Uncle Tom's Cabin
Brought up, from early life, in connection with the highest society,
the language, movements and air of Cassy, were all in agreement with
this idea; and she had still enough remaining with her, of a once
splendid wardrobe, and sets of jewels, to enable her to personate the
thing to advantage.
She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she had noticed trunks
for sale, and purchased a handsome one. This she requested the man to
send along with her. And, accordingly, thus escorted by a boy wheeling
her trunk, and Emmeline behind her, carrying her carpet-bag and sundry
bundles, she made her appearance at the small tavern, like a lady of
consideration.
The first person that struck her, after her arrival, was George Shelby,
who was staying there, awaiting the next boat.
Cassy had remarked the young man from her loophole in the garret, and
seen him bear away the body of Tom, and observed with secret
exultation, his rencontre with Legree. Subsequently she had gathered,
from the conversations she had overheard among the negroes, as she
glided about in her ghostly disguise, after nightfall, who he was, and
in what relation he stood to Tom. She, therefore, felt an immediate
accession of confidence, when she found that he was, like herself,
awaiting the next boat.
Cassy’s air and manner, address, and evident command of money,
prevented any rising disposition to suspicion in the hotel. People
never inquire too closely into those who are fair on the main point, of
paying well,—a thing which Cassy had foreseen when she provided herself
with money.
In the edge of the evening, a boat was heard coming along, and George
Shelby handed Cassy aboard, with the politeness which comes naturally
to every Kentuckian, and exerted himself to provide her with a good
state-room.
Cassy kept her room and bed, on pretext of illness, during the whole
time they were on Red River; and was waited on, with obsequious
devotion, by her attendant.
When they arrived at the Mississippi river, George, having learned that
the course of the strange lady was upward, like his own, proposed to
take a state-room for her on the same boat with himself,—good-naturedly
compassionating her feeble health, and desirous to do what he could to
assist her.
Behold, therefore, the whole party safely transferred to the good
steamer Cincinnati, and sweeping up the river under a powerful head of
steam.
Cassy’s health was much better. She sat upon the guards, came to the
table, and was remarked upon in the boat as a lady that must have been
very handsome.
From the moment that George got the first glimpse of her face, he was
troubled with one of those fleeting and indefinite likenesses, which
almost every body can remember, and has been, at times, perplexed with.
He could not keep himself from looking at her, and watching her
perpetually. At table, or sitting at her state-room door, still she
would encounter the young man’s eyes fixed on her, and politely
withdrawn, when she showed, by her countenance, that she was sensible
to the observation.
Cassy became uneasy. She began to think that he suspected something;
and finally resolved to throw herself entirely on his generosity, and
intrusted him with her whole history.
George was heartily disposed to sympathize with any one who had escaped
from Legree’s plantation,—a place that he could not remember or speak
of with patience,—and, with the courageous disregard of consequences
which is characteristic of his age and state, he assured her that he
would do all in his power to protect and bring them through.
The next state-room to Cassy’s was occupied by a French lady, named De
Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine little daughter, a child of some
twelve summers.
This lady, having gathered, from George’s conversation, that he was
from Kentucky, seemed evidently disposed to cultivate his acquaintance;
in which design she was seconded by the graces of her little girl, who
was about as pretty a plaything as ever diverted the weariness of a
fortnight’s trip on a steamboat.
George’s chair was often placed at her state-room door; and Cassy, as
she sat upon the guards, could hear their conversation.
Madame de Thoux was very minute in her inquiries as to Kentucky, where
she said she had resided in a former period of her life. George
discovered, to his surprise, that her former residence must have been
in his own vicinity; and her inquiries showed a knowledge of people and
things in his vicinity, that was perfectly surprising to him.
“Do you know,” said Madame de Thoux to him, one day, “of any man, in
your neighborhood, of the name of Harris?”
“There is an old fellow, of that name, lives not far from my father’s
place,” said George. “We never have had much intercourse with him,
though.”
“He is a large slave-owner, I believe,” said Madame de Thoux, with a
manner which seemed to betray more interest than she was exactly
willing to show.
“He is,” said George, looking rather surprised at her manner.
“Did you ever know of his having—perhaps, you may have heard of his
having a mulatto boy, named George?”
“O, certainly,—George Harris,—I know him well; he married a servant of
my mother’s, but has escaped, now, to Canada.”
“He has?” said Madame de Thoux, quickly. “Thank God!”
George looked a surprised inquiry, but said nothing.
Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and burst into tears.
“He is my brother,” she said.
“Madame!” said George, with a strong accent of surprise.
“Yes,” said Madame de Thoux, lifting her head, proudly, and wiping her
tears, “Mr. Shelby, George Harris is my brother!”
“I am perfectly astonished,” said George, pushing back his chair a pace
or two, and looking at Madame de Thoux.
“I was sold to the South when he was a boy,” said she. “I was bought by
a good and generous man. He took me with him to the West Indies, set me
free, and married me. It is but lately that he died; and I was going up
to Kentucky, to see if I could find and redeem my brother.”
