by Dickie Erman
“We want you to keep it. Frank and me have others. Just as heartwarming.
“Look, we’ve lived a long life. A good life” she smiled as she lovingly looked at her husband. “We won’t be here forever. And when we’re called by the good Lord, you … you and Melba … need to print this in the paper. Will you do us that honor?”
Tom was deeply touched. He wiped a tear before it spilled out. “Of course. I give you my solemn promise”.
* * *
MELBA was sitting at her desk the next morning, studiously proofreading the next article for their paper.
“Well?” she asked as Tom quickly walked into the office and locked the door behind him.
“We’re good” he replied, somewhat out of breath. He looked at Tabari, sitting in the corner, his expression warped with worry.
“Tonight. I’ll bring Tabari to the Jeffersons a couple hours after dark. They’ll arrange for a conductor. I assume he’ll be there, at the Jefferson’s. But I don’t know. I …”
“It’s alright” Melba reassured him. She knew there were always more questions than answers in these situations. She knew how things just naturally unfolded.
She also knew Frank and Freda, and had complete confidence in their commitment to the cause.
Tom looked back at Tabari, realizing he’d been somewhat talking as if he weren’t even there.
“Sorry, Tabari. As I was telling Melba, Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson have agreed to help. They have a place not far from here. Tonight, we’ll sneak you out and drive to their farm. I don’t know if you’ll leave their place tonight, the next morning, or when. But I promise you, they’re good folk and will do everything in their power to help you find the freedom you seek.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes sir” he replied, still worried but not so frightened.
Tom let out a heavy sigh, then sat down in his chair.
* * *
AT sunup that morning, Frank drove his buck wagon the two hour trip to Marysville, to meet Pastor Jessie and the Reverend Baxter at the Chapel Cross Church.
The two had helped Frank and Freda twice before, years ago, using their Church as one of the ‘stations’ to hide runaway slaves. Like everyone, they well knew the risks involved.
But they also knew that the Church was a legally protected sanctuary, at least in theory.
Frank saw them standing at the front door of the Church.
“Why Frank, it’s been a long time” the Reverend greeted. “So delighted to see you again”.
“It has been a long time” Frank replied, genuinely appreciative of the loving welcome.
“Before you ask, Freda’s doing fine and our farm’s good. Not a lot of money there, but we’re comfortable and our bills are paid”.
Pastor Jessie chuckled. He intuitively sensed what Frank came for, and appreciated the time constraint he was most likely under.
“Frank, let’s go into the vestry. It’s cluttered … well … it’s always cluttered, but we can speak in private there”.
Frank was silent as the three walked to the small room which was, well, cluttered.
We think you’re pressed for time” he said bluntly. “How can we help?”
“Well … “ Frank felt guilty for not spending some time reminiscing about the good ol’ times.
“I’m sorry fellas. I want to know how you’ve been, how things are going, and enjoy some plain fellowship. But I’m kinda’ in a pickle and I need to get right to the point”.
“We understand” Pastor Jessie said. “Tell us what you need”.
“I didn’t think I’d be gettin’ involved in the Underground Railroad again, not at my age” he whispered.
“Just getting’ too damn old. But a man named Tom Wilkins came to see me and Freda yesterday morning. We’ve worked with Tom before. Good man. He runs the Herald Beacon newspaper”.
The Reverend and Pastor looked at each other knowingly.
“We read it religiously” Reverend Baxter replied, blushing at his unintended pun.
“Yes. I believe Mr. Wilkins is a good man” Pastor Jessie agreed.
“He and Melba, that’s his assistant, they found a runaway hiding under their office a couple of days ago. His name’s Tabari. Found him scared and hungry. Tabari needs help, and I told Tom to bring him to my place tonight. He can’t stay in N’awlins. No way. He needs to be moved quickly”.
“Yes, yes, we understand” Pastor Jessie stated. “You want to bring him here?”
Frank looked at the floor, forlorn. The two clergy sensed his exhaustion.
