CHAPTER II.JACK WATSON.

Fifty years ago there lived in Caldwell County, Kentucky, a well-to-do individual named Wilson. He owned a large estate, to which were attached numerous slaves. Such was the character of the master that bondage sat lightly upon them. Provident and indulgent, Mr. Wilson allowed his people to do largely as they chose. To them the words of the old plantation song,

“Hang up de shubel and de hoe.”

had much of reality.

A SLAVE HUNT.

Strangers came and went among them freely; they heard much of the ways of escape northward, of which many from plantations surrounding them availed themselves, but the bonds of affection were so strong between Mr. Wilson and his people that no effort was ever made on the part of the latter to escape. But things were not always to remain thus. In 1853, Mr. Wilson sickened and died, a circumstance which brought not only grief but consternation to his “people,” for they soon learned they were to be divided among the heirs. Jack and Nannie, a brother and sister who had grown up on the estate tenderly attached to each other and to their old master, fell to the lot of a drunken and licentious man named Watson, who took them to his farm in Davies County, not far from the Ohio River. Here, as common field hands, they were brutally treated, and soon began to plan means of escape. Before these were consummated the old cook died, and Nannie, who was of attractive form and manners, was taken from the field to fill her place. This only added to the degradation of her condition, for she was now continually called upon to repel the lecherous advances of her brutal master. As a punishment for this she was at length placed in close confinement from which her brother succeeded in freeing her. They set out at once for the river, hoping to escape, but were soon overtaken, brought back and so cruelly whipped by Watson, that Nannie soon died from the effects.

The sight of his lacerated, dying sister, the only tie that bound him to earth, continually haunted Jack, and he vowed escape, and vengeance if it were possible. His plans were carefully laid. In perambulating the numerous swamps in the neighborhood whose outlets led to the river, he had discovered a hollow tree broken off some twenty feet above the surrounding water. By climbing an adjacent sapling he discovered that the hollow within the stub would furnish a secure and comfortable retreat, should necessity require. By divers acts of plantation civility he had gained the confidence of “Uncle Jake” and “Aunt Mary,” an old couple whosympathized deeply with him, and promised him any aid in their power, provided it was such as “Massa’ll neber know.” All Jack asked was that in case he disappeared, they should set the third night after his disappearance something to eat on a shelf where he could reach it, and every fourth night thereafter until it should, for two successive times, be untaken. He also gave them in keeping a package of cayenne pepper to be placed with the edibles. In his visits to the river he had noted the fastenings of the skiffs, and had provided himself with both a file and an iron bar which would serve the double purpose as a means of defense and for drawing a staple. These he carefully secreted in his prospective retreat, waiting only an opportunity to occupy it.

Such an opportunity was not long in presenting itself, for one night the master came home late from a drunken revel, and found Jack awaiting him as ordered. Becoming enraged at some supposed act of disobedience, he flew at Jack with an open knife. The hour of vengeance had come. Seizing a hoe, with a single stroke Jack felled him to the ground, a lifeless form. A moment only he waited to view the gaping wound—to compare it with poor Nan—then gathering up a few things that he could, he was off with the fleetness of a deer. Passing two or three miles down the country, he entered the outlet of the swamp, and after passing down it for some distance, keeping so near the shore as to make his tracks observable, he struck in, directly reversing hisfootsteps, and before the dawn was safely ensconced in his selected tower.

Morning came and with it the knowledge of Watson’s death. The cause was easily divined—there was the bloody hoe, and Jack, who was left to wait his coming, was gone. Blood hounds and fierce men were soon upon his trail. His course was easily traced to the brook, and his descending footsteps discerned, but no trace of him could be discovered beyond that. The greater part thought he had reached the river, and escaped to the Indiana shore by swimming, at which he was an expert, or had been drowned in the attempt. Others believed his footsteps only a decoy and searched all the adjacent swamps, sometimes passing very near him, but all in vain. Flaming posters, advertising him, were sent broadcast, and slave catchers on both sides of the river were on the alert.

On the second day a great concourse assembled at Watson’s funeral. There were many conjectures, and much argument, and loud swearing about the “nigger” who had done the deed, and as a means of intimidating the weeping—none more so than Uncle Jake and Aunt Mary—chattels gathered around, terrible things were promised Jack should he be caught.

