When the excitement had somewhat subsided the late master revealed to them the fact that he was going north where it was respectable for a white man to labor, and if any of them should ever come his way they would see him chopping his own wood and hoeing his own corn, and that they were now free to go where they chose, only they must see they did not lose their papers.
“Bress de good Lor’, Massa, we’ll go wid you to dat new plantashun and be spect’ble too, and make light work for ol’ Massa.”
Though foreign to the purpose of Mr. Young, he yielded to the importunity of those he had manumitted, and soon there appeared on the Pennsylvania purchase a spacious residence, built rather in the Virginia style, and around it were grouped numerous, cabins, occupied by the sable colony that had followed the Caucassian proprietor. The family equipage was brought along, and Alexander Johnson always persisted in being Massa’s coachman and driving him in state.
The farm improved rapidly under the guidance of intelligence, aided by paid labor, and John Young’s house soon became known as a hospitable home, and to none more so than to the fugitive from bondage, for he early became an influential agent on the great thoroughfare to Canada.
Securing the aid of a few neighbors and friends, rather as a matter of compliment than otherwise, Mr. Young had erected, at a convenient site, a nice country chapel, now a Methodist church in which the writer has been privileged to speak, and here the people of the neighborhood, white and black, met for worship.
The Sabbath evening service in this little church had closed and the speaker, J. W. Loguen, an eloquent man, though a former fugitive from slavery, but at that time pastor of a Baptist church in Syracuse, N. Y., and largely engaged in the underground transit business, sat conversing with Mr. Young, in the home of the latter gentleman, when Uncle ’Lec, as the old coachman was familiarly called, entered and excitedly exclaimed, “Mass Young, him am come, him am come.”
“Who has come, Alec?” queried the host kindly.
“Why, Massa, dat runaway wot de han’ vill tell bout, an’ him am fearfu’ scar’ an’ no mistake, fo’ he say de catchers am arter him shua.”
“Bring him in, Alec,” said Mr. Young, and in a moment more there was ushered into the room a tall, muscular colored man, bearing evident traces of white blood and answering fully the description of Jack Watson. His story, other than what we have already learned, was that at Warren, being suspicious of so many white men, he had gone out of the back yard of Mr. Douglass and a short distance along the canal and secreted himself until night in an old ware-house, still well remembered as bearing the inscription, “Forwarding and Commission. M. B. Taylor & Co.” In the evening he had struck out for Indian Run, of which Old Diligence had told him. He had traveled all the night, but not being able to reach his destination, had lain secreted during the day, and now hungry and fearful he appealed to Mr. Young for food and protection, both of which were readily accorded.
After the cravings of appetite had been satisfied, a conference was held, and it was decided that Jack should try and make Syracuse, after which Mr. Loguen would assure both safety and employment. Owing to the well-known character of Mr. Young and his attachés, and unmistakable evidences of close pursuit that had preceded Jack’s coming, it was further determined to forward him at once to “Safe Haven.” In accordance with this decision the family carriage, an imposing piece of “rolling stock,” soon stood at the door with ’Lec consequentially seated upon the box. A moment later, Jack, Mr. Loguen, and stalwart John Young emerged from the mansion, and as they took their seats in the carriage, Mr. Young said: “Now, Alec, look well to your lines and remember the ‘Haven’ is to be made before daylight.”