mr. Green’s was substantially as we have related it. Mrs. Devenant’s was as follows:
“The night after you left the prison,” she said, “I did not shut my eyes in sleep. The next morning, about eight o’clock, Peter, the gardener, came to the jail to see if I had been there the night before, and was informed that I had left a little after dark. About an hour after, Mr. Green came himself, and I need not say that he was much surprised on finding me there, dressed in your clothes. This was the first tidings they had of your escape.”
“What did Mr. Green say when he found that I had fled?”
“O,” continued Mrs. Devenant, “he said to me when no one was near, ‘I hope George will get off, but I fear you will have to suffer in his stead.’ I told him that if it must be so I was willing to die if you could live.”
At this moment George Green burst into tears, threw his arms around her neck, and exclaimed, “I am glad I have waited so long, with the hope of meeting you again.”
Mrs. Devenant again resumed her story: “I was kept in jail three days, during which time I was visited by the magistrates and two of the judges. On the third day I was taken out, and master told me that I was liberated upon condition that I be immediately sent out of the State. There happened to be, just at that time, in the neighborhood, a Negro-trader, and he purchased me and I was taken to New Orleans. On the steamboat we were kept in a close room where slaves are usually confined, so that I saw nothing of the passengers on board, or the towns we passed. We arrived at New Orleans, and were all put in the slave market for sale. I was examined by many persons, but none seemed willing to purchase me; as all thought me too white, and said I would run away and pass as a white woman. On the second day, while in the slave market, and while planters and others were examining slaves and making their purchases, I observed a tall young man with long black hair eyeing me very closely, and then talking to the trader. I felt sure that my time had now come, but the day closed without my being sold. I did not regret this, for I had heard that foreigners made the worst of masters, and I felt confident that the man who eyed me so closely was not an American.
“The next day was the Sabbath. The bells called the people to the different places of worship. Methodists sang, and Baptists immersed, and Presbyterians sprinkled, and Episcopalians read their prayers, while the ministers of the various sects preached that Christ died for all; yet there were some twenty-five or thirty of us poor creatures confined in the ‘Negro-Pen,’ awaiting the close of the holy Sabbath and the dawn of another day, to be again taken into the market, there to be examined like so many beasts of burden. I need not tell you with what anxiety we waited for the advent of another day. On Monday we were again brought out, and placed in rows to be inspected; and, fortunately for me, I was sold before we had been on the stand an hour. I was purchased by a gentleman residing in the city, for a waiting-maid for his wife, who was just on the eve of starting for Mobile, to pay a visit to a near relative. I was dressed to suit the situation of a maid-servant; and, upon the whole, I thought that in my new dress I looked as much the lady as my mistress.
“On the passage to Mobile, who should I see, among the passengers, but the tall, long-haired man that had eyed me so closely in the slave market a few day before. His eyes were again on me, and he appeared anxious to speak to me, and I as reluctant to be spoken to. The first evening after leaving New Orleans, soon after twilight had let her curtain down, while I was seated on the deck of the boat, near the ladies’ cabin, looking upon the rippled waves, and the reflection of the moon upon the sea, all at once I saw the tall young man standing by my side. I immediately arose from my seat, and was in the act of returning to the cabin, when he in broken accent said:
“‘Stop a moment; I wish to have a word with you. I am your friend.’
“I stopped and looked him full in the face, and he said, ‘I saw you some days since in the slave market, and I intended to have purchased you to save you from the condition of a slave. I called on Monday, but you had been sold and had left the market. I inquired and learned who the purchaser was, and that you had to go to Mobile, so I resolved to follow you. If you are willing I will try and buy you from your present owner, and you shall be free.’
“Although this was said in an honest and offhand manner, I could not believe the man was sincere in what he said.
“‘Why should you wish to set me free?’ I asked.
“‘I had an only sister,’ he replied, ‘who died three years ago in France, and you are so much like her that, had I not known of her death, I would most certainly have taken you for her.’
“‘However much I may resemble your sister, you are aware that I am not her, and why take so much interest in one whom you have never seen before?’
“‘The love,’ said he, ‘which I had for my sister is transferred to you.’
“I had all along suspected that the man was a knave, and his profession of love confirmed me in my former belief, and I turned away and left him.
