Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

H. U. JOHNSON.

FROM
DIXIE TO CANADA
Romances and Realities
OF THE
UNDERGROUND RAILROAD

BY

H. U. JOHNSON

AUTHOR OF “SEVENTEEN SEVENTY-SIX AND OTHER POEMS” AND “OBED IN THE GREAT CO-PARTNERSHIP.”

VOL. I

FIRST THOUSAND

ORWELL, OHIO

H. U. JOHNSON

BUFFALO

CHARLES WELLS MOULTON

1894

Copyright, 1894,

By H. U. JOHNSON.

(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.)

Printed by Charles Wells Moulton, Buffalo, N. Y.

DEDICATION.

To the millions of happy grand-children of a generation fast leaving the stage of action, and who must get their knowledge of the Rebellion and its causes from the lips of those who saw and participated or from the pages of history, as we, the grand-parents, got ours of the Revolution from those long since passed away, and from the written records of that thrilling period, this little volume of unique but wonderful history is sincerely and most affectionately dedicated by one of the Grandfathers.

PREFACE.

The years intervening since the abolition of American slavery leave a majority of our people ignorant of its workings, and of matters connected with it, except as they are gleaned from the pages of history, or from the lips of those now grown old.

It is not the purpose of this little volume to discuss the history of the “peculiar institution” in detail, but simply to give so much of it as will make appreciable the cause for another one equally “peculiar,” known for the last twenty years of its existence as the Underground Railroad,—a name for a mode of operation, and not of a corporation or material object.

During the years of its operation, secrecy was a cardinal, an imperative principle of its management, as the following pages will make apparent. On the breaking out of the War of the Rebellion, thus putting an end to its operations, every other subject was swallowed up in the excitement of the great struggle, and subsequently in that of Reconstruction. Thus the Road dropped measurably out of sight, leaving but meager reports and archives to tell the story of its working.

The promptings of a desire to leave to posterity some realistic record of this, one of the most wonderful and thrilling features of our national history, no parallel to which is afforded in the annals of time, must be the excuse for these pages. During the eighties, the writer, who had lived amid its excitements for years, and was more or less familiar with the writings of Coffin, Pettit, the Clarkes and others, undertook a systematic research into the matter, the result of which was the accumulation of a large fund of incident and information pertaining to the Road, much of which was published in the Home Magazine between the years 1883 and 1889, inclusive. Those articles, in part, carefully revised, are now placed before the reader in this more permanent form, with the hope that they may receive the generous approval of an appreciative public.

The Author.

Orwell, Ohio, May 20, 1894.

CONTENTS.

JIM JONES IN THE BLACKSMITH SHOP.

INTRODUCTION.

The quiet of a midsummer night had settled down over the city of Washington, when, in August, 1839, a dusky form came, with stealthy tread, from among some buildings not far away, and cautiously approached the eastern entrance to the Capitol. Laying his hand upon the cold steps in the shadow of the great building, Jim Jones, a colored boy of about seventeen, attentively listened as if in expectation of some preconcerted signal.

He had waited but a moment thus, when the hand of a patrol was laid heavily upon his shoulder and the rough query, “What does this mean, you black rascal?” fell upon his ear.

“Dunno, Massa,” was the reply of the startled boy.

“Don’t know, you black imp?”

“No, Massa, dunno what fo’ I was hea.”

“Well, you know, you young nigger, you have no business here at this hour of the night.”

“Yes, Massa, I knowed de night am for white folks, and I jus’ cum for to see—”

“Some d—d abolitionist who is trying to get you away.”

“No, no, Massa.”

“Well, come along and we shall see,” saying which he rudely hurried the boy away to a place of safe keeping.

In the early morning Jim was recognized by his master, who vainly tried to extort from him by questioning the cause of his nocturnal ramble. Failing in this, the boy was taken to a blacksmith shop and his thumbs placed end to end in the jaws of a vice.

“Now,” said the master, “tell me why you were abroad last night.”

“I dunno,” replied Jim.

A half turn of the screw, and a groan of pain escaped the boy; another turn and he writhed in agony.

“Now you black son of a b——ch, why were you at the Capitol last night?”

“O Lor’, Massa, a white man tol’ me I should come.”

“What did he want of you?”

“Fo’ to go norf’.”

“And so you were going?”

“Y-e-s—Massa—I—was—fo’—to—go.”

“How?”

“On a railroad undah de groun’.”

“Under the ground?”

“Yes, Massa, so the gem’an said. He was jus’ comin’ to open de way, when Massa da’ cotched me.”

“Who was he?”

“Dunno, Massa.”

Another turn of the screw, and in the agony of despair the boy yelled, “Dunno, dunno, Massa, dunno,” and swooned away.

After resuscitation the torture was again applied, but nothing farther was elicited, as the boy continued to aver he had never heard the name of the man who was to lead him; and, indeed, he had met him only in the dark.

Though for years slaves had from time to time been stealing away from the kind attentions of their masters, and, indeed, very frequently of late, yet never before had the latter dreamed that their “chattel” went by subterranean transit, and the theme became one of such absorbing interest that, when two months later five prominent slaves escaped from the city in a single night, a Washington morning paper heralded the matter before the world for the first time as follows:—

“UNDERGROUND RAILROAD!

A Mystery Not Yet Solved.”

“The abolition incendiaries are undermining, not only our domestic institutions, but the very foundations of our Capitol. Our citizens will recollect that the boy Jim, who was arrested last August, while lurking about the Capitol, would disclose nothing until he was subject to torture by screwing his fingers in a blacksmith’s vice, when he acknowledged that he was to have been sent north by railroad; was to have started near the place where he stood when discovered by the patrol. He refused to tell who was to aid him—said he did not know—and most likely he did not. Nothing more could be got from him until they gave the screw another turn, when he said: ‘The railroad goes under ground all the way to Boston.’ Our citizens are losing all their best servants. Some secret Yankee arrangement has been contrived by which they ‘stampede’ from three to eight at a time, and no trace of them can be found until they reach the interior of New York or the New England States. They can not have gone by railroad, as every station is closely watched by a secret police, yet there is no other conveyance by which a man can reach Albany in two days. That they have done so, is now clearly demonstrated. Colonel Hardy, a tobacco planter residing in the District, about five miles from the city, lost five more slaves last Sunday evening. They were pursued by an expert slave catcher, but no trace of them was discovered. The search was abandoned this morning, the Colonel having received a paper called the Liberty Press, printed in Albany, with the following article so marked as to claim his attention:

“‘Arrived, this morning, by our fast train, three men and two women. They were claimed as slaves by Colonel Hardy, of the District of Columbia, but became dissatisfied with the Colonel’s ways of bucking Harry, making love to Nancy and other similar displays of masterly affection, and left the old fellow’s premises last Sunday evening, arriving at our station by the quickest passage on record.’

“The article recites many incidents that have transpired in the Colonel’s family, that correspond so exactly with facts that the Colonel says: ‘Nobody but Kate could have told that story!’ Said article closes by saying: ‘Now, Colonel H., please give yourself no trouble about these friends of yours, for they will be safe under the protection of the British Lion before this meets your eyes.’”

The term which had been given to poor Jim, in confidence, as the means by which he was to make his escape from bondage, and extorted from him by torture, having thus been given to the world from the city of Washington, became henceforth the universal appelation for a corporation which, for more than twenty years thereafter, extended its great trunk lines across all the northern states from Mason and Dixon’s line and the Ohio River to the Queen’s Dominion, and its ramifications far into the southern states. It was most efficiently officered, and had its side tracks, connections and switches; its stations and eating houses all thoroughly well recognized by the initiated; its station agents and conductors, men undaunted in danger and unswerving in their adherence to principle; its system of cypher dispatches, tokens and nomenclature which no attaché ever revealed except to those having a right to receive them, and its detective force characterized by a shrewdness in expedients and a versatility of strategy which attached to any mere money making enterprise would have put “millions in it.” It received the support of men and women from every class, sect, and party, though from some more than from others; its character was engraven, as by a pen of fire, in the hearts and consciences of men, burning deeper and deeper, until finally abrogated in that grand emancipation proclamation of Abraham Lincoln, when it was found that its stock, always unwatered but by tears, had yielded an incomputable percentage in the freedom secured to over thirty-six thousand fugitives from human bondage, and embodied in houses, lands, schools, churches and social and domestic happiness.

