Martha and the Slave Catchers

by Harriet Hyman Alonso

  “Ah, Mahthah,” her papa said, “we didn’t hear you come in.”

  Martha dropped her books on the floor and ran to him, flinging her arms around his neck. “Papa, I’m scared.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “This new law. You know. About the fugitive slaves. People in town are all talking about it.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “There’s nothing for you to be frightened of.”

  “But what does it mean . . .” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “about Jake?”

  “Jake?” he responded. “This law has nothing to do with him.”

  Just as her papa completed this thought, Jake came downstairs, still sleepy from his nap. His presence put an end to their conversation.

  Martha was the first to speak. “Come on, Jakey. Let’s go to the kitchen and have a cup of milk and a molasses cookie to help wake you up.”

  “Mattie,” he asked as he sat by the table, “why’s everyone so sad?”

  “We’re not sad, Jakey. Mama and Papa were just talking about farm business. I didn’t really understand it all myself.”

  That evening after supper, Martha’s papa went to town for the meeting. Her mama sat quietly in the parlor staring off into space, so Martha took Jake upstairs and tried to read him a story. After a page, he pushed the book closed.

  “Jake, don’t you want to know what happens to Joggy and Lorina after the nice woman in New York takes them into her home?”

  “No,” he said as he started jumping up and down on their feather mattress.

  Martha put her hands on her hips and started tapping her foot. “Stop, Jake! You’ll break the bed.”

  As always, he ignored her. He simply jumped and jumped, never tiring.

  Martha’s blood pumped with anger.

  “Stop, Jake! Come on. It’s time to go to sleep.”

  She reached out to grab him, but he easily evaded her grasp and laughed. Martha gritted her teeth and, her frustration at the boiling point, put her hands on her hips. “Do whatever you want. I’m sick and tired of you.”

  She stormed out of the room and scurried down to the parlor.

  “Mama. Jake is jumping again. Can’t you make him stop?”

  Her mama paused in her staring. “He is doing no harm. Let him be.”

  “But he’ll break the bed.”

  “No matter.”

  Martha was about to insist that her mama do something when her papa returned from town. Martha immediately took in the desolate look on his face.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  He sat down heavily next to her mama and, taking her hand, said in a soft voice, “Sarah, we need to speak.” Her mama nodded but did not say a word. “And Mahthah, you’re old enough to understand this as well.”

  Martha sat as her father shared his bad news.

  “I didn’t realize this before, but there’s something dangerous for us in the new law,” he said.

  “What?” Martha asked.

  “It says that anyone who hides a fugitive or tries to prevent one from being captured can be fined up to one thousand dollars and serve up to six months in prison. You can see that it’ll now be impossible for us to help runaway slaves on their route north. Doing so will put us in jeopardy and could draw attention to Jake.”

  “Why?” asked Martha. “Isn’t he free?”

  “Yes,” her papa said. “But his mother’s master would not see it that way. And if the wrong people put two and two together, they could report their claim that Jake was born of a slave woman and quite possibly receive a reward.”

  Martha saw her mama close her eyes, a big tear escaping from one. “My boy,” she said sadly.

  “And there’ll be slave catchers and kidnappers aplenty up North. We’ll have to keep an extra careful watch on Jake. Mahthah,” he added as he glanced at her mama gazing into the fire, “this responsibility will fall heavily upon you.”

  Just as Martha nodded her assent, she heard a loud crash from upstairs. “I think Jake has just broken the bed.”

  “I’ll tend to it,” her papa said. He unwrapped his hand from her mama’s, kissed her on the forehead, and walked slowly upstairs.

  For a while, Martha sat by her mama’s side thinking about what her papa had said. She felt frightened, worried, tired, and vexed all at the same time. Would those slave catchers be back? Would a neighbor looking for some much needed money decide to sell information about Underground Railroad workers or runaways? Or about Jake? He might irk her beyond endurance, but, still, he was her brother and she loved him to distraction. She would be extra vigilant now so that no harm could come to him.

