by Noel Rae
Mount Vernon, home to the Father of his Country and point of departure for those of his slaves who could manage to escape—on one notable occasion seventeen of them taking refuge on board a Royal Navy frigate that had sailed up the Potomac. Later in life Washington came to deplore slavery, though largely because of the burden on owners of having to support so many non-working children and old people.
To have seventeen slaves demonstrate their lack of respect by absconding at the first opportunity was bad enough, but then Lund Washington made things worse by trying to negotiate their return—not with them, but with the ship’s commander. First he sent Captain Graves a present of some chickens, and when these were well received he went on board where he and the captain spent “some time in perfect harmony.” After this Lund dispatched “sheep, hogs, and an abundant supply of other articles as a present to the frigate,” clearly in the hope that Captain Graves would return the compliment by sending back the runaways. Unfortunately for Lund, news that he was trading with the enemy soon got out, and, as Lafayette put it, “this being done by the gentleman who in some measure represents you at your house will certainly have a bad effect, and contrasts with spirited answers from some neighbours that have had their houses burnt accordingly.” Stung by this and other criticisms, Washington berated Lund for “the bad example” he had set—“to go on board their vessels; carry them refreshments, commune with a parcel of plundering scoundrels, and request a favor by asking the surrender of my Negroes was exceedingly ill-judged.” In the end the Savage sailed away with the escaped slaves still on board, and Lund kept his job.
Peter, Lewis, Frank, Frederick, Harry, and the others who boarded the Savage were not the only ones to prefer freedom to service in the Washington household. George and Martha were more or less aware of this, and of the problem they faced when, as the First Family, they went to live in Philadelphia, for a while the nation’s capital. Their problem was a recent Pennsylvania law giving freedom to any slave who resided in the state for more than six months. Another problem was the city’s large and lively community of free blacks, who, it was feared, would give their slaves the wrong ideas. As president, Washington felt that the Pennsylvania law should not apply to him, but to be on the safe side he decided to rotate his slaves between the city and Mount Vernon so that none stayed longer than half a year. This would be to everyone’s advantage: slaves “because the idea of freedom might be too great a temptation for them to resist,” although of course they would not “be benefited by the change;” and owners because “it might, if they [the slaves] conceived they had a right to it, make them insolent.” When giving instructions to his secretary, Washington wrote that the rotation was to be “accomplished under pretext that may deceive both them, and the public.” This pretext would be that Martha wanted to visit Mount Vernon and “would naturally bring her maid and Austin and Hercules under the idea of coming home to cook.” But this scheme “must be known to none but yourself and Mrs. Washington.”
How could Washington have been so obtuse as not to realize that his household staff knew everything that might affect them? At any rate, Hercules, the cook, soon caught on and, according to Tobias Lear, Washington’s secretary, claimed to be “extremely unhappy” at the idea that anyone could think that he would even dream of taking advantage of the six months’ residence rule. “He said he was mortified to the last degree to think that a suspicion could be entertained of his fidelity or attachment to you, and so much did the poor fellow’s feelings appear to be touched that it left no doubt of his sincerity.”
For storytelling purposes, Hercules should have decamped immediately after this protestation of personal loyalty; but instead he stayed on, perhaps because he had family back at Mount Vernon, and perhaps also because he found much to enjoy in Philadelphia, where he had many friends, was lord of the presidential kitchen, and was allowed to sell the leftovers and spend the money on theater tickets and elegant clothes. Nevertheless, just as his master was celebrating his sixty-fifth birthday, Hercules disappeared.
“Although diligent inquiries were made for him, he was never apprehended,” wrote Tobias Lear, and “all through that spring and summer Mrs. Washington was without a satisfactory cook.” She was also personally offended—“blacks are so bad in their nature that they have not the least gratitude for the kindness that may be showed to them.” Her husband, convinced that Hercules had gone to ground in Philadelphia, wrote to his steward urging him “to discover (unexpectedly, so as not to alarm him) where his haunts are.” Once located, there was no need for legal niceties: Hercules was to be “apprehended at the moment one of the packets for Alexandria is about to sail,” and the steward was to “put him therein, to be conveyed hither.”
Hercules made good his escape, but in doing so had to abandon a young daughter at Mount Vernon. Soon after, Prince Louis-Philippe, a future king of France but currently an exile, came to visit, and made this entry in his diary: “The general’s cook ran away, being now in Philadelphia, and left a little daughter of six at Mount Vernon. Beaudoin [his manservant], ventured that the little girl must be deeply upset that she would never see her father again; she answered, ‘Oh, sir! I am very glad because he is free now.’”
