From Washington taking a retrograde course purposely to avoid Maryland, where he learned they were already well advised and holding gatherings, the margin of Virginia was cut in this hasty passage, so as to reach more important points for communication. Stealing through the neighborhood and swimming the river, a place was reached called Mud Fort, some four miles distant from Harper’s Ferry, situated on the Potomac.
Seeing a white man in a field near by, he passed on as if unconscious of his presence, when the person hailing him in broken English questioned his right to pass.
“I am going to Charleston, sir.” replied Henry.
“Vat fahr?” inquired the Dutchman.
“On business.” replied he.
“You nagher, you! dat ish not anzer mine question! I does ax you vat fahr you go to Charleston, and you anzer me dat!”
“I told you, sir, that I am going on business.”
“You ish von zaucy nagher, andt I bleve you one runaway! Py ching, I vill take you pack!” said the man instantly climbing the fence to get into the road where the runaway stood.
“That will do,” exclaimed Henry, “you are near enough–I can bring you down there,” at the same time presenting a well-charged six-barrel weapon of death; when the affrighted Dutchman fell on the opposite side of the fence unharmed, and Henry put down his weapon without a fire.
Having lurked till evening in a thicket near by, Charleston was entered near the depot, just at the time when the last train was leaving for Washington. Though small, this place was one of the most difficult in which to promote his object, as the slaves were but comparatively few, difficult to be seen, and those about the depot and house servants, trained to be suspicious and mistrustful of strange blacks, and true and faithful to their masters.[16] Still, he was not remiss in finding a friend and a place for the seclusion.
This place was most admirably adapted for the gathering, being held up a run or little stream, in a bramble thicket on a marshy meadow of the old Brackenridge estate, but a few minutes walk from the town. This evening was that of a strict patrol watch, their headquarters for the night being in Worthington’s old mills, from which ran the race, passing near which was the most convenient way to reach the place of gathering for the evening.
While stealthily moving along in the dark, hearing a cracking in the weeds and a soft tramping of feet, Henry secreted himself in a thick high growth of Jamestown weeds along the fence, when he slightly discerned a small body of men as if reconnoitering the neighborhood. Sensible of the precariousness of his condition, the fugitive lie as still as death, lest by dint he might be discovered, as much fear and apprehension then prevaded the community.
Charleston, at best, was a hard place for a Negro, and under the circumstances, had he been discovered, no plea would have saved him. Breathlessly crouched beneath the foliage and thorns of the fetid weed, he was startled by a voice suddenly exclaiming–
“Hallo there! who’s that?” which provided to be that of one of the patrol, the posse having just come down the bank of the race from the mill.
“Sahvant, mausta!” was the humble reply.
“Who are you?” further enquired the voice.
“Zack Parker, sir.”
“Is that you, old Zack?”
“Yes, mausta–honner bright.”
“Come, Zack, you must go with us! Don’t you know that Negroes are not allowed to be out at night alone, these times? Come along!” said Davy Hunter.
“Honner bright, maus Davy–honner bright!” continued the old black slave of Colonel Davenport, quietly walking beside them along the mill race, the water of which being both swift and deep. “Maus Davy, I got some mighty good rum here in dis fias’–you gentmen hab some? Mighty good! Mine I tells you, maus Davy–mighty good!”
“Well, Zack, we don’t care to take a little,” replied Bob Flagg. “Have you had your black mouth to this flask?”
“Honner bright, maus Bobby–honner bright!” replied the old man.
Hunter raised the flask to his mouth, the others gathering around, each to take a draught in turn, when instantly a plunge in the water was heard, and the next moment old Zack Parker was swinging his hat in triumph on the opposite bank of the channel, exclaiming, “Honner bright, gentmen! Honner bright! Happy Jack an’ no trouble!”–the last part of the sentence being a cant phrase commonly in use in that part of the country, to indicate a feeling free from all cares.
