How completely different this was compared to the first time. Everything had gone smoothly and quietly. This time it had blown up in his face. It was difficult to think straight enough to decide what to do. But he did understand that he could not stay on the road for long and he could not continue on in the wagon. And although just four sets of manacles would have been of little use to him with a wagon load of slaves, it still added to his anxiety when he realized he’d left the house without them. Now, it would turn into a version of the classic escape attempt: hiding in the woods, crossing and re-crossing streams to throw off pursuit, and walking every step of the way.
With every mile he drove, James believed that he was pressing his luck. He did not know, with the pandemonium he’d left in his wake, how soon a pursuit could be organized. What with the fire, the slain overseer, and the slaves left behind who had scattered into the countryside, James hoped he had created enough of a diversion and that the upheaval had taken everyone at Live Oak by complete surprise.
Eventually he had no choice but to find some cover and stop to rest the horse. When he finally counted heads, he saw that there were twenty-three black men of varying ages crammed into the small wagon. What a daunting task it would be to get them all to safety. Having calmed his nerves a little, James began to wonder if he could make it to the closest station on the list that Reverend Pyle had given him. It was a farm located near Chattanooga, Tennessee. If that goal could be reached it would give him a safe place to leave his rig; then he could lead from there on foot, keeping mostly to the mountains for cover.
Before leaving the rest stop, which was close to a trickle of a creek, he advised his passengers to quench their thirst and then quickly return to the wagon. While James waited, he searched his mind to retrieve the information concerning the exact location of the farm, the farmer’s name, and the proper way to approach him. There was a sign to be given, a question that had to be asked word for word. The proper response was the counter sign.
He checked his pocket watch for the time. It was almost four in the morning and he was getting impatient. He was just about to climb down and hurry the slaves along when he heard a shout and one of the men ran up to the wagon shouting, “Boss, boss, Joe’s done been bit by a snake! He’s bit by a snake down by the creek!” James jumped down from the wagon and ran towards the commotion, met halfway by two men carrying a third by the arms and legs. The injured Negro was not much more than James’s age, maybe eighteen or so, and he appeared to be in shock. There was a nasty bite wound on his right arm, and it was beginning to swell. James’s father had taught him how to care for a snakebite but he had never actually performed the procedure.
With very little light to work by, he took his knife and made a shallow cut across the fang marks. The young man twitched convulsively as the blade opened his skin. As best he could, James sucked out the poison then instructed one of the men to find some tree moss and dampen it from the creek. He applied the moss to the wound and tied it in place with a handkerchief. The wagon was so crowded that it was necessary to lay the man across the legs of several others.
He headed back to the road, slapped the reins down on the horse’s back and prayed that he could find Mr. Gilmore’s farm. He did not know, however, if finding the farm would guarantee that he would find help.
Just after sunup, they came to a turnoff that separated a field of corn on one side, tobacco on the other. Perhaps a mile or so in the distance, James could see a barn roof sticking just above the horizon. He knew that he was close to his objective but he couldn’t be sure it was the place up ahead. But there were no other houses or buildings anywhere in sight, and the young man with the snakebite was moaning in agony. With no other alternative, he kept driving towards the only visible landmark.
It was a beautifully maintained farm with a little white house featuring a wraparound porch and flower boxes at the windows. The barn appeared to be freshly painted and the cattle grazing in the pasture were a product of good breeding. As they made their approach, two boys about ten or twelve years old stepped out through the open barn doors. When they saw James and the wagonload of slaves; they raced to the house, ignored the steps by jumping up on the porch, and then disappeared inside. The front door opened a moment later and a short, heavyset man in bib overalls came out on the porch with a double barrel shotgun cradled in his arms. He did not appear to be menacing, just cautious. When James pulled the horse to a stop, the man with the shotgun walked right up to the wagon.
“Can I help you, stranger?” he asked.
“Is there a railroad somewhere near here?” James asked him.
“Yes. It runs south to north,” was the reply.
“Mr. Gilmore?”
“That’s right. I’m Sam Gilmore.” Then he smiled, raising the shotgun a little, and said, “Don’t worry about old Betsey here, she ain’t even loaded.” Then he broke open the breech to show that he was telling the truth. James extended his hand and said, “I’m happy to meet you, sir. I’m William Mason. I was warned that your station may not be operating any longer but to try anyway if I ran into trouble.”
“Well, it has been a while since we’ve had passengers, but I’m certainly not going to turn you away. What can I do to help, Mr. Mason?”
“We need food, rest, and something more. I have a young man who was bitten by a snake about three hours ago. I’ve done what I can, but he needs a doctor in a hurry.”
Concern covered Mr. Gilmore’s face and he said, “Pull your wagon over to the barn. I’ll see what I can do to make him comfortable.” The injured man was carried into the barn and laid on a pile of straw covered by a blanket. The rest of the men spread out, finding places to sit and relax. James removed the handkerchief and Mr. Gilmore inspected the arm. “I think you probably saved his life for now, William, but he does need a doctor sure enough. And if that arm gets infected he could lose that much for sure. I’ll go to the house and tell my wife to make you all something to eat. I’ll send my oldest son to Chattanooga for a doctor.”