The services over, the crowd dispersed, and the next morning all hands were set to work as usual. At night when all was quiet, Aunt Mary, whose cabin was the farthest of any from the “mansion,” placeda liberal ration of hoe cake and bacon, together with the pepper, upon the designated shelf, and betook herself to the side of Uncle Jake who was already resting his weary limbs in the land of forgetfulness. Shortly after midnight a hand was thrust cautiously through the open window, the packages were softly lifted, a little pepper was deftly sifted in retreating footsteps, and in a short time Jack was safe again in his water-shut abode, and when old uncle and auntie were talking of the “wun’ful ang’l” that had visited the house that night, Jack was quietly enjoying a morning nap.

Several weeks passed, the excitement about Watson had measurably died away, two successive depositions of provisions had been left untouched and the good old couple knew “Dat de angel was feedin’ Jack no moa’, like de rabens fed ol’ ’Lijer.” They were sure, “Jack am safe.”

Taking his appliances, Jack had descended the outlet some distance one starlight night, and then striking across the country, had reached the river just below the little village he had been accustomed to visit before the death of his sister. The finding of a skiff and the wrenching away of the fastening occupied but a short time and at daylight he was safely secreted in an Indiana forest. Knowledge previously gained enabled him soon to put himself in charge of an underground official, but instead of making direct for Canada he shipped for the Quaker settlement near Salem, Ohio, of which he had heardmuch from a fruit tree dealer before the death of Mr. Wilson, and ultimately, in the quaint home of Edward Bonsall found a secure asylum, and in his nurseries desirable employment, so far from his former home that little disturbed his mind except the frequent recurring remembrances of his slain master with the cruelly lacerated form of his sister ever rising in justification of the summary punishment that had been inflicted upon him.

In the autumn of 1856, Jack went with Mr. Bonsall to Pittsburgh. Whilst walking along the street, he met face to face a half-brother of his late master. At first sight he thought it an apparition and turned and ran rapidly away, but not until he was himself recognized. So dextrous had been his motions that he eluded the pursuit immediately instituted and was soon among the hills beyond the city limits.

Hand bills minutely describing him were again widely circulated, particularly along the belt of country bordering the Pittsburgh and Erie canal, as it was argued he would try and make his escape by that route to Canada, and all the appliances of an odious law were called into requisition to secure his apprehension.

Rap, rap, rap, came a knuckle against the door of Thomas Douglass, of Warren, Ohio, in the silenthours of the night. Such occurrences were not frequent of late at the home of the honest Englishman whose love of justice and humanity had risen above all fear of the pains and penalties of an unrighteous law. Hastily dressing himself, he inquired, “Who comes?”

“Ol’ Diligence,” a name recognized at once by Mr. Douglass as the appelation of a colored conductor from Youngstown.

“Hall right; wat’s aboard?”

“Subjec’, Massa Douglass, and hard pressed, too.”

“’Ard pressed his ’e? Well, come in.”

The door was opened, a brief explanation followed, and Jack Watson and “Old Diligence” were consigned to a good bed for the night. In the morning his faithful guide, who had himself escaped from bondage many years before gave Jack some money, a supply of which he always had in hand, and left him with the emphatic assurance, “Massa Douglass am a true man.” But Jack was hard to be assured, and when seated at breakfast with the master machinist’s hands, he trembled like an aspen.

Three gentlemen, Levi Sutliff, John Hutchins and John M. Stull had been early summoned to devise the best means for forwarding Jack safely. The two former of these had been long experienced operators; the latter was rather a novice at the business. A few years previously, an ambitious young man, he had gone south as a teacher, thinking little and caring less about the “peculiar institution.” He had beenin Kentucky but a short time when a slave auction was advertised and his Buckeye inquisitiveness prompted him to witness it. Two or three children were struck off and then the mother, a well formed, good-looking octaroon, was put upon the block.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, a hard-shelled Baptist preacher, “I offer you a valuable piece of property. She’s a good cook; can make clothes, or handle a hoe as well as a man. She’s a healthy woman, gentlemen, an more’n that, she’s a Christian. Gentlemen, she’s a member of my own congregation.”