In a rage the flask was thrown in the dark, and alighted near his feet upright in the tufts of grass, when the old man in turn seizing the vessel, exclaiming aloud, “Yo’ heath, gentmen! Yo’ good heath!” Then turning it up to his mouth, the sound heard across the stream gave evidence of his enjoyment of the remainder of the contents. “Thank’e, gentmen–good night!” when away went Zack to the disappointment and even amusement of the party.
Taking advantage of this incident, Henry, under a guide, found a place of seclusion, and a small number of good willing spirits ready for the counsel.
“Mine, my chile!” admonished old Aunt Lucy. “Mine hunny, how yeh go long case da all’as lookin’ arter black folks.”
Taking the nearest course through Worthington’s woods, he reached in good time that night the slave quarters of Captain Jack Briscoe and Major Brack Rutherford. The blacks here were united by the confidential leaders of Moore’s people, and altogether they were rather a superior gathering of slaves to any yet met with in Virginia. His mission here soon being accomplished, he moved rapidly on to Slaughter’s, Crane’s and Washington’s old plantations, where he caused a glimmer of light, which until then had never been thought of, much less seen, by them.
The night rounds of the patrol of the immediate neighborhood, caused a hurried retreat from Washington’s–the last place at which he stopped–and daybreak the next morning found him in near proximity to Winchester, when he sought and obtained a hiding place in the woods of General Bell.
The people here he found ripe and ready for anything that favored their redemption. Taylor’s, Logan’s, Whiting’s and Tidball’s plantations all had crops ready for the harvest.
“An’ is dis de young man,” asked Uncle Talton, stooped with the age of eighty-nine years, “dat we hearn so much ob, dat’s gwine all tru de country ’mong de black folks? Tang God a’mighty for wat I lib to see!” and the old man straightened himself up to his greatest height, resting on his staff, and swinging himself around as if whirling on the heel as children sometimes do, exclaimed in the gladness of his heart and the bouyancy of his spirits at the prospect of freedom before him: “I dont disagard none on ’em,” referring to the whites.
“We have only ‘regarded’ them too long, father,” replied Henry with a sigh of sorrow, when he looked upon the poor old time and careworn slave, whose only hope for freedom rested in his efforts.
“I neber ’spected to see dis! God bless yeh, my son! May God long yeh life!” continued the old man, the tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Amen!” sanctioned Uncle Ek.
“God grant it!” replied Uncle Duk.
“May God go wid yeh, my son, wheresomeber yeh go!” exclaimed the old slaves present; when Henry, rising from the block of wood upon which he sat, being moved to tears, reaching out his hand, said, “Well, brethren, mothers, and fathers! My time with you is up, and I must leave you–farewell!” when this faithful messenger of his oppressed brethren, was soon in the woods, making rapid strides towards Western Virginia.
Wheeling, in the extreme Western part of Virginia, was reached by the fugitive, where the slaves, already restless and but few in number in consequence of their close proximity to a free state–Ohio being on the opposite side of the river, on the bank of which the town is situated–could never thereafter become contented.
The “Buckeye State” steamer here passed along on a downward trip, when boarding her as a black passenger, Cincinnati in due season was reached, when the passengers were transferred to the “Telegraph No. 2,” destined for Louisvil
le, Kentucky. Here crowding in with the passengers, he went directly to Shippenport, a small place but two miles below–the rapids or falls preventing the large class of steamers from going thence except at the time of high water-the “Crystal Palace,” a beautiful packet, was boarded, which swiftly took him to Smithland, at the confluence of the Cumberland and Ohio rivers.
From this point access up the Cumberland was a comparatively easy task, and his advent into Nashville, Tennessee, was as unexpected at this time to the slaves, as it was portentous and ominous to the masters.
There was no difficulty here in finding a seclusion, and the introduction of his subject was like the application of fire to a droughtseasoned stubble field. The harvest was ripe and ready for the scythe, long before the reaper and time for gathering came. In both town and country the disappointment was sad, when told by Henry that the time to strike had not yet come; that they for the present must “Stand still and see the salvation!”