On May 23, 1796, the following advertisement appeared in the Pennsylvania Gazette: “Absconded from the household of the President of the United States, ONEY JUDGE, a light mulatto girl, much freckled, with very black eyes and bushy black hair, she is of middle stature, slender, and delicately formed, about 20 years of age.” Unlike most runaways, who were dressed in the patched-up, cheap clothing provided by their owners, Oney had “many changes of good clothes, of all sorts, but they are not sufficiently recollected to be described. As there was no suspicion of her going off, nor no provocation to do so, it is not easy to conjecture whither she has gone, or fully, what her design is; but as she may attempt to escape by water, all masters of vessels are cautioned against admitting her in to them, although it is probable she will attempt to pass for a free woman, and has, it is said, wherewithal to pay her passage.” The reward offered was $10 if taken in Philadelphia or on board a ship in the harbor “and a reasonable additional sum if apprehended at or brought from a greater distance.” The advertisement was signed not by the owner, but by his steward, Frederick Kitt.
Oney’s own version of events, given many years later, was that “whilst they were packing up to go to Virginia, I was packing to go. I didn’t know where; for I knew that if I went back to Virginia, I should never get my liberty. I had friends among the colored people of Philadelphia, had my things carried there beforehand, and left the Washingtons’ house while they were eating dinner.” She then went to the docks and boarded a ship bound for Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The captain must surely have suspected she was a runaway, but said nothing.
But perhaps Oney had eloped—“seduced” was the term Washington preferred when, after receiving reports that she had been sighted in Portsmouth, he wrote to Oliver Wolcott Jr., the Secretary of the Treasury. Oney, he explained, “has been the particular attendant on Mrs. Washington since she was ten years old, and was handy and useful to her, being perfect mistress of her needle. We have heard that she was seen in New York by someone who knew her, directly after she went off. And since by Miss Langdon, in Portsmouth; who meeting her one day in the street, and knowing her, was about to stop and speak to her, but she brushed quickly by to avoid it.” Insisting that Oney was “simple and inoffensive,” and not wanting to believe that she would have had the gumption to go off by herself, Washington decided that her escape had been planned by someone else—“someone who knew what he was about, and had the means to defray the expense and to entice her off.” In other words, “a Seducer.” However, the main business now was to get her back, and to do so discreetly. So, rather than invoke the Fugitive Slave Act, which he had signed into law a few years earlier but which already had many critics, Washington decided to use the power of the federal government to reclaim his private property: the Secretary
of the Treasury was to write to the Collector of Customs at Portsmouth, ordering him to arrange for someone to “seize her and put her on board a vessel bound immediately to this place [Philadelphia] or Alexandria, which I should like better”—as being closer, and also to avoid Pennsylvania’s anti-slavery laws. In conclusion, “I am sorry to give you, or any one else, trouble on such a trifling occasion, but the ingratitude of the girl, who was brought up and treated more like a child than a servant (and Mrs. Washington’s desire to recover her) ought not to escape with impunity.”
Though he must have feared that he was risking his job, Joseph Whipple, the collector of customs, did not seize Oney Judge and bundle her off on the next southbound ship. Instead, he invited her to his house on the pretext that he wanted to interview her as a potential domestic. They talked, and, “after a cautious examination, it appeared to me that she had not been decoyed away, as had been apprehended, but that a thirst for compleat freedom which she was informed would take place on her arrival here & in Boston had been her only motive for absconding.” Probably realizing that this was not what Washington wanted to hear, but hoping to smooth things over, Whipple went on: “It gave me much satisfaction to find that when uninfluenced by fear she expressed great affection & reverence for her Master and Mistress, and without hesitation declared her willingness to return & to serve with fidelity during the lives of the President & his Lady if she could be freed on their decease, should she outlive them; but that she should rather suffer death than return to slavery & liable to be sold or given to any other person.” (“Given to any other person” referred to Martha’s decision to pass Oney along to one of her grandchildren, Eliza, daughter of the spoiled and unpleasant Jacky Custis. Martha, a doting grandmother, assumed that she was doing both women a big favor, but Oney had met Eliza, and knew better.) Whipple continued: “Finding this to be her disposition & conceiving it would be a pleasing circumstance both to the President & his Lady should she go back without compulsion, I prevailed on her to confide in my obtaining for her the freedom she so earnestly wished for.”
By now the hand that held Whipple’s letter must have been trembling with rage at the impudence of the young runaway presuming to negotiate terms with her master. And Whipple could only have made matters worse by pointing out that “many slaves from the Southern States have come to Massachusetts & some to New Hampshire, either of which states they consider an asylum; the popular opinion here in favor of universal freedom has rendered it difficult to get them back to their masters.” Finally, and probably hoping to dodge the whole issue, he concluded by advising the president to contact the U.S. Attorney for New Hampshire and ask him “to adopt such measures for returning her to her master as are authorized by the Constitution of the United States.” In other words, use the Fugitive Slave law.