“I’ve already told Tom to bring him to my place tonight. I didn’t know if you’d be able to help. I should’ve thought this through. I …”
Frank felt lost. He was an old man taking on a task that even a young man would find arduous.
“Frank, it’s alright” Pastor Jessie offered. “No one can plan these things out without any hiccups. It’s alright. Reverend Baxter and I will drive out to your place tonight, and we’ll bring Tabari back here early morning. Everything will work out fine”.
The Reverend nodded, trying his best to reassure Frank.
“We’ll put Tabari up here. We have a secure basement where he’ll be very comfortable until we can arrange his continued travel. We have options. We’ve worked closely with several people who can assist. They’re more than happy to help.
“Don’t worry, we’ll see to it that Tabari gets safely to freedom”.
Frank was almost in tears. “I don’t know what to say”.
“I do” Pastor Jessie answered. “Thank you. Thank you to you and Freda. And thanks to Tom Wilkins. Let’s get you some food, and then you can be on your way. The Reverend and I will meet you tonight. Everything will be fine”.
40
“I
AIN’T GOIN’ THAR AGIN’. Like I said, it’s a waste of time”.
“Goddamnit!” Randy half hollered, “It ain’t a waste of time”. A couple men at the bar looked startled as they overheard the two arguing.
“Are you ‘Mr. Moneybags’ or somethin’? Randy scolded Seth. You ain’t got a god damned thing to do tonight, ‘cept sit here and get shitfaced”.
“We’ve already been there once” Seth reminded him. “And what’d we find? Nothin, that’s what”.
“Alright. I promise ya this. Just one more time. I’m tellin’ ya, I got a good feelin’ ‘bout this”.
“Good feelin’? Seth asked. “The only good feelin’ you have is coming from those beers”.
“Come on, let’s go. Here!” Randy fumed at Seth, as he slammed down just enough coin to pay for their drinks. “Cheap bastard”.
They half-stumbled down the streets, working their way to the Herald Beacon. As they approached River Street, they saw a light coming from the newspaper’s office.
“Look. There’s someone inside” Seth whispered to Randy.
“Whoa! Imagine that. A light on. At night. In a newspaper office” Randy said mockingly, quietly laughing out loud.
“Big smart ass. Stay in the shadows. Let’s go around back”.
The back door was slightly ajar, enough light pouring out to illuminate a buckboard and horse. They could tell two people were inside, but weren’t close enough to hear any conversation. Randy nudged Seth to follow him and set up behind a tree close to the building.
Minutes passed. Finally, the lamp went out. So did their ability to see in the darkness. Both men stared intently at the door, waiting for their eyes to adjust and the people to walk out. Finally, they did. Two men, but neither Randy nor Seth could tell if one of them was black.
They watched them walk to the back of the wagon, then one of them jumped in and laid down. The other man covered him with a blanket. Then they heard their voices.
“Stay put” Tom instructed. Stay still til’ we get there”.
“Yes sir” Tabari answered.
“That’s a nigger’s voice, for sure” Seth whispered, so excited he almost yelled it out.
&nb
sp; “Shhh!” I know, I know”.
Only two words, but both men recognized the southern drawl of most Negros.
“Now what?” Seth stammered, not sure what to do.
“Nothing” Randy answered, as they watched the driver hop onto the buckboard and slowly coax his horse forward.
“We don’t need to do nothin’. One, we’re too drunk to get to our horses and try and catch up and, two, we’re too drunk to do anything even if we did catch ‘em”.
“Then what do we do” Seth pleaded.
“We wait. We wait ‘til mornin’. Then we go tell the Deputy what we saw. He’ll come here and shake down that nigger lovin’ newspaper man ‘til he talks. You heard him. He’s already told us that the law has to help us capture a runaway. It’s the law”.
“What if the man won’t talk? What then?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it” Randy replied. “Say, I don’t know ‘bout you, but all this slave capturin’ has made me mighty thirsty.
“My dear sir, may I buy you a drink?”
“Why yes, you may”.
41
D EPUTY HARLEY WAS AGAIN on his porch bench, reading his paper as the two approached.
