“Ugh, says he, madam, and then he doubled himself up, an’ I run on,” replied Roux, simply. “Bimeby I come to the Red River, and I swum over. Then I run on agin, till I come to the Mississip, an’ hid in a wood-pile. Long toward mornin’ a flat boat came up the river, and hitched. Then I heerd the Captin say, says he, argufying with another man, and gittin’ mad with him, I’m Ohio, says he, and my men are Ohio, an’ we don’t care a damn for slavery, says he. Tother man went off, an’ I run out, an’ says, Captin, says I, I’ve run for my freedom, an’ won’t you take me with you, I says. Step right aboard, says he, an’ I’m damned if I don’t wish I’d a load more like you, says he.”
“Bravo,” cried Muriel, clapping her hands. “Good for Ohio!”
“Hooraw for Ohio!” piped Tugmutton, bouncing up, and flourishing the baby. “Chick-a-dee-dee, Brudder Baby, pretty little birdy,” he added, with a sudden change of key, wagging his bushy head and grinning blobber cheeks over the complacent infant. “Send him right down to Ohio. Kidnapper come to fetch Brudder Baby, won’t have no more chance than a bob-tail horse in fly-time when he gits to Ohio.”
Alas! poor Tugmutton!—the dark days could come even to Ohio! Broad and strong and generous the hearts of Ohio, mighty in noble impulse, mighty in love and bravery, mighty in truth to liberty and tenderness to man. But the rampart of Ohio hearts prevailed not in the black hour when Margaret Garner, with the hell-dog statute and the hunters upon her, sublimely slew her children to save from slavery the souls Ohio could not save.
“And so you escaped, Mr. Roux,” said Emily.
“Yes, madam,” returned Roux, “the captain took me all the way up to Cincinnati. Where are ye goin’ now, William, says he. Boston, says I. Men, says he, let’s give him an Ohio lift. Wich meant takin’ up a collection, madam,” explained Roux, bowing. “An’ the collection was fifteen dollars and thirty-three cents, madam, together with a suit of the captain’s clothes, an’ some vittles in a paper bag. Captain, says I, my gratefulness will never fail. William, says he, just hold on to that carving-knife, an’ don’t let yourself be taken. Captain, says I, if I ever git to heaven, I’ll make the Lord acquainted with all you’ve done for me. William, says he, don’t you never acquaint anybody but the Lord with it, or I’m a gone coon. An’ now make tracks, says he. So I made tracks, an’ come on safe to Boston.”
“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Emily, drawing a long breath, and looking around her. “It makes my blood boil to think that men are treated so in this country. And you never heard from your brother, Mr. Roux?”
“Never, madam. But I don’t think he’s alive. I’m afeared that Master Lafitte would kill him to be revenged on me, and that makes me feel, sometimes, as if I’d murdered my own brother.”
He said this in low, ghostly tones, with a sudden agony and horror convulsing his dark face. It is impossible to describe the shock of awful emotion which his words gave to Emily. There was a moment of solemn silence, in which Roux stood faintly gasping, with his swart visage ashen and distorted with overmastering anguish, and she, gazing on him with a blanched countenance, felt as if her very soul would die with pity.
“Couldn’t he be bought?” she timidly stammered, at length, half feeling that she was proposing an absurdity. “That is—I mean if he is—if he has not—died.”