Now that the track is all pulled up; that the rolling stock has disappeared; that most of the operators and passengers have gone down into silence or are dwelling in forgetfulness of accumulating years, and that only a few of the old stations remain as they were, a new generation pertinently inquires, “What called such a road into existence and how were its gigantic operations so successfully and yet so secretly carried on?”

To the first of these questions it may be replied that the history of American slavery is older than the story of Plymouth Rock. In the year 1619 a cargo of Africans, kidnapped on the coast of the “Dark Continent,” was sold from the deck of a Dutch man-of-war at Jamestown, Va., to be used in the cultivation of tobacco along the river.

At that time very little was thought about the enormity of human slavery. The labor proved remunerative, and the institution spread over the original colonies, with little or no question, so that at the breaking out of the Revolution there were 500,000 bondmen, a standing menace to the cause of freedom, and yet technically said to be “armed in the holy cause of liberty.”

On the adoption of the constitution in 1787, public sentiment had become so strong against the African slave trade that provision was made for its abolition in 1808. Persistent effort was also made, particularly by the Quakers, for the ultimate abolition of slavery itself, but without avail, as it was claimed by its apologists that it would ultimately die of its own accord—a prophecy in some sense fulfilled, though in a manner all undreamed by those who made it.

THE TRACY WAGON SHOP.

SLAVE PEN IN ATLANTA, GA.
(PHOTOGRAPHED WHILST GEN. SHERMAN’S ARMY HELD THE CITY.)

Though Anti-slavery Societies had long been in vogue, of one of which Benjamin Franklin had been president, it was found by the census of 1800 that the country contained 893,000 slaves. From this time forward one after another of the Northern States abolished it, until it finally disappeared from New York last of all, July 4th, 1827. In the meantime it was strengthened in the South. The invention of the cotton gin and the extensive manufacture of sugar in the Gulf States, made the rearing of slaves in those farther north very lucrative, and slave marts were set up in many of their cities and towns to which men, women and children were brought and sold upon the auction block and at private sale.

The slaves thus purchased in Maryland, Virginia, Kentucky and elsewhere for the more southern markets were either driven across the country like so many cattle, or, if more convenient, taken down the Ohio and Mississippi on steam-boats or in flats, all those deemed likely to give trouble being handcuffed together across a coffle chain, thus constituting a “coffle.”

On their arrival at the place of destination, they were more or less jaded and warm, and hence unmarketable until properly fitted up. To facilitate this, buildings or “pens” were provided where they were well fed and given liberal rations of whiskey. Under the management of some genial dealer, they were induced to tell stories, sing songs and make merry. In this way they were soon recuperated and ready for the ordeals of another sale in which they were subjected to much the same scrutiny of body and limb that is bestowed upon a horse when the person would ascertain its physical condition.

To escape this degradation and the hardships of the southern plantations, the more intelligent and hardy of the slave population early began to flee to the free states as an asylum from cruel bondage. As if in anticipation of this, the constitution had provided for their return, and under its provisions many were restored to their masters, through the cupidity of sordid northern men, for the rewards offered.

Finding so many of their chattels escaping and the sentiment against their return growing stronger and stronger, the southern people, with the aid of abettors at the north, succeeded in 1850, in securing the passage of the Fugitive Slave Law, which imposed heavy fines and even imprisonment for in any way aiding a fugitive from slavery to escape. By its provisions every man at the North was virtually made a slave catcher.

Canada now became the goal of the fugitive, and to its safe retreat thousands escaped, and yet so successful was the business of slave culture that in 1860 the whole number of persons held as mere chattels, without a vested right in land, or home, or wife, or husband, or child, or life, even, that might not be served by the will of the master, amounted to 3,953,000 souls. The bitterness of sectional feeling engendered by such a state of affairs, and the intense activity of nerve and intellect called forth thereby, can never be duly appreciated except by those who were active participants in the affairs of ten years ante bellum.

The second question, and, also, many points covered by the first, will be best answered by following the thread of these “Romances and Realities of the Underground Railroad,” gathered as they are from personal observation, extensive reading, visitations along many of the old lines, and numerous interviews and extensive correspondence with those heroic men and women who dared their fortunes and their personal liberty in the cause of humanity and right, still lingering among us, as, also, with many a passenger over this truly wonderful thoroughfare.

REFUGEES IN WASHINGTON CHURCHYARD.

CHAPTER I.
JO NORTON.

I.

So many and varied have been the changes of half a century, and so rapid the growth of the city in the past twenty-five years, that few of the present inhabitants of Washington, and less of its old-time frequenters, now ever think of the cemetery that skirted the stage road leading north from the city. True, in those by-gone days it was a popular burial place, even for the first families of the capital, but like many another “silent city” it long since fell into disuse, and consequently became for years the most desirable place near the city for an underground railroad station, and to such use it was assiduously appropriated.

In this solitary place, on a quiet Sabbath evening of October, 1839, there was heard just as the last faint twilight trembled on the western horizon a low, distinct whistle. Immediately there arose from among the growth of bushes and from behind already reclining headstones five dusky forms, actuated evidently by the same impulse. The whistle was repeated, and the forms cautiously approached the point whence it proceeded, and there gathered in presence of a stranger to them all, but with no previous knowledge of each other’s intent, though all of them were the property of the same man, Colonel Hardy, a tobacco planter of the District of Columbia, as previously stated in the “Introduction” to these “Romances and Realities.”

The first exclamations of surprise over, their unknown companion proceeded to give them the instructions for the night, after allaying their superstitious fears, that they were to sink into the earth for a time, and be under the conduct of invisible personages. Indeed, so far from that being the case they soon found very much depended upon their own physical exertion. No sinking down into the ground among the dead, no sojourn among spooks and ghosts, impressions that had almost gotten the better of their thirst for freedom, was to be theirs. On the contrary they were to take at once to the pike and follow it until they came to the said road, which was then to be their pathway, only turning out to pass around villages and stations until they came to a man standing in the track who should signal them by the simple name “Ben.” To him they were to yield themselves implicitly.

Seeing the little company once fairly started, the stranger returned to the city, and as he passed the post-office deposited therein a letter addressed,

“JOHN JONES, Esq.,

Albany,

N. Y.”

Leaving this missive and the fugitives to pursue their respective journeys, we pause to inquire into the personalities of the latter. They were named, respectively, Nancy, Kate, Robert, Harry and Jo, or more complete, Jo Norton.

As has been said, they were the property of one man, and when not needed on the plantation, were hired out in the city. Harry was recognized among his fellows as a man of spirit and ability; but the latter quality never saved him from the frequent “buckings” engendered by the too free play of the former. Nancy, an octaroon, was well formed, about twenty years of age, and according to Kate, who had a spontaneous gift of gossip, a special favorite of the “Kunnel.”

Jo Norton was a sprightly, intelligent fellow, and had a wife named Mary, who, with their little boy, was the property of a Mr. Judson, residing in the city. In his boyhood Jo had been continually employed upon the plantation, but after he was sixteen was engaged at a hotel during the winter for several years. For a long time in this place it was his special duty to wait upon Daniel Webster at table and otherwise. It was whilst thus employed that he became acquainted with and won Mary, who had the care of the great statesman’s rooms. During the summer, the Colonel, when reasonably good natured, allowed Jo to visit his wife and child once in two weeks, on Sunday. When too choleric to grant his “chattel” this indulgence, a pass was readily secured from the old man’s daughter, who was his private secretary, and with whom Jo was a great favorite. In these visits the possibility of an escape, more especially for the sake of their boy, was frequently discussed, though no plan was ever perfected.

One evening whilst returning from one of these visitations, Jo fell in company with a gentleman whose manner so impressed him that he asked if he were not from “de Norf.”

“Yes, from Massachusetts,” said the stranger.