The buyers crowded around. They examined her teeth, her hands, her feet, her limbs as though she had been a horse on sale.

Our spectator began to feel himself getting white in the face, and swear words were rising in his throat, and he beat a hasty retreat.—John was under conviction.

A few mornings after our young teacher was wakened by the sound of heavy blows and cries of pain proceeding from another part of the hotel. That evening when Harry, the boy appointed his special waiter, came to his room, Mr. Stull cautiously inquired who had been punished in the morning.

“Dat was me Massa. De ol’ boss gib’d me a buckin.”

“What was the trouble, Harry, and what is a bucking?”

“Why Lor’ bress you, Massa, dis chile slep’ jus’ aminit too long, an’ de ol’ boss cum’d wid his ‘buck,’ a board wid a short han’l and full ob holes, an’ he bent Harry ober, like for to spank a chil’, an’ o Lor’ how he struck.” (Then lowering his voice,) “Say, Massa Stull, can you tell de Norf star?”

The boy had been all care, attention and manliness. The soul of the teacher was fully aroused.—Stull was converted.

Waiting the coming of these gentlemen, Jack had gone into the back yard, and when they arrived he was nowhere to be found. A prolonged search failed to reveal his whereabouts, and when at length night fell kind Mrs. Douglass placed an ample plate of provisions in the back kitchen and continued it for several weeks, hoping he might return, but noangelever spirited a particle of it away.

Years ago, even before Wendell Phillips, Abbey Kelley and others of their school began to hurl their bitter anathemas at the institution of slavery, there lived upon a far-reaching Virginia plantation in the valley of the James a man who had taken a truly comprehensive and patriotic view of the institution that was blighting the reputation of his state, as well as impoverishing her soil. He had inherited his fine estate, encumbered by a large number of slaves, and his soul revolted at the idea of holding them in bondage. A man of fine physique, commanding mien and superior intellectual endowments, JohnYoung could not brook the idea of eating bread that savored of the sweat of another’s brow, and the thought of living amid the withering, blighting scenes of slave labor and slave traffic was not at all congenial to his tastes. Casting about, he soon found a purchaser for his broad acres. Before disposing of his plantation, however, he made a trip into western Pennsylvania, and in Mercer county, on the rich bottoms of Indian Run, made purchase of an extensive tract of valuable land. Returning to the Old Dominion, he at once concluded the sale of his estate, and vowed his intention of going North.

His friends were amazed at the idea of his becoming a “Pennymight” farmer, and his people were thrown into consternation, as they expected soon to be exposed on the auction block. The sallies of one class he easily parried; the fear of the other he quickly allayed by calling them together and presenting them with freedom papers. There was a moment of silence, of blank astonishment, and then arose shouts, and cries, and hallelujahs to God, amid laughter and tears, for this wonderful deliverance.

When the excitement had somewhat subsided the late master revealed to them the fact that he was going north where it was respectable for a white man to labor, and if any of them should ever come his way they would see him chopping his own wood and hoeing his own corn, and that they were now free to go where they chose, only they must see they did not lose their papers.

“Bress de good Lor’, Massa, we’ll go wid you to dat new plantashun and be spect’ble too, and make light work for ol’ Massa.”

Though foreign to the purpose of Mr. Young, he yielded to the importunity of those he had manumitted, and soon there appeared on the Pennsylvania purchase a spacious residence, built rather in the Virginia style, and around it were grouped numerous, cabins, occupied by the sable colony that had followed the Caucassian proprietor. The family equipage was brought along, and Alexander Johnson always persisted in being Massa’s coachman and driving him in state.

The farm improved rapidly under the guidance of intelligence, aided by paid labor, and John Young’s house soon became known as a hospitable home, and to none more so than to the fugitive from bondage, for he early became an influential agent on the great thoroughfare to Canada.

Securing the aid of a few neighbors and friends, rather as a matter of compliment than otherwise, Mr. Young had erected, at a convenient site, a nice country chapel, now a Methodist church in which the writer has been privileged to speak, and here the people of the neighborhood, white and black, met for worship.

