Martha and the Slave Catchers

by Harriet Hyman Alonso

  “I am. And you are?”

  “I thought you might have guessed that by now,” he responded.

  During the brief pause that followed, Dawes gave his horse an affectionate pat. Martha imagined he reserved such soft gestures for animals, not humans.

  Her papa responded in a tough, serious voice Martha had never heard him use before. “From your accent, I would say you’re a traveling peddler of some sort, and I have no interest in what you’re offering.”

  “Of course you jest, Mr. Bartlett. I’m the owner of one fugitive slave by the name of Mariah and her young child. Do you remember them?”

  “I’ve never known any fugitive with that name and don’t know of her child. Is it a boy or a girl?”

  Dawes ran his gloved hand around the back of his neck and gazed out over the dark, snow-covered fields. To Martha’s surprise, he looked as sad and thoughtful as her mama when she stared into nothingness.

  “In all likelihood, a boy. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. The girl was with child when she ran away. In the last stages, I would say. Anyway,” he snapped out of his reverie, giving Martha a start, “I’ve come to claim my property. And I believe they’re here. I’ve brought my men to help look for them.”

  “This is private property, Mr. Dawes. You’re not free to search it. In any case, the individuals you describe are not here.”

  Martha and her mama grabbed hands as Dawes twisted his mouth and looked directly at them. “Under the Fugitive Slave Law, my men here have the right to search your property.”

  Martha cringed as the two rough-looking men took a threatening step closer to her papa. His back stiffened, and he took a deep breath before speaking. “I’ll show you around. I expect you not to disturb anything.”

  The dark cold of the night seeped into Martha’s bones, but she did not, could not, move, as her papa took one of the wagon’s lanterns and led Dawes and his men to the barn and through the woodshop. What would she do if they harmed him?

  As her gaze followed the movement of the lantern, her mama shook her arm. “Martha,” she whispered. “Hurry into the house and hide Jake’s toys and cover his clothing with some of thine own.”

  Martha did not leave the wagon or move her eyes from where her papa had just disappeared with Dawes and his men in tow.

  “Come on. Move,” her mama hissed.

  Reluctantly, Martha climbed to the ground, but before entering the house and rushing upstairs, she asked, “Who would’ve told Dawes about Jake, Mama?”

  “I do not know,” she responded. “Perhaps someone desperately needs that reward money.”

  Martha quickly entered her room, hid Jake’s things, and returned downstairs in time to see the men reach the house. They pushed their way past her and looked in each room, rustling pillows, pulling open cupboards, and, spying the attic, climbing the stairs and stomping around. Martha and her parents dogged them each step of the way.

  “Who do you keep in the attic?” Dawes asked.

  “It’s empty as you can see,” her papa answered. “Sometimes a guest will stay there.”

  “A guest,” Dawes said, “of what complexion?”

  No one answered him.

  It seemed like hours before the search was over and the three men left the house. In the dark void of the yard, Martha heard Robert Dawes’s final demand. “I have information that there’s a young boy here that fits a similar description to the woman I’m seeking. Where is he?”

  “There’s no boy here now. My son’s currently visiting relatives, but he is my son and not the child you seek.”

  “I’ll be back to take a look at him.”

  After they departed, Martha’s papa closed the door and secured it with a wooden bar. Never in her life had she known him to do so. Their door was always open to friends and strangers alike.

  “Will they be back?” Martha asked.

  “I don’t know,” her papa replied.

  “Did they do any damage?”

  “They just threw some hay around and threatened to destroy some furniture, but it was mostly bluster.”

  Martha collapsed on the sofa where her mama tried to comfort her. “Do not worry, Martha. Jake is safe for now. We will leave him with Edith and Jonah for a while and see what develops. Maybe thee should go up to bed. Thee must be tired out from all this excitement.”

  Martha kissed her mama and papa on their cheeks and climbed the steep stairs to her and Jake’s room. Without undressing, she burrowed under her blankets and trembled herself to sleep, admitting to herself that she greatly missed her brother’s small warm body and cold feet.