“Wy, Massa, dat am de home ob de great Dan’l Webster.”

“Yes; I know him very well.”

“Yes, Massa, an’ doan dis chile knows dat great man to?”

“How is that?”

“Wy, Massa, doan I stan’ ’hind his chaah all dese winters wen him comes to Congress?”

“Ah, I see. But wouldn’t you like to go north and be free?”

“Lor’ Massa, dat was wat Mary and I talks ’bout dis blessed day.”

“Who is Mary?”

“Mary am my wife, sah, and James am my little boy. Da’longs to anuder man.”

“A wife and child!” said the stranger half musingly. “Well my good fellow, we will see what can be done, but we must talk no more now. Meet me on the corner of “F” and the Avenue two weeks from to-day at noon.”

“Yes sah,” and the two parted.

Two weeks passed, and, as agreed, the parties met, the one readily assuming the air of a southern gentleman and the other instinctively falling into the role of his servant. Thus they passed on until a quiet place was reached, when it was agreed that Jo should take a designated place in the old cemetery three weeks from that night, but that Mary and the child should be left in the city till a fitting way for their escape presented itself. In the mean time the other parties had been separately interviewed, and assigned their several hiding places, and given the signal which would call them into the presence of a stranger. Thus it was that they came together unawares.

II.

Once upon the public highway the little party struck out briskly for the railroad upon which they turned their faces towards Baltimore, and following their instructions were making fine progress, when, about midnight, as they were passing around a village the heavens became suddenly overcast with clouds, and for an hour or more they wandered in uncertainty. A halt being called, a lively discussion based upon five different opinions arose, and how it might have terminated no one can tell had not the heavens just then cleared up, enabling Harry, who was both conductor to and astronomer for the train, to get their bearings from “de ol’ norf.” So much time had thus been lost that daybreak was just beginning to tinge the east when the mystical word “Ben” fell from the lips of a man standing upon the track, whom they at once followed for some distance into a corn-field, where he removed several bundles from a stack of corn-fodder, and the two women entered a “dodger” apartment, whilst the men were similarly secreted a little farther on.

A thirty mile walk had given them a good appetite for the bountiful breakfast provided, after partaking of which they lay down and slept soundly, whilst “Old Ben,” a free negro who had been furnished the means to rent and till this field and arrange it as a “way station,” kept constant vigil and obliterated their tracks by husking corn and carefully drawing the stocks over them.

III.

Morning came in the city, and soon the absence of the servants from their employers was reported at the plantation, where the non-appearance of Jo had already caused the Colonel to give his daughter a special cursing for “letting that d—d nigger, Jo, have a pass.” Hounds and hunters were at once called into requisition, but all in vain. All about the country was scoured and searched, but Uncle Ben’s field was so public and he so honest, that no one thought of troubling it, or him.

Night came, and under cover of the first hour of darkness the two women were taken in charge by a man who led them rapidly along the railroad track till they came to a road where a carriage received them and they were driven rapidly into the city of Baltimore and there carefully secreted. Scarcely had they departed when a pack of hounds came into the field, and, after scenting around for some time, struck their track and were off in pursuit with such a wild scream as to waken the men from their quiet slumber.

Meanwhile the letter addressed to Mr. Jones was speeding on its way, and in due time on an editorial derived therefrom, the compositors in the office of the Liberty Press at Albany were busy, and on Friday Col. Hardy received a marked copy of that paper which informed him that his “chattels” arrived safe in Albany on Tuesday evening, and of course all farther effort for their recovery was stopped, though the atmosphere was for some time blue from the effects of the forcible vocabulary which this piece of news, manufactured specially for a southern market, eliminated from the old Colonel’s tongue.

IV.

All imminent danger from direct pursuit being now over, early on Saturday evening Ben led the boys forth and placed them in charge of a sprightly colored boy about thirteen years of age, whom they were to keep constantly in sight as they passed through Baltimore, and, as he bestowed on them a little money, he said: “Now, boys, follah yer guide, and feah no danjah, and de good Lor’ bress you and bring you safe to freedom.”

With nimble steps they passed over the road to the city, and there stopped for a short time at a meeting of colored Methodists, of which faith were Jo and Harry, and joined lustily in the “Hallelujahs” and songs of praise. The meeting over, they fell in with the departing congregation, and as they passed through the principal streets were vociferous in their praise of “the pow’fu’ preachin’ ob dat ’sidin’ eldah, and de snipshus singin’ ob de yaller gal wid de red rib’n,” stopping occasionally to buy a few nuts or apples at some grocer’s stand, ever keeping their little woolly headed conductor in sight, and before the hour forbidding the presence of colored people on the streets, were beyond the city limits, and again in company with Kate and Nancy, who had been brought to a place of rendezvous by a gentleman who proceeded to give the party specific instructions for the night. This done, fleetly they sped forward as directed until well towards day-dawn, when conductor Harry espied two flickering lights placed side by side in an upper window, and exclaimed: “Bress de Lor’ dah am de sign of rest.”

“Yes, bress de Lor’, O my sou’,” ejaculated the thoroughly wearied Kate, “an if dis be de unner groun’ railroad whar ebery one furnish his cah hisself, I’d radder ride wid ol’ Lijah in a charyot ob fiah.”

“Hush, honey, what foah you complain? dis am gwine ober Jordan to de lan’ ob res’.”

“Yes, an’ Jordan am a hard road to trabel, shu——” but the sentence was abruptly broken by the clear enunciation of “Thee will tarry here for the Sabbath.”

The words proceeded from beneath a broad-brimmed hat which emerged from among some shrubbery, and the party were quickly conducted into a spacious Quaker kitchen where a bountiful repast was in waiting for them, after partaking of which they were consigned to safe quarters for the day.

From this hospitable retreat, they sallied forth on Monday evening for another night journey, only to find in its ending a duplicate of the preceding one; and in this way the whole distance from Baltimore to Philadelphia was made on foot.

Once in the Quaker city, they were quietly put on a fishing smack and conveyed to Bordentown. At the latter place, under the management of a shrewd Quaker, a personal friend of the railroad agent, the boys were hid away among boxes and bales of goods in a freight car and were soon on their way to Gotham. Meanwhile the girls were dressed for the occasion, and at evening, closely veiled, just as the train was starting, were escorted into a coach by a gentleman assuming the full Southern air, and who had no hesitancy in pushing aside a watcher for runaways stationed at the door. At New York they again rejoined the “way freight,” and the whole party were at once sent on to Albany, where they arrived after a journey of twenty days instead of two as supposed in Washington.

LAVINIA.

Apropos of the lamentable exhibitions of mob-violence, court-house burning, Sabbath desecration and election frauds presented by Cincinnati in the past few years, it may not be amiss to give a little exhibition of the spirit there manifested by the men of a past generation and see whence some of her present unenviable reputation comes. The city was well known to be intensely pro-slavery and to her came many a haughty Southron for purposes of business or pleasure, bringing with him more or less of his chattels as attendants. Among the comers of the summer of 1843, was a man named Scanlan, visiting his brother-in-law, one Hawkins. He brought with his family a pretty slave girl named Lavinia, some ten years old.

Before the party left New Orleans, the mother of the girl, a slave in that city, had given her the following admonitory instruction:—“Now ’Vinya, yer Massa’s gwine for ter take yer Norf, an’ wen yer gets to Sinsnate, chile, yer free, an’ he’ll sen’ some good anj’l for to hide yer un’er him wing; an’ if you doan go wid him, but kum back to dis Souf wid yer ol’ Massa, dis very han’ll take yer black skin right off yer back shuah. Mebbe wen yer safe in dat free lan’, yer ol’ muder’ll fin’ yer thar if the good Lor’ be willin’.” Then she placed around the neck of the girl a small gold chain which was to be continually worn, that if they ever chanced to meet in Canada, the mother might know her child.

Once in Cincinnati, Lavinia began looking carefully for some “good anj’l,” but instead, soon found two in the person of a colored man and his wife living near Mr. Hawkins’. To those she carefully committed her mother’s counsel and threat. These parties entered heartily into her proposition to escape, and one night dressed her in a suit of boy’s clothes and took her to the head of Spring street, near the foot of Sycamore Hill, and gave her in charge of Samuel Reynolds, a well-known Quaker, where she was successfully concealed for a number of days whilst Scanlan was raging about and as far as possible instituting a vigorous search.

