"
"If my baby's made white in heaven, I'm afraid I won't know him," the
woman said, nodding, and wandering in her mind.
"At last the Delawareans marched on Johnson's Cross-roads an' cleaned
his Pangymonum thar out, an' guarded him, and sixteen pore niggers in
chains he'd kidnapped, to Georgetown jail. Young John M. Clayton was
paid by the Phildelfy Quakers to git him convicted. Johnson was strong
in the county--we're in it now, Sussex--an' if Clayton hadn't skeered
the jury almost to death, it would have disagreed. He held 'em over
bilin' hell, an' dipped 'em thar till the court-room was like a
Methodis' revival meetin', with half that jury cryin' 'Save me, save me,
Lord!' while some of 'em had Joe Johnson's money in their pockets. Joe
was licked at the post, banished from the state, an' so skeered that he
laid low awhile, goin' off somewhar--to Missoury, or Floridey, or
Allybamy. But Patty Cannon never flinched; she trained the young boys
around yer to be her sleuth-hounds an' go stealin' for her; an', till
she dies, it's safer to be a chicken than a free nigger. They stole you,
pore creatur' from Phildelfy, an' they steal 'em in Jersey and away into
North Carliney; fur Joe Johnson's a smart feller fur enterprise, and
Patty Cannon's deep as death an' the grave."
Phoebus looked at the woman sitting in the scow, and he saw that she
was fast asleep; his tale having no power to startle her senses, now
worn-out by every infliction.
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