Letters from Mrs. Ware and Charlotte told of much gaiety and of days
that were an unceasing round of enjoyment. Charlotte wrote that it was
“heaven upon earth” and that never before had she “even imagined how
happy a girl could be.” But in her mother’s letters Rhoda detected a
note of melancholy. Although at one with the life around her in memory,
training, sympathy and belief, she yet seemed to feel herself an alien
while in the midst of it and to be saddened by her own lack of complete
accord.
“Poor mother!” thought Rhoda. “She loves father and me so much that she
can’t help feeling loyal to us with a part of her heart. Dear, dear
mother!”
Moreover, Mrs. Ware was not well, and declared she would be glad to
return home. She related briefly that Jeff and Emily had divided the
estate, two thirds of which, according to their father’s will, belonged
to the brother. Emily had chosen some land and a number of slaves
and, as her husband already has as many negroes as he needed, it was
their intention to realize upon these at once and put the money into
improvements upon his estate.
“They’ll be sold ‘down south,’ I suppose,” said Rhoda, as she read the
letter aloud to her father.
“Very likely. Those big cotton, cane and rice plantations are an
insatiable market for slaves. They can’t get enough labor. That is why
the South is so anxious to reopen the African slave trade. It’s an
open secret, which the North winks at, as it does at everything the
South chooses to do, that the traffic is already going on. Since the
Dred Scott decision there is nothing they stop at. It’s a pity Chad
Wallace or Alexander Wilson isn’t in the neighborhood of Fairmount just
now. If they were, Emily’s husband wouldn’t be able to make so many
improvements!”
A few days later Dr. Ware called Rhoda into his office, anxiety in his
demeanor. “I’ve just received this letter from Wilson,” he exclaimed,
“written in Louisville. See what he says:
“‘DEAR FRIEND WARE: Am sending you to-day by express one blackbird, a
fine specimen, securely boxed. I was fortunate enough to secure a live
one, as I knew you would find the specimen more interesting alive than
dead.’”
“Father!” cried Rhoda, her eyes wide and horrified. “He’s sent some
one in a box! All the way from Louisville! Oh, we must see about it at
once!”
“The letter was evidently written in great haste,” Dr. Ware continued,
“on a dirty scrap of paper and,--yes, it was mailed on the boat.”
“Then the box came on the steamboat with the letter!”
“Yes, and will be at the express office now. Jim must take the spring
wagon and go after it.”
Rhoda waited in extreme anxiety for Jim’s return, fearful lest the poor
creature should be dead in the box. Even Dr. Ware showed a lessening
of his usual calm. They said little to each other during the man’s
absence, but together made ready everything that might be necessary
if the “blackbird” should be unconscious. They knew of more than one
daring escape from slavery by similar methods. And they knew too of
the recent release from a southern penitentiary, after an eight years’
term, of a man who had been convicted of attempting to rescue a slave
by this same means.
The box, short and narrow and looking hardly large enough to contain a
human being, was hurried into Jim’s room and the cover quickly removed.
Within was the huddled figure of a woman, her knees drawn up to her
chin, and all her body held in the close confines as tightly as in a
vise. She did not move and when they spoke to her there was no answer.
“No, she’s not dead,” said Dr. Ware, his finger on her pulse. They
lifted her out and restorative measures soon brought her back to
consciousness. But she was ghastly pale and trembling from head to foot.
“You poor thing! You’re safe now,” Rhoda soothed, patting her arm, as
she began to sob hysterically. “We are your friends and we’ll take care
of you.”
She was young and comely, perhaps one-fourth colored, with neither
complexion nor features showing more than a faint trace of her negro
heritage. Presently they were able to give her food and water, and a
little later she told them her story. As she talked Rhoda sat beside
her, clasping her hand and now and then patting her arm in sympathy and
encouragement. Her speech was simple, but good, showing intelligence
and some training.
“How did Mr. Wilson happen to send you in a box?” asked Dr. Ware.