Whipple soon got a reply. After a brief preamble he was told that “to enter into such a compromise with her as she suggested to you, is totally inadmissible.” Not only would this be “to reward unfaithfulness with a premature preference,” it would also “discontent beforehand the minds of all her fellow-servants, who by their steady attachments are far more deserving than herself of favor.” Furthermore, as well as her running away “without the least provocation,” it was now clear that Oney was a fallen woman. “There is no doubt in this family of her having been seduced and enticed off by a Frenchman,” who used to hang around Mount Vernon “but has never been seen here since the girl decamped. We have indeed lately been informed through other channels that she went to Portsmouth with a Frenchman, who getting tired of her, as is presumed, left her.” As a result, Oney was probably “in a state of pregnancy.” Nevertheless, “if she will return to her former service without obliging me to use compulsory means to effect it, her late conduct will be forgiven by her Mistress, and she will meet with the same treatment from me that all the rest of her family [i.e. the servants and slaves] shall receive. If she will not, you would oblige me by resorting to such measures as are proper to put her on board a vessel bound either for Alexandria or the Federal City.” Once again, discretion was needed: “I do not mean, however, by this request that such violent measures should be used as would excite a mob or riot, which might be the case if she has adherents, or even uneasy sensations in the minds of well-disposed citizens; rather than either of these should happen, I would forgo her services altogether.”
But far from being the abandoned and pregnant plaything of a French seducer, Oney very soon married a free black sailor, John Staines, and started a family. But even then Washington, very likely at the prodding of Martha, persevered; and hearing that Martha’s nephew, Burwell Bassett Jr., was about to make a business trip to Portsmouth, Washington commissioned him to have another try at bringing her back, but cautioning against anything “unpleasant or troublesome.” Bassett duly went to see Oney, urged her to go back and, directly contradicting Washington’s instructions, promised that on her return she would be freed. To which Oney replied “I am free now, and choose to remain so.” Bassett then went off to have dinner with Senator Langdon (whose daughter had been the one to recognize Oney in the street soon after her arrival). While at table, and perhaps in his cups, Bassett announced that he had “orders to bring her and her infant back by force.” It is not clear if he would have been acting on his own initiative, or on secret orders from Washington, or at the behest of Aunt Martha. At any rate, Senator Langdon was so shocked that while Bassett was still at table he sent an urgent message to Oney to leave Portsmouth at once, which she did.
A hard life awaited Oney. Her husband and her three children died, her work as a seamstress was poorly paid, and she ended up as a pauper on parish relief. But when interviewed as an old woman by a local paper, she insisted that she had no regrets. She had learned to read and write, had studied the Scriptures and “grown wise unto Salvation.” “Mrs. Washington used to read prayers,” she said, “but I don’t call that praying.” But now “I am free, and have, I trust, been made a child of God.”
There is a parallel story to the founding of a free and independent United States, one that is in many ways also its mirror image, though on a vastly smaller scale. It is the story of how Sierra Leone, from being an independent country, became a colony of the British Empire—not for the purpose of laying taxes, but in order to provide a haven for poor blacks living in England and former slaves. How this came about is best told through the Narrative of the Life of David George.
“I was born [in 1742] in Essex County, Virginia, about fifty or sixty miles from Williamsburg, on Nottaway River, of parents who were brought from Africa but who had not the fear of God before their eyes. The first work I did was fetching water and carding of cotton, afterwards I was sent into the field to work about the Indian corn and tobacco till I was about nineteen years old. I had four brothers and four sisters who, with myself, were all born in slavery. Our master’s name was Chapel—a very bad man to the Negroes. My oldest sister was called Patty; I have seen her several times so whipped that her back has been all corruption, as though it would rot.
“I also have been whipped many a time on my naked skin, and sometimes until the blood has run down over my waistband; but the greatest grief I then had was to see them whip my mother, and to hear her on her knees, begging for mercy. She was master’s cook, and if they only thought she might do anything better than she did, instead of speaking to her as to a servant, they would strip her directly and cut away.
“Master’s rough and cruel usage was the reason for my running away. I left the plantation about midnight, walked all night, got into Brunswick County, then over Roanoke River, and soon met with some white traveling people, who helped me on to the Peedee River. When I had been at work there two or three weeks, a hue and cry found me out, and the master said to me, ‘There are thirty guineas offered for you, but I will have no hand in it. I would advise you to make your way toward Savannah River.’
“As I traveled I came to Okemulgee River, near which the Indians perceived my track
. They can tell the black people’s tracks from their own, because they are hollowed in the midst of their feet, and the blacks’ feet are flatter than theirs. They followed my track down to the river, where I was making a log raft to cross over with. One of these Indians was a king, called Blue Salt; he could talk a little broken English. He took and carried me away seventeen or eighteen miles into the woods to his camp, where they had bear meat, turkeys and wild potatoes. I made fences, dug the ground, planted corn, and worked hard, but the people were kind to me.