Martha and the Slave Catchers

by Harriet Hyman Alonso

  CHAPTER 9

  AT THE crack of dawn on the appointed day, Martha was ready and waiting for Adam Burke and Charles Murdoch. Her heart fluttered, beating out an internal rhythm: “I’m on my way. I’m on my way.” She couldn’t wait to leave to find Jake and to have an adventure.

  “Now, Martha,” her mama warned the night before as, with trembling hands, she gave Martha a rather small carpetbag, “thee must be able to carry the bag easily for long distances, so thee must not take heavy items.”

  Martha brought a change of clothing, all lightweight and gray so she would not be conspicuous. She also took her brush for her hair, which now hung down to the middle of her back. She would wear her sunbonnet but included in her bag a shawl even though it was well into June and the Chesapeake area should prove even hotter than New England.

  Her mama spoke quickly in short gasps as if she had trouble breathing. “Thee will be traveling some by sea, Martha, and it can get cool. And then there are evenings as well.”

  Her mind already on its way south, Martha listened with half an ear. “Yes, Mama.

  Whatever you say.”

  At the last minute, Martha decided to place in her pocket one of the tiny carved horses her papa had made for Jake and the handkerchief Caleb had given her at the Anti-Slavery Fair.

  Adam Burke and Charles Murdoch arrived in two carryalls around six o’clock. The sky was already bright with sunshine and Martha’s mood reflected the happy feeling of the weather. Her mama handed her a sack filled with bread, cold meat, cheese, fruit, and a tin cup and hugged her so tightly that Martha had to struggle to free herself.

  She was impatient to leave, but her papa took his time embracing her so hard she thought he would squeeze her to death.

  “Take care of yourself, Mahthah. Be safe and careful. Please.”

  “I shall, Papa, and I’ll see you in just a couple of weeks.”

  “Martha,” Adam Burke reminded her as he helped her up onto the seat of the high carriage, “remember rule number one for thy work on the railroad. Do not . . . I repeat . . . do not act independently. Thee has always been an obedient girl. Now thee will be part of a very well-planned rescue that relies on everyone working together. Listen carefully to the people in charge. Do as they say without questioning them. They have great experience and know what they’re doing.”

  “I shall, Mr. Burke. I promise.”

  As if as an afterthought, Adam Burke gave Martha an envelope. “And here are two sets of forged identity papers showing thee and Jake as free people.”

  Martha was surprised. “Why would we need these?”

  “Because in the South, people may see thee as colored.”

  “In that case,” she asked, puzzled, “how shall I act?”

  “As thee does now, I’d imagine.”

  Martha quickly placed the envelope in her carpetbag. Looking up, she saw Becky running up their dirt road.

  “Wait, Martha,” she called. “I brought you some blackberry cakes for your journey.”

  Martha slid down awkwardly from her seat while Becky caught up with her.

  “Caleb told me everything, Martha,” she said, handing over the cakes. “Please be safe.”

  “I shall, Becky.”

  Martha embraced her friend and kissed her on the cheek. Becky whispered in her ear, “I love you, Martha, any way you are.”

  “And me you, Becky.”

  With some effort, Martha climbed back into the carriage, and the rescue began. A pang of anxiety swept over her as she saw her parents fade into figures smaller than ants and thoughts of Caleb’s rejection thrummed through her heart. But then she grew excited. After all her reading and planning and begging, she was finally, truly, on her way to the South.

  Once Liberty Falls was behind her, Martha took a careful look at her chaperone. Charles Murdoch was a quiet gentleman of about sixty with exceedingly fair skin, startling blue eyes, and a shock of white hair sticking out from beneath his hat. He was not talkative at all, so she decided to initiate a conversation.

  “Thank you, Mr. Murdoch, for volunteering to accompany me to Philadelphia.”

  “My pleasure.” Then silence.

  This would be a long day, Martha thought. But at least his silence was not unfriendly.

  “Ummm, Mr. Murdoch. Have you done much work for the Underground Railroad?”

  The man’s shoulders tensed.

  “My dear girl,” he said quietly. “An important rule for you to know is that you must never, and I mean never, ask anyone about the Underground Railroad.”

