Love Finds You in Liberty, Indiana

by Melanie Dobson

  Daniel was convinced that the president would never sign a bill like this into law. It was only a patch, slapped on to piece together the chasm across Mason and Dixon’s Line. If the president passed it, the government would keep together the Union of the North and South, but it would punish Negroes for simply desiring freedom. And it would punish the good people who abetted them.

  Instead of using their power to indict people who’d committed a real crime—like slave owners who beat and sometimes killed their slaves—Congress wanted to force people to look away when they saw someone in need. No person who had dedicated his or her life to following God could look away. No legislation would keep the Union together as long as certain people in their country didn’t value the freedom of those whose heritage happened to be from Africa instead of Europe.

  People like Enoch Gardner craved freedom, and they deserved it. Daniel didn’t have any idea where Enoch went after he ran away from his owner in Richmond, but as far as he knew, no one had found the man. He prayed they never would. Enoch might be safe in Canada at this very moment, ready to start a new life, have a family, and work to earn a living.

  Daniel placed the galley tray into the metal chase and began putting the little pieces of wood called furniture around the tray to hold it into the chase.

  Instead of growing in their support for runaway slaves like Enoch, their country and state and even their county was becoming polarized by it. People were either for abolition, or they were for slavery. In his opinion, no one could be against slavery and not fight for abolition. The Bible refused to condone people who were lukewarm in their faith. In fact, the book of Revelation clearly stated that God would spew those out of His mouth.

  How could someone see what was happening and not take a stand?

  He didn’t understand it. If someone had a strong faith in God, how could they not believe these people should be free? In the book of Jeremiah, God clearly commanded the house of David to deliver those who were spoiled out of the hands of the oppressor.

  “Deliver him that is spoiled.”

  The words called out to him morning and night. He would do whatever it took to deliver slaves from those who oppressed them.

  There was a quick knock on the door beside the printing press, and his employer and friend, Isaac Barnes, rushed into the room, waving a piece of paper as if he were mad. “They’ve done it!”

  Daniel slumped forward against the counter. Part of him didn’t want to know the truth, wanted to stay in denial that their president would side against freedom, but he had no choice. He would learn about it, and he would fight. “The Fugitive Act?”

  Isaac slapped the paper in front of him. “Fillmore signed it yesterday.”

  Daniel shoved the tray of type, and it spilled over the counter. Metal clanked when it hit the ground, and type sprayed across the floor.

  How could Millard Fillmore have done this? He was supposed to be a man of integrity. He was supposed to be fighting for the freedom of the slaves, not punishing the people who were trying to help them. “They made it a federal crime?”

  “That includes sheltering runaways or giving them food.” Isaac kicked away the type at his feet and spread the telegram over the countertop. “They’ve called it ‘stealing negroes,’ and it’s punishable by a thousand-dollar fine and six months in prison.”

  Daniel read an abbreviated version of the new law and pushed the paper back toward Isaac. “Indiana is supposed to be a free state.”

  Isaac shook his head, shoving the paper into his coat pocket. “It’s not free for runaway slaves anymore.”

  “Or for the people who want to aid them.” Daniel smacked the countertop. “What can be more American than helping an injured soul?”

  “This law won’t stop the abolitionists.”

  Resolve swept through him. Isaac was right. This type of legislation would never stop him and those who spoke out against slavery. They were called by a higher law that demanded justice and righteousness and compassion. God would never want him to stop fighting for the millions of colored men and women who would be punished if they tried to fight for themselves. “It will only make us stronger.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about—” Isaac paused, but the weight in his voice felt like an anvil about to fall.

  “You can’t ask me to compromise on this!”

  His employer walked to the window. Daniel couldn’t imagine that Isaac wanted them to compromise on their stand in the paper, as well. Isaac had started this paper specifically to counter the pro-slavery propaganda coming off Milton Kent’s press.

  No matter how much it hurt, Daniel wouldn’t concede on this issue. Not writing about slavery was the very same thing as writing articles that supported it. He might as well go to work for the Union County News.

  It was the silence of so many on this issue that was strengthening slavery. Words, not weapons, would give them victory in this battle. He only needed to convince those in Union County that slavery was of the devil. Their pro-slavery sentiments could spread to other counties in Indiana and throughout the state.

  But he couldn’t influence anyone if he couldn’t write.

  Isaac turned toward him, but before his employer could speak, Daniel said, “I have to do this.”

  “I’m not asking you to stop writing about abolition.” Isaac wiped the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. “We just can’t report anymore on specific slaves who have run away.”

  “You’re going to let them win?”

  “This isn’t a battle against flesh and blood, Daniel. It’s against darkness and principalities.” Isaac ran his hands over the press. “And no, I don’t want them to win. I just don’t think we can help anyone if we’re sent to jail.”

  “I’ll go to jail if I have to.”

  Isaac smiled the same way his father used to smile when Daniel pestered him. “What good are you going to do in jail?”

  “At least I’d be taking a stand.”

  Isaac clapped him on the back. “I don’t want you to falter on your stance against slavery, but I also don’t want you to incriminate yourself or me. Unless the good Lord wants us in chains, I think we could be more effective on this side of jail.”

  Daniel leaned down and began picking the type off the floor. He didn’t care about himself; he would go to jail if he had to, but he did care about Isaac. There were few people who had put so much of a personal stake against slavery as Isaac. He didn’t just speak against slavery; he had spent much of his income and sacrificed his reputation to fight it.

  Daniel dumped the letters onto the counter. “I’m still going to write editorials.”

  Isaac nodded. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  “And a cover story condemning this new act.”

  “I certainly hope so!”

  Daniel scooped another handful of type from the floor and began sorting the letters on the countertop. “I don’t want to stop telling the stories of individual slaves.”

