Escape from the Confederacy

by Benjamin F. Hasson

Now, as the day began to dawn, I was utterly prostrated, and with great difficulty reached some corn fodder stacks standing in a field. Lying down between the stacks. I remained there throughout the day, suffering intensely. About dark I got up and staggered to a cabin which I noticed during the day, standing some distance away. Fortunately I found it occupied by black people. Giving them a brief account of myself, I asked for some hot tea of some kind. The woman went hastily to work to get it. I retired a short distance from the house, as a precaution, and waited until it was brought out. It was made of herbs of some kind, and revived me very much. Louisburg is situated on the north bank of the Tar River. I was at this time two or three miles south of the river. Getting what information I could here, I started straight down the south side of the river, leaving Louisburg to my left. I succeeded in making a point some five or six miles below, and east of the town, that night. The river runs eastward and empties into the Pamlico river at Greenville.

Almost perishing from cold and exhaustion, I anxiously awaited for daylight. It was my rule to look for a black man—in case I needed to see one—between dark and bed-time or about daylight in the morning. When daylight appeared I fortunately found one without much trouble, and it happened he was one of more than the average intelligence. Explaining my situation, I told him it was necessary that I should conceal myself for several days until I could gain strength. Realizing that an over-indulgence in food of any kind was dangerous on account of the debilitated condition of my stomach, I was very careful, but with all my caution, I had taken too much of the ash cake, and it came near killing me. We were not far from the river, and the man thought it advisable for us to cross to the north side, as he thought he knew of a place over there which would be safe from intrusion. So we hurried to the river bank, got into a "dug-out" which he pulled from among the bushes, and paddled across. The river banks were lined with timber and thick underbrush, and often swampy ground. We pushed into the brush and soon came to the spot which he had fixed upon for my abode. The river was only a few rods wide, and in many places very difficult to approach on account of the heavy growth of brush of different kinds. The black people, however, knew every inch of the ground, and had secreted in many places all sorts of small boats—everything of the kind that would float and carry one across. A couple of small logs tied together would be sufficient, and even these, I afterwards learned, could be found in many places. The man, fearing his absence might be noticed, hurried away, telling me to remain there until night. That night he re-appeared, accompanied by another man. This second man proved to be my guardian angel, as I shall show further along. They had with them some herb tea and a part of a bed quilt, both of which were of great value at that time. For some days I was in the greatest distress.

During the stay at this place I would have more or less black people to see me every night. Curiosity to see a Northern man and a desire to render aid in any way, was the motive which brought them. While there were a few free negroes among the visitors, the greater number were slaves. The latter would give accounts of their troubles, and many woeful stories of cruelty were rehearsed.

At this place a black man gave me a dirk knife with a double-edged blade, for the purpose, he said, of protecting myself against dogs or other enemies. He had made it by grinding down a file, and had produced a very formidable weapon. I have always remembered these people with the greatest interest. There was that one before spoken of who won my fullest gratitude. His name was Ben—Ben Foster. Foster, of course, was the name of the man who owned him. When I was weakest this man would carry me from place to place, when he thought there was danger of discovery by remaining too long in one place.

I went in search of him a few years after the war, and found him not far from the scene of our first acquaintance. The incident of meeting this man a few years after the war was one of the most pleasant experiences I ever met with. He, of course, did not know me when I first approached, but to witness the looks of surprise and hear his expressions of happiness at seeing me again, alive and well, was worth to me a great deal more than it cost to go South and hunt him up. I was accompanied on the trip by M. L. A. McCracken, Esq., an eminent attorney, of Washington, Pa., and he was both interested and amused at the scene when we met.

Many of these slaves were shrewd and observing and fairly intelligent, and in conversation about matters connected with the war gave evidence of a pretty good understanding of the condition of things. They knew they were a prominent factor in the issue. And what wonderful faith they had in the guiding hand of an over-ruling Providence—faith in God and Massa Lincoln. Their simplicity and earnestness in religious matters and their superstitions were prominent characteristics. An old aunty told me to look out for the owls. If one hooted in front of me it meant bad luck; if one to the right or left or rear, it meant something—good, bad or worse; I forget just how they had it arranged. A man named Dick, an interesting character, who had more than once, he told me, attempted to get away from bondage, but was as often overtaken and returned to his master, came often to see me. He was a laughing, rollicking sort of a fellow, and was usually engaged in humming a melody or dancing—always full of merriment and music. He told me one night he would go and get a fishing line, and next morning would go to the river and get us some fish. I fully endorsed the proposition, because it promised to secure a kind of food I was very much in need of. The corn bread had sickened me; my stomach revolted against accepting it, but it was very difficult to get anything else, and I was compelled to use it. Before daybreak the following morning I was startled from an uneasy slumber by hearing Dick's familiar voice breaking the stillness of the season by humming, in a tone somewhat suppressed:

"Cold, frosty mo'nin', niggah very good,

Wid his axe on his shouldah, slippin' fro' de wood,

Old rusty hoe cake, not a bit of fat,

White folks grumble if you eat too much o' dat."