“How long, me son, how long we got wait dis way?” asked Daddy Luu, a good old man and member of a Christian church for upwards of forty years.
“I can’t tell exactly, father, but I suppose in this, as in all other good works, the Lord’s own annointed time!” replied he.
“An’ how long dat gwine be, honey? case I’s mighty ti’ed waitin’ dis way!” earnestly responded the old man.
“I can’t tell you how long, father; God knows best.”
“An’ how we gwine know w’en ’E is ready?”
“When we are ready, He is ready, and not till then is His time.”
“God sen we was ready, now den!” concluded the old man, blinded with tears, and who, from the reverence they had for his age and former good counsel among them, this night was placed at the head of the Gathering.
Carrying with him the prayers and blessings of his people here, Henry madȩ rapid strides throughout this state, sowing in every direction seeds of the crop of a future harvest.
From Tennessee Henry boldly strode into Kentucky, and though there seemed to be a universal desire for freedom, there were few who were willing to strike. To run away, with them, seemed to be the highest conceived idea of their right to liberty. This they were doing, and would continue to do on every favorable opportunity, but their right to freedom by self-resistance, to them was forbidden by the Word of God. Their hopes were based on the long-talked-of promised emancipation in the state.[17]
“What was your dependence,” inquired he of an old man verging on the icy surface of ninety winters’ slippery pathways, “before you had this promise of emancipation?”
“Wy, dar war Guvneh Metcalf, I sho ’e good to black folks,” replied Uncle Winson.
“Well, uncle, tell me, supposing he had not been so, what would you have then done?”
“Wy, chile, I sho ’e raise up dat time ’sides dem maus Henry and maus John.”
“But what good have they ever done you? I don’t see that you are any better off than had they never lived.”
“Ah, chile! Da good to we black folks,” continued the old man, with a fixed belief that they were emancipationists and the day of freedom, to the slaves drew near.
Satisfied that self-reliance was the furthest from their thoughts, but impressing them with new ideas concerning their rights, the greathearted runaway bid them “Good bye, and may God open your eyes to see your own condition!” when in a few minutes Lexington was relieved of an enemy, more potent than the hostile bands of red men who once defied the military powers of Kentucky.
In a few days this astonishing slave was again on the smooth waters of the beautiful Ohio, making speed as fast as the steamer “Queen of the West” could carry him down stream towards Grand Gulf on the great river of the Southwest.
*This gentleman died on the 15th of June, 1857, in a distant territory, whither he had removed, where his excellent widow, niece and children all reside, well provided for.
CHAPTER 26
Return to Mississippi
The evening, for the season, was very fine; the sky beautiful; the stars shining unusually bright; while Henry, alone on the hurricane deck of the “Queen of the West,” stood in silence abaft the wheel-house, gazing intently at the golden orbs of Heaven. Now shoots a meteor, then seemingly shot a comet, again glistened a brilliant planet which almost startled the gazer; and while he yet stood motionless in wonder looking into the heavens, a blazing star whose scintillations dazzled the sight, and for the moment bewildered the mind, was seen apparently to vibrate in a manner never before observed by him.
At these things Henry was filled with amazement, and disposed to attach more than ordinary importance to them, as having an especial bearing in his case; but the mystery finds interpretation in the fact that the emotions were located in his own brain, and not exhibited by the orbs of Heaven.
Through the water plowed the steamer, the passengers lively and mirthful, sometimes amusingly noisy, whilst the adventurous and heart-stricken fugitive, without a companion or friend with whom to share his grief and sorrows, and aid in untangling his then deranged mind, threw himself in tribulation upon the humble pallet assigned him, there to pour out his spirit in communion with the Comforter of souls on high.
The early rising of the passengers aroused him from apparently an abridged night of intermitting sleep, when creeping away into a by-place, he spent the remainder of the day. Thus by sleeping through the day, and watching in the night–induced by the proximity to his old home–did the runaway spend the time during the first two days of his homeward journey.
Falling into a deep sleep early on the evening of the third day, he was suddenly aroused about eleven o’clock by the harsh singing of the black firemen on the steamer:
Natchez under the Hill!
