第 四十二 章 · An Authentic Ghost Story

. An Authentic Ghost Story

For some remarkable reason, ghostly legends were uncommonly rife, about

this time, among the servants on Legree’s place.

It was whisperingly asserted that footsteps, in the dead of night, had

been heard descending the garret stairs, and patrolling the house. In

vain the doors of the upper entry had been locked; the ghost either

carried a duplicate key in its pocket, or availed itself of a ghost’s

immemorial privilege of coming through the keyhole, and promenaded as

before, with a freedom that was alarming.

Authorities were somewhat divided, as to the outward form of the

spirit, owing to a custom quite prevalent among negroes,—and, for aught

we know, among whites, too,—of invariably shutting the eyes, and

covering up heads under blankets, petticoats, or whatever else might

come in use for a shelter, on these occasions. Of course, as everybody

knows, when the bodily eyes are thus out of the lists, the spiritual

eyes are uncommonly vivacious and perspicuous; and, therefore, there

were abundance of full-length portraits of the ghost, abundantly sworn

and testified to, which, as is often the case with portraits, agreed

with each other in no particular, except the common family peculiarity

of the ghost tribe,—the wearing of a _white sheet_. The poor souls were

not versed in ancient history, and did not know that Shakspeare had

authenticated this costume, by telling how

“The _sheeted_ dead

Did squeak and gibber in the streets of Rome.”[1]

[1] _Hamlet_, Act I, scene 1, lines 115-116

And, therefore, their all hitting upon this is a striking fact in

pneumatology, which we recommend to the attention of spiritual media

generally.

Be it as it may, we have private reasons for knowing that a tall figure

in a white sheet did walk, at the most approved ghostly hours, around

the Legree premises,—pass out the doors, glide about the

house,—disappear at intervals, and, reappearing, pass up the silent

stairway, into that fatal garret; and that, in the morning, the entry

doors were all found shut and locked as firm as ever.

Legree could not help overhearing this whispering; and it was all the

more exciting to him, from the pains that were taken to conceal it from

him. He drank more brandy than usual; held up his head briskly, and

swore louder than ever in the daytime; but he had bad dreams, and the

visions of his head on his bed were anything but agreeable. The night

after Tom’s body had been carried away, he rode to the next town for a

carouse, and had a high one. Got home late and tired; locked his door,

took out the key, and went to bed.

After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it down, a human

soul is an awful ghostly, unquiet possession, for a bad man to have.

Who knows the metes and bounds of it? Who knows all its awful

perhapses,—those shudderings and tremblings, which it can no more live

down than it can outlive its own eternity! What a fool is he who locks

his door to keep out spirits, who has in his own bosom a spirit he

dares not meet alone,—whose voice, smothered far down, and piled over

with mountains of earthliness, is yet like the forewarning trumpet of

doom!

But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it; he set a

night-lamp at the head of his bed; and put his pistols there. He

examined the catches and fastenings of the windows, and then swore he

“didn’t care for the devil and all his angels,” and went to sleep.

Well, he slept, for he was tired,—slept soundly. But, finally, there

came over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an apprehension of something

dreadful hanging over him. It was his mother’s shroud, he thought; but

Cassy had it, holding it up, and showing it to him. He heard a confused

noise of screams and groanings; and, with it all, he knew he was

asleep, and he struggled to wake himself. He was half awake. He was

sure something was coming into his room. He knew the door was opening,

but he could not stir hand or foot. At last he turned, with a start;

the door _was_ open, and he saw a hand putting out his light.

It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it!—something white,

gliding in! He heard the still rustle of its ghostly garments. It stood

still by his bed;—a cold hand touched his; a voice said, three times,

in a low, fearful whisper, “Come! come! come!” And, while he lay

sweating with terror, he knew not when or how, the thing was gone. He

sprang out of bed, and pulled at the door. It was shut and locked, and

the man fell down in a swoon.

After this, Legree became a harder drinker than ever before. He no

longer drank cautiously, prudently, but imprudently and recklessly.

There were reports around the country, soon after that he was sick and

dying. Excess had brought on that frightful disease that seems to throw

the lurid shadows of a coming retribution back into the present life.

None could bear the horrors of that sick room, when he raved and

screamed, and spoke of sights which almost stopped the blood of those

who heard him; and, at his dying bed, stood a stern, white, inexorable

figure, saying, “Come! come! come!”

By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this vision appeared

to Legree, the house-door was found open in the morning, and some of

the negroes had seen two white figures gliding down the avenue towards

the high-road.

It was near sunrise when Cassy and Emmeline paused, for a moment, in a

little knot of trees near the town.

Cassy was dressed after the manner of the Creole Spanish ladies,—wholly

in black. A small black bonnet on her head, covered by a veil thick

with embroidery, concealed her face. It had been agreed that, in their

escape, she was to personate the character of a Creole lady, and

Emmeline that of her servant.

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.