by Michael Ross
Your loving sister,
Binia
✳ ✳ ✳
Julia paced up and down the dock. The boat landed half an hour ago at Albinia’s dock. She could not delay much longer without arousing suspicion. Her boat captain was growing impatient.
Through the gloom she heard the jangle of harness, then saw a swaying lantern. She tensed, then relaxed.
“Franklin?”
“And you must be Mrs. Johannsen. I’m sorry to be delayed, but we had a little trouble. I’ll help you get it on board.”
“Yes, all right.” Julia turned back to the boat. “Robinson! Come help this gentleman load the barrels. We must be off in twenty minutes. Have the one labeled salt pork taken to my cabin.”
The men worked quickly. Waving to Franklin, Julia returned to her cabin and found a large fifty-gallon barrel labeled salt pork. She talked quietly, “I’m sorry, I can’t let you out yet. You must be still and quiet until after the end of the first watch.”
There was no acknowledgement. Julia wondered if the slave inside had died, or perhaps was asleep. Perhaps Albinia was just testing her and there was no one there at all.
She took dinner in her cabin, and the steward seemed surprised at the barrel, but made no mention of it.
After everyone had retired and it was nearing midnight, Julia took a walk down to the engine room. The fireman barely noticed her as he stoked the fires of the boiler with coal. But another man recognized her and snapped to attention.
“At ease, Mr. Penn. Do you know where I might find a crowbar? I’ve a mouse in my stateroom.”
“But surely the steward….”
“I wouldn’t bother him for such a trivial matter. I grew up on a farm; I’m quite capable of dealing with mice, given a suitable weapon.”
“Yes, Mrs. Johannsen. I believe Paddy keeps one over by the coal pile for that purpose.”
Julia retrieved the crowbar and soon pried open the barrel in her stateroom after locking the door. She sighed, looking down. Just salt pork, after all, she thought.
Then the salt pork on top began to move, and a full grown man, medium height but powerfully built, stood up from the midst of the barrel, a piece of salt pork still entangled in his black curls. He looked rather comical.
Julia suppressed a laugh, then wondered if she should be afraid.
“Well, I almost decided you weren’t there! Let’s get you out then.”
“My knees and my ears got pretty friendly in there, ma’am.”
“I imagine so,” she said, pouring him a glass of water. “Thirsty and hungry too, I expect. Sorry I can’t do better,” she said, handing him a few biscuits. “We don’t have long. I have to re-hide you. I’m afraid you’ll be in the boiler room. It’s going to be hot. Shifts change in about fifteen minutes—you must be in place before the new man takes over. You’ll have to follow me down there, pretend to be my slave, in case someone sees you—but try not to be seen! Once we’re landed in Cincinnati, I’ll come and get you. You must pick up this barrel and carry it off the ship, to a green wagon at dockside. Once you’re in the wagon, the man who owns it will take over and take you to the next stop. If you’re discovered in the boiler room, I’ve never seen you—you’re on your own. You must follow all my instructions exactly if you’re to get away. Clear?”
The big man stretched—Julia moved back, frightened he might grab the crowbar and do her harm. Instead, he just said, “Yes, ma’am. And I’m mighty grateful.”
A few minutes later Julia left the room and, seeing no one, came back to lead the man down below. She purposely avoided the crew stairways, where someone was more likely to recognize her. The black man shuffled behind, playing the part of an obedient slave.
She saw an officer emerging from the salon ahead and stopped, motioning the slave into a hallway. He responded quickly. Julia tensed, unconsciously holding her breath as the officer tipped his hat and walked by, to the staircase up to the pilothouse. Julia quickly got the slave down to the boiler room. She checked ahead and found the room briefly unattended—they must be using the privy or gone for a smoke, she thought. Motioning to her charge, she showed him an area behind and above the third boiler where he could fit, barely, without being burned.
She returned to her stateroom. As promised, when they docked in Cincinnati, she was able to get him to the barrel. He picked it up easily, waved, and vanished down the gangplank, out of sight—into freedom.
