RESCUE OF SLAVES.
A family of six left their old Kentucky home in search of freedom. A
young wife who was sold had made her escape three years previously. I
noticed a stranger passing through my gate, and as he was a mulatto, I
went out to see where he had gone. I found him sitting in the porch,
waiting to see some one of whom to inquire whether he was at the right
place. He handed a paper directed to me by an under-ground railroad
ticket agent, who informed me there were six fugitives in his company.
"Then there are six of you?" I asked; "and where are the balance?" "My
two brothers are back a-ways," he replied, "'cause we's feared it
wasn't the right place."
Being assured all was right, he went back for them. They had left their
mother, with her two little grandchildren, in Carthaginia, until the
boys could find a safe home for them, but they knew not whether they
should go on to Canada or find the object of their search short of that
place. They heard in Carthaginia that Michigan was the last place she
had been heard from, and that was a short time after passing through
that town. They were directed to me as being most likely to know the
whereabouts of the young wife. They had been in my home a number of
hours before the elder brother dared make the inquiry. I noticed the
frequent heavy sigh and sad countenance, and I thought he was probably
very anxious over the safety of his mother, and I assured him that she
was in good hands, for I knew them to be true friends. While he
assented, yet all my words of encouragement did not seem to cheer him,
while the two younger brothers were happy. I went through my usual
course of giving them new names. As they left that entirely with me, I
gave as the family name Koss, and their given names Benjamin, Richard,
and Daniel. But I came to the conclusion that the older brother was
troubled over some friends he had left behind. At length, in a half
hesitating and trembling manner, he ventured to ask if I knew any thing
of a colored girl by the name of Mary Todd.
"Certainly I do," said I; "and did you know her?"
"Yes, ma'am," was his reply.
"Do you know whether her husband was sold? She worried a great deal
about him."
"No, they talked of selling him lately." Then, after a pause, "She
isn't married again, is she?"
"Why, no, she is a very steady, nice young woman. Every one in the
neighborhood where she lives takes a great interest in her. Perhaps you
are acquainted with her husband; why don't he come? He promised to
follow her as soon as he could."
While his countenance lit up with joy, I had no suspicion of who he was
until he said, "I am the man. I am her husband."
"Why didn't you tell me that before?"
"I was 'fraid of bad news if I got any."
"Afraid she was married?"
"Well, it's been mighty nigh three years, an' I couldn't go for a long
time off the plantation, after she left."
As she was twelve miles from our school, and by this time it was nearly
night, I hastened to inform brother Canfield, a Wesleyan minister, that
the older brother of these fugitives was Mary Todd's husband. "Is it
possible," he asked, "that Mary's husband has come at last?"
Soon, quite an excitement was produced in our neighborhood over the
arrival of Mary Todd's husband. The next morning brother Canfield took
him in his buggy to meet his wife and little son he had never seen; and
a time of great rejoicing was in the whole neighborhood. As they were
married after slave style, brother Canfield solemnized the marriage
legally. The minister said we all forgot the black skin, when we saw
that couple fly to each other's arms. Surely,
"Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in black and white the same."
Mary had lived most of the time in the family of Fitch Reed, of
Cambridge. They soon had a home for their mother, with her two little
granddaughters, and were all happy, industrious, and highly respected.
One of the common trials of life, to mar our happiness in our
family-like institution (February 23d) was the listless waywardness of
some of our dear students, in a determined purpose to attend a dancing
party under the guise of an oyster supper. How many delusive snares are
laid to entrap and turn aside the youth into divergent paths. We found
it necessary to suspend eight of our students for the remainder of the
term. It is a painful duty of the surgeon to amputate a limb, yet it
may be an imperative duty, in order to save the life of the patient,
and restore the body to health.
This evening a very remarkable fugitive slave came from Tennessee. He
had been five weeks on the way, in which time he had slept but one
night, having traveled at night and buried himself in hay and straw in
barns in the day-time to keep from perishing with cold, and to avoid
detection. He says six years ago his wife and child were sold from him,
which caused him days and nights of bitter tears. He then firmly
resolved to make an attempt to gain his freedom by flight. He was
captured in Illinois after a severe struggle. He showed us four
pistol-ball holes in the arm he was most dexterously using in his own
defense, and two large scars which he said were gashes made at the same
time with a Bowie-knife, which enabled his enemies to capture him.
After they secured him in jail he was advertised in papers, which his
master saw, and came and took him back, and caused him to be whipped on
the bare back until the flesh was so badly torn that he was compelled
to lie on his stomach four weeks. During this time he was not able to
turn himself. After recovering his master put him in the iron works, of
which he was proprietor. "If I hadn't been one of his engineers he
would have sold me instead of giving me that awful whipping that he
thought conquered me; but he was mightily mistaken; for it only
imbedded in my heart a more bitter hate than ever. I appeared contented
and performed my work well. After a few months, he said one day, 'I've
made you a good boy, Jim, and now I'll let you go to the big city with
me.' I was very obedient, but he little knew of my determination to
leave him as soon as I could make sure work of it. That is the reason I
would not make friends with white people till I found Michigan, for we
have heard that people in this State are friendly to us, and that it is
next to Canada."
As this man was above mediocrity as to intelligence, his two days stay
with us had a salutary influence over our school. He could not be
prevailed upon to rest longer, as he could not be easy until he reached
Victoria's dominions. His clothes were made comfortable, and I called
on a few friends for a little pocket change, and sent by him a little
note to the next station, where he was aided on to Canada.
Our Spring term opened with fair prospects. A number of our students
who were suspended last term returned to us, they said, to redeem
themselves, and they were as good as their word.
During our long vacation I attended an anti-slavery convention in
Cincinnati, where I met a white slave man from Little Rock, Arkansas,
who left his home in the night and by morning took public conveyance as
any other white man would. On reaching Cincinnati he found friends of
the slave to whom he revealed his condition. Levi Coffin advised him to
go with me to Michigan. As he was in greater haste than I was, he
proposed to go on at once. Consequently I wrote a letter of
introduction to my friends, requesting them to furnish him with work.
In two weeks I returned and found my young friend, Charles McClain,
(for that was the name I gave him in Cincinnati) at work with a friend,
who said it was a pity that I had introduced him as a fugitive slave,
for they would not have believed it if the statement had not come from
me.
