UNCLE JAKE.
I.
Years ago, before the permanent organization of the Underground
Railroad, when the escape of fugitives was largely a haphazard matter,
there lived on the sacred soil of Virginia, back a few miles from
Wheeling, a pleasant, companionable man, owning a number of slaves,
among them one known as “Uncle Jake,” the happy husband of an exemplary
wife, who had borne him several children, some of whom they had seen
grow to manhood and womanhood, while others still remained with them in
the cabin.
Uncle Jake was an expert mason, and brought his master large wages. The
latter, in the generosity of his heart, had stipulated that a certain
per cent. of these should be credited up to Jake for the purchase of the
freedom of himself and wife. When he turned his fifty-ninth birthday the
sum agreed upon was nearly reached, and the faithful man went out to a
job in Wheeling, with the full assurance that on his sixtieth
anniversary he and his hale old wife should go forth to the enjoyment of
the blessings of free people. Thus incited, his trowel was nimbly
handled as the days flew by.
A little improvident and immethodical in his business, the master had
contracted large obligations, which he was unable to meet; his paper
matured; his creditors swooped down upon him simultaneously, and in a
single day he was stripped of everything. His slaves, with the exception
of Uncle Jake, who was purchased at a round figure by a neighbor who had
long coveted him, were sold to a southern trader, and on Saturday
morning, chained into separate coffles, the unhappy wife and mother,
with her children, forming one by themselves, whilst the father,
indulging in pleasant day-dreams of the future, was busily plying his
craft in one part of the town, were driven through another, down to the
river, and put on board a steamer for New Orleans.
Evening came, and the week’s work ended, Uncle Jake started with a light
heart homeward. When he reached the neighborhood sometime after
nightfall, he was apprised by a friend on the lookout for him, of the
fate of the master—of himself and loved ones. Had a thunderbolt fallen
at his feet, he could not have been more shocked. Learning, also, that
his new master, a tyrannical man, was waiting his coming, he turned
aside to give vent to his grief. Had he been sold with the family he
could have endured it, for then there might have been a chance of
occasional meeting; indeed, he and his wife might have been sold to the
same plantation; but now they were gone—separated forever. Under the
blue dome of heaven, with the myriad stars looking down upon him, he
wept—wept as only a man can weep under such circumstances—until the
reaction came, when a lion-like manhood asserted itself in the laconic
expression, “Not one more stroke in slavery.”
Arising with the clear-cut resolution to obtain his freedom or perish in
the attempt, he proceeded stealthily to his cabin, armed himself with a
large butcher knife and a heavy walking stick, and taking one last look
at objects, though humble, still dear to him, he set out with elastic
step towards the river. About one-half the distance had been gone over,
when he perceived himself pursued. He turned aside, hoping to secrete
himself, but in vain; he had been sighted, and was summoned to
surrender.
To the challenge, he responded: “I am yours if you can take me.”
The two men, his new master and an attendant, dismounted and hitched
their horses, thinking the conquest of the “cowardly nigger” would be an
easy matter. But not so. The man who for nearly three-score years had
manifested only the meekness of a child, was now endowed with the spirit
and prowess of a giant. A well-aimed blow of the bludgeon laid his
master a quivering corpse at his feet, and several well-directed strokes
of the butcher knife sent the other covered with ghastly, bleeding
wounds, fainting to the roadside.
Mounting the fleetest horse, Jake made his way rapidly to the river, and
plunging in soon found himself landed safely on the Ohio shore. Taking
to a highway soon found, he followed the lead of the north star, and
just at daybreak turned into a woodland ravine, and spent the quiet
autumnal Sabbath watching the grazing of the faithful horse upon such
herbage as he could find, and in meditating upon the wonderful
revelations and events of the past twenty-four hours.