✳ ✳ ✳
Albinia disguised herself well. It wouldn’t do to be recognized. She drove the farm wagon to the outskirts of the Ashland Plantation. She was far from her home, but this was special, and she knew the area. The hemp grew in the fields, and some of the slaves were working down a row, tending it. Further down there was a grove of ash trees, in a hollow near a pond, at the north end of the farm. The hollow hid her and the wagon from anyone in the fields. If anyone questioned her, she simply would claim to be visiting Lucy, though they had seen little of each other since her return from the North. She waited quietly a few moments, annoyed with the heat and the mosquitos. Far away, she heard the field hands singing. When she was satisfied that no one was near, she set the brake and got down from the wagon, careful not to tear her petticoats or dress. She walked off the path, down further in the grove of trees, and began to sing. “Steal away! Steal away! Steal away to Jesus.” She continued singing the song but walked back up the path, further away from the wagon, until she could not even see it was there. It was afternoon, and the early September sun was blazing down. When she felt she had waited long enough, she returned to the wagon, mounted, and drove slowly away, confident that her cargo was secure in the back of the wagon, under the tarp and vegetables. She had not let anyone know she was coming to Lexington except Julia. When she received word through the underground that this package was to go north, she volunteered. Though it was bright daylight, she felt somehow that David was with her. They had helped other slaves together. Now she must do it alone—but not alone, really. God was with her, and she felt David smiling at her.
Once she got out in the country, she put the horses to a smart trot. The wagon held extra feed for the horses. She supposed she would have to overnight somewhere north of Frankfort. Albinia had never taken a slave this far before. It was almost a hundred miles from Ashland to her new home on the river. On her last visit to Lucy, she managed to keep things pleasant and obtain stationery from Ashland, stamped with the Clays’ seal. She wrote a bill of sale for one Negro male, Jackson Clay. She felt that was her best protection, though of course she carried her derringer. When it was near dark, she would have Jackson come out and drive for her. Her story would be going to visit relatives in Cincinnati, with Jackson as her slave. After hearing from Luther what Jackson had done for him, she always felt she owed Jackson a debt. If he ever wanted to run, she would make sure that he could. She wouldn’t trust him to the Railroad. She would risk herself. She told herself that now that David was gone, what happened to her didn’t matter anyway. In a way she felt scandalous, so soon after his death shedding her widow’s garb. However, she knew that David would have wanted her to carry on leading slaves to freedom, and black dresses were not helpful for that. It would attract too much attention.
The drive to Frankfort was peaceful, if hot and dusty. Albinia wondered if she dared stop at a hotel restaurant, as the wagon came into town on the Leestown Road. There was less risk than stopping outside of town, where a passerby might ask her business. She found one near the state capitol on Main St., and after refreshment, drove on, passing near the state prison. Albinia wondered briefly about those inside its walls, and then turned her attention back to the waning afternoon. She would have to find a safe place to overnight soon. Sometimes, the safest place was in plain sight, as though you had nothing to hide. Since she was traveling as a slave owner, and curfew was coming in a couple of hours, she decided to just camp near the road, with Jackson in the open, near Stoney Creek. The horse crossed the covered bridge. With no one nearby,
they stopped. Albinia called to Jackson. He emerged from under the tarp and joined her on the wagon seat.
“Miss Albinia, you sure dis is safe?”
“Never sure about anything in this business. But safe enough I think. We’ll camp off the road, by a creek for water. I’ve been this direction before—a friend told me it was a good place. Then in the morning, as soon as it’s light, we’ll head for my place. You may have to stay there a few days, until we can make a safe river crossing. I have my own boat now, and I’ve made the crossing a few times.”
“How do I ever thank you?”
She laughed. “Simple. Don’t get caught.”