He came to our school and improved very much upon what he had picked up
from the white children who were going to school, and by the aid of a
colored minister who could read and write, and by that means could read
in the second reader and write a little. He was often seen in tears,
and was very anxious to have his sister with him, who was as white as
himself and, like him, had straight auburn hair, blue eyes, and perfect
Caucasian features, without a vestige of African descent that could be
detected. A deep sympathy was enlisted in his behalf. He was very
anxious to convey intelligence to that sister of the ease with which he
effected his escape, and that she too could free herself as easily. A
number of the friends offered to aid, and one friend placed thirty
dollars in my hands to bring about this result. I wrote to a colored
minister in Little Rock, who replied, with a graphic account of their
rejoicing at his success, and of his sister Ann's anxiety to come to
him, but that she had no means. Charles wrote to her that he would send
means with instructions. As I had for many years had a great desire to
see more of the system of slavery in its own territory, as so many
people of the North were insisting upon our exaggerations, and that we
were judging the majority of slave-holders by the few unprincipled men
we had seen, I concluded to become the bearer of this message.
With a well-defined plan of the streets and houses I left my home, in
confidence that the God of Daniel would return me unharmed. After a
little visit with my dear friends, Levi and Catharine Coffin, in
Cincinnati, I resumed my journey. I felt a little disappointed at the
leaving of a through boat an hour earlier than reported. Levi said,
"Perhaps thou'lt find it's all for the best," and so it was. For the
second day after leaving Cincinnati the vessel was burned and sunk,
with great loss of property, and many of the passengers were seriously
injured, and some fatally. As I soon after passed the wreck of
partially burned furniture floating near the shore, and some hauled out
lying on the bank, I was thankful for the disappointment.
At Napoleon I left the boat for another to go up the Arkansas river,
and waited at the best hotel in the place, kept by the widow Reeves.
She was probably a fair specimen of Southern women. The appearance of
the people made me feel as if I was out of these United States. There
was quite a company waiting to go up or down the river. Among them were
six or eight young people--Colonel Thompson with his son and daughter,
whom he was taking home from their school in Helena, Arkansas, and a
young Dr. Jackson, who was very talkative and filled to over-flowing
with affectation. With a twirl of his little cane, and half-bent bow,
in a simpering manner he addressed the four young ladies sitting on the
sofa before him:
"How did you rest last night, ladies?"
"Quite well, I thank you."
"Indeed, I am very happy to hear it, for I did not. I was dreaming all
night of shooting and stabbing, and I had an awful time. I suppose it
was owing to the awful time we had when I was here last over a nigger
fight, or rather a fight over a nigger. It seems he had started to run
away and they overtook him here, and he fought like a tiger. He had
armed himself with a six-shooter, and I tell you he made the bullets
fly lively, and they shot him before they could catch him. He shot one
man dead and wounded two or three others, and I was called upon to
extract a ball from the shoulder of one man."
During this conversation, and much more not recorded, I was writing a
letter home, directed to a friend in Covington, Kentucky. There was an
understanding, while in Cincinnati, that Levi Coffin was to take my
letters from our Covington friends, and mail them home.
To my great relief, the small boat, "Rough and Ready," came in, and was
to leave for Indian Territory, up the Arkansas River, in two hours; but
a large boat was going up the next day. I went on both to see what they
were, and I found the large boat looked more like an old slaver than a
civilized craft, and made my choice without making known the reason.
There was in the hotel an old lady going on the large boat, and she
urged me to accompany her, and a young woman was going on the "Rough
and Ready," who was anxious I should go with her, as she was alone, and
going to her mother in Little Rock. The old lady said she was alone,
and was going to her daughter, and asked Mrs. Reeves to intercede in
her behalf. "Now, Mrs. Smith, I'll make a bargain with you. There is a
rich widower on the big boat, and he's got lots of niggers and money.
I'll give him to you if you'll go on that boat; and, I tell you, he's
rich as Croesus." I had to enter somewhat into these familiarities, and
told her I would not think of being so selfish as to take him from her.
I finished my letter-writing, and her Pomp was told to take my satchel
to the boat with the young woman. There were Colonel Thompson and son
and daughter, who made themselves quite too familiar to be comfortable.
I soon noticed the captain seemed quite disconcerted, and made many
excuses. His cabin help were set to cleaning and setting things in
order, and his cook sent ashore for nuts, candies, and fruits. We
hardly had started when Colonel Thompson charged me with being a
reporter for some periodical. I assured him of his mistake.
Said he, "I knew you were a reporter; and when Mrs. Reeves was urging
so persistently to have a dance, I whispered to my young folks not to
have any thing to do with it, for you'd have us all in some newspaper."
I told him I was writing a letter to my folks.
Said he, "You need not think you are going to fool us in that way. I
saw you write a few minutes, then stop, and listen awhile to Dr.
Jackson and those young ladies, and then write again, then stop to
listen to Mrs. Reeves, and then write again. I told my children they
could see you had five or six pages for some paper; and you can never
make me believe that was all for a letter. Now, if you will answer one
question I'll release you. Haven't you written an article for a paper
some time?"
I hesitated, for the next query would be, "What paper? At length I
thought of the note of correction I wrote for the Louisville _Courier_,
while in that city, in behalf of Calvin Fairbanks, while he was there
in prison. I finally told him I would not say I had never written any
thing for a paper.
"Now, if you will pardon me, just one more question, and if you will
answer that I will be as good as my word, and trouble you no more on
that score. What paper have you written for? I would like to know
whether it was a Helena paper or any one in our State."
"No, not in this State," said I; "I did write a little card for the
Louisville _Courier_."
"Ah, yes, that's it; that is a good Democratic paper. I am acquainted
with the editor. I knew you were trying to cheat us all the while. I
wish you would write an article for the Little Rock _Democrat_, If you
will I will send the editor a letter of introduction; and I know he
will pay you well for it."
But I declined, and was very much relieved when the Thompson family
reached their home in Pine Bluff. Here I saw their slaves come to meet
them for their baggage. They urged me to stop with them and spend a
week or two, and they would take me out into the country to see some
beautiful plantations, as they had an excellent carriage driver. The
young woman said "Pa has owned him a number of years, and could always
risk us with him anywhere. Our plantation is not a very large one, as
pa has always had a store on his hands, but there are some very large
and beautiful ones beyond us."
A sense of relief came over me as I saw them leave the boat, and we
were the next day landed in Little Rock. Being after dark, I spent the
night at the Anthony House. Before sunrise I was at the house of our
friends, who were greatly rejoiced, and sent for the minister, with
whom we consulted. After making all necessary arrangements, with the
signs fixed upon whereby I might understand when the expected boat
would arrive, whether any unfavorable indications were noticed, etc I
inquired for a private and convenient boarding house where I could
remain a few days waiting for tidings from a through boat. The family
they named happened to be where the young woman who came on the same
boat with me was boarding, with her mother and brother in law, who was
keeping a tailor's shop. I inquired of this young woman and her mother
if they thought I could secure board there a few days, while waiting
for tidings from a brother. They thought Mrs. Shears might not have a
convenient room for me but they would be glad to have me in their room.
