_Heroic Escape of a Slave.--His Story of his Sister.--Resides
North.--Joins the Army and returns to the South during the
Rebellion.--Search for his Mother.--Finds her.--Thrilling Scene.--Truth
stranger than Fiction._
It was in the month of December, 1832, while Col. Rice and family
were seated around a bright wood-fire, whose blaze lighted up the large
dining-room in their old mansion, situated ten miles from Drayton,
in the State of Ohio, that they heard a knock at the door, which was
answered by the familiar “Come in,” that always greets the stranger in
the Western States. Squire Loomis walked in, and took a seat in one of
the three rocking-chairs which had been made vacant by the young folks,
who rose to give place to their highly influential and wealthy neighbor.
It was a beautiful night: the sky was clear, the wind had hushed its
deep meanings. The most brilliant of the starry throng stood out in bold
relief, despite the superior light of the moon. “I see some one standing
at the gate,” said Mrs. Rice, as she left the window, and came nearer
the fire. “I’ll go out and see who it is,” exclaimed George, as he
quitted his chair, and started for the door. The latter soon returned,
and whispered to his father; and both left the room, evincing that
something unusual was at hand. Not many minutes elapsed, however, before
the father and son entered, accompanied by a young man, whose complexion
showed plainly that other than Anglo-Saxon blood coursed through his
veins. The whole company rose, and the stranger was invited to draw near
to the fire. Question after question was now pressed upon the new-comer
by the colonel and squire, but without eliciting satisfactory replies.
“You need not be afraid, my friend,” said his host, as he looked
intently in the colored man’s face, “to tell where you are from, and to
what place you are going. If you are a fugitive, as I suspect, give
us your story, and we will protect and defend you to the last.” Taking
courage from these kind remarks, the mulatto said, “I was born, sir, in
the State of Kentucky, and raised in Missouri. My master was my father:
my mother was his slave. That, sir, accounts for the fairness of my
complexion. As soon as I was old enough to labor, I was taken into my
master’s dwelling as a servant, to attend upon the family. My mistress,
aware of my near relationship to her husband, felt humiliated; and
often, in her anger, would punish me severely for no cause whatever. My
near approach to the Anglo-Saxon aroused the jealousy and hatred of the
overseer; and he flogged me, as he said, to make me know my place. My
fellow-slaves hated me because I was whiter than themselves. Thus my
complexion was construed into a crime, and I was made to curse my father
for the Anglo-Saxon blood that courses through my veins.
“My master raised slaves to supply the Southern market; and every year
some of my companions were sold to the slave-traders, and taken farther
South. Husbands were separated from wives, and children torn from the
arms of their agonized mothers. These outrages were committed by the
man whom nature compelled me to look upon as my father. My mother and
brothers were sold, and taken away from me: still I bore all, and made
no attempt to escape; for I yet had near me an only sister, whom I
dearly loved. At last the negro-driver attempted to rob my sister of her
virtue. She appealed to me for protection. Her innocence, beauty, and
tears were enough to stir the stoutest heart. My own, filled with grief
and indignation, swelled within me as though it would burst, or leap
from my bosom. My tears refused to flow: the fever in my brain dried
them up. I could stand it no longer. I seized the wretch by the throat,
and hurled him to the ground; and, with this strong arm, I paid him for
old and new. The next day I was tried by a jury of slaveholders for the
crime of having within me the heart of a man, and protecting my sister
from the licentious embrace of a libertine. And, would you believe
it, sir? that jury of enlightened Americans,--yes, sir, Christian
Americans,--after grave deliberation, decided that I had broken the
laws, and sentenced me to receive five hundred lashes upon my bare
back. But, sir, I escaped from them the night before I was to have
been flogged. Afraid of being arrested and taken back, I remained
the following day hid away in a secluded spot on the backs of the
Mississippi River, protected from the gaze of man by the large trees and
thick canebrakes that sheltered me. I waited for the coming of another
night. All was silent around me save the sweet chant of the feathered
songsters in the forest, or the musical ripple of the eddying waters
at my feet. I watched the majestic bluffs as they gradually faded away
through the gray twilight from the face of day into the darker shades
of night. I then turned to the rising moon as it peered above, ascending
the deep-blue ether, high in the heavens, casting its mellow rays over
the surrounding landscape, and gilding the smooth surface of the noble
river with its silvery hue. I viewed with interest the stars as they
appeared one after another in the firmament. It was then and there that
I studied nature in its lonely grandeur, and saw in it the goodness
of God, and felt that he who created so much beauty, and permitted the
fowls of the air and beasts of the field to roam at large, and be
free, never intended that man should be the slave of his fellow-man. I
resolved that I would be a bondman no longer; and, taking for my guide
the _north star_, I started ‘for Canada, the negro’s land of liberty.
For many weeks, I travelled by night, and lay by during the day. Oh!
how often, while hid away in the forest, waiting for nightfall, have I
thought of the beautiful lines I once heard a stranger recite!--
“‘Oh hail, Columbia! happy land,--
The cradle-land of liberty!
Where none but negroes bear the brand,
Or feel the lash, of slavery.
Then let the glorious anthem peal,
And drown “Britannia rules the waves:”
Strike up the song that men can feel,--
“Columbia rules four million slaves!”’