They drove on quietly, stopping at the appointed spot. It was heavily wooded, but a small path led off the road, and then along the creek. They set up camp. Jackson soon had some salt pork sizzling and coffee brewing. Albinia extracted the coach gun she had hidden under the wagon seat, verifying that both barrels were loaded with ten-gauge shot. After supper, they extinguished the fire. Jackson set up two pup tents and Albinia took first watch, agreeing to wake him in a few hours. She watched the stars and prayed, missing David, wondering about her family. She woke with a start, having dozed off. Some distance away, she heard hoofbeats and voices. Waking Jackson, she made sure she could grab the derringer and the coach gun.
“Remember, don’t run, and no fighting unless absolutely necessary. We’re going to visit my relatives in Cincinnati, the Johannsens. I have your papers, if they want to see them. If it does come to a fight, you take the coach gun. I have a derringer, and I’m better with that anyway.”
They waited tensely as the horses approached on the road. It was a moonless night, with only the light of the stars. One of the riders carried a torch, as usual. It seemed to take forever, but finally the horses passed. Albinia let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. The night passed without further incident, and soon after sunrise, they hitched up and drove at a trot to Albinia’s farm, arriving about noon.
Her friends Franklin and his wife Mabel greeted Albinia, along with a large bullmastiff.
“Heard the wagon coming; guarded the road with the rifle just like you said, Mrs. Horner,” said Franklin, helping her down from the wagon. The dog bounded over, rolling on the ground at Albinia’s feet. She patted him playfully.
“Good dog, Rex.” Then turning to her hand, “Thanks, Franklin. Please get Jackson into hiding, and see that he’s comfortable. Tomorrow I’ll go over to Madison and see what arrangements can be made for him.”
“Yes’m. Come this way,” he motioned to Jackson. Jackson followed him and Albinia into the house, a two-story affair with front and back porches, a parlor and dining room, and a rear kitchen. Once in the kitchen, Franklin moved a rug aside to reveal a trap door, which he raised.
“There’s not much light down there, but don’t be burnin’ candles unless it’s night—there’s a window at the end of the passage. If you hear commotion up here, stay put, put out any candles. If you hear this door raised, run out the back and try to get across the river, with the boat down at the landing. Otherwise, we’ll knock three times and come down singing, “Steal away” if everything’s all right.” Albinia watched as the door closed over Jackson, leaving him in darkness.
✳ ✳ ✳
Albinia heard shouting and the noise of many horses. She rose from bed quickly in the darkness, put on a dressing gown, lit a lamp, and grabbed her derringer from a nightstand drawer.
“Franklin! Mabel!” she shouted. She went down the stairs and opened the front door. Outside was a mob of men, torches, and dogs, trampling her dooryard. Men opened the barn.
“What is the meaning of this?” she shouted angrily.
A fat older man on a tired-looking chestnut horse rode forward. “What we’re doing is searching. For a runaway slave. We have a tip says he came here. And this,” he said, handing a paper to Albinia, “is a search warrant, signed by the district judge. We don’t want trouble, ma’am. You can go back in the house. We’ll call you when you’re wanted.”
Albinia trembled and turned to go back in the house. Franklin was downstairs by now, with Mabel.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Mabel.
“They’re looking for runaway slaves. They have a warrant. We can’t stop them. It’s legal. We need to pray.”
The three of them were standing in the parlor, still praying, when the sheriff’s men burst into the house and began searching everywhere. They were very thorough, room-by-room, even moving furniture, testing bookcases, looking in every possible location that might conceal a human. When they went to the kitchen, Albinia heard loud growling and she hurried into the room. Rex was lying on the rug that covered the trap door, in a crouch, growling threateningly at the men. One of them nervously pointed a pistol at the dog.
“Put that away!” Albinia said sharply. “Unless you want to lose your hand!”
“Call off your dog! Or he’s dead!”
“Rex! Heel!”
The big dog obediently moved toward Albinia, sitting at her feet just at the edge of the rug, but still growling low in his throat. The men searched the room, never taking their eyes off him, and they did not move the rug. As they were leaving, Albinia told the one who had pulled the pistol, “You’re lucky you didn’t try. Rex would have taken your arm off before you could shoot. I’m a woman alone, and he’s very protective.”