  So, thought Martha, this was rule number two, and she repeated it in her mind so she would not forget it. “Do not ask anyone about the Underground Railroad.”

  “Why not, Mr. Murdoch? You’re obviously a friend of the slave or you wouldn’t have offered to help me.”

  “This is so, but it’s important for your safety, for mine, for the fugitives, and, well, for everyone involved, that the work remain secret and that only a very few people know the entire system. Do you understand?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “The less each of us knows, the less chance that if caught, we can reveal knowledge to our opponents. So, you mustn’t ask anyone questions. If you do, they’ll feel unsafe. And you may very well put yourself in a dangerous position.”

  “I see.” And she did, for hadn’t she lived with that same secrecy her entire life?

  For many miles, the two rode in a companionable silence. Martha observed the sights around her. The farms. The lessening of the hills. The trees and flowers and occasional deer as they loped across the road. After three hours of bumping along half in the shade of trees and half in the hot sun, the two stopped for luncheon by a spring with a little waterfall. Martha filled her cup with water, but Mr. Murdoch simply tilted his head, opened his mouth, and drank. He then splashed his face.

  “Ahhhh. That feels good. Try it, Martha. It’ll refresh you for the rest of today’s journey.”

  Even though she did not want to get her dress wet, Martha allowed the cold spring water to splash over her face and neck. It sure did feel good.

  The second half of the ride took place in the extreme heat of the day. As Martha swayed from side to side in the carryall, she nodded off. Twice she awoke to find herself leaning against Mr. Murdoch’s arm. With great embarrassment, she apologized.

  “Don’t fret, Martha. I have three grown daughters and two sons and have experienced many a hot, sleepy head collapse on my arm when riding in the summer heat.”

  In the late afternoon, Charles Murdoch turned off the main thoroughfare onto a dirt road leading to a distant farmhouse. As they reached it, an extremely tall, lean woman with a huge white apron came out onto the wide porch to greet them. Mr. Murdoch introduced them.

  “This is Martha Bartlett from up in Liberty Falls,” he said. “She’s on her way to visit her aunt in Philadelphia, so I’ve offered to accompany her. Martha, this is Suzanne Carpenter, my niece.”

  Ah, of course. The lies. But these were an essential part of Jake’s rescue, so they were all right.

  With a sense of relief and wonder Martha followed the tall Mrs. Carpenter into the cool and airy home. It had a parlor twice the size of hers and attached to the rear Martha could see a large kitchen. Her hostess took her directly to a bright bedroom on the first floor. “There’s water in the jug for drinking, and some in the pitcher on the dresser for washing. After you’ve rested, perhaps you’d like to have a lemonade on the porch?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I would . . . very much.”

  After Mrs. Carpenter left, Martha closed the door and dropped onto the soft down mattress and immediately drifted off to sleep. She dreamed that Jake was calling her. He faded in and out of her vision with the saddest look on his face that she had ever seen. When she awoke, she felt as if he was still with her, and it took a while for her to shake off his image.

  In a dreamlike daze, Martha joined seven lively, talkative Carpenters for dinner. As they passed arou
nd plates of chicken, boiled potatoes, fresh peas, biscuits, and, for dessert, slices of warm strawberry-rhubarb pie, Martha remained silent except to answer an occasional question about her family and her town.

  During dessert, the eldest son, Jed, asked, “Do you know much about the working of the Underground Railroad, Martha? I hear it’s quite active up in your neck of the woods.”

  Unsure of what to say, Martha looked at Charles Murdoch, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod indicating she should say nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Jed, but I don’t know anything about it.”

  “I’m surprised,” he returned. “I hear tell that lots of folks up that way are involved in it.”

  Martha simply smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

  After sitting on the porch for a bit to watch a beautiful sunset, Martha said her good nights and went to bed. Again, she dreamed about Jake. This time he moved closer to her, his mouth wide open as if calling her name, but the rope tied around his waist stopped him from reaching her. She woke with a start. The sun was streaming through her window, and she quickly rose and got dressed.