“Can the doctor be trusted?”
“The one that I’m sending for can. Don’t worry.”
He hurried off to the house. When he returned, James told him all about the escape from Live Oak the night before. “That is why,” said James, “I want to leave my horse and wagon here and travel by foot. We’ll never make it any other way. We have to stay off the roads.”
“I guess you’re right about that. Of course the sick man will have to stay behind. Ordinarily, we don’t keep runaways here too long. It’s always risky having them here at all. But I reckon we can hide one man for a while. When he can travel I’ll see to it that he gets up north somehow.”
“I do appreciate everything.”
“Don’t mention it.”
By five o’clock that afternoon, James decided that it was time to begin the long, arduous journey to Pennsylvania. Mr. Gilmore’s son had returned from Chattanooga with the doctor and it looked as though Joe would keep his arm. The farmer was more than a generous man, providing so much food and water that each man had a load to carry. James thanked Sam Gilmore profusely and promised to return for his rig as soon as possible. Then, the little band of fugitives moved out in the direction of the Appalachian Mountains.
On the second night after leaving the Gilmore farm, while resting in the foothills, James could hear barking dogs in the distance. They broke camp and moved out quickly, and the chase was on. Using every devious maneuver he’d ever been taught to stay out ahead of the posse, it took five grueling weeks before James stumbled across the Pennsylvania line, leading twenty-two runaways to Reverend Pyle’s Church.
After a two-day rest, he purchased a roan pony in Mapletown, thinking he may be able to sell it to Mr. Gilmore when he stopped to pick up his horse and wagon.
When he was halfway back the turnoff to the farm, he suddenly realized that he couldn’t see the barn roof. Pushing the pony to a full gallop, he continued back the lane until he could see farther ahead. Then
he pulled hard on the reins and sat in the saddle, staring in horror. The pretty white house and the big red barn had been burned to the ground. The pasture fence was wrecked and there wasn’t a single head of livestock to be seen. James was sure that it was no accident. What had happened? Had his anti-slavery activities somehow been discovered? Or maybe the trustworthy doctor who had tended to the snakebite was no longer trustworthy. James was devastated. With tears welling up in his eyes, he prayed for the goodhearted Mr. Gilmore and his family. And James understood one thing as he had never understood it before: the South was serious about their slaves. He turned the pony around and got away from the place as fast as he could.
NINE
Serious Suspicion
James arrived in Dry Branch at about five o’clock in the afternoon. Fortunately, the man at the livery stable was interested in buying the pony that he’d purchased in Mapletown. He actually sold the pony and the saddle for fifty dollars more than he had paid. The extra fifty was at least some compensation for the loss suffered on the rig he’d left at the Gilmore farm.
As always, the livery man was of few words, but James thought that his manner had changed a little. It was something in his expression when he looked at James that was different.
After looking in on Star, he walked up the street towards the house. As he passed by others who were out and about, he couldn’t help feeling that he was drawing odd looks from some of them as well. His curiosity was satisfied about two minutes after he’d gone into the house; a very heavy knock was laid upon the front door. When he opened it, he was face to face with the town sheriff, who was pointing a pistol at his stomach. Before the sheriff said a word, he reached out and grabbed James’s revolver from his waistband. Then he took three steps forward, forcing James to move back to the table. “Sit down,” he ordered. James complied without objection. The sheriff was evidently in a very ugly mood and James sensed that he was in a difficult situation.
“What’s your name, mister?”
“My name is William Mason.”
“William Mason, is it? You’re a stranger in town, aren’t you?”
“Not entirely. I’ve been living here for over two months now.”
“That doesn’t exactly make you well known. Where are you from?”
Then James made a bad move by offering a bit of resistance. “What’s this all about sheriff?” But the sheriff’s irritation was growing roots. He leaned a little closer to James and began yelling, spraying spittle all over his face.
“I’ll ask the goddamn questions and you’d better be ready to answer them! Now where in the hell are you from?”
“I come from Atlanta.”
“You got family there?”
“No. I was raised in an orphanage.”
“If you grew up in Atlanta, what are you doing in Dry Branch?”
“I don’t care for city life. I wanted a quieter place to live.”
“And how do you make your living?”
“I hunt down runaway slaves and return them for the reward.”
“Is that so? Have you caught any lately?”
“It’s been a while,” said James. “But the rewards are pretty good, and if you’re careful with your money you can make a living from moderate success.”
“Well from everything I’ve heard about you, I’d say that your activities seem mighty suspicious. The way it seems to work out is that since you showed up in this town, there has been a lot more slaves escapin than there is bein caught. About three months ago four niggers ran off from Silas Turner’s farm about five miles north of here. Just over a month ago there was a hell raisin escape from Live Oak plantation. A fire was deliberately set and about fifty slaves ran off. All of them were caught except twenty-three. Owing to all this, a white man was killed; the overseer’s head was split open with a shovel.”