Night clear and beautiful, came again, and Jake pursued his onward way,
and in the early morning turned his jaded beast loose in a retired
pasture lot not far from Salem; threw the saddle and bridle into a
ravine, on the principle that “dead men tell no tales,” and prospecting
about for some time, saw emerge from a farm house a broad-brimmed hat,
which he had learned was a sure sign of food and protection. Approaching
the Quaker farmer, Uncle Jake declared himself a fugitive, and applied
for food and shelter, which were freely granted.
Tuesday the stage coach brought into Salem a hand-bill giving a full
description of Uncle Jake, telling of the killing of the master, the
probable mortal wounding of the other, and offering a large reward for
his apprehension.
“Thee oughtest to have struck more carefully, friend,” said the Quaker,
when he had learned thus fully the measure of his protégé’s adventure,
“but then as it was in the dark, we may pardon thee thy error, but Salem
is not a safe place for such as thee. I shall take thee to my friend,
Dr. Benjamin Stanton, who will instruct thee as to what thee is to do.”
Accordingly, when nightfall made it safe, the Quaker took Jake to the
house of his friend, who was none other than a cousin of Lincoln’s great
War Secretary, where having exchanged his laborer’s garb for a suit of
army blue, richly trimmed with brass buttons, a style of dress much
admired by colored people in those old days of militia training, and a
high-crowned hat, he was immediately posted off to the care of one
Barnes, residing on the confines of Boardman, bearing to him the simple
admonition, “It is hot.”
Not appreciating the full merits of the case, Barnes took him in the
early morning and started for Warren by way of Youngstown. Here he was
espied by two questionable characters, who having seen the hand-bill
advertising Jake, and knowing the antecedents of Barnes, justly surmised
that the black gentleman in blue might be none other than the individual
for whom the reward was offered, and at once planned a pursuit, but not
until the eagle eye of the driver had detected their motions. Leaving
the main road, he struck across the Liberty hills. When near Loy’s
Corners he perceived they were pursued, and bade Jake alight and make
for some place of safety, while he would try and lead the pursuers off
the trail.
In a land of strangers and without protective weapons save his knife,
Jake could do nothing more than to run up to a little wagon shop by the
wayside, in the doorway of which stood an honest Pennsylvania Dutchman
named Samuel Goist, and exclaimed, “Lor’ Massa, save me from the slave
catcher.”
Now, Mr. Goist was a Democrat of the straightest sect, and had long
sworn by “Sheneral Shackson;” he had never before seen a panting
fugitive and knew nothing of secretive methods, but when he saw the
venerable, though unique form before him, his generous heart was
touched, and he replied: “Hite gwick in ter hay yonder till I cums,”
pointing at the same time to a last year’s haystack, into which the
cattle had eaten deep recesses.
It was but the work of a moment, and sable form, blue suit and plug hat
were viewless in what the winter before had often sheltered the
semi-farmer’s choicest steer from pitiless storm.
Scarcely was this feat executed when the Youngstown parties came up and
knowing the political complexion of the honest wagon-maker inquired,
“Halloo, old dad, have you seen a buggy go by here with a white man, and
a nigger dressed in blue, in it?”
“Ya, shentelmen, py shimmeny; dot puggy vent py das corner ond yonder
not more as den minit aco, unt er vas _trifing_ das horse, py shingo. I
dinks you not oferdakes him much pefore Vorren.”
With an expression of rough thanks, the men struck off under a full
gallop which carried them into Warren right speedily, but in the
meantime Barnes had watched his opportunity, turned off through Niles,
and pursued his homeward journey by way of Austintown.
Turning from his shop when his interrogators were out of sight, Mr.
Goist called his good frou and said, “Vell, Mutter, I kes I haf lite
shust a lidel.”
“Vot, you, fater, haf lite? O mine!”
“Vell, Mutter, you zee von plack man comes along unt asks me him for to
hite, unt I say in dem stock; unt den cums sum mans fon Youngstown unt
says he ‘Olt dat, you sees von puggy mit nigger unt vite man goes dis
vay?’ Unt I say, ‘Ya, dot puggy vas kon py like a shtreak.’”
