I.
Years ago, before the permanent organization of the Underground Railroad, when the escape of fugitives was largely a haphazard matter, there lived on the sacred soil of Virginia, back a few miles from Wheeling, a pleasant, companionable man, owning a number of slaves, among them one known as “Uncle Jake,” the happy husband of an exemplary wife, who had borne him several children, some of whom they had seen grow to manhood and womanhood, while others still remained with them in the cabin.
Uncle Jake was an expert mason, and brought his master large wages. The latter, in the generosity of his heart, had stipulated that a certain per cent. of these should be credited up to Jake for the purchase of the freedom of himself and wife. When he turned his fifty-ninth birthday the sum agreed upon was nearly reached, and the faithful man went out to a job in Wheeling, with the full assurance that on his sixtieth anniversary he and his hale old wife should go forth to the enjoyment of the blessings of free people. Thus incited, his trowel was nimbly handled as the days flew by.
A little improvident and immethodical in his business, the master had contracted large obligations, which he was unable to meet; his paper matured; his creditors swooped down upon him simultaneously, and in a single day he was stripped of everything. His slaves, with the exception of Uncle Jake, who was purchased at a round figure by a neighbor who had long coveted him, were sold to a southern trader, and on Saturday morning, chained into separate coffles, the unhappy wife and mother, with her children, forming one by themselves, whilst the father, indulging in pleasant day-dreams of the future, was busily plying his craft in one part of the town, were driven through another, down to the river, and put on board a steamer for New Orleans.
Evening came, and the week’s work ended, Uncle Jake started with a light heart homeward. When he reached the neighborhood sometime after nightfall, he was apprised by a friend on the lookout for him, of the fate of the master—of himself and loved ones. Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, he could not have been more shocked. Learning, also, that his new master, a tyrannical man, was waiting his coming, he turned aside to give vent to his grief. Had he been sold with the family he could have endured it, for then there might have been a chance of occasional meeting; indeed, he and his wife might have been sold to the same plantation; but now they were gone—separated forever. Under the blue dome of heaven, with the myriad stars looking down upon him, he wept—wept as only a man can weep under such circumstances—until the reaction came, when a lion-like manhood asserted itself in the laconic expression, “Not one more stroke in slavery.”
Arising with the clear-cut resolution to obtain his freedom or perish in the attempt, he proceeded stealthily to his cabin, armed himself with a large butcher knife and a heavy walking stick, and taking one last look at objects, though humble, still dear to him, he set out with elastic step towards the river. About one-half the distance had been gone over, when he perceived himself pursued. He turned aside, hoping to secrete himself, but in vain; he had been sighted, and was summoned to surrender.
To the challenge, he responded: “I am yours if you can take me.”
The two men, his new master and an attendant, dismounted and hitched their horses, thinking the conquest of the “cowardly nigger” would be an easy matter. But not so. The man who for nearly three-score years had manifested only the meekness of a child, was now endowed with the spirit and prowess of a giant. A well-aimed blow of the bludgeon laid his master a quivering corpse at his feet, and several well-directed strokes of the butcher knife sent the other covered with ghastly, bleeding wounds, fainting to the roadside.
Mounting the fleetest horse, Jake made his way rapidly to the river, and plunging in soon found himself landed safely on the Ohio shore. Taking to a highway soon found, he followed the lead of the north star, and just at daybreak turned into a woodland ravine, and spent the quiet autumnal Sabbath watching the grazing of the faithful horse upon such herbage as he could find, and in meditating upon the wonderful revelations and events of the past twenty-four hours.
Night clear and beautiful, came again, and Jake pursued his onward way, and in the early morning turned his jaded beast loose in a retired pasture lot not far from Salem; threw the saddle and bridle into a ravine, on the principle that “dead men tell no tales,” and prospecting about for some time, saw emerge from a farm house a broad-brimmed hat, which he had learned was a sure sign of food and protection. Approaching the Quaker farmer, Uncle Jake declared himself a fugitive, and applied for food and shelter, which were freely granted.