Soon the matter was settled. The son in law brought in sewing for his
mother and sister in law, and I made myself useful by assisting them.
The mother, Mrs. Springer, had a nice shally dress for me to make, that
she said she couldn't have got made to suit her as well for eight
dollars, and urged me quite hard to go in with herself and daughter in
opening a shop for dress-making. I also did some sewing for Mrs.
Shears, who also became quite social.
Mrs. Shears was very cruel to her slaves, and complained of the
indolence of Jack, a boy of twelve years. "But I haven't got him fairly
broke in yet. Don't you think, after I paid eight hundred dollars in
gold for that nigger, and set him to shell a barrel of corn, he spent
all that day in doing nothing? I was just ready to go away, when a
nigger-drover brought a few he had left, and said he'd sell cheap, as
it was the last he had on hand. He wanted nine hundred; but I told him
I'd give him eight hundred in gold, and at last he concluded to take
it. Well, as I told you, I set him to shelling on that barrel of corn,
and I don't s'pose he shelled a dozen ears after I was gone. Don't you
think, that nigger spent all that day in bawling after his mother--a
great booby, twelve years old! He might have some sense in his head. I
gave him one dressing, to begin with; for I found he'd got to know who
was master. I've had him six weeks, and he isn't hardly broke in yet."
Poor motherless child! No doubt she too wept bitterly over the
separation; but no word of pity, or even a sigh of sympathy, must be
allowed here. I must listen to this, and a great deal more, with
stoical indifference.
As Mrs. Shears had more company than usual, she came to me one evening,
and asked if I would take her daughter's bed in her room, shielded with
curtains, for the night. This was satisfactory to me. The following
morning, at gray dawn, the two little boys, Jack and Jim, came in with
fire from the kitchen, with kindling. The mistress rolled out of bed,
and took her heavy-heeled shoe, dealing blows upon their heads and
shoulders, and said:
"How come you niggers till this time o' day in here to build fires?"
"Aunt Winnie didn't wake us."
"I'll wake you up; here almost daylight, and not a fire built yet, when
these four fires ought to have been built an hour ago. And didn't wake
up, ha? I'll teach you to wake up."
And so she kept up the heavy blows, chasing them round and round the
chairs, and the boys crying, "I will get up early, missus; I will get
up early," till it seemed to me an unreasonable punishment.
Just as the two fires were going, and the little fellows went to light
the other two, the son, Joe Shears, came in.
"What are these niggers about, that these fires are not all going long
ago?"
"O, they had to sleep this mornin'; they say Aunt Winnie didn't wake
'em."
"I'll wake the young devils; I'll see whether they'll sleep till broad
daylight. It's their business to have these fires going an hour ago;"
and out he went.
At breakfast, I noticed Jim, the waiter, was missing, and Jack was not
at his wood-chopping as usual. Soon after, as I passed through the rear
porch, I saw the two little boys hanging, as I supposed, by their
wrists, to a pole over the bay in the barn. The door was just opened by
Joe Shears, to commence his day's work of whipping, as I soon heard the
cries of one, then the other, alternating in stripes heard with their
cries, by spells, until noon. During this time Joe Shears was sitting
before the fire, playing cards and sipping his brandy between the
whippings. Whenever he was out the whipping and cries were heard.
At noon little Jim was let down, very hoarse from crying, and his eyes
red and swollen. By his walk I knew the little fellow had suffered
intensely. But the little wood-chopper was not at his post. Soon after
dinner the lash was again heard, with the hoarse cry of little Jack;
and each time Joe Shears sat down to his card-table I looked for Jack,
but after a game or two of cards he was out again, and the lash and
cries resumed. I became so distressed that at four o'clock I took a
walk on the street, ostensibly to rest by exercise after a day of
sewing, but really to give vent to tears that had been all day pent up,
for all appearance of sympathy must here be restrained. On my return I
heard the battling of the paddle, with the cries of poor Jack, so
hoarse that I could hardly have recognized it as a human voice had I
not known what it was. I got no glimpse of the poor child until the
next morning.
As the tailor, Joseph Brink, came in, the sister-in-law said, "We ought
to have a lamp or candle lit before this time."
Said the mother, "We don't feel half thankful enough for this
grate-fire. Just think, Joe Shears has been whipping those two little
boys all this blessed day, and I should think they must be half dead
to-night."
"What have they done?" said Joseph.
"I don't know; do you, Mrs. Smith?"
"Yes; you know I slept in Mrs. Shears's room last night; and the boys
came in at nearly daylight with their pan of fire and kindling, and the
mistress wanted to know why their fires were not all built before, and
they said Aunt Winnie didn't wake them. And she whipped them with her
shoe quite a while; then Joe Shears came in, and swore at them, and
said he would wake them."
"And that was it? Only think," said Mrs. Springer; "you know Aunt
Winnie was sick yesterday. And just because they hadn't these fires all
built before daylight they've had them tied up in the barn all day;
that cowhide Mrs. Shears keeps hung on her door-knob her Joe has swung
over those two little niggers all day. I tell you, if the devil don't
catch such people there's no use of having a devil."
Her son-in-law, in an undertone, said, "Be careful; don't talk so loud,
or it will make a fuss here."
"Well, I don't care, I am mad. I tell you, Joe, hell is lined this very
minute with just such folks as these."
"Well, I think they are more cruel here than they are in Georgia."
"I've seen just such work in Georgia and in Alabama, and it's all over.
I tell you, there's more in hell to-night for treating niggers this way
than for all other sins put together, and I know it."
"Be careful; they'll hear you, and it will make trouble. It's their
property; it's none of ours."
"I don't care for that; they are human beings, and have feelings as
well as other folks. There's that little nigger, Bob, they've hired of
Dr. Webb, down street; they whip him and pound him about, and they'll
kill him some day. And I think somebody ought to report to Dr. Webb how
they are treating that young nigger. He is a mighty nice-looking boy.
He is almost white, and they've got him all scarred up."
"Well, what of that? The doctor himself is no better. About three
months ago his boy Tom was throwing wood in his cellar, and he did
something he didn't like, and he kicked him down the cellar, then
jumped down after him and took a billet of wood and was pounding Tom
over his head when two white men were passing by and saw the whole
affair; and as Tom fell the doctor came up out of the cellar and went
down town and reported his Tom had a fit. But the two men went into the
cellar after the doctor left and found him dead and his skull broken
in. They reported what they saw and had a coroner's inquest over him,
who found that Tom came to his death by too severe punishment. They
arrested the doctor and put him in jail a few days, when his trial came
off. The doctor was fined five hundred dollars, and he paid it and went
free."