“It was the only way. They had to get rid of me quick. I’d been sold to
a trader from New Orleans and he’d brought me and a lot of others to
Louisville to take us on the steamboat. I knew he’d paid a big price
for me, and from that and the way he talked me over I knew what he’d
bought me for. I made up my mind I’d rather die, or do anything. A
chance happened to come, on the street in Louisville, as he was taking
us to the boat, and in a crowd I give him the slip.
“I didn’t know what I’d do or where I’d go, but I just hurried along
down another street, and then I saw the man who’d been at master’s
plantation last year and told us about going to Canada if we wanted to
try it.”
“Yes--Mr. Wilson,” Dr. Ware interrupted.
“I knew him right away, though he looked different, and I spoke to him
and told him what I wanted. He said to follow him and we walked fast
and turned up and down streets, and came to a free woman’s house. But
they’d followed us, and in two or three minutes they were at the door.
The woman took me into the back room and told me to jump into that
box. Then she put the cover down quick and went back and I heard the
men go all round the house looking for me and they swore at the woman
and told her they’d seen me come in and they’d watch the house and
keep on searching it till they got me. Then the man--Mr. Wilson, you
said?--spoke up right loud and said he couldn’t wait any longer and
would she have his clothes ready if he’d send for the box right away,
’cause he wanted to catch the boat for Cincinnati. I ’spected he meant
me, and he did. She put a pillow in the box and some biscuits and a
bottle of water, and cut a little hole in the side, so I could breathe.
“I thought I was gwine die in the box,” the woman went on, again
showing signs of hysteria, as memory of her experience returned. “It
was such a little box I had to be all crunched up and I got awful
pains, and sometimes it seemed as if I’d just have to scream right out.
And then I’d think what would happen if I did, and I’d be caught and
they’d flog me and send me--where they’d bought me for, and then I’d
bite hard on the pillow and keep still. And once the box was turned up
so I was on my head till I knew I was gwine die in another minute, but
they turned it down again and I didn’t.”
She stopped speaking, as long, nervous sobs shook her frame. The tears
were streaming down Rhoda’s face and her bosom was heaving as with
trembling hands she administered the draught her father had prepared.
Dr. Ware noted her agitation and admonished her gently to calm herself.
The old fear of displeasing him by showing too much emotion quickly
steadied her nerves. To distract her thoughts from the fugitive’s
harrowing experience he began to question the woman, as she grew quiet
once more, about her life in slavery.
“You must have had a hard master to be willing to take such chances to
gain your freedom.”
“It was the trader I run away from, ’cause I knew what he’d bought me
for. Master was a kind man.”
“But he sold you.”
“It wasn’t master that sold us. He never does. It was Miss Emily,
’cause she married.”
A chill struck to Rhoda’s heart. Was her fate to be forever linked
in this way with that of the slaves from Fairmount? She was glad her
father did not even look at her as he passed, with apparent unconcern,
to the logical next question:
“Who was your master?”
“Jefferson Delavan, of Fairmount, just beyond Lexington. He was a kind
man and never sold any of the slaves. His mother, old mistress, was
kind too, when she was alive, and she took pains with some of us. She
was teaching me to be her maid. But Miss Emily’s different. She’s sold
nearly all of us that fell to her share.”
Dr. Ware stole an anxious glance at Rhoda. She was sitting at the
bedside, with the woman’s hand clasped in hers, her eyes straight in
front, her lips pressed together and her face stern.
“It’s hardly fair to make the blame personal,” he ventured. She flashed
up at him indignant eyes and her voice was bitter with scorn as she
replied:
“But he allowed her to be sold, father, and for such a purpose!”
He hesitated, considering a temptation. In his daughter’s present mood
it would be easy to deepen this impulse of condemnation and so perhaps
undermine her love for Delavan. But the next instant he told himself
that it would not be fair. “The man has enough to answer for--let him
at least have justice,” was his thought.
Rhoda felt his calm eyes upon her, but she would not meet them. “You
must remember,” he was saying judicially, “that no man can be better
than the system of which he is a part. It is quite possible that
Delavan knew nothing of all this, except that his sister chose certain
slaves as her share. I don’t know very much about him, but I think he’s
decent enough to have protested if he had known of this woman’s fate.