The man sneered and left. Albinia sighed in relief and went out to where Franklin and Mabel were still praying. They turned and thanked God aloud when they heard a loud knock.
Albinia, puzzled, went to the front door and opened it. Three things struck terror in her heart. The sheriff was there, holding Jackson, and behind them, James Clay, Lucy’s father.
The sheriff said, “Ma’am, you are under arrest.”
✳ ✳ ✳
The next morning, Albinia stretched sore muscles unaccustomed to sleeping on a concrete floor. The holding cell stank of feces and body odor. It was crammed with other women, all black. Each barely had enough room to lie down. The jailer came and escorted Albinia to a courtroom. She had an opportunity to speak with a court-appointed attorney, who advised her that the evidence was incontrovertible. She should plead guilty.
The judge entered the court.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Davis! The case of the people of Kentucky against Mrs. Albinia Horner. All draw near who wish to be heard.”
The judge entered, sat, rapped the gavel, and intoned, “The court will come to order.”
“Your honor,” said Albinia’s attorney. “May we address the court?”
“Certainly, sir. But bear in mind, we have no time to waste here.”
“Yes, sir. They arrested my client only last night, sir. She has attempted to send messages to her father, to Mr. Cassius Clay, and others who might aid her defense, but the court has denied these attempts. I would like to request a delay, your Honor, in order to prepare an adequate defense and investigate the circumstances of the case.”
“Denied,” said the judge. “I believe the circumstances are fairly clear. The state accuses your client of stealing a slave and abetting his escape. The property is valued at two thousand dollars, a very serious crime. Mr. Lodge, call your first witness.”
The prosecutor, Mr. Lodge, called in turn the sheriff, the man who caught Jackson running out the back of her house to the river, James Clay, and Susan Clay. Susan testified that she suspected Albinia in the theft of one of their other slaves, Luther. She also said Albinia knew the plantation well, and knew Jackson. She positively identified Jackson as their slave and denied selling him to Albinia.
“She betrayed our trust, sir. We had taken her into our family as a friend. My husband will tell you he was a benefactor to her, though she is of a lower class. She repaid my daughter’s friendship with theft and lies.”
“Thank you, madam.” Turning to the judge, the prosecutor said, “The state rests, your honor.”
“Defense?”
; “Your honor, in light of the refusal of more time to prepare, the defense rests, and my client throws herself on the mercy of the court.”
The judge turned to Albinia, who looked helpless. “Is that what you wish to do, my dear? Are you sure?”
Albinia straightened. “As God is my witness, sir, I never intended anyone harm. I have acted in friendship many years towards the Clays. If their cousin Cassius were here, he could vouch for me in this regard. However, I cannot and will not pretend that I honor the law that says one man can own another, or that a slave must be returned to an owner. I believe slavery, whether benign or cruel, is a sin against God. If I can fight it, I will, and that to my last breath. I believe Jackson and countless others of his oppressed brothers are equal in every respect to you, or me. I am only a young woman, recently widowed, but I must answer to God. My late husband gave his life for the cause of freedom. Many other lives may be lost in this cause. If you feel this is a crime, then by all means punish me. But one day we will all stand before God, and He is my true judge. I believe, with Mr. Garrison, that even the Constitution itself cannot stand higher than the Word of God. And on Him, I throw myself for mercy.”
“Very nice speech, dear. However, the law is clear, and has been upheld by the highest court in the land. This court finds you guilty under the provisions of the Fugitive Slave law and the laws of the state of Kentucky. In view of your youth, and your fair gender, I wish I could be more lenient. I find you guilty of forgery, larceny, and conspiracy. Sentence is two years hard labor at the state penitentiary. Accused is remanded to custody. The slave Jackson is returned to his owners, after one hundred lashes, administered in the courthouse square in Lexington. Court adjourned.”