"Yes, that is the doctor we've been sewing for, is it?"
"Certainly."
"I tell you, hell is heaped with just such people."
She went on in that strain that reminded me of St. Clair's "cursing up
hill and down" that almost frightened the New England old maid of
"Uncle Tom's Cabin." I trembled myself, expecting every moment that
some member of the family would hear her.
Two days later was washing-day, and the cook, Aunt Winnie, told her
mistress she was too sick to do the very large washing for three
boarders besides the family. I heard the mistress cursing her, and
telling her she could if she had a mind to, and charged her with being
lazy.
In came her son Joe. "What's all this fuss?"
"O, it's Winnie says she's sick and can't do the washing this week."
"Sick! I'll see how sick she is," and he took up a billet of stove wood
and commenced beating her over her head and shoulders, and swearing
that he would give her something to be sick for. Mrs. Springer called
my attention to the quarrel of Mrs. Shears with her cook before Joe
Shears came in. Then said she, "Poor Aunt Winnie will catch it now,
I'll warrant. There, just hear those blows; they sound like beating the
table; he'll kill her." And table, stools, and tin-pans or pails made
racket enough for the whole kitchen to be falling down. The struggle
with a volley of oaths lasted a few minutes.
Mrs. Springer, up to boiling rage again, "Hear that; what devils they
are; don't you believe Aunt Winnie will die? Why, I can't hold still."
In as careless a manner as I could command I said, "We can do no good
by saying any thing. You know what your son said the other night."
"I know it; but there isn't a particle of humanity about them. I feel
as if I want to pitch into the whole Shears family." Soon all was quiet.
"I believe Aunt Winnie is dead, don't you?"
"I think not."
"I am going in there to see."
As she got up to go to the kitchen she took the pitcher for water.
While she was pumping the water near the kitchen-door, Aunt Winnie
staggered to the door trying to wind a cloth around her bleeding head,
and one eye was swollen shut. As she came in and reported how badly she
was bruised up, she wanted me to take the pitcher and go to the pump
for water; but I told her I would wait a little, for they might think
we went on purpose to see Winnie.
"Poor thing, I know she came to the door on purpose to let me see her."
And Mrs. Springer could not rest satisfied until I drew the next
pitcher of water, when the poor woman reeled to the door with her hand
on her head and the cloth around it saturated with blood. I could not
sleep a wink after the day of the unmerciful whipping of those two
little boys. Again the night after this unmerciful beating of this poor
woman was spent in weeping, and prayer to Him who hears the cries of
his oppressed children.
A few days after Aunt Winnie came to Mrs. Springer and asked her if she
would cut and make a green delaine sacque for her, and cut a calico
skirt, as she could make that in the night, and charged her not to let
her mistress see it or let her know she had it, because her husband got
it for her and gave her seventy-five cents to get Mrs. Springer to cut
it; "for he is going to take me away three weeks from next Saturday
night, 'cause the people are so hard here; he says I shan't stay here
any longer." "I am so sorry for her, I told her to come in when her
mistress and Joe Shears's wife are away making calls, and I would take
her measure and cut and baste it: then for her to come in after they
are all in bed and I would fit it and make it any time, keeping it
under a sheet I've got to make, and in that way I can keep it out of
sight; and I told her you and my daughter will say nothing about it.
Said Winnie, 'I knows that by her face.' Do you know how quick these
black people read faces?"
While she was sewing on Aunt Winnie's sacque, Joe Shears's wife came
into our room a little while, and the daughter looked out the back
window, where Jack was chopping, and said, "I don't think your Jack is
going to live long."
"Why? I'm sure he eats hearty."
"He looks so bad out of his eyes; I've noticed it a few days past, and
I've noticed he sort o' staggers sometimes, and he don't talk natural."
She jumped up and looked at him and hastened to her mother in law's
room.
"Mother, Miss Springer says Jack is going to die."
"What makes her think Jack is going to die? I don't see any thing ails
Jack, he eats hearty."
Miss Springer (laughing): "I thought I'd scare her out. I wish I could
scare them to death, so they would treat their niggers like human
beings."
"Well, you've got her out of the way long enough to get Winnie's sacque
out of sight before our Joe comes in, for he's so mighty careful for
fear we'll get into trouble; I know he'd scold if he knew it."
Strange position I was occupying, here among the most cruel of
slave-holders. And they were calling me a superintendent of the
underground railroad at home; and here was the starting-point on our
underground railway, but a silent listener, and in surprise, I said,
"Where can Aunt Winnie and her husband go? As you say, he is a slave."
"I don't know, but they do go somewhere out of the way of their owners,
though they keep up a mighty hunt for a long time; yet a good many of
'em are never heard from; and I don't know where in creation they do
go, and I don't care, so they get away from these hyenas that have no
more feelings for their niggers than a wild animal, nor half as much. I
just wonder sometimes that the niggers don't turn upon 'em and kill
such devils. I know I would if I were in their places." "Yet there are
those who treat their servants kindly," I replied. I felt sometimes as
if I was compelled to be indifferent.
My friend passed the window at which I was engaged in sewing. After a
few moments I made an excuse to rest myself by taking a little walk, as
each of us frequently did. I soon overtook this friend who informed me
that Ann wished to see me after her tea was over, when she would be
released for a half hour to walk out on the back way with a free
mulatto girl, who was her intimate and confidential friend, and I was
to go in a large yard of shrubs and fruit trees where I was to meet
this friend who would call for Ann, with whom we were to take the
proposed walk. At the appointed time and place I met the friend, who
directed me to stand in a place out of sight of the street, or little
cabin, the home of her very aged and decrepit parents, who were
worn-out slaves, and as I understood were given their freedom. Their
slave-daughter was permitted to step in and do little chores for them
after her day's work was done.
While waiting in this lonely and solitary nook, three large bloodhounds
came in sight. I remembered of hearing about their being let loose
after sunset, to reconnoiter the premises, and I called to mind what I
had heard and read in history, that however ferocious an animal is, a
stern and steady gaze in the eye, by a human being, would disarm it of
ferocity, and cause it to leave. This course I resolved to pursue with
these three formidable enemies, that were already assuming a
threatening attitude, with a low growl, showing their teeth, with hair
on end--the leader as large as a yearling calf, the two following him
slightly smaller. I fixed my eyes upon the sparkling eyes of the
leader, that came within six feet and stopped; soon the growl ceased,
the lips dropped over the long tusks, the hair smoothed back, and he
quietly walked off with his companions. Soon came the girl, all out of
breath: "Did the hounds come to you?"
"They did."