  Surely, her papa must be exaggerating his fears, especially about the kidnappings. But to be certain, Martha decided to find out for herself. As copies of The Liberator, The North Star, and Charter Oak arrived, she carefully examined them for articles about kidnappers. She then clipped each one out and placed it in the wood keepsake box her papa had made for her.

  In January of that winter, 1851, Martha saw her first evidence of a child having been kidnapped. She moved her face close to the print, her lips moving as she read. “Oh, no! Poor boy,” she muttered in a voice she thought only she could hear. “‘G. F. Alberti and others seized, under the Fugitive Slave Law, a free colored boy, named Joel Thompson, alleging that he was a slave. The boy was saved.’ Thank goodness for that!”

  “Who are you talking to, Mattie?” Jake asked as he played with his toys.

  “No one, Jake. Just myself.”

  A week later, Martha again muttered aloud, “Clearfield County, Pennsylvania, about January twentieth. A boy was kidnapped and taken into slavery.” So her papa’s fears were correct. Martha was nearly paralyzed with fright. Except when she was in school, she never let Jake out of her sight. By the end of the first week, she was exhausted, but she never gave up her watch, not even when he wandered the freezing house in the middle of the night, and, shivering, she followed after him.

  As winter set in, Martha took to hiding inside her home. It grew so cold that often she even succeeded in convincing Jake to come to bed early so they could snuggle together under her several quilts. The only painful part was when Jake had to urinate into the chamber pot. He would rush back into bed as quickly as he could, immediately resting his cold feet on the small of Martha’s back to warm up.

  “Thanks,” she’d mutter irritably.

  As snow and ice accumulated, Martha’s isolation grew more pronounced. She spent much time chipping ice off the water pump and in the spring room barrel, feeding the chickens, milking the cows, and bringing firewood in for the stove and fireplace, all the while insisting Jake stay by her side.

  As her mama grew more anxious, she withdrew into a world of silence and disconnectedness. Martha, therefore, took on more cooking and household responsibilities as a means of helping her and quite simply to be near her. She thought that her chatty presence might cheer her mama up, but more often than not, it did not. In her very few spare moments, she searched the newspapers for kidnapping notices rather than paying attention to her schoolwork. The results were disastrous as she gave Miss Osgood wrong answers when asked questions and failed several tests.

  Only Martha’s papa acted his usual self as he made regular trips to the shops in town and the sawmill. When the roads were halfway passable, after breakfast he took her to school in his wagon or on horseback and in the afternoon picked her up. When she was at school, she spent her time fretting over Jake. Would her mama keep her eye on him? Would she be able to protect him if a stranger came looking for him when her papa was away on errands?

  There was one bright spot for Martha that winter. Just one. Sometime in February, her papa walked in carrying a stray cat. She was a dear little thing, with soft black fur and a white oval on her face. “Here, children,” he said. “I found this little runaway and thought we might take her in.”

  Martha was thrilled and grabbed for the cat, snuggling her to her chest. She could feel the vibration of her p
urr and her quick heartbeat. As Jake jumped up and down trying to reach the kitty, she pushed him away.

  “Mahthah,” her papa said. “Share.”

  Not happy, but always obedient, Martha sat Jake down and placed the animal in his lap. “Catty,” he said. “Let’s call him Catty.”

  Martha grumbled. Her papa gave her a look.

  “She’s a female cat, Jake. How about Miss Catty?”

  And so they agreed, and although Miss Catty was supposed to be their joint responsibility, Martha fed her and cleaned up after her. Together, she and Jake petted and played with her for hours. Before long, she was one of the family.

  One evening at supper time, Miss Catty jumped right onto the table and then onto Martha’s papa’s shoulder. “Why, this is a cat-astrophe!” he punned. Martha started to giggle.

  “Why, that animal cat-apulted right onto my shoulder!” he added in mock shock. Martha laughed and Jake chimed in. Even Martha’s mama laughed.

  “Why, if she doesn’t get off me, I may succumb and have to be buried in the cat-acombs!” he continued. He then gently lifted the creature off his shoulder and placed her on the floor.

