University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
FLIGHT.

The party of fugitives, which started for the North, was
divided into two bands. Harry, Lisette, Tiff, and his two
children, assumed the character of a family, of whom Harry
took the part of father, Lisette the nurse, and Tiff the manservant.

The money which Clayton had given them enabling them
to furnish a respectable outfit, they found no difficulty in
taking passage under this character, at Norfolk, on board a
small coasting-vessel bound to New York.

Never had Harry known a moment so full of joyous security
as that which found him out at sea in a white-winged
vessel, flying with all speed toward the distant port of
safety.

Before they neared the coast of New York, however,
there was a change in their prospects. The blue sky
became darkened, and the sea, before so treacherously
smooth, began to rise in furious waves. The little vessel
was tossed baffling about by contrary and tumultuous
winds.

When she began to pitch and roll, in all the violence of a
decided storm, Lisette and the children cried for fear. Old
Tiff exerted himself for their comfort to the best of his
ability. Seated on the cabin-floor, with his feet firmly
braced, he would hold the children in his arms, and remind
them of what Miss Nina had read to them of the storm
that came down on the Lake of Gennesareth, and how

Jesus was in the hinder part of the boat, asleep on a pillow.
“And he 's dar yet,” Tiff would say.

“I wish they 'd wake him up, then,” said Teddy, disconsolately;
“I don't like this dreadful noise! What does he
let it be so for?”

Before the close of that day the fury of the storm increased;
and the horrors of that night can only be told by
those who have felt the like. The plunging of the vessel, the
creaking and straining of the timbers, the hollow and sepulchral
sound of waves striking against the hull, and the
shiver with which, like a living creature, she seemed to
tremble at every shock, were things frightful even to the
experienced sailor; much more so to our trembling
refugees.

The morning dawned only to show the sailors their bark
drifting helplessly toward a fatal shore, whose name is a
sound of evil omen to seamen.

It was not long before the final crash came, and the
ship was wedged among rugged rocks, washed over every
moment by the fury of the waves.

All hands came now on deck for the last chance of life.
One boat after another was attempted to be launched, but
was swamped by the furious waters. When the last boat
was essayed, there was a general rush of all on board. It
was the last chance for life. In such hours the instinctive fear
of death often overbears every other consideration; and the
boat was rapidly filled by the hands of the ship, who, being
strongest and most accustomed to such situations, were
more able to effect this than the passengers. The captain
alone remained standing on the wreck, and with him Harry,
Lisette, Tiff, and the children.

“Pass along,” said the captain, hastily pressing Lisette on
board simply because she was the first that came to hand.

“For de good Lord's sake,” said Tiff, “put de chil'en on
board dere won't be no room for me, and 't an't no matter!
You go 'board and take care of 'em,” he said, pushing
Harry along.

Harry mechanically sprang into the boat, and the captain
after him. The boat was full.

“O, do take poor Tiff — do!” said the children, stretching
their hands after their old friend.

“Clear away, boys, — the boat 's full!” shouted a dozen
voices; and the boat parted from the wreck, and sunk in
eddies and whirls of boiling waves, foam, and spray, and
went, rising and sinking, onward driven toward the
shore.

A few, looking backwards, saw a mighty green wave
come roaring and shaking its crested head, lift the hull as
if it had been an egg-shell, then dash it in fragments upon
the rocks. This was all they knew, till they were themselves
cast, wet and dripping, but still living, upon the
sands.

A crowd of people were gathered upon the shore, who,
with the natural kindness of humanity on such occasions,
gathered the drenched and sea-beaten wanderers into
neighboring cottages, where food and fire, and changes of
dry clothing, awaited them.

The children excited universal sympathy and attention,
and so many mothers of the neighborhood came bringing
offerings of clothing, that their lost wardrobe was soon very
tolerably replaced. But nothing could comfort them for the
loss of their old friend. In vain the “little dears” were
tempted with offers of cake and custard, and every imaginable
eatable. They sat with their arms around each other,
quietly weeping.

No matter how unsightly the casket may be which holds
all the love there is on earth for us, be that love lodged in
the heart of the poorest and most uneducated, the whole
world can offer no exchange for the loss of it.

Tiff's devotion to these children had been so constant,
so provident, so absolute, that it did not seem to them possible
they could live a day without him; and the desolation
of their lot seemed to grow upon them every hour. Nothing
would restrain them. They would go out and look up

and down, if, perhaps, they might meet him; but they
searched in vain. And Harry, who had attended them, led
them back again, disconsolate.

“I say, Fanny,” said Teddy, after they had said their
prayers, and laid down in their little bed, “has Tiff gone to
heaven?”

“Certainly he has,” said Fanny, “if ever anybody went
there.”

“Won't he come and bring us pretty soon?” said Teddy.
“He won't want to be there without us, will he?”

“O, I don't know,” said Fanny. “I wish we could go;
the world is so lonesome!”

And, thus talking, the children fell asleep. But it is
written in an ancient record, “Weeping may endure for a
night, but joy cometh in the morning;” and, verily, the next
morning Teddy started up in bed, and awakened his sister
with a cry of joy.

“O, Fanny! Fanny! Tiff is n't dead! I heard him
laughing.”

Fanny started up, and, sure enough, there came through
the partition which separated their little sleeping-room
from the kitchen a sound very much like Tiff's old, unctuous
laugh.

One would have thought no other pair of lungs could
have rolled out the jolly Ho, ho, ho, with such a joyous
fulness of intonation.

The children hastily put on their clothes, and opened the
door.

“Why, bress de Lord! poppets, here dey is, sure
'nough! Ho! ho! ho!” said Tiff, stretching out his
arms, while both the children ran and hung upon him.

“O, Tiff, we are so glad! O, we thought you was
drowned; we 've been thinking so all night.”

