“ ’Tis Carle, I really think—’tis only Carle, father! I know by the snap of his whip, for no other person ever snapped one like him. Why, Judy, he thinks it time you are making coffee, and has whipped up!”
It was indeed Carle, who came thus unexpectedly upon them, two hours at least sooner than looked for by his master, who had recommended him to stay behind until they had got a fair start, lest some suspicious eye should detect them, and the whole plan be frustrated.
“He! he! he! You got here fust, anyhow,” said the darkey, as he brought his horses to a stand beside them; “though I tried hard to catch up and give young missy a ride. Guess we had better eat breakfast in a hurry and be off, for some of dem nigger ask a great many question last night ’specting de big boxes we load in. But I guess I set ’em on de wrong track, any how. He! he! he!”
A flint was produced and fire struck, and shortly after the air was fragrant with boiling coffee, and a very comfortable breakfast was eaten on the green grass by the spring side; after which, things were quickly put in place, and the little company took the seats arranged for them in the broad, emigrant’s wagon, and sped on as ignorant of their destination as the ancient patriarch journeying on to the “Land of Promise.”
For five long, tedious days they went forward as fast as the miserable state of the roads and the jaded condition of the horses would allow, stopping occasionally to refresh themselves by some pleasant stream that crossed their path in the wilderness. They occasionally fell in with some person who questioned them of their journey, and their reply was invariably, “Going north to settle;” but one real Quaker was not thus contented.
“Thee lookest tired friend, wilt thou partake of a brother’s hospitality on thy way? Nay, no refusal, the young woman looketh sick and needeth a night’s rest! Rachel will give her nursing right gladly, for no Friends have crossed our threshold for months.”
It was the third day of their flight, and worn down with fatigue and loss of rest, they could not resist this pressing appeal of the good brother, and accordingly the horses were allowed to stop in front of a large log farm-house on the banks of the Susquehanna.
But the soi disant John Brown had some trouble in sustaining the new character he had assumed, for he not only made laughable blunders in the Quaker dialect, but when questioned of the prosperity and welfare of his brethren in the good city, betrayed an ignorance certainly unwarrantable in a brother; but his host was a shrewd, sensible man, and soon guessed more of his guest’s secret than would have rendered his stay comfortable had he surmised it. But the secret was in safe keeping, and the poor fugitives were loaded with kindness and sent forward on the morrow with the nicest provisions of the dairy for their future necessity.
“Beware of New England Friends,” said their hospitable host, with a sly look, at parting, “or the good Puritans there may send thee back with holes in thy tongue, or minus ears.”
The last two days of their journey were beset with difficulties and dangers. They had forsaken the public way, and their path was literally in the wilderness, and so thickly strewn with obstacles as to render every step tedious and toilsome; but death was behind, and the hope of life before, and so they went forward steadily and patiently.