“The next day, while standing in the cabin and looking through the window, the French gentleman (for such he was) came to the window, while walking on the guards, and again commenced as on the previous evening. He took from his pocket a bit of paper and put it into my hand, at the same time saying:
“‘Take this; it may some day be of service to you. Remember it is from a friend,’ and left me instantly.
“I unfolded the paper and found it to be a $100 bank note, on the United States Branch Bank, at Philadelphia. My first impulse was to give it to my mistress, but upon a second thought, I resolved to seek an opportunity, and to return the hundred dollars to the stranger. Therefore I looked for him, but in vain; and had almost given up the idea of seeing him again, when he passed me on the guards of the boat and walked towards the stern of the vessel. It being nearly dark I approached him and offered the money to him.
“He declined, saying at the same time, ‘I gave it you—keep it.’
“‘I do not want it,’ I said.
“‘Now,’ said he, ‘you had better give your consent for me to purchase you, and you shall go with me to France.’
“‘But you cannot buy me now,’ I replied, ‘for my master is in New Orleans, and he purchased me not to sell, but to retain in his own family.’
“‘Would you rather remain with your present mistress than to be free?’
“‘No,’ said I.
“‘Then fly with me to-night; we shall be in Mobile in two hours from this time, and when the passengers are going on shore, you can take my arm, and you can escape unobserved. The trader who brought you to New Orleans exhibited to me a certificate of your good character, and one from the minister of the church to which you were attached in Virginia; and upon the faith of these assurances, and the love I bear you, I promise before high heaven that I will marry you as soon as it can be done.’
“This solemn promise, coupled with what had already transpired, gave me confidence in the man; and, rash as the act may seem, I determined in an instant to go with him. My mistress had been put under the charge of the captain; and as it would be past ten o’clock when the steamer would land, she accepted an invitation of the captain to remain on board with several other ladies till morning.
“I dressed myself in my best clothes, and put a veil over my face, and was ready on the landing of the boat. Surrounded by a number of passengers, we descended the stage leading to the wharf and were soon lost in the crowd that thronged the quay. As we went on shore we encountered several persons announcing the names of hotels, the starting of boats for the interior, and vessels bound for Europe. Among these was the ship Utica, Captain Pell, bound for Havre.
“‘Now,’ said Mr. Devenant, ‘this is our chance.’
“The ship was to sail at twelve o’clock that night, at high tide; and following the men who were seeking passengers, we were immediately on board. Devenant told the captain of the ship that I was his sister, and for such we passed during the long voyage. At the hour of twelve the Utica set sail, and we were soon out at sea.
“The morning after we left Mobile, Devenant met me as I came from my state-room and embraced me for the first time. I loved him, but it was only that affection which we have for one who has done us a lasting favor; it was the love of gratitude rather than that of the heart. We were five weeks on the sea, and yet the passage did not seem long, for Devenant was so kind. On our arrival at Havre, we were married and came to Dunkirk, and I have resided here ever since.”
At the close of this narrative, the clock struck ten, when the old man, who was accustomed to retire at an early hour, rose to take leave, saying at the same time:
“I hope you will remain with us to-night.”
Mr. Green would fain have excused himself, on the ground that they would expect him and wait at the hotel, but a look from the lady told him to accept the invitation. The old man was the father of Mrs. Devenant’s deceased husband, as you will no doubt long since have supposed.
A fortnight from the day on which they met in the grave-yard Mr. Green and Mrs. Devenant were joined in holy wedlock; so that George and Mary, who had loved each other so ardently in their younger days, were now husband and wife.
A celebrated writer has justly said of women: “A woman’s whole life is a history of affections. The heart is her world; it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless, for it is bankruptcy of the heart.”
Mary had every reason to believe that she would never see George again; and although she confessed that the love she bore him was never transferred to her first husband, we can scarcely find fault with her for marrying Mr. Devenant. But the adherence of George Green to the resolution never to marry, unless to his Mary, is, indeed, a rare instance of the fidelity of man in the matter of love. We can but blush for our country’s shame, when we call to mind the fact, that while George and Mary Green, and numbers of other fugitives from American slavery, could receive protection from any of the governments of Europe, they could not in safety return to their own land until countless treasure, untold suffering and anguish, and the life blood of half a million men, had been paid as the price of the bondman’s chain.