I also think it’s most unlikely it would have done any good if he had.
And there it is, Rhoda! No matter how well-intentioned an individual
slaveholder may be, he is likely to be swept along any minute by his
system into its worst abominations. Our indictment must always be
against the system, not against individuals.”
When Rhoda knelt at her bedside that night the look of scorn had faded
from her countenance and in its place were tears. “Dear Father in
Heaven,” she prayed, “do not let Thy punishment fall upon him. He knows
not what he does. His eyes are so blinded that he cannot see how evil
these things are. Do not punish him, do not let Thy vengeance fall upon
him, until his eyes are opened and he sees that they are evil. And
grant, O God, I beg of Thee, grant me this, that I may make amends to
this poor creature for his wrong. If Thy vengeance is ripe and can be
stayed no longer, let it fall upon my head. Let me bear his punishment.
But grant me first that I may save her.”
The fugitive, whose name, Lear White, it was decided should be changed
to Mary Ellen Dunstable, had been so unnerved by her sufferings that
for several days she sorely needed Rhoda’s care and Dr. Ware’s medical
attention. Rhoda would not permit her to go into the cellar hiding
place, but made a bed for her in her own room and watched over her
with every solicitude. A dust of powder over her light-colored face
was enough to give her the appearance of a white girl of brunette
complexion. Only a close observer would be likely to note that the
whites of her eyes and the form of her nose gave a hint of negro origin.
“Father,” said Rhoda, when the girl had been two days in the house, “I
can’t bear to think of sending Mary Ellen on in the usual way. She took
such awful chances to escape from a horrible fate, and she came so near
to death in that box, that it seems to me almost as if God had put her
into my charge, and meant for me to make up to her for all that she has
suffered. I feel as if I ought not to let her out of my hands until she
is safe in Canada.”
“Well, what have you thought of doing? Have you a plan?”
“Yes. Mary Ellen looks so much like a white woman that I’m sure she
and I could travel together, as two girl friends, and go to Cleveland
by the canal. There I can put her on one of our friendly boats and
the captain will take charge of her till she is safe on the ferry at
Detroit.”
They talked the matter over at length, Rhoda dwelling upon the girl’s
nervous condition, which had so lessened her self-reliance and her
courage as to make doubtful the wisdom of sending her on alone by
the ordinary methods. But another reason of equal strength in her own
mind, although she did not mention it to her father, was her conviction
that here was an opportunity to make atonement for what she felt to be
her lover’s sin. Moreover, the girl clung to her with such implicit
confidence in her power to shield and save that Rhoda’s heart rose high
with a passion of resoluteness, like a mother’s for her threatened
offspring.
It was finally decided that her plan should be carried out. The Female
Anti-Slavery Society offered its little store of cash--pitifully small
since the money panic of two months previous--to help defray Mary
Ellen’s expenses. Several of the members donated material they had
bought for their own winter wardrobes and helped Rhoda make it up into
gowns for the fugitive.
On her way downtown one day Rhoda saw a new handbill on the trunk of
a tree at the crossing of the two main streets. It was of a sort that
had been familiar to her since her childhood. At one side was a crude
woodcut of a negro on the run, a bundle on the end of a stick across
his shoulder. She stopped to read it, wondering if it concerned any of
the blacks who had been sheltered under their roof. It offered three
hundred dollars reward, told of the running away of “my negro girl,
Lear White,” gave a detailed and accurate description of her, saying
she was “light-colored and good-looking,” and was signed, “William
H. Burns,” with his address in Louisville. Rhoda walked on, smiling,
thinking in what a little while that poster would be of no consequence
whatever to Lear White, for they were to start the next morning.
In the afternoon Marcia Kimball came, to help Rhoda with the final
preparations. They tried upon Mary Ellen the gown, in which they had
just set the last stitches, that she was to wear on the journey. Much
pleased with its effect, Marcia whitened her face with a fresh dusting
of powder, and she stood before them a handsome brunette with a pale
complexion, big, soft, black eyes and coal-black, waving hair. Marcia
clapped her hands, exclaiming:
“Splendid, Rhoda! Nobody would ever guess! Oh, you’ll get through all
right!”