"Oh, dear! what did you do?"
"I stood perfectly still," I answered, "and looked in the eyes of the
leader, and they soon became quiet and walked away."
"Oh, dear, that was the only thing that saved your life. If you had
stirred a particle they would have torn you in pieces. I was so anxious
to have Ann see you, I forgot the hounds until I started back, and I
liked to have fainted, for I know they were awful. I liked to have
screamed out 'God have mercy on that dear friend,' for I was 'most sure
I'd find you killed."
"Oh, no, the Lord has preserved me, and I am not harmed." She was so
badly frightened that it was some time before her voice ceased
trembling; but He who is ever present with his trusting children was
there.
Arrangements were made for Ann to go North, but if a word of suspicion
was heard, I told her she must defer going to a future time; that she
must go as her brother went, perfectly independent of any one, which
she was confident of doing; but she wished to go on the same boat with
me, if no one else was going from their city. I learned through her
friend that she was overheard to ask a friend of hers for a shawl for a
journey. I sent her word to abandon the idea of going then at once;
that I should take the first boat for home.
She did not obtain her freedom until after her mother's death, two or
three years later. I did not regard the trip lost, painful as it was.
There was on the boat a sad couple, taken from a number of their
children by a young beardless boy, perhaps eighteen or twenty, small
and slender. I noticed them frequently in tears. They were noticed by a
few of the passengers, who made remarks about the sad faces of those
negroes. Said one heartless woman, "Look at that nigger cryin'. I don't
see what she's cryin' about; she's got her young one and man to her
heels." I carelessly watched for an opportunity to speak with one or
both of these children of sorrow. As they sat on a pile of cable on the
rear deck I caught the opportunity to inquire where they were going.
"We don't know; our young massa got to frettin', an' ole massa gib us
to him and some money, an' tole him to go. We lef' three bigger chillun
behin'; never 'spects to see 'em ag'in; I wish he'd buy a plantation
somewhar, so we could go to work; 'pears like thar's no comfort for us
poor people, only when we's got work, an' stops studyin' so much."
As the tears began to fall thick and fast, I took them by the hand and
told them Jesus was the friend of the poor, and he had many followers
who also remembered them in prayer. And he knew of their sorrow, and as
they went to him he would comfort their sorrowing hearts. Pointing to
his wife, he said, "She knows that, and I wish I did." I charged them
to make no mention of my having spoken to them. For while they were
slaves, I was not free. This young man with his heavy-hearted couple
left our boat at Pine Bluff.
Surely I had seen enough of slavery in its own household. Three weeks
was long enough to see and feel its virus. I met my old friends in
Cincinnati with a glad heart, where I could draw a free breath. I could
visit them but two days before I was on my way home, where were many
glad hearts to listen in private circles to my experience in a slave
State. More than ever they were convinced that the cannon and sword
would, at no very distant day, destroy the monster.
Our institution was now in its second academic year, in charge of
Joseph D. Millard, of Oberlin College. The stockholders had turned it
over into my hands, making me sole-proprietor of the institution, with
all its multiform cares and responsibilities. I had also frequent calls
from fugitives in flight for freedom, whose claims were second to none
other. But to see prejudice in our students melt away by an
acquaintance with our work, richly repaid me for all my day and night
toiling and cares, that seemed almost crushing at times. I purchased
for the young men's hall a building that was erected for a water cure.
That project failed, and the building that cost $2,000 to erect, was
offered for three hundred dollars for my institution. I moved it one
mile, and repaired it with fifteen rooms; and it was well filled the
first year. This academic year of our usual three terms our students
numbered over two hundred, mostly of those who had been teaching, or
preparing themselves for teachers, or for a collegiate course. I served
as preceptress, and was closely confined in school work. Realizing in a
great measure the importance of molding the mind of youth for
usefulness, these years of constant care passed pleasantly with the
hundreds of young people of our own and adjoining counties.
A colored man, with a farmer's bag swung over his shoulder, approached
two men at work on the railroad between Palmyra and Adrian, and
inquired how far it was to Michigan.
"You are in Michigan, you fool you," was their reply.
"Then, will you please tell me how far it is to Canada?"
"You go to Adrian, about a mile ahead, and take the cars, and they'll
take you to Canada in two hours; or, if you haven't money to go that
way, you can go up that road till you come to the Quaker meeting-house,
and go direct east two miles to the Widow Haviland's school, and she
will tell you how to go to Canada, and it won't cost you any thing.'
She is a great friend to your people."
He soon found me. I got my supper out of the way, and my men folks out
again at their work. I then inquired who directed him to me, and he
told me "two men six miles from this school said you was a frien' to my
people; an' I thought if folks knew you six miles off I would be safe
to come to you, 'case I wants to go to Canada right soon. I started
once before, and traveled three nights by the North star; and as
Indiana was a free State I thought I would stop and buy me some broad,
an' the people was mighty kind, and said I could rest a week, and they
would pay me for the work I did, to help me on to Canada. But firs' I
knew my master come for me, an' I seed him pay them money--s'pose 't
was reward."
This time he was so cautious that he would make a friend of no one
until he reached Michigan. They had always heard people were friends to
colored people in this State. He was six weeks from Kentucky, and had
not dared to make his condition known to any one, white or black, until
he saw a colored man in the yard at Dr Bailey's, of whom he inquired
for my house. I told him that his coat and pants were too ragged, and
that I must repair them. As he had not a second shirt, I took one of my
son's, and gave him a couple of towels, soap, and a pail of warm water,
and told him to take off his coat for me to mend, while he went up
stairs to the room over the kitchen to change his shirt. He hesitated
about taking off his coat, until I told him he must. "I am not your
mistress," said I, "and yet you must mind me." Tears started as he
slowly drew it off, when the torn and bloody shirtsleeves revealed the
long sears, and a few unhealed sores on his arms. Said I, "Are these
the marks of the slave whip?"
He nodded assent, while tears were falling.
"When was this done?"
"Two nights afore I lef'."
"What was jour offence?"
"Dis was what I got for runnin' off, an' I fainted, an' master dragged
me in my cabin, and didn't lock me in, 'case I's so weak. I reckon he
thought I's safe. But I got an ing'on to rub over the bottoms of my
shoes so dogs couldn't foller me, an' I got four loaves o' bread and a
big piece o' boiled meat, an' crawled into de barn an' tuck dis bag an'
buffalo-robe for my bed, an' dragged it into de woods, and tuck my bes'
frien', de Norf star, an' follered clean to dis place."
"What did you do for something to eat?"
"I tuck corn in de fiel'. When I foun' log heaps an' brush burnin' I
roasted a heap to las' a few days; but I was weak an' trimbly to start,
an' kep' so all de way."