“O mine, fater, das vas no liegen; you shust say dot puggy vas kon.”
“Vell, if dot mans was Sheneral Shackson, I should him tell shust der
zame.”
That evening Uncle Jake received an ample supper from the larder of good
Mother Goist, and was then placed in a wagon under a cover of straw and
conveyed close to the house of a Mr. Stewart near the corner of Vienna,
whom rumor had pointed out to the honest Dutchman as one of “dem
aperlishioners.” Here he was bidden “goot py,” and soon found his way to
the cabin indicated, whence in due time he was forwarded to General
Andrew Bushnell, a prominent anti-slavery man south of the centre of
Hartford.
II.
Even at that early day, Hartford and Vernon had established for
themselves a wide-spread reputation for expertness in the _forwarding
business_. General Bushnell, on account of his age and experience was
looked upon as the acknowledged front of affairs, but his work was ably
seconded by many others, particularly by two young men, Ralph Plumb, of
Burgh Hill, and Levi Sutliff, who still resided with his parents in the
north part of Vernon. These young men were ever on the alert for daring
enterprise, but just now discretion was considered the better part of
valor, for slow as news moved, it was not long before the chase from
Youngstown to Warren became known in Hartford, and anti-fugitive eyes
became unusually vigilant about town, and it was whispered that the blue
suit might come that way and some one might pick up a handsome reward.
For some days Uncle Jake was carefully secreted in a hay-barn, together
with a young man who had previously reached the General’s. Plumb and
Sutliff were so carefully watched, it was thought best to commit the
carrying of the twain to other hands—but whose should they be?
Young Plumb had a sister Mary, about twenty years of age, the affianced
of Sutliff, and the General had a daughter bearing the same name a year
or two younger, both spirited, resolute girls, and ready for any good
work. When only fourteen, Miss Bushnell, in a case of special emergency,
had hitched up the family carriage, (a one-horse wagon,) and conveyed a
fleeing family from her father’s to the Sutliff home, a distance of
eight miles, encountering a fearful thunderstorm on the way, and
returning before the first peep of morning light.
One day when conversing on the best way of disposing of the case in
hand, Ralph said: “Leve, suppose we commit this mission to the Marys; I
believe they will put the stock safely through to the lake.”
“Capital,” replied his companion; “have you matured a scheme?”
“Partially.”
“What is it?”
“Well your father is to have a load of hay of the General. Come along
with the team and I’ll help you get it. We’ll pack Uncle Jake and the
boy into the load, take Mary on with us and bring her down to our house,
there take on sister, and when the hay is in the Sutliff barn the rest
can be easily arranged.”
“But will the girls consent?”
“The Bushnell has been tried, and you are the last man that ought to
raise a question about the Plumb.”
That afternoon the team of the senior Sutliff was driven through the
center of Hartford and to the hay-barn of Andrew Bushnell, where it was
duly loaded, the two choicest _spires_ being extended longitudinally a
short distance from the top. Passing the house, Mary was taken on and a
merry trio proceeded northward only to be expanded to a jubilant
quartette on arriving at the Hill. No suspicion was aroused, for those
were days when a woman’s worth and modesty were not lessened by her
being seen in sun-bonnet and shawl upon a load of hay.
III.
One, two, three, ——, ——, ——, ——, ——, ——, ——, ——, twelve, went the clock
in the old, low Sutliff mansion; a light two-horse wagon, the bed filled
with hay as if covering a “grist,” was backed out of the barn; two
strong horses were attached; warm kisses were administered to ruby lips;
and a couple of well-wrapped female forms ascended to the seat; a
delicately gloved hand laid hold of the lines, and the team sped briskly
towards the “Kinsman woods.”
IV.
Deacon Andrews, in the old farm house still standing on the brink of the
little ravine south of the hamlet of Lindenville, had put up his morning
prayer for the drowning host of Pharaoh, the Greeks, the Romans and the
Jews, said “Amen” and arisen from his knees, when his wife, looking out
of the window, exclaimed: “See, husband, there’s the Sutliff team; but
who is driving? As I live, if it isn’t a couple of girls, and all the
way up from Vernon so early as this! What can they want?”