Natchez under the Hill!
sung to an air with which they ever on the approach of a steamer, greet the place, as seemingly a sorrowful reminiscence of their ill-fated brethren continually sold there; when springing to his feet and hurrying upon deck, he found the vessel full upon the wharf boat stationed at the Natchez landing.
Taking advantage of the moment–passing from the wheelhouse down the ladder to the lower deck–thought by many to have gone forever from the place, Henry effected without detection an easy transit to the wharf, and from thence up the Hill, where again he found himself amid the scenes of his saddest experience, and the origination and organization of the measures upon which were based his brightest hopes and expectations for the redemption of his race in the South.
CHAPTER 27
A Night of Anxiety
On Saturday evening, about half past seven, was it that Henry dared again to approach the residence of Colonel Franks. The family had not yet retired, as the lights still burned brilliantly in the great house, when, secreted in the shrubbery contiguous to the hut of Mammy Judy and Daddy Joe, he lay patiently awaiting the withdrawal in the mansion.
“There’s no use in talkin,’ Andy, he’s gittin’ suspicious of us all,” said Charles, “as he threatens us all with the traders; an’ if Henry don’t come soon, I’ll have to leave anyhow! But the old people, Andy, I can’t think of leavin’ them!”
“Do you think da would go if da had a chance, Charles?”
“Go? yes ’ndeed, Andy, they’d go this night if they could git off. Since the sellin’ of Maggie, and Henry’s talkin’ to ’em, and his goin’ an’ takin’ little Joe, and Ailcey, an’ Cloe, an’ Polly an’ all clearin’ out, they altered their notion about stayin’ with ole Franks.”
“Wish we could know when Henry’s comin’ back. Wonder what ’e is,” said Andy.
“Here!” was the reply in a voice so cautiously suppressed, and so familiarly distinct that they at once recognized it to be that of their long-absent and most anxiously looked-for friend. Rushing upon him, they mutually embraced, with tears of joy and anxiety.
“How have you been anyhow, Henry?” exclaimed Charles in a suppressed tone. “I’s so glad to see yeh, dat I ain’t agwine to speak to yeh, s
o I ain’t!” added Andy.
“Come, brethren, to the woods!” said Henry; when the three went directly to the forest, two and half miles from the city.
“Well now, Henry, tell us all about yourself. What you been doin’?” inquired Charles.
“I know of nothing about myself worth telling,” replied he.
“Oh, pshaw! wot saut a way is dat, Henry; yeh wont tell a body nothin’. Pshaw, dats no way,” grumbled Andy.
“Yes, Andy, I’ve much to tell you; but not of myself; ’tis about our poor oppressed people everywhere I’ve been! But we have not now time for that.”
“Why, can’t you tell us nothin’?”
“Well, Andy, since you must have something, I’ll tell you this much: I’ve been in the Dismal Swamp among the High Conjurors, and saw the heads, old Maudy Ghamus and Gamby Gholar.”
“Hoop! now ’e’s a talkin’! Ef ’e wasn’t I wouldn’t tell yeh so! An’ wat da sa to yeh, Henry?”
“They welcomed me as the messenger of their deliverance; and as a test of their gratitude, made me a High Conjuror after their own order.”
“O pshaw, Henry! Da done what? Wy, ole feller, yeh is high sho ’nough!”
“What good does it do, Henry, to be a conjuror?” inquired Charles.
“It makes the more ignorant slaves have greater confidence in, and more respect for, their headmen and leaders.”
“Oh yes, I see now!” Because I couldn’t see why you would submit to become a conjuror if it done no good.”
“That’s it, Charles! As you know, I’ll do anything not morally wrong, to gain our freedom; and to effect this, we must take the slaves, not as we wish them to be, but as we really find them to be.”
“You say it gives power, Henry; is there any reality in the art of conjunction?”
“It only makes the slaves afraid of you if you are called a conjuror, that’s all!”
Blake or The Huts of America Page 17