Not far from Mr. Reynolds was the home of Edward Harwood in whose family resided John H. Coleman, a dealer in marble. The Harwoods and Colemans were ardent Abolitionists and ready to stand by any panting fugitive to the last. Mrs. Harwood’s house stood on a side hill with a steep grade in front, and the narrow yard was reached by a flight of some twenty steps, whilst the side and rear were easily accessible.

After a time Mrs. Harwood, who had become much interested in Lavinia, took her home, where she was carefully concealed during the day, but allowed a little exercise in the dusk of the evening in the front yard, which was so high above the street as to be unobservable.

One evening when the girl was thus engaged the great house dog, Swamp, which always accompanied her kept up such a growling and snarling, as induced the men to think there might be foul play brewing and they went out several times but could detect nothing. Finally one of them said, “That child had better come in; some one may be watching for her,” upon which Mrs. Coleman put her head out of the window and calling her by name, bade her come in, after which all was quiet for the night.

Dinner over the next day, the gentlemen had taken their departure down town, the ladies were busy about their work; an invalid gentleman was reclining in an easy chair and the girl had fallen asleep up-stairs, when a man suddenly appeared at the top of the flight of steps and very uncermoniously entered the front door which was open, and looking hurriedly around roughly demanded, “Where’s my child? I want my child, and if you don’t give her up there’ll be trouble.”

It needed no further evidence to convince the ladies it was Scanlan, an impression which had seized them both even before he had spoken, but then they were not the kind to be scared by his bluster, and Mrs. Coleman replied with spirit “You have no child here and if you were a gentleman you would not be here yourself.”

At this Scanlan turned upon her and whilst his fists were clinched and his face livid with rage, exclaimed, “I tell you she is here, my slave girl, Lavinia; I saw her last night myself; and if it had not been for you, madam, and that devilish dog there, I should have gotten her then. I had her nearly within my grasp when you bade her come in. I say where is my child? Give her up.”

“You have no child here,” coolly replied Mrs. Coleman again.

“I say I have, and if she hears me call she will answer me.” Saying which he went to the stairway and called “Lavinia, Lavinia.”

The child heard the voice, recognized it, and at once quietly hid herself within the bed. Though the call was repeated several times, no answer came, and Mrs. Coleman inquired, “Are you satisfied now?”

“I know my child is here, and you cursed Abolitionist have hidden her away,” said the now almost frantic Scanlan. “You need not think you are going to fool me. I’m going to have my child, my slave, my property. I shall go down town and get a warrant and an officer to search your house, and you’ll get no chance to run the girl away either, for I shall leave a guard over you whilst I am gone,” then stepping to the door he said, “Hawkins, come in here,” and the brother-in-law, before unseen by the inmates of the house, entered. “Now, Mr. Hawkins, I am going for a warrant, and I want you to see that my child does not get away till the officer comes,” saying which Scanlan took his departure and Hawkins a seat, though evidently very ill at ease.

When part way down town the Southron recognized Mr. Harwood coming up the hill in his buggy, and thinking to intimidate him said, “I am after my slave girl who is in your house. Your women refuse to give her up. You will find the place well guarded, and I will soon have a warrant to search the place.”

“I’ll make it hotter than tophet for any one guarding my house, and the man who comes about my premises with a search warrant until I am accused of murder or theft, does so at his peril,” was the warm reply, as Mr. Harwood started rapidly towards his home. Arriving there he thus addressed Mr. Hawkins: “I am told, sir, you are here to guard my house and family. We have need of no such attention, and if you do not immediately depart from our premises I shall pitch you headlong into the street. Be gone you miserable tool of a most miserable whelp.” Just then the cowed and crestfallen Hawkins made a practical application of his knowledge of Shakespeare, and “stood not upon his going.”

Remembering the great pro-slavery mob of 1836, when the office of James G. Birney’s paper, The Philanthropist, was destroyed, and that of 1841, when but for the prompt action of Governor Corwin in aiding the arming of the students, an attack would have been made upon Lane Seminary as a “d—d Abolition hole,” Scanlan hastened to the “Alhambra,” then a popular saloon, gathered about him a band of roughs and after a treat all round proceeded to harangue them regarding his loss and also his unavailing efforts to regain his chattel. Under the influence of his speech and the more potent one of an open bar, the crowd readily promised him their support, and arranged to be at the hill in the evening time to see the fun.

Meantime Mr. Harwood was apprising his friends of the state of affairs, and these were beginning to gather at his house. One of them, an employee of Mr. Coleman, as he came up the hill, found a number of flags already set to guide the mob to the Harwood residence. These were torn down. Before the arrival of Mr. Coleman a crowd of excited people had assembled in the street below the house. Seeing among them an officer notorious for his cupidity and in entire sympathy with the slave catchers, Mr. Coleman approached him and shaking hands said, “Why how do you do, Mr. O’Neil? I am told you have a search warrant for my house.”

“For your house?”

“Yes; here is where I live and I wish to know on what grounds you intend to search my house, as I am not aware of having laid myself liable to such a process.”

“There must be some mistake,” said the officer. “Indeed, Mr. Coleman, I must have been misinformed as to the merits of the case.”

“Let me see the paper,” persisted Mr. Coleman.

“No,” said O’Neil, “there is a blunder somewhere,” and he pushed his way, in a discomfited manner, through the crowd and disappeared.

As the crowd increased in the streets, the friends of Mr. Harwood arrived, until all the Abolitionists in the city, some forty in number, were present. Mr. Harwood stood on the front steps with Swamp, and when anyone evinced a purpose to ascend the steps the fine display of ivory in the dog’s mouth cooled his ardor. Mr. Coleman and Alf. Burnet, afterwards well known in anti-slavery circles, went to a Dutch armory and secured a quantity of arms and ammunition; the women took up the carpet in the parlor, which soon presented the appearance of a military bivouac, whilst papers and valuables were hurried off to other houses, and a strong guard was placed before the door. An application was made to the sheriff for protection, but he only replied, “If you make yourself obnoxious to your neighbors, you must suffer the consequences.”

Whilst Scanlan was making his inflammatory speeches down town, and subsidizing the saloons, Lavinia was redressing in her boy’s suit and was quietly taken out on a back street to a Mr. Emery’s, the crowd meanwhile crying, “Bring out the lousy huzzy; where is the black b——ch?” and other equally classic expressions. One blear-eyed ruffian exclaimed, “If my property was in thar, I’d have it or I’d have the d—d Abolitionist’s heart’s blood, I would.” Another one, equally valorous called out, “Go in boys; why don’t you go in?” and a score of voices responded, “Go in yourself. The nigger ain’t ourn. Where’s the boss? Guess he’s afraid of shootin’ irons,” a feeling that evidently pervaded the whole assemblage.

Being without a leader, and having no personal interest at stake, about dark the mob moved down the street, stoning and materially damaging the house of Alf. Burnett’s father as they passed by. The old gentleman gathered up a large quantity of the missiles and kept them on exhibition for several years as samples of pro-slavery arguments.

Scanlan vented his spleen and breathed out his threatenings through the city papers, but being unable to get any redress, and finding he was to be prosecuted for trespass, he hastily decamped for New Orleans.

After a week or two, Lavinia, dressed in her masculine suit went with some boys who were driving their cows to the hills to pasture, and was by them placed in the care of a conductor, by whom she was safely forwarded to Oberlin. Here she was found to have a fine mind, was befittingly educated, and ultimately sent as a missionary to Africa. After the lapse of several years she returned to this country, and whilst visiting the friends in Cincinnati, who had so kindly befriended her in the days of her childhood, suddenly sickened and died.

A RUSE.