  Two weeks later, after the New Year brought in 1854, Jake came home.

  “I had the best time, Mattie, ’specially since I didn’t have to go to school.”

  “Well, you do now,” she said. “So get ready.”

  Moments after Martha had spoken, an official marshal from Windham County appeared at the farm. She looked on in horror as he issued his orders.

  “I’m sorry, folks,” he said, “but the federal commissioner has called for you to appear in the Windham County Courthouse in Brooklyn for a hearing concerning your boy Jake here and Mr. Robert Dawes’s claim under the Fugitive Slave Law that he’s his slave. We have to take the child with us now. The hearing’s scheduled for this afternoon.”

  “That is outrageous,” Martha’s papa responded.

  “That may be so, sir, but the law is the law.”

  “What’s he talking about, Papa?” Martha asked.

  “There are now special courts to hear the Fugitive Slave Law cases.”

  “Can we refuse to go?”

  “I’m afraid not. But, sir,” he addressed the marshal, “don’t we have time to seek legal counsel?”

  “Nope. Seems this is a rushed case.” The marshal then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Money talks, you understand.”

  Martha rushed to her papa’s side as his face turned a bright red and his fists clenched.

  “Let me go with Jake, Papa. I’ll take good care of him. He’ll be frightened and confused to go off with strangers. And, you know, he might act poorly.”

  The marshal nodded his head. “Good idea, and you and your wife can follow in your buckboard.”

  Once Martha and Jake were in the marshal’s carriage, Jake turned to her in great agitation.

  “Mattie, where are we going?”

  She tried to soothe him. “We have to go to Brooklyn. You’ve never been there, so it’ll be exciting, don’t you think?”

  “But why, Mattie?” he demanded to know. “And why aren’t Mama and Papa taking us? Who are these men?”

  Martha did not think it was her place to tell Jake the truth. In fact, she had no idea how she would ever be able to do it anyway. His past was so complicated. And would he even understand her if she did try? Wasn’t this something her parents should reveal to him? But she had to tell him something, because he was growing more fretful by the minute.

  “There appears to be some confusion, Jake. This Mr. Dawes seems to think you are a child he lost a long time ago. So we have to go to the Brooklyn Courthouse so a judge can tell him he’s made a mistake.”

  Jake looked even more puzzled. “What if the judge says I’m the child he lost?”

  “That’s ridiculous, Jakey. Of course no such thing can happen.”

  But Martha knew that it could. Again she recalled Adam Burke’s words the day she first heard about the Fugitive Slave Law: “It’s a bad day for us all.”

  The six-mile ride from Liberty Falls to Brooklyn went quicker than Martha had expected. Although the dirt road was rutted and in parts icy from the winter weather, it was well traveled and therefore in better shape than the smaller country roads were.

  When they reached the Brooklyn village green, Martha immediately identified the intimidating courthouse. It was bigger than any building she had ever seen. Bigger than the Unitarian church or the Quaker meeting house. She strained her neck to look up past the two floors t
o the cupola way on top with its weather vane pointing northwest.

  Before she could count all its windows, Adam Burke rushed up to them. “Micah. Sarah. Martha. Jake. This is Matthew Prescott, a lawyer I’ve brought to help thee. I sensed the trouble ahead and called on him as soon as I heard about today’s hearing.”

  Her papa stepped forward to shake both men’s hands. “Thank you so much, Adam. Mr. Prescott. Have others heard? Will there be a crowd here?”

  “No,” Adam Burke said. “Everything happened too quickly. I’m afraid we’re on our own.”

  Martha then saw Adam Burke hand her papa a paper and say softly, “Here are Jake’s birth documents. See,” he pointed, “they say he was born on October 11, 1846, in Torrington, Connecticut. The mother, Nora Jackson, died in childbirth. The father, Nathaniel Jackson, was also recently deceased.”

  “But, Adam,” her papa started.

  “Say nothing, Micah. Matthew will handle everything.”