The Sabbath evening service in this little church had closed and the speaker, J. W. Loguen, an eloquent man, though a former fugitive from slavery, but at that time pastor of a Baptist church in Syracuse, N. Y., and largely engaged in the undergroundtransit business, sat conversing with Mr. Young, in the home of the latter gentleman, when Uncle ’Lec, as the old coachman was familiarly called, entered and excitedly exclaimed, “Mass Young, him am come, him am come.”

“Who has come, Alec?” queried the host kindly.

“Why, Massa, dat runaway wot de han’ vill tell bout, an’ him am fearfu’ scar’ an’ no mistake, fo’ he say de catchers am arter him shua.”

“Bring him in, Alec,” said Mr. Young, and in a moment more there was ushered into the room a tall, muscular colored man, bearing evident traces of white blood and answering fully the description of Jack Watson. His story, other than what we have already learned, was that at Warren, being suspicious of so many white men, he had gone out of the back yard of Mr. Douglass and a short distance along the canal and secreted himself until night in an old ware-house, still well remembered as bearing the inscription, “Forwarding and Commission. M. B. Taylor & Co.” In the evening he had struck out for Indian Run, of which Old Diligence had told him. He had traveled all the night, but not being able to reach his destination, had lain secreted during the day, and now hungry and fearful he appealed to Mr. Young for food and protection, both of which were readily accorded.

After the cravings of appetite had been satisfied, a conference was held, and it was decided that Jack should try and make Syracuse, after which Mr.Loguen would assure both safety and employment. Owing to the well-known character of Mr. Young and his attachés, and unmistakable evidences of close pursuit that had preceded Jack’s coming, it was further determined to forward him at once to “Safe Haven.” In accordance with this decision the family carriage, an imposing piece of “rolling stock,” soon stood at the door with ’Lec consequentially seated upon the box. A moment later, Jack, Mr. Loguen, and stalwart John Young emerged from the mansion, and as they took their seats in the carriage, Mr. Young said: “Now, Alec, look well to your lines and remember the ‘Haven’ is to be made before daylight.”

“Yes, Massa, dis ol’ chile keep an eye to de lines, de road, an’ anyting ’spicuous, an’ rouse up ol’ missus long afor’ de chicken’ ’gin to crow,” saying which, he gave a gentle chirrup and the carriage went rolling away to the northward.

Whoever was accustomed, a third of a century ago, to travel over the road from Warren, O., to Meadville, Pa., will remember a wayside inn, whose sign bore in German character the euphonious name of “Aughfeultwangher House.” The house itself, like its name, was of German origin, a genuine example of a Dutch farm house, bespeaking both comfort and thrift. The occupants were of the same name as the house, the proprietor being an honest,quiet, well-meaning man, with no special personality. Not so his better half, however. She was a character—a decided personality. Kind and generous, she had a temper, which when let loose became a very tornado. She was neat and tidy as a housekeeper, and unexcelled as a cook. A regular embodiment of piety and profanity; of sympathy and execration; of wit, repartee and scurrilous invective, her very off-handedness made the house immensely popular with drovers and road-men, and it was quoted from the prairies of the west to the Quaker City itself; and many is the man who has traveled an extra five miles to gain the hospitable roof of the “Awfultricker House,” as it came to be called by those who failed to accomplish the German of it.

As an illustration of the without and the within of the place, a little personal experience is introduced. At the end of a bleak November day, I found myself taking the advice of a friend and making an extra exertion with jaded beast, in order to enjoy the hospitality of the “Aughfeultwangher.” Knowing the reputation of the hostess I greeted her with: “Well, Auntie, can you keep a stranger to-night?”

Looking at me with a quizzical expression and evidently pleased at the appellation used, she replied: “Dot is von long face to keeps all in von house.”

“O, well, never mind, I can let a part of it stay in the barn.”

“Vell, I guess we growds es all in dem house,” and running to the back door, she called out, “Fater, fater, here bist einer mann, unt ein pferd vas Shineral Shackson rote. Nehms du es dem stolle vilst Ich das abend essen for dem manne erhalten.”