After this little history I made him take off his vest, which was also
very reluctantly done. But what a sight! The back of his shirt was like
one solid scab! I made him open his collar, and I drew the shirt off
from his shoulders and from the appearance of the shoulders and back it
must have been cut to one mass of raw flesh six weeks before, as there
were still large unhealed sores. I told him he must sit here until I
called in my son and son-in-law to see it. As they looked upon that
man's back and arms, and walked around him, said Levi Camburn, my
son-in-law:
"Mother, I would shoot the villain that did that as quick as I could
get sight at him."
"But, Levi," I replied, "he is not fit to die."
"No, and he never will be; and the quicker he goes to the place where
he belongs the better. Indeed, I would shoot him as quick as I would a
squirrel if I could see him."
Joseph, my son, responded:
"I think Levi is about right, mother; the quicker such a demon is out
of the world the better."
"I know this is a sad sight for us to look upon; but I did not call you
in to set you to fighting."
Many of my friends, and my son-in-law Levi, had thought me rather
severe in judging the mass of slaveholders by the few unprincipled men
who had fallen under my special notice; but I never heard of any remark
whatever from my son-in-law or neighbors, after this incident, that
charged me with being too severe in judging slaveholders. I furnished
the poor man with healing salve, and tried to persuade him to rest a
few days until he would be able to work; but no, he must see Canada
before he could feel safe. He was very loath to sleep in any bed, and
urged me to allow him to lie on the floor in the kitchen, but I
insisted on his occupying the bed over the kitchen. I gave him a note
of introduction to the next station agent, with a little change; and a
few weeks after I heard from my friend, whose name was George Wilson.
The reporter said: "The first two weeks he seemed to have no energy for
any thing. But then he went to work, and quite disappointed us. He is
getting to be one of the best hands to hire in Windsor."
This was the second fugitive from slavery who slept in my home--mine
being the first house they had dared to sleep in since leaving their
old home. A few days later another fugitive came from Louisiana. He was
a black-smith. I wrote to a wealthy farmer in Napoleon, Michigan, to
learn whether he could not furnish business for one or the other of two
new arrivals from slavery. To show the feelings of thousands of our
citizens at this date, I will extract a portion of his letter:
"There are constantly in our moral horizon threatenings of strife,
discontent, and outbreaks between liberty and slavery. The martyrdom of
John Brown only whets the appetite of the monster for greater sacrifice
of life. The continued imprisonment of Calvin Fairbanks and others are
not satisfying portions. I read your letter to our Arkansas friend, and
we are glad to learn that another has escaped from the land of bondage,
whips, and chains. In view of the wrongs and cruelty of slavery, how
truly may it be said:
'There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart;
It does not feel for man.'
"The natural bond of brotherhood is severed as flax that falls asunder
at the touch of fire. Let the lot of bitter poverty be mine, and the
hand of man blight every hope of earthly enjoyment, and I would prefer
it to the condition of any man who lives at ease, and shares in every
fancied pleasure, that the toil, the sweat, and blood of slaves can
procure. Alas for the tyrant slave-holder when God shall make his award
to his poor, oppressed, and despised children, and to those who seek a
transient and yet delusive means of present happiness by trampling his
fellow and brother in the dust, and appropriating the soul and body of
his own crushed victim to the gratification of his depraved appetites
and passions. I would rather enter the gloomy cell of your friend
Fairbanks, and spend every hour of this brief existence in all the
bitterness that the hand of tyrants can inflict, than live in all pomp
and splendor that the unpaid toil of slaves could lavish upon man.
Yours, etc.,
"July 27th, 1860. R.B. REXFORD."
Our blacksmith, whom we called Charles Williams, proved to be an honest
and industrious man.
We solicited over seventy dollars for a poor woman by the name of
Jackson, from Marseilles, Kentucky, who had bought herself by washing
and ironing of nights, after her mistress's work was done. During seven
long years she did not allow herself to undress except to change. Her
sleep was little naps over her ironing board. Seven years of night work
brought the money that procured her freedom. She had a son and daughter
nearly grow up, and to purchase their freedom she was now bending her
day and night energies. Her first object was to purchase the son, as
his wages would aid her to accumulate more readily the amount required
for the daughter, as she had the promise of both of her children. But
her economizing to purchase the son first for the sake of his help
failed, as the master's indebtness compelled him to sell one of them,
and market was found for the girl of sixteen. Nine hundred dollars was
offered, and the distressed mother had but four hundred dollars to pay.
She had trusted in her Lord and Savior in all these years of toiling,
and now must she see that daughter sold down the river? In her distress
she went from house to house, to plead for a buyer who would advance
the five hundred dollars, and take a mortgage on her until she could
make it. At length she found a Baptist deacon who purchased her
daughter, and she paid him the four hundred dollars. He was to keep her
until the mortgage was redeemed by the mother, who was compelled to
abandon her first project, and bend her energies toward making the five
hundred dollars. After working very hard one year, she was able to pay
but one hundred and fifty dollars to ward the mortgage, when her health
began to fail. The deacon told her the money was coming too slowly, and
that he could not wait longer than another year, before he would have
to sell her to get his money back. "Weeping and prayer was my meat and
drink day and night. Oh! must I see my poor chile' go after all my hope
to save her?" A merchant in that town by whom she had been employed,
told her he would give her a little secret advice, which was, to go to
Louisville as she had done before, but not to stop there, but to go on
to Cincinnati, and he would give her a good recommendation to his
brother, Mr. Ketcham, who was a merchant and knew the abolitionists.
They would aid her in raising the three hundred and fifty dollars; but
she must not let it be known that he had advised her, or that she was
going North. Mr. Ketcham introduced her to Levi Coffin and lawyer John
Jolliffe, who gave her letters of introduction to friends at Oberlin,
and other places, and by the time she was sent to me she had over two
hundred dollars toward the release of the mortgage on the daughter. As
her health was poor from constant overwork and troubles incident to
slave life, to give her rest I took her papers, and while calling on
the friends of humanity, did not slight some of my Democratic friends,
some of whom had some years previously told me if I would go to work
and purchase the slaves they would aid me.
Consequently I called on one who was living in splendor within his
massive pile of brick, and reminded him of the promise he made me on a
certain occasion. Now was his opportunity, as I was assisting a mother
to purchase her daughter. I gave him the line through which I had
received the best of endorsements as to her industrious and honest
Christian character, and what the friends had done for her upon whom I
had called, and but for her poor health would have brought her with me.