“Good mornin’ Deputy” Randy greeted, smiling ear to ear.
“Yea, good mornin” Seth said, almost drooling from excitement.
Harley looked up from his paper and gave them each a long look.
“What are you two so happy about?” he asked. “Caught yourselves one of those runaways you been lookin’ for, did ya?”
“Well, actually we did” Randy answered.
Harley looked skeptical.
“Well, we sorta caught him” Seth corrected.
“Last night. At the Herald Beacon office. Two men came out. One white, one black. The darkie got into the wagon, and the white one covered him up with a blanket”.
“Did you actually see a runaway slave?” Harley asked, still skeptical.
“Well, yea. We heard ‘em too. Talkin’ that Negro talk.
“You know how they talk” Randy added, Seth nodding in agreement.
“At the Herald Beacon, huh? Well, maybe I should mosey on over there, check things out for myself”.
Randy and Seth were ecstatic, sensing they were inching ever closer to their reward.
“You boys wait out here” Harley ordered, as they approached the front door. “I’ll see what’s goin’ on”.
He opened the door without knocking, and stepped in.
Tom was down on one knee, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he steadied one of the tumblers of the printing press. When he heard Harley enter, he looked up.
“How can I help you?” he asked in a friendly welcome, trying not to appear nervous.
“Well, maybe you can” Harley responded, without making eye contact. He stood over Tom’s desk, staring intently at the papers scattered haphazardly.
“My name’s Deputy Stafford. Harley Stafford” he said, still inspecting Tom’s desk.
“Well, I’m glad to meet you Harley. Actually, we met before, a while ago” remembering Harley’s indignant refusal to arrest the would-be arsonist.
“My name’s Tom. Tom Wilkins” as he held out his hand to shake. Harley ignored the invite.
“Deputy Stafford will do” he condescendingly replied, not wanting to give any impression he was here on a social visit.
Tom intuitively knew this had to do with Tabari, although he didn’t know how. Just then, Melba came through the front door.
“Tom, there’s two men outside …” she stopped, noticing the Deputy standing next to Tom’s desk.
“Melba. Melba, this is Deputy Stafford”.
“Ma’am”. Harley continued rummaging through the papers with his eyes.
Tom turned to Harley. “Deputy, I still don’t know why you’re here”. Melba’s adrenaline pumped fast. She stared at the floor.
“Don’t ya now?” Harley replied, as if he were about to lecture a school kid who just got caught in the act.
“Mr. Wilkins, I know what this here papers all about” now looking him directly in the eyes. “And I tell ya, I don’t like it. Don’t like it one bit.
“But this is the United States, and the constitution says y’all have the right of free speech, er, freedom of the press” he stated, now addressing Melba. “But that don’t mean you can harbor runaway slaves”.
Tom and Melba knew they were caught before Harley had finished his last sentence. But how could they be caught? The Deputy had no evidence. Tabari wasn’t around. What was the Deputy going to prove? Obvious to them both, silence was their best defense.
“Those two men outside” Harley began. “They saw you” looking directly at Tom. “They saw you and a runaway nigger leave here in your buckboard last night. The same rig that’s sittin’ right outside”.
Tom and Melba froze for an instant, trying their best to conceal their fear.
“That’s humbug” Tom replied in a calm, matter of fact tone.
“Silly” Melba added.
“Hmm …” Harley continued to reveal paper after paper as he slid his fingers across Tom’s desk.
“Oh my God!” Tom shouted to himself. His whole body tightened as he saw Harley’s fingers continue sorting. “Helen’s letter”.
He intended to share the Jefferson’s letter with Melba, then conceal it until it was time to keep his promise to Freda. Absentmindedly, he’d placed it on his desk when he arrived that morning.
“Hey, that’s private property” he shouted to Harley, unwittingly announcing the importance of the document. He lurched forward to grab it, but Harley pulled it away with his left hand and quickly grasped his holstered gun with the other.
“Don’t even think about it” he snarled.