Obedient to the summons the host came at once, and took the wearied beast, whilst I was ushered into the little bar-room, whose well-filled box-stove was sending out a genial warmth, and away went the sprightly dame to prepare supper, whose savory odors soon filled the house.

Directly the door into the great family kitchen opened, and I did not wait for a repetition of the hearty “Coome Meister, your supper bist ready.” Entering, I found the room seated after the German style, and was greeted with the sight of a great, open fire-place, with its bake-oven and pot-hole attachment. Upon the table were rich slices of ham, eggs, bread, such as only a genuine German woman can bake, and other things in abundance. When I was seated and the good woman had poured out a cup of delicious coffee, she took a chair opposite, and after eying me a moment, inquired:

“Vell, Meister, var from you come?”

“From Ohio, auntie.”

“You bist von Yankee, then.”

“No, I’m a Buckeye.”

“Von Puckeye! vas ish dat, eh?”

“One born in Ohio.”

“Unt vas your fater ein Sherman?”

“No, auntie, but my grandfather was.”

“O your grossfater. Vell, I tot dare vas some Shermeny blud; dot lickt hair und blau eyes zint der sign, meister.”

“Well, auntie, ’tis not bad blood, is it.”

“O nein. Mein Got, es ist dot best, but das Yankee is shust so goot,” to which of course I assented, with the remark that the two together are a little better, thus causing the old lady to laugh outright.

After a moment’s pause, in which there seemed to be a studying of what tactics to pursue, she said, “Vell, meister, it bist none of my pisness, but vas you stoon in das velt?”

Wishing to make a fine conquest, I summoned what little German I could muster and replied, “Ich bin einer school-meister.”

“Got in himmel! du bist einer schulmeister, O Ich vish de kinder vare to house—”

Just then the host came in, and there was a rapid discharge of pure German between them, the outcome of which was a passing of a very pleasant evening, though the English on the one side and the German on the other were both very broken, and when the hour for retiring came I was escorted by the old couple to what was evidently the best room in the house. Approaching the bed the hostess laid back a fine feather tick, revealing sheets of snowy whiteness overspreading another, and then with a feeling of conscious pride exclaimed, “Dot, Her Schulmeister,is mine bester bett, unt do canst schlafen on der top, in der mittel or unter das bett, shust as you bleze. Guten abent.”

Such was the house, such were the Aughfeultwanghers, with the addition of being Jacksonian Democrats of the straightest sect, the least likely people, apparently, to have any sympathy with the underground work, yet shrewd John Young, ever fertile in expedients, had approached this couple, and as a result of the conference there was arranged a snug little room over and back of the oven with the way of entry by the pot-hole. This room was never to be occupied but by one individual, and he was to be brought by Mr. Young in person, who was also to provide for the taking away. In view of these facts he had christened the place “Safe Haven,” and its existence, outside of the family, was known only to himself, Alec and one or two others of his retainers and “Mose” Bishop, a tall, slim man, residing at Linesville, having a perfect hatred of creeds and cant, but an enthusiastic supporter of every cause demanding sympathy and justice, and who on account of his Jehu style of driving, was known along theroadas “The Lightning Conductor.”

True to his promise, before the first cock had sounded the approaching morn on that late October night, Alec reined up at the Aughfeultwangher, and Mr. Young, alighting, rapped at the door, and allquestions being satisfactorily answered, Jack was admitted, and the carriage rolled rapidly down to the little village at the foot of Conneaut lake, and at the hotel breakfast was ordered for men and beasts.

Having washed themselves, they were waiting the progress of culinary processes in the kitchen, meanwhile regaling themselves by reading the hand-bill advertising Jack, which was conspicuously posted in the bar-room, when two horsemen, one a constable from Mercer county, rode up and also ordered breakfast and feed for their horses.

The constable and Mr. Young readily recognized each other, and though no word was passed it was evident to each that his business was understood by his neighbor, hence the breakfast passed in silence, and when his bill was settled, the carriage of the ex-Virginian took a homeward direction.

No sooner was it gone than the constable remarked to Boniface, “I have been after that turnout all night. When it started there was apassengerin it, answering to that bill there.”