After listening attentively to all my statements, he arose from his
chair, walked nervously to and fro across his room, as if striving to
his utmost to brace against sympathy, and said, "Mrs. Haviland, I'll
not give a penny to any one who will steal slaves; for you might just
as well come to my barn and steal my horse or wheat as to help slaves
to Canada, out of the reach of their owners."
"Did I do right," I asked, "in rescuing that Hamilton family from the
grasp of those Tennessee slave-holders?"
"If I had taken a family under my wing, of course, I should calculate
to protect them."
"That is not the answer I call for. I want from you a direct reply; did
I do _right_, or wrong, in that case? You remember all the
circumstances."
"Oh, yes, I remember it well, and as I tell you, if I had undertaken to
protect a family I should do it."
"I shall accept no prevarication whatever," said I; "I demand a square
answer, and it is your duty to give it; did I do right or wrong in that
case?"
He drew out his pocket-book, and emptied it in my lap. "There is hardly
a dollar, and if I had more you should have it; of course you are
right, and every sane man or woman knows it; but my political relations
are such I wish you wouldn't say anything about it."
It is no new thing for politics to stand in the way of humanity. A few
weeks later the glad mother returned and redeemed her daughter. I saw
them together at Levi Coffin's, in Cincinnati, happy in their freedom.
Another woman was directed to me by William King, who, with Rev. C. C.
Foote, had founded a colony a few miles from Chatham, Ontario, for
fugitives from slavery. She managed to escape with seven children, and
her husband's master offered him to her for six hundred dollars, two
hundred dollars less than the market price. I went with her a few days,
and received from the friends one hundred and thirteen dollars. Then
the sight of one whom she recognized hastened her back to Canada, a
proceeding which probably saved us the fate of the Oberlin or
Wellington rescuers, who spent a few weeks in jail. A year after we
heard the husband and father was with his family in Canada.
A few weeks elapsed when another woman from Cincinnati learned that her
husband could be bought for a low figure because of a rheumatic
difficulty. She had been freed three years previously, and by industry
had accumulated three hundred dollars. She came well recommended by
Levi Coffin and others. While making calls in her behalf in a store
owned by a Democratic friend, upon presenting her claim to the
proprietor and a few bystanders, a gentleman stepped into the door
with, "I see you come to Democrats for aid."
"She knows her best friends," said our merchant.
"I slight no one," I answered. "I call upon my acquaintances regardless
of politics.
"I will give you _five_ dollars for every _one_ you'll get from an
abolitionist in this place," said the sparkling, black-eyed stranger.
At this quite a shout arose in the store.
"That speaks well for your abolition friends," was the ironical retort
of another bystander.
"Who is that gentleman?" I inquired.
"Mr. Lyons, the banker on Main Street," was the reply.
"All right," I said, "I shall remember him." I stepped into Edwin
Comstock's and mentioned this proposition.
"Very well; I will give five dollars for the sake of twenty-five
dollars from Mr. Lyons," and I placed that in my book. I next met
Stephen Allen on the street and I told him Mr. Lyons's pledge.
"All right," he said; "I will give four dollars, and that takes all I
have in my purse to-day; but I am glad to give it for the twenty
dollars we are to get from Mr. Lyons."
I called upon Anson Backus with my report and he said: "Here is five
dollars for the twenty-five from Mr. Lyons." I then stepped into the
Lyons's bank. "This, I believe, is Mr. Lyons, the proprietor, who
pledged a few minutes ago five dollars for every one dollar I would get
from an abolitionist in this place." His face flushed in reading the
names with the fives and four dollar bills in the book I handed him.
"There is no abolitionist's name here."
"Isn't Edwin Comstock an abolitionist?"
"No, he isn't."
"Isn't Stephen Allen an abolitionist?"
"No, he isn't?
"Isn't Anson Backus an abolitionist?"
"No, he isn't."
"Then I ask you to define an abolitionist, for I call these men as
radical abolitionists as we have in our country."
"Well, they are not."
"Please define them that I may know who they are."
"They are those who go down South and steal slaves away from their
owners and report that they whip men and women and sell husbands and
wives apart, and separate children from their mothers, and all that
sort of thing, when it's all an arrant black-hearted lie."
"Mr. Lyons, you know all these flat denials are substantial truths. As
you say you have lived in the South, you know in your own heart that
men and women are cruelly whipped, and that families are separated, and
these cases of cruelty are neither few nor far between. I will tell you
what I have done for a woman who was a slave in Kentucky when she came
to me for advice in Cincinnati, as she had a daughter to be sold, and
her mistress was going to sell the whole family down the river. She was
permitted to do her mistress's marketing in Cincinnati because she had
confidence that she would not leave her family. I advised her to put
her husband and children in that market-wagon and cover them with hay
and bring them to a certain place I designated, and she would be aided
in her flight to Canada. She took the plan I suggested, and her whole
remaining family, nine in number, found themselves free in Canada. Was
that the work of an abolitionist?"
"No, it isn't."
"Then I know not where to find one, for I see I too am out of the
catalogue."
While this conversation was in progress he took three dollars from his
desk and handed it to me; but as much as ever, I stopped to thank him,
and told him the worst wish I had for him was that he would repent of
his wicked position before the hour of death overtook him, and that he
might find peace and pardon for these Satanic assertions he had made.
He sat quietly listening while I gave out my indignation without stint.
"Hand me back that three dollars," and it was as freely returned as I
received it. He put it back in his drawer, took out five dollars and
handed it to me, and hardly took time to nod "I thank you" for
finishing my speech, which was not in the least interrupted, even with
the increased subscription.
Poor man, I pitied him, for it was more than a year before I could get
another opportunity to speak to him. His clerk left the bank as soon as
he commenced his tirade. Although it is unpleasant to meet with such
spirits, yet I never flee from them. If my cause is owned by the author
of the _Higher Law_, none of these things move me. A few months after
this we received a letter from Mintie Berry, the anxious wife, for whom
we succeeded in raising enough to reunite the long separated couple,
saying that their happy reunion was the result of favors from their
many friends, to whom they returned grateful thanks, while they praised
the Lord for the blessing.
I received a letter, July 4, 1859, from poor Calvin Fairbanks. Eight
long years of the fifteen he had suffered in a Kentucky penitentiary.
How sad are these lines, containing some of his prison reflections! He
says:
"Speak kindly, ye muses, my spirit inspire,
Breathe softly and sweetly, sweep gently my lyre;
There's gloom in my harp-string's low murmuring tone,
Speak kindly, speak gently, to me here alone.
My spirit all broken--no soul-cheering ray
To warm, and illumine my cold dreary way,
No kind and beloved ones of days that are gone--
There's no one to cheer me, I'm alone, all alone.
From friends fondly cherished I'm severed away,
From the hills where I laughed at the bright early day;
And the morning of life like an arrow is gone,
Like a shadow, a moment, and here I'm alone.