Serious and earnest as was the work of our railroad, it was made the pretext for many a practical joke and arrant fraud. In the north part of Trumbull county, Ohio, lived an ancient agent named Bartlett, having in his employ a newly married man named DeWitt, a rollocking kind of a fellow, and well calculated to personate a son of Ham, or a daughter as well. DeWitt conspired with his wife and some of the female members of the old gentleman’s family to have a little fun at Mr. Bartlett’s expense. Some thrown off apparel of Mrs. Bartlett was procured from the garret, and, properly blackened, he was attired in a grotesque manner.

Just at evening a decrepid wench applied for admission at Mr. Bartlett’s door. The women appeared very much frightened and were about shutting the door in her face, when the old gentleman, hearing the negro dialect came to the rescue. Soon the wanderer was comfortably seated, and to Mr. Bartlett’s inquiry as to where she was from replied, “Oh Lor’, Massa, I’se from ol’ Virginny an’ I’se boun’ for Canady, and Massa Sutlifft, he tells me I mus’ cum heah, but de white missus scare at dis ol’ black face.”

“O well, never mind that, they are all right now.”

“Bress de Lor’ for dat.”

Speaking to his wife, Mr. Bartlett directed some supper be prepared before he should send her on.

“O no, Massa, I’se been done and eat supper dis bressed day.”

“Well, then, we’ll arrange to send you on soon, but come and see my grandson,” a lad lying sick in the other part of the room, saying which he arose and took the hand of the dame and led her to the bedside, and laying his hand across her stooped shoulders, began to speak tenderly of the little sufferer.

The risibilities of the counterfeit Dinah were now at their utmost tension and she contrived to place a foot heavily upon the caudal appendage of the great house dog lying near. There was a sudden bound of the brute, accompanied by a most unearthly howl, and away darted the decrepid fugitive, shrieking, “O Lor’ de houn’, de houn’.”

It was in vain the philanthropic old agent called after her, that there was no danger; on she sped until an opportunity offered to restore herself to Japhetic hue and male attire.

Mr. Bartlett long upbraided the female portion of his household for want of humanity on that occasion, but was allowed to die in blissful ignorance of the ruse played upon him, and DeWitt confessed that the ultimate fun derived therefrom scarcely compensated for the annoyance of the old gentleman and the trouble of removing the cork.

VI.

A year has passed anxiously at Albany with Jo. Rumors reached him that in an attempt to escape, Mary had been captured and sold into the south forever beyond his reach. Gathering up his earnings and bidding his companions good-by, he started rather aimlessly westward, and where he would have brought up no one can tell, had he not one day met a stranger, a pleasant, benevolent looking gentleman, near the village of Versailles, N. Y. It was just at the close of that most hilarious campaign in which the cry of “Tippecanoe and Tyler too,” with “two dollars a day and roast beef,” mollified with liberal potations of “hard cider,” rendered “Little Matty Van a used up man,” though the result was not yet ascertained, for no telegraph had learned to herald its lightning message in advance of time. If no other good came from the campaign, it had given every class of men the free use of the tongue in hurrahing for his favorite candidate, and foot-sore and hungry as he was, there was something about the gentleman that said to Jo, “Now is your opportunity,” and touching his hat in genuine politeness he called out, “Hooraw for Ol’ Tip.”

Good naturedly the gentleman responded, “Well, my good fellow, it is a little late for you to be hurrahing for any candidate now that election is over, and, though you didn’t quite strike my man, I shall find no fault. I know what you want more than ‘hard cider.’ It is a night’s food and lodging.”

“Thank you Massa, I’se tired and hungry, an’ de fac’ am I doan know what to do with myself.”

“Well, no matter about that just now. Come along;” and Eber M. Pettit, long known as an earnest Abolitionist in Cattaraugus and Chautauqua counties, led the disheartened wanderer to his home, where, after supper, he questioned him as to his history, and when he had learned his unvarnished tale, he suggested that the man should stay with him that winter as a man-of-all-chores, and attend the village school.

As a result of that evening’s conference there appeared among the children of the district school in a few days a colored man of about twenty five years of age, learning with the youngest of them his a b c. This was an innovation, unique in the extreme. Some of the villagers turned up their noses at the “nigger,” but the social standing of Mr. Pettit, and the story of Jo which was freely circulated among the people, together with his genial disposition and kindness of manner, soon silenced all cavil and the school quietly progressed.

Learning that the editor of the Liberty Press was in Washington, Mr. Pettit addressed him in the following letter:

Versailles, N. Y., Dec. 1, 1840.

Dear General.—I have at my house a colored man named Jo Norton. Something over a year ago he left a wife and child in the Capital, the property of a Mr. Judson. She was to have been brought off directly after he left, but the effort failed and he understands she has been sold South. Will you be so kind as to inquire into the matter and see what can be done in the case if anything? Make your return to Jo Norton, direct.

Yours Truly,

E. M. Pettit.

Gen. W. L. Chaplain,

Washington, D. C.

This letter was duly posted, and on the morrow an ebony face, the very picture of expectancy, put in an appearance at the village post office with the query, “Any letter for Jo Norton, Massa pos’ massa?” Thus it was twice a day for a week, when his unsophisticated importunity was rewarded by a missive bearing the address,

Jo Norton, Esq.,

Versailles,

N. Y.

Care E. M. Pettit, Esq.

and bearing the post-mark of the Capital. It read as follows:

Mr. Norton, Dear Sir:

The woman about whom Mr. Pettit wrote me is here. After her husband’s escape she was detected in what was thought to be an effort to leave and was thrown into prison, where she lost an infant child. After three months she was visited by her master, and on a solemn promise never to make another effort to run away she was taken back to the family where she and the boy appear to be treated with great kindness. Though he has been offered $800 for her, Mr. Judson said he never sold a slave, and never will, but if her husband can raise $350 for them by March 4th, proximo, they will be given free papers so I can bring them North with me at that time.

Truly,

W. L. Chaplain.

At the reading of this letter, Jo, prompted by the fervent piety of his nature, broke into hysterical fits of laughter, interspersed with “Bress de Lor’, bress de Lor’.” But when the first paroxysm of joy was over he became very despondent, for he had no $350 and no friend to whom to appeal for it; but here, as before, Mr. Pettit came to the rescue.

“See here, Jo,” he said, “there are nearly three months to the fourth of March, and yours is a wonderful story. You shall go forth and tell it to the people, and the money will come.”

“Wy, bress de Lor’, Massa Pettit, dis chile can nebber do dat. De people would jus’ laf at de nigger.”

“Never mind the laugh, Jo. If you love Mary and the boy you can stand the laughing. Now be a man. I will go with you and see you start;” and before bed-time he had laid out the work for his ward, in whom he had now become thoroughly interested, and had listened several times to his rehearsal of his story of escape and tale of plantation life, and offered such suggestions as he thought advisable, and that night Jo went to bed “to sleep; to dream.” To dream of wife and boy in slavery, and himself making speeches among the white people of the North for their deliverance.

The next morning Mr. Pettit went out into the country a few miles where he had a number of Abolition friends and made full arrangements for Jo’s speaking there early the next week. In the meantime the word was thoroughly circulated whilst Jo was most effectively schooled to his new field, and on the appointed evening the school-house was filled to overflowing. Jo told his story in such a manner as to draw out rounds of approbative applause from the mouths of the audience, and six dollars from their pockets when the hat was passed round. Meetings were held immediately in the several school districts in the vicinity with marked success, and then Jo, highly inspired, left school and started out on a systematic course of lectures which took him to Westfield, Mayville and other villages of Chautauqua county as well as Cattaraugus.

On the 25th day of January Mr. Pettit received the following from Washington:

“Dear Pettit.—If Judson can have $300 by February first, he will deliver up the woman and child of whom we have had correspondence.

In haste,

W. L. Chaplain.”

He hastened to Ellicottville and found that Jo had already realized $100. A meeting was immediately called in an office in the village, at which were present Judge Chamberlin, of Randolph, E. S. Coleman, of Dunkirk, and several other gentlemen. The letter was read, and at the suggestion of the Judge a note for two hundred dollars was drawn and signed by ten of them, with the understanding that they were to share equally in the payment of any deficit after Jo had done his best. The money was advanced by Mr. Coleman, and one of the party drove fifty miles to Buffalo, through a pelting storm, purchased a draft, forwarded it to Mr. Coleman, and before the “days of grace” had expired Mary and her child were duly registered and delivered as free people.