“You’ve been making the old fellow a close call,” said the landlord, “but you’ll find him a hard one to handle.”

“Yes; but if I could catch the nigger, the $500 wouldn’t come bad. We have been close on his track for several days. We know he was at Young’s last night but where in the d—— he is now is the question.”

“Dropped somewhere, likely.”

“Yes,dropped. Old Alec was too much for us, and we lost the trail. From which direction did they come?”

“From towards Meadville.”

“Do you know any station that he could have touched?”

“No, unless Aughfeultwangher’s.”

“Awfultricker’s! ha! ha! Upon my life that is a bright idea. Why the old woman would make even Young think the day of judgment had come if he were to bring a nigger to her home.”

“So I would have thought once, and so I am disposed to think now, but I have sometimes thought his bland manners have overcome her Democracy and that somewhere about the premises there is a station; yet ’tis all guess work with me. I give you the information; if you, gentlemen, can make $500 out of it, you are welcome to the fee.”

After a short consultation between the constable and the stranger, a regular catcher who had undertaken to capture Jack, they ordered their horses and were off towards the Aughfeultwangher.

Immediately on receiving Jack into the house, the good landlady supplied him with an ample dish of provisions and removing the dye tub and other obstructions from the pot-hole pointed him to her bed-room for “zingle shentelmens,” and when he had disappeared, she replaced her pots and kettles, takingcare to place the dye tub in which the yarn for family stockings were receiving its finishing tint of blue, in the very mouth of the hole. This done she went about her morning duties and was thus busily engaged when the two horsemen rode up, dismounted and came in. After paying the compliments of the morning and taking a drink, the constable inquired, “Has Mr. Young been here this morning?”

“Mister Yoong, vat Yoong you means?”

“John Young.”

“Vat, dot Shon Yoong fon town in Merzer gounty?”

“Yes.”

“O ya, er trive up unt vater ees team.”

“Was there anybody with him?”

“O ya, dot black Alec alvays goes mit him.”

“Did you see anybody get out?”

“Nein.”

“And he didn’t leave anyone here?”

“Vell, shentelmens, dot is von great kweschon. You tinks I have von of tem niggers pout here. You shall zee. Now, shentelmens, you looks all apout; you shall shust go in te barn and dru dis house shust as you blese. Den you knows if Shon Young leaves von black mans here.”

So saying the old lady led them through the barn and all parts of the house until the kitchen was reached. Here she bade them look into the oven, and then that they might peer into the pot-hole she began removing the dye tub, but in so doing wascareful to spill a little of the liquid. As the fumes spread through the room the catcher exclaimed as they reached his olfactories, “O the d—l.”

“Yes, der toiful, shentelmens, der toiful; you comes to mine house as if de Aughfeultwangher wo’dt keep ein runavay nigger; you go dru, you go unter mine parn; you goes indo mine pet rooms; you climps down into mine shamber, unt you goes up indo mine seller, and now der toiful! You peest tswi tam deeps, unt if you no go so gwick as von leetel minit, I sets mine tok on you unt er makes you into sausage meat fore von hour. Pounce! here Pounce, here!” and a great house dog came rushing into the back door as the two runaway-seekers beat a hasty retreat, each catching a glimpse, as he passed out, of the huge animal called to act as judgment executioner upon them. Though foiled, they were not discouraged, but transferred their place of watching to other parts.

Reaching home, Mr. Young immediately wrote Mr. Bishop, as follows:—

“—o— —56—10—28—81.

Dear—— ——,

Piratical craft square rigged, but our wind was good and weholedthe duck. (— — —) ‘Mine Got, mine Got, mine Got——for XXX——’ Greeley’s advice. Day and night; day and night; day and night. With an eye to foxes, let ’er slide.

Yours,

o——o”

On its receipt, Mr. Bishop took the necessary precautions to execute the contents of the letter, and on the third night proceeded to carry them out, being not unaware of the fact that he was closely watched.