The guardians of childhood, like the bright early flower.
Have blossomed with fragrance, and are lost in an hour;
And the cycle that brought them has eddied and gone,
And left me behind them, alone, all alone.
How solemn and dreary, how somber with gloom,
Are my lonely reflections, of the cold silent tomb,
The abode of a father once fearless and bold,
Of a sister once lovely, now silent and cold;
Of a mother lamenting her lost, lonely son,
Awaiting awhile, but a day to be gone,
And to mingle with spirits of blest early love,
And to rest in the bosom of Jesus above.
The thought of these loved ones, now silent for aye,
Or lingering and trembling, and passing away.
Breathes sadness on nature, most cheerful and gay,
And traces these numbers--we're passing away.
But cease my complaining, we'll soon be at peace,
We'll rest from our labors, forever at ease;
There's rest for the weary and joy for our gloom,
For God is our refuge, in heaven our home.
Yes, earth with her pleasures, and all that we love,
We shall leave for the land of bright spirits above;
No blasting nor mildew, nor soul-blighting care,
No sorrow, no dying, no sin shall reign there."
The year 1861 opened full of excitement. Both North and South assumed
threatening attitudes. Raisin Institute was affected by it; yet the
work of the Lord prospered with us. Within three weeks fourteen of our
students experienced the new spiritual life. But soon our ranks were
broken. The seventy-five thousand men in arms called for at the first
by President Lincoln were not sufficient to suppress the slave-holders'
rebellion. Seventeen of our students enlisted for the bloody conflicts
of civil war.
Our principal, F. M. Olcott, had purchased my institution, and I looked
forward to a happy release of the $15,000 indebtedness that was resting
over Raisin Institute. The room-rent was not sufficient to meet the
interest and other incidental expenses, and the tuition fees were
required to pay the teachers. This indebtedness rested upon my
shoulders. But for the salutary influence it exerted in molding the
characters of our youth, I should have failed.
The declining health of our dear brother F. M. Olcott brought
increasing darkness over our future prospects, and the memorable battle
of Bull Run increased the shock that startled the liberty lovers of our
nation at the firing upon Fort Sumter. The cloud that hung over our
nation also overshadowed our beloved institution. We closed this year
with sad forebodings. Our beloved principal was fast hastening to his
reward. He suggested a friend of his to fill his position the ensuing
year, and died of consumption within six weeks of our vacation. He was
a noble Christian man, and had endeared himself to all who enjoyed the
privilege of his acquaintance. His loss was severely felt by his
students, who enjoyed his faithful teaching, and especially by myself,
as I had indulged the fond hope that he would become the efficient
permanent principal.
The following year the institute opened with as fair prospects as could
be expected, in charge of Edward A. Haight. Until the third year of the
war our school was continued in successful operation. But during the
last term of 1863-4, when the war had taken seventeen of our noble
young men into the field, and the condition of our soldiers, daily
reported as suffering and dying in camp and hospital, called for tender
nursing, I offered myself for that work.
Leaving an excellent young woman as preceptress in my stead, I gathered
from eighteen hundred to two thousand garments for freedmen, and
hospital supplies for soldiers, and with papers from Austin Blair,
governor of our State, from F. C. Beaman, member of Congress, and from
others, I left my sweet home and the loved ones who still clustered
around it. On my way to the depot I was met by Rev. P. Powell, who
inquired how much money I had. "Fifteen dollars," was my answer.
"Why, Mother Haviland," he exclaimed, "you can never go with only that.
Stop a day or two, and I'll get up eighty or a hundred dollars for you."
"But I have arranged for all my supplies to go on today. There are
three or four boxes waiting for me at Hillsdale, and I wrote them I
would be there to-night. I have not asked for money, but for supplies.
I have a free pass to Chicago and return, and if I can get a pass free
to Cairo and return, I think I can get along, and perhaps lives may be
in peril in the twenty-four hours I might be waiting here for money."
"Will you telegraph me if you do not succeed in getting the passes in
Chicago?"
"I will," I said, and went forward.
As I was taking leave of my son Joseph, and was about to enter the car,
he held me by the hand, and said: "One promise I want you to make me,
and make it so strong that your conscience will come in for a share;
and that is, that you will stop, once in a while, to think whether you
are tired or not. You are going among the suffering and dying, and I
know you so well that you will go and go and do and do, until you will
drop before you will think of yourself. If you will make me this
promise I will feel a great deal better about you."
"Joseph," I said, "I will promise to do this," and we parted.
On visiting the sanitary rooms in Chicago I met Mrs. Hague, Mrs.
Livermore, and others, who thought it very doubtful whether I could
secure a fare free to Cairo, as President Arthur had shut down the gate
on free, or even half-fare, passes. He had told them that associations
might pay their agents enough to pay their fare. But I was under the
auspices of no association. I was only a self-constituted agent, and I
must try. Leaning on the arm of my guide, I went to President Arthur,
and introduced myself by handing him my papers. On reading them he
asked, rather sharply, "What do you want?"
"I am hoping to obtain a free pass to Cairo and return," I replied,
"and free transportation for the supplies referred to in those papers."
"Are you alone, madam?"
"I am alone."
"Well, I think this is a heavy responsibility for a lady of your age.
Are you aware of the responsibility you assume in this?" holding the
paper up.
"I think I am aware of the responsibility. I do not know but the
experience of age, however, may somewhat make up for the strength of
youth."
"Well, I guess it will."
Settling himself back in his easy arm chair, he said again, "How long a
time do you want it for?"
"I can not answer intelligently," I said, "I may wish to return for
more supplies, within two or three months, and I can not say how long
it will take to disburse these supplies judiciously."
"Very well," and he took my papers to his chief clerk, and soon brought
me back passes, saying, "There are your passes, and they'll bring you
back any time this year." He gave me also an order for free
transportation. I left his office praising God for another victory.
I was met in the door of the sanitary rooms with "Did you succeed in
getting a half-fare pass?"
"A free pass to Cairo and return," I said, "and free transportation for
all my supplies from President Arthur."
The clerk clapped his hands, cheering: "You are a favored one; not one
of us would have got that favor."
Not till then did they know of my leaving home with only fifteen
dollars; yet it was sufficient.
A few hours more landed me in Cairo, where the wharf was lined with
cannon, and piles of shells and balls. My first work was to find a
soldiers' home, and visit hospitals. Oh, what scenes at once were
presented to my view! Here were the groans of the wounded and dying
soldiers. Some were praying--a few were swearing; and yet even these
would patiently listen to reading the promises of Jesus and his loving
invitations, and become calm.