“I heard him speak of a sister Emily, that was sold South,” said
George.
“Yes, indeed! I am the one,” said Madame de Thoux;—“tell me what sort
of a—”
“A very fine young man,” said George, “notwithstanding the curse of
slavery that lay on him. He sustained a first rate character, both for
intelligence and principle. I know, you see,” he said; “because he
married in our family.”
“What sort of a girl?” said Madame de Thoux, eagerly.
“A treasure,” said George; “a beautiful, intelligent, amiable girl.
Very pious. My mother had brought her up, and trained her as carefully,
almost, as a daughter. She could read and write, embroider and sew,
beautifully; and was a beautiful singer.”
“Was she born in your house?” said Madame de Thoux.
“No. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to New Orleans, and
brought her up as a present to mother. She was about eight or nine
years old, then. Father would never tell mother what he gave for her;
but, the other day, in looking over his old papers, we came across the
bill of sale. He paid an extravagant sum for her, to be sure. I
suppose, on account of her extraordinary beauty.”
George sat with his back to Cassy, and did not see the absorbed
expression of her countenance, as he was giving these details.
At this point in the story, she touched his arm, and, with a face
perfectly white with interest, said, “Do you know the names of the
people he bought her of?”
“A man of the name of Simmons, I think, was the principal in the
transaction. At least, I think that was the name on the bill of sale.”
“O, my God!” said Cassy, and fell insensible on the floor of the cabin.
George was wide awake now, and so was Madame de Thoux. Though neither
of them could conjecture what was the cause of Cassy’s fainting, still
they made all the tumult which is proper in such cases;—George
upsetting a wash-pitcher, and breaking two tumblers, in the warmth of
his humanity; and various ladies in the cabin, hearing that somebody
had fainted, crowded the state-room door, and kept out all the air they
possibly could, so that, on the whole, everything was done that could
be expected.
Poor Cassy! when she recovered, turned her face to the wall, and wept
and sobbed like a child,—perhaps, mother, you can tell what she was
thinking of! Perhaps you cannot,—but she felt as sure, in that hour,
that God had had mercy on her, and that she should see her daughter,—as
she did, months afterwards,—when—but we anticipate.
CHAPTER XLIII
Results
The rest of our story is soon told. George Shelby, interested, as any
other young man might be, by the romance of the incident, no less than
by feelings of humanity, was at the pains to send to Cassy the bill of
sale of Eliza; whose date and name all corresponded with her own
knowledge of facts, and felt no doubt upon her mind as to the identity
of her child. It remained now only for her to trace out the path of the
fugitives.
Madame de Thoux and she, thus drawn together by the singular
coincidence of their fortunes, proceeded immediately to Canada, and
began a tour of inquiry among the stations, where the numerous
fugitives from slavery are located. At Amherstberg they found the
missionary with whom George and Eliza had taken shelter, on their first
arrival in Canada; and through him were enabled to trace the family to
Montreal.
George and Eliza had now been five years free. George had found
constant occupation in the shop of a worthy machinist, where he had
been earning a competent support for his family, which, in the mean
time, had been increased by the addition of another daughter.
Little Harry—a fine bright boy—had been put to a good school, and was
making rapid proficiency in knowledge.
The worthy pastor of the station, in Amherstberg, where George had
first landed, was so much interested in the statements of Madame de
Thoux and Cassy, that he yielded to the solicitations of the former, to
accompany them to Montreal, in their search,—she bearing all the
expense of the expedition.
The scene now changes to a small, neat tenement, in the outskirts of
Montreal; the time, evening. A cheerful fire blazes on the hearth; a
tea-table, covered with a snowy cloth, stands prepared for the evening
meal. In one corner of the room was a table covered with a green cloth,
where was an open writing-desk, pens, paper, and over it a shelf of
well-selected books.
This was George’s study. The same zeal for self-improvement, which led
him to steal the much coveted arts of reading and writing, amid all the
toil and discouragements of his early life, still led him to devote all
his leisure time to self-cultivation.
At this present time, he is seated at the table, making notes from a
volume of the family library he has been reading.
“Come, George,” says Eliza, “you’ve been gone all day. Do put down that
book, and let’s talk, while I’m getting tea,—do.”
And little Eliza seconds the effort, by toddling up to her father, and
trying to pull the book out of his hand, and install herself on his
knee as a substitute.
“O, you little witch!” says George, yielding, as, in such
circumstances, man always must.
“That’s right,” says Eliza, as she begins to cut a loaf of bread. A
little older she looks; her form a little fuller; her air more matronly
than of yore; but evidently contented and happy as woman need be.
“Harry, my boy, how did you come on in that sum, today?” says George,
as he laid his hand on his son’s head.
Harry has lost his long curls; but he can never lose those eyes and
eyelashes, and that fine, bold brow, that flushes with triumph, as he
answers, “I did it, every bit of it, _myself_, father; and _nobody_
helped me!”
“That’s right,” says his father; “depend on yourself, my son. You have