Two men were standing in their respective doorways in the village of Andover, Ohio, on a November afternoon. The one was a broad-shouldered, full-chested man, with a flowing beard, a merry twinkle in the eye, a kind of devil-may-care negligence in his appearance, with a physique that betokened great power and endurance. This man had long been known technically as “Thribble X” of station “1001,” at Gustavus, Ohio, from which place he had migrated to Andover to proclaim the principles of the Universalist faith, and was known among his people as Elder Shipman, or more familiarly, “Uncle Charley.”

The other gentleman was of slimmer build, sandy complexion, thoughtful mien, and the very manner in which he handled his pipe would guarantee that he was of “Hinglish stock.”

As they thus stood, a buggy came driving from the east at break-neck speed, and dashing up to the parsonage the driver exclaimed, “Elder, can you do anything for this duck, for they’re after us hotter’n h—ll.”

“Don’t you know there is no such place as that, Mose?” was the calm reply.

“Well, well, I’ve no time to discuss theological matters now; all I know is if there is no such place, there ought to be a new creation at once for the sake of two fellows that must already be this side of the Shenango.”

“So near as that? Set him out.”

Immediately the colored man was bidden to alight, and whilst he and the elder struck out for the woods a short distance to the southwest, the buggy was turned and driven rapidly toward Richmond.

Scarcely was it out of sight, when two horsemen came galloping into town, and riding up to our English friend, who had been an interested spectator of the little scene just described and was wont to express his satisfaction of English laws by quoting,

“Slaves cannot breathe in Highland; if their lungsReceived ’er hair, that moment they are free;”

“Slaves cannot breathe in Highland; if their lungs

Received ’er hair, that moment they are free;”

and inquired, “Stranger, did you see a buggy drive into town from the east a short time ago with two men in it?”

“Hi ’ave, gentlemen.”

“Was one of them black?”

“’E was, gentlemen.”

“Should you think the other was the man they call Mose Bishop?”

“Hi should, gentlemen.”

“Which way did he drive?”

“To the north, gentlemen.”

“Thank you, sir, and good day.”

“Good day, gentlemen.”

Clapping spurs to their horses, the riders were away with a bound, under the inspiration of the first genuine cry of “On to Richmond.”

Reaching the proper point, Bishop turned eastward and dashed down through Padan-aram, much to the surprise of the denizens of that sequestered community, whilst his pursuers swept on to the Center, and on inquiry at the village store, were blandly informed by the proprietor, Mr. Heath, that there had been no buggy at all in the place that day. Had Mose and the elder heard therefinedlanguage that then made the very atmosphere about Richmond blue, they would both have been converts to the orthodox doctrine of sulphuric cleansing.

Watching the departure of the others, Shipman and his charge crossed the road to the eastward, and were soon threading the woodlands bordering the Shenango, and about midnight sought quarters at a friend’s of the elder, not far from Linesville. Arming themselves with heavy walking sticks, just before evening of the next day they set out for Albion. They had not proceeded far before they saw they were to encounter four sinister-looking fellows. “Now, Jack,” said the elder, “You have endured too much to be taken back. I do not wish to pay a thousand dollars fine nor go to prison for your sake. We may have to use these canes. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Massa, you can trus’ dis Jack.”

A call to halt was answered by so vigorous a charge and such effective use of the walking sticks that two of the challengers soon lay upon the ground and the others beat a hasty retreat. Taking advantage of circumstances the little train switched, and under the pressure of a full head of steam reached the “Old Tannery” station near Albion before daylight.

The conductor was now on strange ground, but knowing there was an agent in the vicinity named Low, he hunted him up and received such information as enabled them to make a little clump of hemlocks on the bank of a ravine not far from the residence of Elijah Drury, of Girard, the following night.

Farmer Drury was a stalwart, standing little less than six feet in height, always ready for any good word and work, and had been for many years engaged in thetransportationbusiness. Always wary, however, he was not to be deceived when, in the morning, our bewhiskered conductor presented himself and asked for something to eat.

“O yes,” said Mr. Drury, “I can always furnish a man, though a stranger, something with which to satisfy hunger.”

“But I want something also for a friend.”

“A friend! What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have a friend down yonder in the thicket, who is both weary and hungry.”

“Mister, do you know what I think?”

“I am not a prophet, sir.”

“Well, it is my opinion that you are a horse thief.”