Tuesday the stage coach brought into Salem a hand-bill giving a full description of Uncle Jake, telling of the killing of the master, the probable mortal wounding of the other, and offering a large reward for his apprehension.
“Thee oughtest to have struck more carefully, friend,” said the Quaker, when he had learned thus fully the measure of his protégé’s adventure, “but then as it was in the dark, we may pardon thee thy error, but Salem is not a safe place for such as thee. I shall take thee to my friend, Dr. Benjamin Stanton, who will instruct thee as to what thee is to do.”
Accordingly, when nightfall made it safe, the Quaker took Jake to the house of his friend, who was none other than a cousin of Lincoln’s great War Secretary, where having exchanged his laborer’s garb for a suit of army blue, richly trimmed with brass buttons, a style of dress much admired by colored people in those old days of militia training, and a high-crowned hat, he was immediately posted off to the care of one Barnes, residing on the confines of Boardman, bearing to him the simple admonition, “It is hot.”
Not appreciating the full merits of the case, Barnes took him in the early morning and started for Warren by way of Youngstown. Here he was espied by two questionable characters, who having seen the hand-bill advertising Jake, and knowing the antecedents of Barnes, justly surmised that the black gentleman in blue might be none other than the individual for whom the reward was offered, and at once planned a pursuit, but not until the eagle eye of the driver had detected their motions. Leaving the main road, he struck across the Liberty hills. When near Loy’s Corners he perceived they were pursued, and bade Jake alight and make for some place of safety, while he would try and lead the pursuers off the trail.
In a land of strangers and without protective weapons save his knife, Jake could do nothing more than to run up to a little wagon shop by the wayside, in the doorway of which stood an honest Pennsylvania Dutchman named Samuel Goist, and exclaimed, “Lor’ Massa, save me from the slave catcher.”
Now, Mr. Goist was a Democrat of the straightest sect, and had long sworn by “Sheneral Shackson;” he had never before seen a panting fugitive and knew nothing of secretive methods, but when he saw the venerable, though unique form before him, his generous heart was touched, and he replied: “Hite gwick in ter hay yonder till I cums,” pointing at the same time to a last year’s haystack, into which the cattle had eaten deep recesses.
It was but the work of a moment, and sable form, blue suit and plug hat were viewless in what the winter before had often sheltered the semi-farmer’s choicest steer from pitiless storm.
Scarcely was this feat executed when the Youngstown parties came up and knowing the political complexion of the honest wagon-maker inquired, “Halloo, old dad, have you seen a buggy go by here with a white man, and a nigger dressed in blue, in it?”
“Ya, shentelmen, py shimmeny; dot puggy vent py das corner ond yonder not more as den minit aco, unt er vas trifing das horse, py shingo. I dinks you not oferdakes him much pefore Vorren.”
With an expression of rough thanks, the men struck off under a full gallop which carried them into Warren right speedily, but in the meantime Barnes had watched his opportunity, turned off through Niles, and pursued his homeward journey by way of Austintown.
Turning from his shop when his interrogators were out of sight, Mr. Goist called his good frou and said, “Vell, Mutter, I kes I haf lite shust a lidel.”
“Vot, you, fater, haf lite? O mine!”
“Vell, Mutter, you zee von plack man comes along unt asks me him for to hite, unt I say in dem stock; unt den cums sum mans fon Youngstown unt says he ‘Olt dat, you sees von puggy mit nigger unt vite man goes dis vay?’ Unt I say, ‘Ya, dot puggy vas kon py like a shtreak.’”
“O mine, fater, das vas no liegen; you shust say dot puggy vas kon.”
“Vell, if dot mans was Sheneral Shackson, I should him tell shust der zame.”
That evening Uncle Jake received an ample supper from the larder of good Mother Goist, and was then placed in a wagon under a cover of straw and conveyed close to the house of a Mr. Stewart near the corner of Vienna, whom rumor had pointed out to the honest Dutchman as one of “dem aperlishioners.” Here he was bidden “goot py,” and soon found his way to the cabin indicated, whence in due time he was forwarded to General Andrew Bushnell, a prominent anti-slavery man south of the centre of Hartford.