“Going to the ‘Harbor’ with _grain_, I presume; likely the men folks are
busy.”
“But then I didn’t know the Sutliffs have any girls.”
“Well, wife, likely they’ve hired the team to some of the neighbors. You
start the children out after chestnuts, quick.”
There was a lively scampering of young Andrews to the woods; a hasty
breakfasting of girls and horses; a close examination of the sacks under
the hay to see if all was right; a pleasant “good morning,” and the team
went northward and the deacon to his work, mentally exclaiming: “Great
and marvelous are the works of the Almighty—and Plumb and Sut—” but he
checked the irreverent conclusion.
V.
It was high noon at Jefferson, and Ben Wade brought his fist down upon
the cover of the volume of Blackstone he had closed, as he arose to go
to dinner, and ejaculated, “Who the d—l is that, Gid?”
The pleasant, bland countenanced gentleman to whom these words were
addressed looked up, and there in front of the little office bearing the
unpretentious sign,
“GIDDINGS & WADE,
ATTORNEYS AT LAW.”
were two plump, rosy-cheeked girls, each engaged in hitching a horse.
“Zounds, Ben, you ought to know your Trumbull county friends. It hasn’t
been so long since you taught school at the Center of Hartfort that you
should have forgotten the Bushnells and the Plumbs.”
“The h—ll! I wonder if those two lasses can be the little Mollies I used
to enjoy so much.”
“They are the Miss Bushnell and Miss Plumb I met at Sutliff’s a few days
ago, though I do not know their names.”
The two attorneys, as yet unknown to fame, attended, without fees, to
the consultation of the young ladies, treated them and theirs to the
best fare of him who was afterwards well known in _Railroad_ circles as
“Anno Mundi,” and then sent them forward with a kind letter of
introduction to “Doctor” Henry Harris, the most likely man to greet
them.
VI.
“Can you direct us to Dr. Harris?” said a sweet voiced girl to a trim,
quick-stepping, rather fashionably dressed young gentleman on the street
in the little village of Ashtabula, as she reined up a two-horse team.
“Hem, ’em ’em, Dr. Harris? ’em, why, that is what they call me.”
“Are you the only Dr. Harris in town?”
“’Em, yes, Miss. What can I do for you?”
The letters of the Jefferson attorneys was placed in his hands.
“’Em, hem,” he exclaimed, after reading it. “_Freight!_ we can not ship
now; shall have to stow it in our up-town ware-house;” saying which he
led the way out to a country home, now occupied as a city residence,
where the freight was deposited in a hay-mow, whilst the kind-hearted
old Scotchman, Deacon McDonald and his wife most graciously cared for
the intrepid drivers for the night.
The young man Ned was soon sent away, but Uncle Jake lingered in the
vicinity for considerable time. The winter of 1836 he spent at the
Harbor in the family of Deacon Wm. Hubbard, rendering valuable service
in “pointing” the walls and plastering the cellar of the house now
occupied as a store and residence by Captain Starkey. He is still well
remembered by A. F. Hubbard, Esq., whose father offered him a home in
his family; but Jake finally left and nothing is known of his subsequent
course.
Of the two young ladies so intimately connected with this history, Miss
Bushnell ultimately married a Mr. Estabrook, and was for many years one
of the most esteemed ladies of Warren, O., and now sleeps in Oakwood
Cemetery near that beautiful city. The other joined her destiny with
that of her affiance shortly after that memorable ride, and a few weeks
since I stood in the little churchyard at Burgh Hill, shrouded as it was
in a far-reaching coverlet of snow and copied the following from a small
marble headstone:
“MARY P. SUTLIFF,
Died March 1st, 1836.
AE., 23.
_First Sec’y of the Female Anti-Slavery Society of Vernon, A. D.,
1834._”