  “Mr. Murdoch,” she asked as they once again headed south on the main road, “why did you stop me from answering Jed’s question?”

  “Ah, Martha. Another rule for working on the Underground Railroad. Never, and I mean never, answer any questions that would disclose information about anyone’s work on the railroad.”

  So, rule number three, Martha thought. She sure hoped there would not be many more, or she might start to forget them.

  “But why not?” she asked instead. “These were your family members, and I’m sure they can be trusted.”

  “So you would think, but I don’t see them every day and I don’t know what they all believe. Perhaps Jed doesn’t support the work of the railroad. Perhaps he’s simply seeking information to pass on to someone else. I wouldn’t know that.”

  Martha sighed as she pondered all the lies and secrecy of the Underground Railroad. Were they really so very necessary? She longed for a more open life, one where she could say and do anything she wished without having to look over her shoulder all the time or be silenced by a non-trusting adult.

  Again the day passed with an abundance of changing scenery. The land flattened, the vegetation changed to something she had never seen, and the breezes brought in a smell that she did not recognize. She turned her head into the wind and breathed deeply.

  “You’re getting a whiff of salty air and salt water, Martha. And you can see how there are plants that look sort of scrubby. See the long reeds over there?” She looked to where Mr. Murdoch pointed to tall grassy plants with puffs of brown grainy heads. “And if you listen real careful-like, you’ll hear the sounds of the seagulls.”

  Martha cocked her head and soon heard a bird that sounded as if it were laughing.

  “Is that it?”

  “It sure is. And,” he pointed, “you can just see the water of the Long Island Sound way out there in the distance.”

  Within a half hour, Martha spotted a bustling town on the water’s edge with high sailing masts poking up toward the sky. She had never seen such a beautiful sight. Out on the blue water were a number of large ships with sails open full in the brisk breeze. Further out, she thought she saw a faint blue hilly piece of land.

  “This is New London,” Mr. Murdoch said. “See, way out there is Long Island. You can just make out the bluffs along the shoreline.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Martha sighed. “I’ve only seen drawings of these things in my books. It’s so colorful, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. And soon you’ll be on that nice blue water. We’ll be boarding a large sloop that a friend of mine owns. I often sail on it when I come to New England. It’ll leave here for New York early in the morning.”

  “Will it take long to get there?”

  “Maybe a day or two, depending on the wind. We’ll go west,” he pointed to his right, “on Long Island Sound, then around to the East River, and to New York.” Then he added with some concern, “I hope you won’t get seasick.”

  “I hope not. I’ve read that it’s most unpleasant.”

  Turning his attention back to driving the carriage, Mr. Murdoch just smiled and nodded. Martha smiled, too. So far, being on the Underground Railroad was as easy as riding the buckboard into Liberty Falls. Or walking down the road to school when there were no slave catchers around. Why, it was even as easy as sitting by the brook dipping her feet into the cool, refreshing water. At this rate, she would be back home in no time. Once she reached LaGrange, she and Mrs. Tubman would simply walk up to Dawes’s plantation, take Jake by the hand, and head home. Easy.

  And, indeed, except for her dreams about Jake, the journey south continued to be uneventful. Her only fright came the first time the sailboat heeled, dipping one side close to the water, and she thought she would fall in. She grasped hold of the railing and asked in a shaking voice, “Mr. Murdoch, why is the boat tipping over? Will it turn upside down and drown us?”

  “No, Martha,” the kind man answered, “it leans with the wind, but the bottom is filled with ballast that keeps it afloat. Don’t worry about it.”

  It took a while for Martha to relax and get her sea legs, but she did. Joyfully, she turned into the wind so the warm June breeze could wrap around her face, pushing her long plaits straight out behind her while the beautiful blue water occasionally splashed her. When in the late afternoon the wind died and the sails sagged, the captain anchored for the night. Martha went to sleep early and once again dreamed of Jake. This time he was in a sloop’s cabin just like hers, but while she could leave hers at will, he was locked in. She dreamed that he pounded on the door and kicked it with his little legs, but in the end, he curled up on his bunk and cried himself to sleep. When she awoke, she was wet with sweat and sea dampness, and it took her some time to remember where she was.