Rhoda, standing beside the window, glanced out and her face grew grave.
“Come here a minute, Marcia,” she said. Some men were entering at the
side gate. Miss Kimball paled. “Marshal Hanscomb!” she whispered.
“Yes, but I don’t believe they suspect that she’s here. There are
three men in the cellar, that Mr. Gilbertson is going to stop for this
evening. We must put on a bold front. Don’t let Mary Ellen know--she’d
be scared to death, and they might guess. Come,” she exclaimed in a
louder voice, turning gaily from the window, “let’s go downstairs and
have some music. Marcia, you ought to hear Mary Ellen sing ‘Nellie
Gray’! Come down and you and she sing it together, and I’ll play!”
Laughing and talking, with every appearance of gaiety, though the
hearts of two of them were beating fast, the three went down to the
living-room and took their places at the piano. With ears strained to
catch the sounds from the other parts of the house, Rhoda struck the
opening notes and the two voices sang:
“There’s a low green valley on the old Kentucky shore,
Where I’ve whiled many happy hours away,
A-sitting and a-singing by the little cottage door
Where lived my darling Nellie Gray.”
Rhoda stopped for a moment and heard the tramp of the men as they came
up the stairs from the cellar. Then she laughed merrily.
“Why, Marcia, you’re singing all out of tune! I never heard you do that
before. Come, now, let’s all sing the chorus together!”
Mary Ellen’s voice rose, rich and melodious, above the other two as the
music made its mournful plaint through the simple lines:
“Oh, my poor Nellie Gray,
They have taken her away,
And I’ll never see my darling any more!”
The men were going through the rooms upstairs and one of them said to
another, as he stopped to listen, “That girl can sing, can’t she?”
Rhoda heard them coming downstairs and knew that Marcia was looking at
her with eyes wide and face a little pale. Would they come in? Suddenly
she was aware that her nerves were steady and strong as steel and that
her heart was beating as calmly as ever. “Now for the next verse,
Marcia!” and her fingers moved across the keys. Then she heard the men
at the door.
“There’s some one in the hall. I must see what they want,” she said,
rising and casting an encouraging smile at Miss Kimball. Marcia gazed
at her wonderingly as she moved calmly across the room and then,
feeling the contagion of her courage, turned quickly to Mary Ellen, and
to draw her attention away from the door so that she would not face it,
began asking her what other songs she knew.
“Excuse me, Miss Ware, for disturbing you and your friends,” Marshal
Hanscomb was saying, “but my duties under the law make it necessary for
me to search your house.”
“Certainly, Mr. Hanscomb. Come in if you wish to. Miss Kimball is
here--I think you know her--and the other lady is my friend, Miss
Dunstable, from Cincinnati, who has been visiting me for the last week.”
The marshal stepped inside, his assistants close behind him. Rhoda
cast a single glance toward the piano and saw thankfully that Marcia
was still holding Mary Ellen’s attention. “If only she won’t look
around,” was her anxious thought. Then turning to the marshal she said
seriously, with a gentle smile:
“You see, there’s no one else visible in here, Mr. Hanscomb, but if you
want to look under the piano and up the chimney--” she stopped on a
rising inflection and looked at him gravely. His eyes flashed, but he
merely sent an inquiring glance around the room, saw that there were
no closets or recesses, and then moved toward the door, saying, “Thank
you, Miss Ware.”
Rhoda closed the door behind him and leaned against it while she drew
a long breath and pressed her lips together tightly for a moment. Then
she went back to the piano saying, “Now, Marcia, suppose we let Mary
Ellen sing that next verse all alone. I want you to hear her.”
The men on the veranda steps, taking their departure, paused and
listened to the closing lines as Mary Ellen, in a voice of mournful
sweetness, sang on alone:
“They have taken her to Georgia,
For to wear her life away,
As she toils in the cotton and the cane.”
“That girl makes a right good imitation of the way a darkey’s voice
sounds,” said the one who had spoken before. “I reckon she’s practised
it.”