“Will you come down and see the last nag I trotted off?”

Together the two men went down to the little thicket, and there the Elder not only exhibited the passenger, but to remove all suspicions, showed him the scars that indicated the floggings to which the slave had been subjected, a sight which Mr. Drury often afterwards said came very near making him swear outright. Thus commenced a friendship between the two men long continued and fraught with many acts attesting the generous nature of both.

When evening came, time being precious, our conductor drew the reins over Mr. Drury’s best roadsters, and about midnight deposited his passenger at the doorway of an old-fashioned house, with gable to the street, wing projecting northward, and a large elm tree nearly in front, standing on Federal Hill, in what is now South Erie, and for the first time XXX greeted officially a most redoubtable Keystone agent, known as the “Doctor,” in those days one of Erie’s well-known characters. He had gained some knowledge of herbs and roots, which he learned to apply medicinally, thus acquiring his appellation, which he wore with great satisfaction, soon comingto look upon all mere “book doctors” in great contempt. He was accustomed to drive about town with an old brown horse attached to a kind of carryall vehicle; always took his whisky straight and in full allopathic doses, though he affected to despise the practice generally, and prided himself on being the mostreliable agentin Erie county.

Into the Doctor’s private sanctum Jack was at once admitted, and properly cared for for a number of days, until measurably recuperated from his weeks of incessant vigil and solicitude, when he was taken in charge by Thomas Elliott, Esq., of Harborcreek, and conveyed to Wesleyville, four miles east of the city. Here, inasmuch as fresh news was obtained of his pursuers, it was thought best to secrete him anew, and he was therefore deposited in Station “Sanctum Sanctorum”—the garret of the Methodist Church.

Whoever passes through the village on the “Buffalo Road,” fails not to notice this unpretentious little brick structure standing by the wayside. Like most churches built so long ago, it has undergone various remodelings. The “battlements” have been taken off; doors and windows have shifted places, but within it is little changed; the seating below and the three-sided gallery remaining much as of old.

From the time of its first dedication onward, it has been the scene of many a revival, and for years it was the “horn of the altar” upon which the panting fugitive laid his hand, and was safe, for its use as a “station” was known only to a “selected few.”

OLD CHURCH, WESLEYVILLE, PA.

At the time we speak of, a protracted meeting had already been begun, for the bleakness of winter had early set in. The services were conducted by Rev. Jas. Gilfillin, a sterling old Scotchman, who had received a large part of his training in the collieries of his native land, and before the mast as a sailor on the high seas, assisted by Rev. William Gheer, a young man of timidity and all gentility of manner. The interest was most marked, and crowds came nightly to listen, to weep, to become penitents, not only from up and down the “road,” but from Gospel Hill, and far beyond, bringing even grand old father and mother Weed, who had assisted at the formation of the society over thirty years before, from away up in the “beechwoods,” and with them Nehemiah Beers, an exhorter, particularly felicitous in the construction of unheard-of words and expressions.

Under such circumstances Jack was deposited, early one morning, in his rude apartment, measurably warmed by the pipe which came up from the great box-stove below, and cautioned that he must keep particularly quiet during the devotional exercises below. Here he remained for several days, listening to the praises of new-born souls and the hosannas of the older brethren during meeting hours, and then descending and making himself comfortable in the well-warmed room when all was quiet and safe. Indeed, so well did he play his part as fire-tender, that the Chambers boys, who choppedthe wood, which was hauled to the church “sled-length” by the brethren, emphatically declared, as they wondered at the marvellous disappearance of fuel, “It takes a power of wood to run a red-hot revival, and we shall be glad when the meeting closes,” and it required no little effort on the part of their father, the main source of supply, to induce them to persevere in their “labor of love.”

Thus matters passed until Sunday evening came, when the interest of the meeting seemed to culminate in a Pentecostal shower. The Rev. James Sullivan, then a young man, preached a sermon of great eloquence and power, encouraged by many a hearty Amen from Father Weed and the older brethren, and the responsive hallelujahs of hale old Sister Weed and the other “Mothers in Israel.” The sermon ended, men clapped their hands in ecstatic rapture, and struck up that grand old revival hymn,

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