  By this time, of course, the house was filled with mirth, wrapping Martha in a cocoon of love and warmth. Throughout the cold winter, Miss Catty entertained Martha and took her mind off her troubles. She sometimes even enjoyed sharing her with Jake. But soon spring came with its beautiful flowers and trees and muddy roads and black flies.

  To Martha’s great dismay, Miss Catty disappeared into the barn and fields, returning home only occasionally for a bowl of fresh milk. Now an outdoor cat, she avoided Martha’s attempts to hold her, leaving her feeling bereft.

  To add to her unhappiness, one day at school, Becky cornered Martha.

  “Martha, I never see you on the green anymore.”

  “It was winter, Becky. Too cold to be out.”

  “But winter is over now, and I’ve been looking for you every Saturday and Sunday. And you missed so much school this winter. Were you sick?”

  “No, not exactly. I was just cold. And the snow was so deep.”

  “I dunno. I got here. Anyway, wanna meet on the village green on Sunday?”

  “I’m not sure, Becky. My mama’s been ill. She hasn’t gone to meeting lately, so I’ll most likely stay home.”

  “I see,” muttered Becky. “Guess I’ll see ya sometime, then.”

  Martha could feel her friend’s hurt as Becky walked away. She too felt bad, but taking care of Jake by herself on the village green scared her. Until her mama worked up her courage to go back to meeting, Martha preferred to watch over Jake at home even if it meant missing spending time with Becky or working on the Independence Day anniversary plans.

  And in any case, the springtime of 1851 was busier than usual, and Martha had much to do. There were more requests for Martha’s papa’s woodworking skills, so it fell to her to feed all the animals and bring in all the firewood. She also needed to keep Jake out of sight as more strangers came to the woodshop. People needed new farm utensils and repairs to furniture damaged during the winter. New babies called for cradles and little chairs. Her papa created beautiful and useful items for these families to enjoy, and his reputation spread far beyond the borders of Liberty Falls.

  One day he announced, “I’ve decided to take on a part-time helper in the woodshop.”

  “Who?” her mama, concerned about strangers, asked.

  “Caleb Franklin. He’s nearly fourteen now and his father’s anxious for him to learn a skill that might be useful on the farm. The family’s large and can also use some extra money.”

  Martha’s heart skipped a beat at the thought of Caleb being so close. “Would he be here every day?” she asked.

  “Six days in the winter,” her papa replied. “Almost full days in the summer, and as time permits during planting and reaping seasons. Of course, not on Sunday. It’s not perfect, but he’ll be a great help.”

  “Well, Jake,” Martha said, “looks like Caleb will be here a good amount of time.”

  Jake grinned and clapped his hands.

  A few weeks later, Martha saw Caleb saunter onto the farm to begin his learning. Before she could stop him, Jake dashed out the front door and threw himself around his legs.

  “Whoa, little splinter,” Caleb laughed. “I’m not here to play. It’s work time for me.”

  “Jacob,” her mama called. “Thee leave Caleb alone now.”

  Martha rushed out to retrieve Jake, but he would not let go. Instead, he just clung on tighter. Seeing a fit on its way, Martha made a proposal. “Let’s do this. When it’s time for luncheon, we can carry Papa and Caleb’s food to them, as Papa doesn’t like to stop work for too long a time.”

  “And,” added her papa, who had come to welcome Caleb, “the three of you can take an hour to enjoy the nice weather.”

  Until noon arrived, Martha kept an eye on Jake, who ran endlessly around the house and the yard. When she eventually gave him the cheese, bread, apples, and water to carry to the woodshop, he teetered under the weight of it. She carefully took the water and apples from him and they headed off. From that day on, up to an hour each midday, Martha, Caleb, and Jake shared food. Then they either played tag or bat-the-ball in the farmyard or wandered off to a nearby stream that fed into Blackwell’s Brook to dip their feet into the cool, refreshing water.