“At last I arrived at a depot of the underground railroad, took the
_express_ train, and here I am.”--“You are welcome,” said Col. Rice,
as he rose from his chair, walked to the window, and looked out, as
if apprehensive that the fugitive’s pursuers were near by. “You are
welcome,” continued he; “and I will aid you on your way to Canada, for
you are not safe here.”
“Are you not afraid of breaking the laws by assisting this man to
escape?” remarked Squire Loomis. “I care not for laws when they stand in
the way of humanity,” replied the colonel. “If you aid him in reaching
Canada, and we should ever have a war with England, maybe he’ll take up
arms, and fight against his own country,” said the squire. The fugitive
eyed the law-abiding man attentively for a moment, and then exclaimed,
“Take up arms against my country? What country, sir, have I? The Supreme
Court of the United States, and the laws of the South, doom me to be the
slave of another. There is not a foot of soil over which the _stars and
stripes_ wave, where I can stand, and be protected by law. I’ve seen my
mother sold in the cattle-market: I looked upon my brothers as they were
driven away in chains by the slave-speculator. The heavy negro-whip has
been applied to my own shoulders, until its biting lash sunk deep into
my quivering flesh. Still, sir, you call this my country. True, true, I
was born in this land. My grandfather fought in the Revolutionary
War: my own father was in the war of 1812. Still, sir, I am a slave, a
chattel, a thing, a piece of property. I’ve been sold in the market with
horses and swine. The initials of my master’s name are branded on this
arm. Still, sir, you call this my country. And, now that I am making my
escape, you feel afraid if I reach Canada, and there should be war with
England, that I will take up arms against my country. Sir, I have no
country but the grave; and I’ll seek freedom there before I will be
taken back to slavery. There is no justice for me at the South: every
right of my race is trampled in the dust, until humanity bleeds at every
pore. I am bound for Canada, and woe to him that shall attempt to arrest
me! If it comes to the worst, I will die fighting for freedom.”--“I
honor your courage,” exclaimed Squire Loomis, as he sprang from his
seat, and walked rapidly to and fro-the room. “It is too bad,” continued
he, “that such men should be enslaved in a land whose Declaration of
Independence proclaims all men to be free and equal. I will aid you in
any thing that I can. What is your name?”--“I have no name,” said the
fugitive. “I once had a name,--it was William,--but my master’s nephew
came to live with him; and as I was a house-servant, and the young
master and I would, at times, get confused in the same name, orders
were given for me to change mine. From that moment, I resolved, that, as
slavery had robbed me of my liberty and my name, I would not attempt to
have another till I was free. So, sir, for once, you have a man standing
before you without a name.”--“I will name you George Loomis,” said the
squire. “I accept it,” returned the fugitive, “and shall try never to
dishonor it.”
True to their promises, his new friends provided for his immediate
wants, and, as soon as a favorable opportunity occurred, started him on
his journey north. George reached Canada in a few weeks without further
adventure, and settled near the city of Toronto, where he resided,
engaged in honest labors and enjoying the fruits of his industry,
until the breaking-out of the Rebellion, when he returned to the United
States, eager to take part in the struggle. Owing to the fairness of his
complexion, he readily passed for a white man, and enlisted as such in a
Michigan regiment in 1863. He was with Gen. Grant’s army at the siege of
Vicksburg; and, after the surrender of that, stronghold, the regiment to
which George belonged was stationed in the town. Here the quadroon had
ample opportunity of conversing with the freedmen, which he often did,
for he had not lost his interest in the race. Going into a negro cabin
one day, and getting into conversation with an old woman, he found that
she was originally from the state of Kentucky, and lastly from Missouri,
and that they were from the same neighborhood. As each related the
experience through which they had passed, the interview became more and
more interesting. Often they eyed each other, but there was nothing to
indicate that they had ever met before.
However, this was not to last long, for George, in describing the
parting scene with his mother, riveted the attention of the old woman,
who, at its close, said, “Dat scripshun peers like my gal, but you
can’t be no kin to her. But what’s your name?” eagerly asked the woman.
“William was my name, but I adopted the one I am known by now,” replied
he. “You don’t mean to say dat you is William?”
“Yes: that was the name I was known by.”--“Well,” continued she, “I
had a son named William; but he run away, and massa went arter him, and
catch him, and sold him down the riber to de cotton-planter. So he
said when he came back.” The features of the two had changed so much
in thirty years, that they could not discover in each other any traces
whatever of former acquaintance. “My son,” said the old woman, “had a
scar on his right hand.” George sprang from his seat., and held out the
right hand. Tremblingly she put on her glasses, seized the hand, and
screamed, “Oh, oh, oh! I can’t ‘blieve dis is you. My son had a scar, a
deep scar, on the side of the left foot.” Quick as thought, George took
off the boot, and held up his foot, while the old woman was wiping her
glasses; for they were wet with tears. A moment more, and mother and
son were locked in each other’s arms. The dead was alive, the lost was
found. God alone knew the sorrow that had visited the two since they had
last met. Great was the rejoicing at this unexpected meeting; and the
old woman would, for several days, cause Loomis to take off his boot,
and show her the scar; and she would sit, hold the hand, and view the
unmistakable cut which helped her to identity her long-lost son. And she
would weep and exclaim, “Dis is de doins ob de Lord!”