“No, no, no, bress de Lord! You don't get shet of Ole
Tiff dat ar way! Won't get shet him till ye 's fetched up,
and able to do for yerselves.”

“O, Tiff, how did you get away?”

“Laws! why, chil'ens, 't was a very strait way. I told
de Lord 'bout it. Says I, `Good Lord, you knows I don't
car nothing 'bout it on my own 'count; but 'pears like
dese chil'en is so young and tender, I could n't leave dem,
no way;' and so I axed him if he would n't jest please to
help me, 'cause I knowed he had de power of de winds and
de sea. Well, sure 'nough, dat ar big wave toted me clar up
right on de sho'; but it tuk my breff and my senses so I
did n't farly know whar I was. And de peoples dat foun'
me took me a good bit 'way to a house down here, and dey
was 'mazing good to me, and rubbed me wid de hot flannels,
and giv me one ting and anoder, so 't I woke up
quite peart dis mornin', and came out to look up my poppets;
'cause, yer see, it was kinder borne in on my mind
dat I should find you. And now yer see, chil'en, you mark
my words, de Lord ben wid us in six troubles, and in seven,
and he 'll bring us to good luck yet. Tell ye, de sea han't
washed dat ar out o' me, for all its banging and bruising.”
And Tiff chuckled in the fulness of his heart, and made a
joyful noise.

His words were so far accomplished that, before many
days, the little party, rested and refreshed, and with the
losses of their wardrobe made up by friendly contributions,
found themselves under the roof of some benevolent friends
in New York.

Thither, in due time, the other detachment of their
party arrived, which had come forward under the guidance
of Hannibal, by ways and means which, as they may be
wanted for others in like circumstances, we shall not further
particularize.

Harry, by the kind patronage of friends, soon obtained
employment, which placed him and his wife in a situation
of comfort.

Milly and her grandson, and Old Tiff and his children,
were enabled to hire a humble tenement together; and she,
finding employment as a pastry-cook in a confectioner's
establishment, was able to provide a very comfortable

support, while Tiff presided in the housekeeping department.

After a year or two an event occurred of so romantic a
nature, that, had we not ascertained it as a positive fact,
we should hesitate to insert it in our veracious narrative.

Fanny's mother had an aunt in the Peyton family, a
maiden lady of very singular character, who, by habits of
great penuriousness, had amassed a large fortune, apparently
for no other purpose than that it should, some day, fall
into the hands of somebody who would know how to
enjoy it.

Having quarrelled, shortly before her death, with all her
other relatives, she cast about in her mind for ways and
means to revenge herself on them, by placing her property
out of their disposal.

She accordingly made a will, bequeathing it to the heirs
of her niece Susan, if any such heirs existed; and if not, the
property was to go to an orphan asylum.

By chance, the lawyer's letter of inquiry was addressed
to Clayton, who immediately took the necessary measures
to identify the children, and put them in possession of the
property.

Tiff now was glorious. “He always knowed it,” he said,
“dat Miss Sue's chil'en would come to luck, and dat de
Lord would open a door for them, and he had.”

Fanny, who was now a well-grown girl of twelve years,
chose Clayton as her guardian; and, by his care, she was
placed at one of the best New England schools, where her
mind and her person developed rapidly.

Her brother was placed at school in the same town.

As for Clayton, after some inquiry and consideration, he
bought a large and valuable tract of land in that portion of
Canada where the climate is least severe, and the land the
most valuable for culture.

To this place he removed his slaves, and formed there a
township, which is now one of the richest and finest in the
region.

Here he built for himself a beautiful residence, where he
and his sister live happily together, finding their enjoyment
in the improvement of those by whom they are surrounded.

It is a striking comment on the success of Clayton's
enterprise, that the neighboring white settlers, who at first
looked coldly upon him, fearing he would be the means of
introducing a thriftless population among them, have been
entirely won over, and that the value of the improvements
which Clayton and his tenants have made has nearly doubled
the price of real estate in the vicinity.

So high a character have his schools borne, that the white
settlers in the vicinity have discontinued their own, preferring
to have their children enjoy the advantages of those
under his and his sister's patronage and care.[1]

Harry is one of the head men of the settlement, and is
rapidly acquiring property and consideration in the community.

A large farm, waving with some acres of fine wheat, with
its fences and out-houses in excellent condition, marks the
energy and thrift of Hannibal, who, instead of slaying men,
is great in felling trees and clearing forests.

He finds time, winter evenings, to read, with “none to
molest or make afraid.” His oldest son is construing
Cæsar's Commentaries at school, and often reads his lesson
of an evening to his delighted father, who willingly resigns
the palm of scholarship into his hands.

As to our merry friend Jim, he is the life of the settlement.
Liberty, it is true, has made him a little more sober;
and a very energetic and capable wife, soberer still; but
yet Jim has enough and to spare of drollery, which makes
him an indispensable requisite in all social gatherings.

He works on his farm with energy, and repels with indignation
any suggestion that he was happier in the old times,
when he had abundance of money, and very little to do.

One suggestion more we almost hesitate to make, lest it
should give rise to unfounded reports; but we are obliged
to speak the truth.

Anne Clayton, on a visit to a friend's family in New
Hampshire, met with Livy Ray, of whom she had heard
Nina speak so much, and very naturally the two ladies fell
into a most intimate friendship; visits were exchanged
between them, and Clayton, on first introduction, discovered
the lady he had met in the prison in Alexandria.

The most intimate friendship exists between the three,
and, of course, in such cases reports will arise; but we
assure our readers we have never heard of any authentic
foundation for them; so that, in this matter, we can clearly
leave every one to predict a result according to their own
fancies.

We have now two sketches, with which the scenery of
our book must close.