  Her papa took the phony documents and walked over to her mama. As he whispered in her ear, Martha’s mama covered her mouth with her two hands and nodded.

  At that moment, Martha took Jake’s hand and followed Matthew Prescott, an elderly, kind-looking gentleman, to a large oak table in the main hearing room. What, she wondered, would be Jake’s fate? Surely a federal commissioner would find that Robert Dawes’s claim was unfounded. Or would he? For at that moment, she heard Adam Burke tell her papa, “The law says that the judge will receive ten dollars for every person he returns to slavery, but only five for those he doesn’t. Let’s hope we get a fair hearing.”

  Martha held tighter on to Jake’s hand than she ever had before.

  “Let go, Mattie,” he complained. “You’re squeezing me too hard.”

  She loosened her grip just a bit, but she could feel Jake’s restlessness increase, and she did not want him to misbehave in front of the officials. “Behave yourself, Jake. It’s very, very important that you not cause a ruckus.”

  “Yes, Mattie. I’ll try.”

  At five minutes before the hour of ten, Robert Dawes entered the court. He looked striking in his tan breeches and matching jacket. Martha distrusted the concerned look on his face as he stopped by Jake’s side to gently, but authoritatively, pat his back. Jake shivered at the stranger’s touch, and as if by instinct, Martha wiped away Dawes’s touch with one of her own. In turn, she felt Jake relax.

  The federal commissioner in this case was Judge Jeremiah Mason. Adam Burke whispered to the air that he was known for his keen mind, impartial rulings, and private abolitionist leanings. At ten o’clock on the dot, Judge Mason, his black judge’s robe swaying side to side as he climbed up the steps to his bench, rapped his gavel on its wooden block, and bellowed so that his voice echoed in the near-empty room. “We all know why we are here but please state your claim, Mr. Dawes.”

  “In regard to the Fugitive Slave Law of four years ago, Your Honor,” he responded, “I have documents here showing my ownership of this boy’s mother and proving that she was with child when she ran away. You can see the dates here.” He showed the judge a section of the papers in his hand. “And here,” he pointed again. “According to our Maryland laws, any child whose parent is a slave is also a slave. Therefore, the boy is mine.”

  Jake jumped up. “Mattie,” he cried out loudly, “is Mama a slave? And me, too? Are you, Mattie?”

  Martha pushed him down with a thud. “No, Jake, I told you, this man is mistaking you for someone else.”

  But Jake could not be still. Although Martha tried with all her might to hold him down, he spun around to look at their mama, great bewilderment covering his face. It took several minutes before she could turn him around to face the patient, but puzzled, judge. Meanwhile, she could feel Jake’s little bottom and legs moving up and down to a steady anxious beat. She touched his legs. He stopped for a minute, then began his movement once again. She gave up and turned her attention to the proceedings.

  “We, however, are not in Maryland, Mr. Dawes,” the judge thundered. “In any case, Mr. Prescott, do you have the boy’s documents?”

  “I do, Your Honor.” Prescott took the papers that Martha’s papa handed to him and approached the judge. He studied them carefully and looked knowingly at Prescott. “These seem in order,” Judge Mason noted. “The boy was born in Connecticut of local parentage.”

  Dawes interceded. “May I see them, Your Honor?”

  “I don’t think that is necessary or appropriate, Mr. Dawes. And in any case, sir, you should know that any child born on our land, even if his supposed mother was a fugitive slave, is by the law of 1848, banning slavery in this state, forever free.” Martha liked how he emphasized the word “forever.”

  “I beg to differ with you, Your Honor,” Dawes broke in.

  “As you wish,” insisted the judge, “but, Mr. Dawes, where is this woman you claim to be this boy’s mother? I see his mother sitting right over there, and she does not appear to be anywhere near a slave or even an African to me.” Even the judge, it seemed to Martha, participated in lying, just like everyone else, except, perhaps, for Robert Dawes.

  Dawes stretched to his full height. “I don’t know where the mother is. But the boy is hers. And, Your Honor, I might add, mine as well. Those documents must be falsified. I insist on seeing them.”