The sheriff hesitated for a moment after his last statement, apparently hoping that the serious nature of it would get a reaction from James. It did, but not the kind the lawman was probably expecting. James was supposed to crumble under the pressure and expose a guilty conscience. Fortunately for James, he had not known about the murder and his reaction was the shock and surprise of the innocent. He was genuinely upset about the killing. He wanted to help free slaves; he did not want to be even indirectly responsible for the loss of a life.
The sheriff did not seem as sure of himself, but he wasn’t through yet. “After questioning the niggers that were caught, I understand that a white man with a horse and wagon was involved. You rented a rig from the livery about the time those niggers ran off from Turner’s farm. You were gone a couple weeks and then came back. Then, just before the trouble at Live Oak, you bought a horse and wagon from the livery, you’re gone about a month and a half or so and then you come back riding a saddle pony. How do you explain all that?”
“It is true, sheriff, that I often use a horse and wagon in my business. When I make a capture, it is often more than one slave. Sometimes a buck will run off and take his woman and kids with him. I can’t very well haul them all on my horse. It doesn’t bother me if they have to walk a couple hundred miles while I ride but the owners can become difficult about the reward if their property isn’t in good shape. It can get costly, hiring out a rig, so I finally decided to make an investment and buy one. But as far as the time frame of those events you described, and my coming and going, it is purely coincidental.”
“And what happened to the wagon you bought?”
“It was stolen one night when I was camped out in the mountains. I was taking a bath in a stream about a hundred feet away and I didn’t even hear the thief over the noise of the running water. I had to walk for quite a way until I found a farmer who was willing to sell me that pony.”
“Where did all this happen?”
“In Virginia.”
“So your wagon was stolen. Another coincidence I suppose.”
“I guess so,” said James. Then he had a thought. When he returned the rented wagon to the livery, he naturally removed all of his belongings from it including the manacles he’d purchased. “Can I show you something, sheriff?”
“What is it?”
Slowly, James got up from his chair and walked over to the bed while the muzzle of the sheriff’s pistol followed him. He reached under the bed and pulled out the small wooden box he’d used to carry his things. Then he walked back and sat the box on the table. Extracting the manacles, he dropped them on the table making a loud and purposeful clatter. “If I’m not what I say I am, what use would I have for these?”
The sheriff looked at the manacles for a minute, and then he grew an expression like that of a gambler in a card game who has just been shown a better hand. James was sure that the sheriff was not convinced, but he also knew that he had planted the seed of doubt. “I’m gonna tell you something, boy. I’m lookin at a total of twenty-seven runaway niggers and I’m lookin at a white man whose been murdered in the middle of it all. If I had the smallest piece of hard evidence against you, I’d throw you in my jail and sell tickets to your hangin. But you’d better be careful about what you do. I mean you better be as still as a heavy man hangin on a weak branch over a snake pit cause I’ll be watchin every move you make from now on. I’ll be watchin.”
Then he got up, tossed James’s revolver on the table and walked out, slamming the door on the way. James took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The success he had achieved to that point seemed heavily outweighed by the trouble he’d caused for himself and his operation. It would now be nearly impossible to operate anywhere near Dry Branch. In spite of everything James remained unafraid, but he had no death wish either. He would have to adjust in some way in order to continue. It was funny sometimes, he thought, how misfortune can actually be beneficial. He was glad now for the loss of the horse and wagon. If he had brought it back it may have somehow produced evidence against him. But now he was being watched and he would never know for sure, when, or by whom. The sheriff only had two eyes and other dut
ies as well; he couldn’t be everywhere at once, but James didn’t know who else might have been instructed to cast a glance his way. He needed to unwind and maybe get an evening meal.
Out on the boardwalk everything was quiet. He headed towards Baxter’s wondering if at that moment he was under surveillance. Just as he reached the tavern, the door opened, and who should emerge but Polly. Forgetting his hunger, he removed his hat and said, “Good evening, Polly.” When she looked up she was smiling. When she recognized him, the smile ran away from her face. “Oh, Mr. Mason,” she said dryly.
“I would consider it a privilege if I could walk you home,” he said politely.
“I hardly think that would be appropriate or possible,” she said.
“I just wanted to say that I heard about your mother and I am deeply sorry.”
She seemed to soften a little at his kindness and she replied, “I do thank you for your condolences, Mr. Mason, but I must be going now.”
By then they were walking slowly down the boardwalk, and in spite of herself, Polly didn’t seem to object to the fact that he was still by her side.
“At the risk of further damaging your opinion of me,” said James, “I must ask you about the day we met. What did I do to make you angry?”
Now she looked annoyed, as if the answer to his question was extremely obvious. She stopped and faced him, then after looking to see that no one else was around she said, “It might interest you to know, Mr. Mason, that not everyone who lives in the South is in favor of slavery. It might also be of interest to know that some of us are decidedly against it. Now maybe you can understand why I find complete distaste in someone who would chase down those unfortunate souls and return them to captivity for money.”
A Deeper Sense of Loyalty Page 9