Meanwhile Jo’s story had gotten into the papers of Western New York, and he had calls from various places to lecture; indeed, he had become quite a local lion, and so successful that early in March when word came that Mary and the child had reached Utica, he was the possesser of $195. This he deposited in the hands of Mr. Pettit who returned him $30 and told him to go and make provision for his wife and child, and pay the balance of the note when he could. Though he had walked that day from Buffalo, a distance of nearly thirty miles, Jo immediately returned, and early the next day, in the home of a leading Abolitionist in Utica there was a regular “Hal’lujer; Bress de Lor’, for de Lor’ will bress his people,” time when Jo and Mary met after their seemingly hopeless separation.

VII.

Ten years and more had passed; the Ellicottville note had been long settled; Jo had laid aside his mission as a lecturer and gone into business in Syracuse, N. Y., where he owned a pleasant home and had a family of intelligent children attending the public school; New York State, like the country at large, had been convulsed over the slavery question, and the city of his adoption had become a town of intensely Abolition sentiment. As the outgrowth of the slavery agitation there had come the enactment of the “Fugitive Slave Law,” as it was popularly, or rather unpopularly called, by means of which the South thought to render imperative the rendition of their runaway slaves. But they had counted without their host. Though successful in cracking their whips over the heads of Northern law-makers in the Capitol, the great mass of the people of the free states, no matter what their political affiliations, felt outraged at the idea of being converted into a set of legally constituted slave-hunters. Few places more excited the ire of the chivalry than Syracuse, and the threat was defiantly made that if another anti-slavery convention was held in the city it should be enlivened by the seizure of a fugitive of whom a test case could be made.

Not to be thus intimidated, a call for such a convention was issued and at the appointed time commenced. Whilst the delegates were organizing in the old Market Hall, in a cooper shop in another part of the city, all unconscious of danger, a colored man named Jerry, who had some years before escaped from slavery, was busy engaged at his labor, when he was suddenly pounced upon by a marshal and his deputies from Rochester, and, after a brave resistance, overpowered, manacled and thrown into a cart secured for that purpose, and hurried away to the commissioner’s office, closely guarded. The news of the arrest spread like wild-fire, and soon the streets were thronged with excited people. A man rushed into the convention and called out: “Mr. President a fugitive has been arrested and they are trying to hurry him away.” Without motion, the convention adjourned, and the delegates and attendants were added to the throng already in the street. The uproar was equal to that, when, for the “space of two hours,” the people cried, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians,” but more concentrated, and the cause of coming together better understood.

Jerry was hurried into the commissioner’s office, the lower door to which was heavily barred and the upper one securely bolted, so that it was with difficulty that his council and more immediate friends obtained admission.

The court once opened, within there was contention, parley, quibble and delay until twilight fell; without, the building was immediately surrounded by fugitives who had found an asylum in and about the city, and free colored people, among whom Jo Norton towered like Saul among his brethren, and beyond these an immense multitude of citizens who had stood waiting all the afternoon of that eventful day, manifesting no disposition to retire.

When it was announced that the court had adjourned for supper, it was soon evident that the decisive hour had come. A heavy timber was lifted to the shoulders of some sturdy negroes, and using the temporary space accorded them, at the watchword “Jo” they hurled it with such force against the door that bars and hinges gave way, and Norton, crowbar in hand, at the head of a storming column entered the stairway hall. The marshal was a man of nerve and disclaimed against any attempt on the inner door, but in vain. A few vigorous blows of the crowbar forced it open; there was the sharp report of a pistol succeeded by a quick blow of the bar, and Jo unharmed, stood master of the situation, whilst the right arm of the marshal hung useless at his side. The posse scattered, the marshal saving himself by jumping from the second story window and skulking away in the dark; Jerry, who had been very roughly treated, was unloosed, and by daylight was well on his way to Canada, whilst the convention resumed its deliberations the next day amid the congratulations of many who before had looked upon its purpose with indifference or absolute opposition.

As for Jo, though defying slave-hunters and their hirelings as such, having now arrayed himself by an act of violence against the government, he took the advice of judicious friends, and soon removed to Canada, where for years he was an esteemed citizen, and a friend and adviser of those who came to his locality as fugitives.

VIII.

As an index of Jo’s native quickness of perception, the following excerpts, taken from Pettit’s “Sketches of the Underground Railroad,” published some years ago by W. McKinstry & Son, are added, the only change being that the places where the events are thought to have taken place are given.

Jo was a serious, devoted Christian, yet his wit and mirthfulness were often exhibited in keen, sarcastic repartee. At Delanti the question was asked, ‘Did you work hard when you were a slave?’

‘No! I didn’t work hard when I could help it.’

‘Did you have enough to eat?’

‘Yes, such as it was.’

‘Did you have decent clothes?’

‘Yes, midlin’.’

‘Well, you were better off than most people are here, and you were a fool to run away.’

‘Well, now, the place I lef’ is there yet, I s’pose. Guess nobody’s never got into it, and if my frien’ here wants it, he can have it fo’ the askin’, though p’raps he better get his member of Congress to recommend him.’

At Westfield, a fellow asked, ‘Is the speaker in favor of amalgamation?’

‘’Gamation! what’s dat?’

‘It means whites and blacks marrying together.’

‘O dat’s it! as fo’ such things they ’pends mostly on peples’ tas’. Fo’ my part, I have a colored woman fo’ a wife,—that’s my choice,—an’ if my frien’ here wants a black wife, an’ if she is pleased with him, I’m suah I shan’t get mad about it.’

Soon after he commenced collecting funds to redeem his family from bondage, he was invited to go to a school-house in Villenova. When near the place he saw two boys chopping, and heard one of them say: ‘There’s the nigger.’

Jo stopped and said: ‘I ain’t a nigger! I allus pays my debts; my massa was a nigger. See here! when you chop, you be a chopper, ain’t dat so?’

‘Yes,’ responded the boys.

‘Well, when a man nigs, I call him a nigger. Now ol’ massa nigged me out of all I earned in my life. Of course he is a nigger.’ Then Jo sang the chorus to one of Geo. W. Clark’s Liberty songs:

‘They worked me all de day,

Widout one cent of pay;

So I took my flight

In de middle ob de night,

When de moon am gone away.’

‘Now, boys, come over to the school-house this evening and I’ll sing you the res’ of it.’ That evening Jo had a full house and a good collection.

THE ORIGINAL “JERRY.”

Having given a brief account of the “Jerry Rescue” at Syracuse, a circumstance fraught with momentous consequences, and no inconsiderable factor in precipitating the “Impending Crisis,” I now pass to consider the real original “Jerry Rescue.”

In the early summer of 1834, there came to Austinburg, Ohio, a colored man of middle age, of whose escape to Ohio tradition, even, gives little account, only that he was the property of a Baptist deacon who followed him in close pursuit. Both parties upon the ground, matters became marvellously lively in the quiet country town.

Jerry was shifted from place to place, but the deacon would in some way get a clue to his whereabouts, and another move would be made to thwart the pursuer, some one being always ready to ask him what he would take for the man; but it was always with him, “I want the nigger, not money.”

Wearied at length with the continued baffling, and believing he had found the retreat of his chattel, the pious deacon went to Jefferson and secured the service of Sheriff Loomis to make an arrest. The twain came upon him just before daybreak, but not to catch him napping. He was up and off just in time to elude their grasp but not until they caught a glimpse of him making across the fields in the direction of Eliphalet Austin’s, who lived near where Grand River Institute now stands.

Rapping at the door, Jerry was admitted by Mr. Austin, who was just in the act of dressing himself. Reading in the excited manner of the fugitive the state of the case, Mr. Austin pointed under the family bed where his wife still lay. Jerry took the hint, and in a moment was hugging the wall in the darkest corner under the bed. Mr. Austin quietly closed the bed-room door, started a fire, and was at the well drawing a pail of water when the pursuers came up.