  Martha gasped. Was Robert Dawes claiming to be Jake’s birth father? Martha had read about the terrible violence of slave owners against female slaves and about the many slave children that resulted from that violence. But, still, to hear it said firsthand in such a casual manner startled her and made her fear this man even more than she already did. The force of Dawes’s claim made her take a sideways glance at her brother. Could his black curly hair and sharp chin come from Dawes?

  The judge continued, “If you wish to view these papers, Mr. Dawes, I recommend you obtain a solicitor to help you out. In addition, do you have proof of your alleged paternity? Are you married to this boy’s alleged mother and do you have proof of such a union? If not, this court sees no reason to hear any more of your thinly disguised hoax.”

  “Of course I have no such documents, Your Honor. I have a wife and children at home. This was something, ummm, extra, shall we say? We don’t record such things officially. Surely, you must have some knowledge of our customs.”

  Judge Mason gave Robert Dawes a disgusted look.

  “Mr. Dawes. I repeat. You have no claim here. No papers. No woman that I can see to claim to be Jake’s mother, except Sarah Bartlett there, and I believe she has never been south of Connecticut. Is that correct, Friend Sarah?”

  “Yes, Judge Mason,” Sarah muttered timidly from her seat.

  “Therefore, the case is closed. You have been mistaken, Mr. Dawes. Have a pleasant journey back to Maryland.” And with those words, he was about to slam his gavel down when he paused. “And Mr. Dawes. A word of advice. Members of the Connecticut State Assembly are currently discussing a new law they will hopefully pass promptly. It will impose a five thousand dollar fine and five years’ imprisonment on anyone who falsely swears that any free Negro is a fugitive slave. So just in case you try to bring a different case to this court, take heed.”

  With that, Judge Mason slammed down his gavel, declared the hearing closed, and dismissed the court. Robert Dawes stormed down the aisle and out of the courtroom, but not before stopping before Martha’s mama and papa.

  “This is not done,” he muttered just loud enough for Martha to hear. “I will have what is mine!”

  “See, Jake?” Martha said, diverting Jake’s attention away from Dawes, whom he was staring at with his mouth wide open. “I told you that this was all a big mistake. Let’s go home with Mama and Papa.”

  “Mattie, I need to relieve myself really badly,” he whimpered after Dawes was gone.

  Martha hesitated, but since she, too, needed to use the privy, she took his hand, told her parents where she was going, and exited the courtroom, being careful to look up and down t
he main corridor to make sure that Robert Dawes was not still on the premises.

  Once outside, she looked up and down the main street as well. All appeared quiet. She then led Jake around to the back of the building, being careful that he not wander off the narrow path into the deep snow on either side. Holding open the door to the smelly outhouse, she ordered, “Be quick, Jakey.”

  Jake made a face at her and entered the privy. As she waited for him to finish, Martha shook with cold, fear, and the need to use the outhouse, but she remained alert for any sound of a person walking around. All remained completely still. As Jake reappeared, she said, “Wait right here for me, Jake. I need to use the privy, too. I’ll just be a minute. Don’t move, hear?”

  “Yes, Mattie,” he answered.

  Martha entered the privy. Her hands shook so that it took forever for her to lift her skirt and undergarments and lower her pantalettes. And equally long to do her business and set her clothing right. When she was done and came back outside, there was no Jake. Frantic, she ran around front to the courthouse door calling his name. Only then did she see Robert Dawes’s phaeton accompanied by his two henchmen on horses speeding down the road. Jake’s face appeared for a moment in the rear window and then was gone. Martha ran after them as fast as she could, shouting for them to stop, but the phaeton, its occupants, and the two slave catchers disappeared from sight before she even reached the end of the Brooklyn village green. Out of breath and sobbing, she struggled back to the courthouse before collapsing in a heap.

  CHAPTER 7

  MARTHA LAY face down on the ice-covered path in front of the courthouse, where she had fainted. Her body shivered violently from the cold.