  As soon as she saw Mr. Murdoch the next morning, she asked, “Do you know much about spiritualism?”

  “It’s all the rage, isn’t it, Martha?” he replied. “The Fox sisters have made it quite popular with their rappings and séances and communing with the dead. Why do you ask?”

  “Ever since I left home, I’ve been having vivid dreams about Jake. I’m wondering if perhaps he’s been trying to reach me,” she responded.

  “Well, spiritualists claim to communicate with the dead, Martha. Are you afraid something bad has happened to your brother?”

  “I don’t believe he’s dead. What a horrible thought! But, can spiritualists hear from people who are alive?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s probably just your nerves. Try not to fret about it. You’ll soon be with him and then will know for sure how he is.”

  By midday the sloop reached the East River. As it came close to a wide harbor, Martha could see many buildings on each shore and crowded ferries hustling back and forth.

  “I never imagined New York to be so huge, Mr. Murdoch,” Martha said in wonder. “I wish I could stay here and see it all.”

  “No time for that, Martha. We’ll be anchoring on the east side of the river and staying with a friend of mine in the town of Brooklyn for the night, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  “Brooklyn?” gasped Martha. “Like in Connecticut?”

  “Same name,” Mr. Murdoch smiled, “but very different places.”

  Brooklyn, New York, was certainly bigger than Brooklyn, Connecticut. It was larger than any place Martha had ever seen. Once on land, she followed Mr. Murdoch up a steep hill to an area with many houses made of brown stone. Most were two or three stories high with windows facing the river and, to her surprise, each was attached to the ones next to it.

  “This area is called Brooklyn Heights,” he explained. “It has numerous abolitionists. Do you know of Henry Ward Beecher?”

  “Yes, of course. He’s Harriet Beecher Stowe’s brother, isn’t he?”

  “Right. Well, his Plymouth Church is right down the street.”
r />   Martha strained her neck to try to see it, but Mr. Murdoch was anxious to arrive at his destination. Soon, he knocked on the door of a grand brownstone and was greeted by a woman in a plain black dress with a heavy accent that Martha did not recognize.

  “Top o’ the mornin’,” she said with a big grin.

  “And the rest of the day, too,” responded Mr. Murdoch with a laugh.

  “’Tis so good to see you, Mr. Murdoch. ’Tis been way too long a time that’s passed.”

  Martha looked puzzled until the woman introduced herself. “I’m Megan O’Hara. Mr. Abbott will be home shortly. I’m to make you feel at home.”

  Megan O’Hara showed Martha and Charles Murdoch into a dim parlor with very stiff-looking, dark, cushioned furniture, dark wood side tables, and heavy draperies closed against the day’s heat. She then brought the pair a silver tray with a porcelain teapot and delicious-looking pastries.

  “I’ll leave you, then,” she said and left the room.

  “Mr. Murdoch, where is Miss O’Hara from?”

  “Ireland. She came over here a little over ten years ago because of a terrible famine. She takes care of the house for my friend Reginald, whose poor wife died in a tragic carriage accident.”

  “I see.”

  Reginald Abbott arrived an hour later. During that time, Martha walked around the parlor, looking at the small china statuettes on the fireplace mantel, the sketches on the wall, and the books in the bookcases. Everything fascinated her.

  “Charles, how good to see you,” boomed a cheerful voice from a round, red, sweating, smiling face. “And you must be Martha. Welcome to Brooklyn.”

  While the two men talked about the news of the day, Martha nodded off in a comfortable velvet plush armchair. Later, though, at dinner, she tried her best to take part in the conversation.

  “Mr. Abbott,” she blundered, “have you ever heard of a runaway slave by the name of Mariah who might’ve come through here on her way from Maryland to Canada?”

  Both men froze.

  “Martha,” Mr. Murdoch said sternly, “there’s a very important rule you must follow. Never, and I mean never, ask questions or tell stories about fugitives you might have come across. No names. No places. No nothing. It’s dangerous for them, especially since the Fugitive Slave Law became so powerful.”