“Have you seen my nigger this morning?” queried the Deacon.

“It is pretty early to see an object so dark as a colored man, if that is what you are inquiring about,” was the response.

“Well, early as it is, we have seen him, and believe he is secreted in your house.”

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, gentlemen, you have the fullest liberty to search my premises and satisfy yourselves,” and, whilst the sheriff kept watch without, Mr. Austin furnished the Southerner the most abundant opportunity within. Candle in hand he led the way to the cellar, then to the garret. The children’s bed-rooms and the closets of the chamber, the parlor, spare bed-room and pantry below were all carefully examined, but no Jerry was found, and the Deacon apologetically remarked: “I beg your pardon, Mr. Austin, for this intrusion, and for the injustice I did you in supposing you were harboring my slave.”

“What,” said Mr. Austin, who was also a pious man and a licentiate minister, “I hope you are not through looking yet.”

“Why, I have been all over the house already.”

“O no, you have not been in my wife’s bed-room yet,” said he rather sarcastically. “Go in, Deacon. Wife is not up yet; you may find your ‘nigger’ with her.”

Dropping his head in very shame, the Deacon excused himself, and going out, with the sheriff rode off.

As soon as they were well out of sight, Jerry was taken to the woods and hidden in an old sugar house, where he remained for some days. Meanwhile time and perplexity began to soften the Deacon, and he finally concluded that three hundred and fifty dollars ($350) in hand would be worth more than “a nigger on foot,” which was raised and paid over, the original subscription being now in the hands of the writer.

The money paid over and the freedom papers made out, the Deacon had no difficulty in obtaining an interview with Jerry, a meeting very satisfactory to the latter personage, now that he could meet “Ol’ Massa on perfec’ ’quality as gemen.”

There were two things connected with this case which the sturdy old Austinburgers always regretted. The one was that as the work of purchase was completed late Saturday afternoon, the Deacon accepted the proffered hospitality of Mr. Austin for the Sabbath, and with him attended church in the old historic “meeting house” at the Center, where the Rev. Henry Cowles dispensed the gospel in the form of a red-hot anti-slavery sermon, to which the Deacon listened with great expressed satisfaction if not profit. During the evening service, some unprincipled persons shaved his horse’s main and tail, which, when known, led several of the first citizens of the town to save its reputation and show their appreciation of the gentlemanly qualities of their visitor, by giving him in exchange for his disfigured horse one equally good, thus sending him back to Dixie with a high regard for their honesty, as well as sincerity.

The other was, Jerry, once a free man, went to Conneaut and established himself as a barber, but unable to bear prosperity, he soon fell into habits of drinking and dissipation, thus rendering worthless the investment philanthropy and generosity had made in him.

The following is the subscription referred to above, together with the names of donors and the amount given so far as they can be deciphered:

We whose names are hereto affixed, promise to pay to Eliphalet Austin the sums put to our names, for the purpose of liberating from slavery a colored man whose master is supposed to be in pursuit, and offers to free him for three hundred and fifty dollars.

Austinburg, July 23, 1834.

• Eliphalet & Aaron E Austin. $50.
• J. Austin, $40.00.
• J. S. Mills, $2.00.
• A. A. Barr, $1.00.
• G. W. St. John, $25.00.
• Luman Whiting, $2.00.
• I. Hendry, $5.00.
• Amos Fisk, $5.00.
• Daniel Hubbard, $1.00.
• Mr. Sawtell, $2.00.
• L. M. Austin, $5.00.
• Dr. A. Hawley, $2.00.
• Ward, $5.00.
• Jefferson, $20.00.
• Orestes K. Hawley, $50.
• L. Bissell, $20.00.
• T. H. Wells, $3.00.
• Harvey Ladd, Jr., $2.00.
• James Sillak, $3.00.
• Benjamin Whiting, $1.00.
• Giddings & Wade, $10.
• Russell Clark, $2.00.
• Henry Harris, $1.00.
• E. Austin, Jr., $15.00.
• Ros. Austin, $5.00.
• W. Webb, Jr., $5.00.
• Henry, $5.00.
• A Friend, 50 cents.

The $20.00 from Jefferson was a kind of religious collection.

A COOL WOMAN.

Apropos the deliberation of Mr. Austin, there comes an incident from southern Ohio illustrating how cool a woman may be in case of emergency. A slave named Zach had escaped from Virginia and was resting and recuperating himself in the family of a benevolent man in one of the southern counties previously to pursuing his onward course, when one evening the house was surrounded by his owner and a number of other men, and the right of searching the premises demanded. The husband was much agitated and appealed to his wife to know what was to be done.

“Why,” said she, “let them in, and search the lower part of the house first, and leave Zack to me.”

“But I tell you, wife, the man can’t be got off without being caught.”

“Don’t I know that? Do as I say.”

The husband took her advice, and whilst he was leading a searching party through the cellar and lower rooms of the house, she placed the fugitive carefully between the feather and straw ticks of the family bed, and by the time the posse reached the room she was composedly in bed as though nothing unusual was transpiring. The result was that the search proved a bootless one, and the whole party left, believing they had been misdirected by some one bent on deceiving them.

CHAPTER II.
JACK WATSON.

I.

Fifty years ago there lived in Caldwell County, Kentucky, a well-to-do individual named Wilson. He owned a large estate, to which were attached numerous slaves. Such was the character of the master that bondage sat lightly upon them. Provident and indulgent, Mr. Wilson allowed his people to do largely as they chose. To them the words of the old plantation song,

“Hang up de shubel and de hoe.”

had much of reality.

A SLAVE HUNT.

Strangers came and went among them freely; they heard much of the ways of escape northward, of which many from plantations surrounding them availed themselves, but the bonds of affection were so strong between Mr. Wilson and his people that no effort was ever made on the part of the latter to escape. But things were not always to remain thus. In 1853, Mr. Wilson sickened and died, a circumstance which brought not only grief but consternation to his “people,” for they soon learned they were to be divided among the heirs. Jack and Nannie, a brother and sister who had grown up on the estate tenderly attached to each other and to their old master, fell to the lot of a drunken and licentious man named Watson, who took them to his farm in Davies County, not far from the Ohio River. Here, as common field hands, they were brutally treated, and soon began to plan means of escape. Before these were consummated the old cook died, and Nannie, who was of attractive form and manners, was taken from the field to fill her place. This only added to the degradation of her condition, for she was now continually called upon to repel the lecherous advances of her brutal master. As a punishment for this she was at length placed in close confinement from which her brother succeeded in freeing her. They set out at once for the river, hoping to escape, but were soon overtaken, brought back and so cruelly whipped by Watson, that Nannie soon died from the effects.

The sight of his lacerated, dying sister, the only tie that bound him to earth, continually haunted Jack, and he vowed escape, and vengeance if it were possible. His plans were carefully laid. In perambulating the numerous swamps in the neighborhood whose outlets led to the river, he had discovered a hollow tree broken off some twenty feet above the surrounding water. By climbing an adjacent sapling he discovered that the hollow within the stub would furnish a secure and comfortable retreat, should necessity require. By divers acts of plantation civility he had gained the confidence of “Uncle Jake” and “Aunt Mary,” an old couple who sympathized deeply with him, and promised him any aid in their power, provided it was such as “Massa’ll neber know.” All Jack asked was that in case he disappeared, they should set the third night after his disappearance something to eat on a shelf where he could reach it, and every fourth night thereafter until it should, for two successive times, be untaken. He also gave them in keeping a package of cayenne pepper to be placed with the edibles. In his visits to the river he had noted the fastenings of the skiffs, and had provided himself with both a file and an iron bar which would serve the double purpose as a means of defense and for drawing a staple. These he carefully secreted in his prospective retreat, waiting only an opportunity to occupy it.

Such an opportunity was not long in presenting itself, for one night the master came home late from a drunken revel, and found Jack awaiting him as ordered. Becoming enraged at some supposed act of disobedience, he flew at Jack with an open knife. The hour of vengeance had come. Seizing a hoe, with a single stroke Jack felled him to the ground, a lifeless form. A moment only he waited to view the gaping wound—to compare it with poor Nan—then gathering up a few things that he could, he was off with the fleetness of a deer. Passing two or three miles down the country, he entered the outlet of the swamp, and after passing down it for some distance, keeping so near the shore as to make his tracks observable, he struck in, directly reversing his footsteps, and before the dawn was safely ensconced in his selected tower.