  One hot day after enjoying the stream, Martha saw Adam Burke’s buckboard pull up to the woodshop. Her mama greeted him and then took a protesting but tired Jake inside for a nap. Martha and Caleb, however, hung back, sitting for a short while on a bench under an open window of the shop. As they were about to talk to each other, they heard Adam Burke greet Martha’s papa.

  “Micah, may I speak with thee about something sensitive?”

  “Of course, Friend. What is it?”

  “The Friends are concerned because we haven’t seen Sarah or thee at meetings for quite some time. And Martha hasn’t been on the village green to meet her friend, Becky, or at Sunday school, for that matter. In fact, we see little of thee at all. Is there some trouble here at home we can help thee with?”

  “No, but thank you for your concern, Adam. We’re fine.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence during which Martha tried to lure Caleb out of earshot.

  “Caleb, I’m thirsty. Would you walk me over to the well?”

  “Oh, no, Martha. Don’t try to move me. This sounds really, truly interesting.”

  “I think it might be wrong for us to listen in on my papa and Adam Burke. Let’s go elsewhere.”

  “No.” Caleb was quite stubborn and persistent.

  Martha heard Adam Burke clear his throat. “Micah. Many of us know what the situation here is. We want thee to know that we’re all watching out for thee. That we’ll keep our eyes open so that Martha and Jake, especially, are never out of someone’s sight or hearing.”

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” her papa stammered.

  “Yes. I believe thee does. Just know,” he added, “it’s not healthy for thee to sequester thyselves. The children must have as normal a life as possible.”

  Another silence followed. Martha caught Caleb staring at her, his eyebrows lifted into an arc. “What’s he talking about?” he whispered.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s that I’ve been so scared by those slave catchers that I’m afraid to walk to school alone.”

  “But they haven’t been around here for almost a year. I suspicion they found plenty of fugitives to chase elsewhere since the law was passed.”

  “Perhaps, but I prefer to stay here on the farm where I feel safe. And now that you’re here, I have no need to go further.”

  Martha blushed as Caleb smiled.

  “But soon you’ll have to return to school.”

  “Perhaps Papa’ll take me there and pick me up.”

  “Or maybe I can walk you one or both ways when I can get away.”

  Martha felt elated to have Ca
leb’s attention and relieved because he had not learned the truth behind her family’s fears. And yet, she was also regretful because once again she had been untruthful. It would make her life so much simpler if she could just share Jake’s story with Caleb. And Becky, too.

  Finally she again heard her papa speak. “Thank you, Adam. I’ll tell Sarah what you’ve said and reassure Martha that it’s safe for her to visit with Becky Franklin on the village green. You’re a true friend to us.”

  “Many in town are true friends to thee,” responded Adam Burke as he headed to his buckboard.

  Although Martha’s mama reluctantly agreed to return to Sunday meeting, Martha preferred to watch Jake at home. If he could, Caleb joined her. If her mama or papa went to town on Saturdays, she went along but would not linger on the village green, even with Becky, unless Caleb was there. And so passed the rest of 1851, 1852, and much of 1853, years during which Martha and Caleb’s friendship grew. By 1853, when Martha turned thirteen and Caleb sixteen, fondness and an understanding led each to believe that sometime in the future they might become more than just friends.

  But those years were not easy ones for Martha. Jake started school in the fall of 1851, and Martha had her hands full. He was not the kind of child who sat quietly and listened to the teacher. Instead, he was the same as he had always been at home. Very active. Very naughty. He could not sit still for more than ten minutes at a time. He had little patience for learning and remained unable to grasp even the simplest skills. Recitation so confused him that Martha wondered if he would ever learn his letters or numbers, much less how to read.

  “Jake, don’t you like reading?” she asked him one day.

  “No,” he responded.

  “Why not?”

  “The letters squiggle around and they don’t make any sense.”

  Martha approached her parents about Jake’s school problems. “He has a tremendous will of his own,” she told them. “He’s very passionate in school and Miss Osgood can’t control him. I’ve heard some children call him names and imitate his swaying and hand motions. They’re mean to him and that makes me very angry.”