* * *
HARLEY backed out the front door without taking his eyes off of Tom and Melba, his hand still at the ready for his gun. He stepped into the street and began reading the letter.
“Helen … a runaway … slave … Boston … addressed to Frank and Freda Jefferson.
“Come on boys. Grab your horses. I think I know where your runaway slave’s at” Harley yelled, as he headed for his horse.
Randy and Seth could’ve peed themselves, delirious with happiness.
“Come on Seth. Oh boy, oh boy. We gonna’ catch us our nigger”.
“And get two re-wards, to boot” Seth exclaimed.
“Tom, what should we do?” Melba pleaded. “Poor Freda and Frank. They’re out there all alone”.
Tom was dumbstruck. How could he have been so careless? So stupid? He might as well have just came right out and told the Deputy what he and Melba had done, and personally escorted him to the Jefferson’s.
“My God, what have I done” he languished to Melba in disbelief. He looked at her, doing his best to hold back tears. Melba started sobbing.
“I can’t ride out there. I mean, maybe I could. Maybe I …”
They both knew he couldn’t stop Harley or the other two. But staying put wasn’t an option. Tom had to go. He had to try. Something. Anything.
“Melba, I don’t know how I can help them. Maybe I can’t. But I’ve got to go. All I can tell you right now is …”.
He stopped in mid-sentence. “Shit” he cried to himself.
“We’re in trouble too. The Deputy’s next stop will be right back here, arresting us for aiding and abetting a runaway slave”.
His terrified expression only confirmed what Melba was already thinking.
“Oh my God, Tom. We’re next, aren’t we?”
He felt like a frightened animal backed into a corner. Should he run? Should they both run? To where? What about their possessions, their friends, the paper? What about Frank and Freda? He felt suddenly crushed by his own guilt.
“Get a hold of yourself man” he said out loud.
“Look, we’ll be alright” he forcefully told Melba. “Remember the law. The worst punishment for us is a thousand dollar fine. For
aiding and abetting. That’s it”.
Melba looked at him in disbelief. “A thousand dollars” she panicked. “Tom, it might as well be a million dollars. We’ve no way to come up with that amount of money. We’ll go bankrupt. We’ll lose the paper, the business, everything”. She now openly wept.
“Well, we won’t go to jail. There hasn’t been a debtor’s prison for a decade.
“Look, Melba. I don’t have all the answers right now. All I know is, I have to go to Frank and Freda. I’ve got to.
“Stay here, and keep pumpin’ out the newspapers. That’s what you need to do. We’ll deal with everything else, one thing at a time. You agree?”
She looked into his eyes, now with strong resolve. “Yes. I agree. Now go. See what you can do”. He took one last fond look around the office, then turned and scurried out the door.
“Alright Miss Melba” she said stoically as she looked around the room. “It’s time to put on your big girl pants, and get you fanny to work”. She reached to gather up some papers on the desk, then collapsed into a chair, sobbing.
42
A MANA’S NIGHTMARES WOULD NEVER LEAVE HER. She’d toss and turn, remembering the horrific voyage that brought her to New Orleans.
She wondered why they weren’t given any food the day before. They all wondered why. Why wouldn’t the captain want his slaves healthy when they reached their final destination? Those who were sick were suffering the most.
The crew responsible for feeding the slaves had known for some time, but now it had become perilous. They were running out of food and water.
Salt the food. Salt the meat, salt the fish, salt everything. That was the solution to preserve enough food to last the voyage.
Clean water soon became dirty water. Cockroaches, mice, lice, mosquitos, it didn’t take long before the ship’s water became contaminated. Lemon juice or vinegar poured into the water would kill some of the foul odor, but not the bacteria. Dysentery didn’t distinguish between crew and slaves.
“I’ve rationed what I can” the ship’s cook told Captain LaCrosse. “‘Been doin’ it for weeks now” he said, not wanting to take on the Captain’s wrath. “It ain’t my fault. At least a three months’ trip and you provide supplies for no more than two months’” offering no more criticism lest he be keel-hauled for insubordination.