Morning came and with it the knowledge of Watson’s death. The cause was easily divined—there was the bloody hoe, and Jack, who was left to wait his coming, was gone. Blood hounds and fierce men were soon upon his trail. His course was easily traced to the brook, and his descending footsteps discerned, but no trace of him could be discovered beyond that. The greater part thought he had reached the river, and escaped to the Indiana shore by swimming, at which he was an expert, or had been drowned in the attempt. Others believed his footsteps only a decoy and searched all the adjacent swamps, sometimes passing very near him, but all in vain. Flaming posters, advertising him, were sent broadcast, and slave catchers on both sides of the river were on the alert.

On the second day a great concourse assembled at Watson’s funeral. There were many conjectures, and much argument, and loud swearing about the “nigger” who had done the deed, and as a means of intimidating the weeping—none more so than Uncle Jake and Aunt Mary—chattels gathered around, terrible things were promised Jack should he be caught.

The services over, the crowd dispersed, and the next morning all hands were set to work as usual. At night when all was quiet, Aunt Mary, whose cabin was the farthest of any from the “mansion,” placed a liberal ration of hoe cake and bacon, together with the pepper, upon the designated shelf, and betook herself to the side of Uncle Jake who was already resting his weary limbs in the land of forgetfulness. Shortly after midnight a hand was thrust cautiously through the open window, the packages were softly lifted, a little pepper was deftly sifted in retreating footsteps, and in a short time Jack was safe again in his water-shut abode, and when old uncle and auntie were talking of the “wun’ful ang’l” that had visited the house that night, Jack was quietly enjoying a morning nap.

Several weeks passed, the excitement about Watson had measurably died away, two successive depositions of provisions had been left untouched and the good old couple knew “Dat de angel was feedin’ Jack no moa’, like de rabens fed ol’ ’Lijer.” They were sure, “Jack am safe.”

Taking his appliances, Jack had descended the outlet some distance one starlight night, and then striking across the country, had reached the river just below the little village he had been accustomed to visit before the death of his sister. The finding of a skiff and the wrenching away of the fastening occupied but a short time and at daylight he was safely secreted in an Indiana forest. Knowledge previously gained enabled him soon to put himself in charge of an underground official, but instead of making direct for Canada he shipped for the Quaker settlement near Salem, Ohio, of which he had heard much from a fruit tree dealer before the death of Mr. Wilson, and ultimately, in the quaint home of Edward Bonsall found a secure asylum, and in his nurseries desirable employment, so far from his former home that little disturbed his mind except the frequent recurring remembrances of his slain master with the cruelly lacerated form of his sister ever rising in justification of the summary punishment that had been inflicted upon him.

II.

In the autumn of 1856, Jack went with Mr. Bonsall to Pittsburgh. Whilst walking along the street, he met face to face a half-brother of his late master. At first sight he thought it an apparition and turned and ran rapidly away, but not until he was himself recognized. So dextrous had been his motions that he eluded the pursuit immediately instituted and was soon among the hills beyond the city limits.

Hand bills minutely describing him were again widely circulated, particularly along the belt of country bordering the Pittsburgh and Erie canal, as it was argued he would try and make his escape by that route to Canada, and all the appliances of an odious law were called into requisition to secure his apprehension.

III.

Rap, rap, rap, came a knuckle against the door of Thomas Douglass, of Warren, Ohio, in the silent hours of the night. Such occurrences were not frequent of late at the home of the honest Englishman whose love of justice and humanity had risen above all fear of the pains and penalties of an unrighteous law. Hastily dressing himself, he inquired, “Who comes?”

“Ol’ Diligence,” a name recognized at once by Mr. Douglass as the appelation of a colored conductor from Youngstown.

“Hall right; wat’s aboard?”

“Subjec’, Massa Douglass, and hard pressed, too.”

“’Ard pressed his ’e? Well, come in.”

The door was opened, a brief explanation followed, and Jack Watson and “Old Diligence” were consigned to a good bed for the night. In the morning his faithful guide, who had himself escaped from bondage many years before gave Jack some money, a supply of which he always had in hand, and left him with the emphatic assurance, “Massa Douglass am a true man.” But Jack was hard to be assured, and when seated at breakfast with the master machinist’s hands, he trembled like an aspen.

Three gentlemen, Levi Sutliff, John Hutchins and John M. Stull had been early summoned to devise the best means for forwarding Jack safely. The two former of these had been long experienced operators; the latter was rather a novice at the business. A few years previously, an ambitious young man, he had gone south as a teacher, thinking little and caring less about the “peculiar institution.” He had been in Kentucky but a short time when a slave auction was advertised and his Buckeye inquisitiveness prompted him to witness it. Two or three children were struck off and then the mother, a well formed, good-looking octaroon, was put upon the block.

“Now, gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, a hard-shelled Baptist preacher, “I offer you a valuable piece of property. She’s a good cook; can make clothes, or handle a hoe as well as a man. She’s a healthy woman, gentlemen, an more’n that, she’s a Christian. Gentlemen, she’s a member of my own congregation.”

The buyers crowded around. They examined her teeth, her hands, her feet, her limbs as though she had been a horse on sale.

Our spectator began to feel himself getting white in the face, and swear words were rising in his throat, and he beat a hasty retreat.—John was under conviction.

A few mornings after our young teacher was wakened by the sound of heavy blows and cries of pain proceeding from another part of the hotel. That evening when Harry, the boy appointed his special waiter, came to his room, Mr. Stull cautiously inquired who had been punished in the morning.

“Dat was me Massa. De ol’ boss gib’d me a buckin.”

“What was the trouble, Harry, and what is a bucking?”

“Why Lor’ bress you, Massa, dis chile slep’ jus’ a minit too long, an’ de ol’ boss cum’d wid his ‘buck,’ a board wid a short han’l and full ob holes, an’ he bent Harry ober, like for to spank a chil’, an’ o Lor’ how he struck.” (Then lowering his voice,) “Say, Massa Stull, can you tell de Norf star?”

The boy had been all care, attention and manliness. The soul of the teacher was fully aroused.—Stull was converted.

Waiting the coming of these gentlemen, Jack had gone into the back yard, and when they arrived he was nowhere to be found. A prolonged search failed to reveal his whereabouts, and when at length night fell kind Mrs. Douglass placed an ample plate of provisions in the back kitchen and continued it for several weeks, hoping he might return, but no angel ever spirited a particle of it away.

IV.

Years ago, even before Wendell Phillips, Abbey Kelley and others of their school began to hurl their bitter anathemas at the institution of slavery, there lived upon a far-reaching Virginia plantation in the valley of the James a man who had taken a truly comprehensive and patriotic view of the institution that was blighting the reputation of his state, as well as impoverishing her soil. He had inherited his fine estate, encumbered by a large number of slaves, and his soul revolted at the idea of holding them in bondage. A man of fine physique, commanding mien and superior intellectual endowments, John Young could not brook the idea of eating bread that savored of the sweat of another’s brow, and the thought of living amid the withering, blighting scenes of slave labor and slave traffic was not at all congenial to his tastes. Casting about, he soon found a purchaser for his broad acres. Before disposing of his plantation, however, he made a trip into western Pennsylvania, and in Mercer county, on the rich bottoms of Indian Run, made purchase of an extensive tract of valuable land. Returning to the Old Dominion, he at once concluded the sale of his estate, and vowed his intention of going North.

His friends were amazed at the idea of his becoming a “Pennymight” farmer, and his people were thrown into consternation, as they expected soon to be exposed on the auction block. The sallies of one class he easily parried; the fear of the other he quickly allayed by calling them together and presenting them with freedom papers. There was a moment of silence, of blank astonishment, and then arose shouts, and cries, and hallelujahs to God, amid laughter and tears, for this wonderful deliverance.