  Isaac stepped toward the door. “I respect you, Daniel, and your decisions. If you want to use your talents at another place, there will be no ill will from me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In the meantime, if you can get the article on the Slave Act done tonight—”

  Daniel finished his sentence. “We’ll beat Milton Kent’s edition.”

  “Exactly.”

  Daniel glanced over at the clock. He had eight hours to compile and print it, but the absurdity of the deadline didn’t deter him. Who needed sleep on a night like this?

  “I’ll have it ready in the morning.”

  Isaac reached for the door handle, and chilly air filled the room when he swung it open. “The boys will be here to deliver at five.”

  Daniel shivered, but he didn’t stop to throw more logs on the fire. He’d spent the past two days writing copy and now most of that would be scrapped, but maybe people would actually read this edition. The new act would impact every person in the county,
every person living in states that were supposed to be free.

  He finished organizing the next line of type in the tray and began popping the next letters into the stick. Usually he wrote the article first, longhand, but there was no time for him to write now. He would have to compile the story in his head, and as he placed the type into the stick, he would pray it made sense.

  Expediency was the key, not eloquency. He had to get the facts on the paper, along with his opinions, and out to the subscribers before Milton released a paper applauding the justice of the new act.

  His paper was a meager offering in comparison to what so many had to endure down South, but he would do it and do it well. He couldn’t do much to fight against the act, but he could speak out.

  FILLMORE PASSES FUGITIVE SLAVE ACT

  Private Citizens Criminalized for Helping Runaways

  The clock chimed that it was ten o’clock, but he didn’t panic. He would finish this story and set the rest of the paper. Then they would distribute it in the morning.

  He wouldn’t let Isaac or their subscribers down.

  Chapter Twelve

  Marie winced as her elderly hostess cleaned the wound on the bottom of her foot with soap and water, but she didn’t complain. An injured foot was only a small obstacle to getting her baby to freedom. It might hurt, but nothing would stop her from reaching the Canadian shore.

  She had already berated herself for the injury. She should have been more careful, holding her candle in front of her instead of to the side.

  It had happened three nights ago when she and their small group of runaways had crossed the dark field to Mrs. Adeline’s home from Mrs. Betsy’s. She had sliced her heel on something sharp, the pain instantaneous as it shot up her leg. She didn’t stop to see what she had stepped on—it didn’t matter anyway. What mattered was that she kept moving.

  Mrs. Adeline apologized as she rubbed the ointment into her foot and wrapped a cloth around the wound, but Marie told her not to worry. The pain wouldn’t last. Their group was supposed to move again on Saturday, and she was going with them.

  “Maybe you should stay here a few extra days,” Mrs. Adeline said. “I’ll make sure you and Peter get to the next station when your foot heals.”

  Marie’s gaze settled on the crib at her side. Sleep had overtaken Peter, and he rested by the fire. It was tempting to stay here longer and let Peter rest and her body recover. Yet Master Owens and his posse were close behind her—she could feel it in her bones. No injury would stop her and Peter from pressing northward. If she left on Saturday night as planned, Mrs. Adeline said she could be crossing the great lake in three weeks’ time. She was so close to freedom. Sweet freedom! She couldn’t stop now.

  “I’m goin’ with the others.”

  Mrs. Adeline leaned forward, imploring her. “I wish you would stay, just until you are well.”

  “There won’t be any well in me, Miz Adeline, until I reach Canada.”

  Mrs. Adeline paused and then patted Marie’s knee. “Wait right here. I’ve got something for you.”

  Marie leaned her head against the curved back of the rocking chair. With her good foot, she pushed away from the floor and rocked beside her baby. She never thought she’d see such kindness in white folk, yet so many had been kind to her along her journey. Miss Anna and her father. Mrs. Betsy. And now Mrs. Adeline. They had all cared for her and Peter like they were white, too. Like they were equals.

  Maybe in Canada they would be equal, as well. The Promised Land would be a land of opportunity and kindness. Only heaven itself would be more glorious, she was sure of it. She would make a home for her and Peter in the new land, and they would be safe and warm until God Himself called them home.

  The door squeaked open, and Mrs. Adeline held out a pair of ankle-length boots to her. Marie didn’t think she’d ever seen anything so fine. They were black leather with laces strung to the silk tops. On the toes were cream-colored bows.

  She took the boots in hand and ran her fingers across the smooth linen inside. They were beautiful, made for a lady. Why was Mrs. Adeline, who had been so kind to her, showing off her fancy boots? Only a proud fool, her mama once said, flaunted their possessions. Mrs. Adeline didn’t seem like no fool.

  Marie handed them back to the lady. “They’s very pretty.”

  Mrs. Adeline folded her hands, refusing to take the boots. “They’re for you.”

  Marie stared down at the boots and then looked back up. “They much too fancy for me.”

  Mrs. Adeline reached for one of the boots and held it up to Marie’s good foot. They were about two inches too big. “Not a perfect fit, but they’ll protect the bottoms of your feet.”

  Marie sat frozen for a moment, words and thoughts paralyzed in her mind. Even when she’d worked in Master Owens’s house, taking care of his babies, she hadn’t been issued a pair of shoes. She’d watched the wife and daughters of Master Owens parade around the house when they purchased a new pair of boots or a dress, but she’d never had anything fancy of her own.

  Mrs. Adeline pulled a pair of stockings out of her pocket and set them on the side table. “We’ll bandage your foot before you leave, and then I want you to wear these boots and stockings over it.”

  Marie refused to take back the boot in the woman’s hand. “I cain’t take these from you, Miz Adeline. They’s much too fine.”

  The woman met her eye. “They’re a gift, Marie. You can’t give them back.”

  A gift? Tears wet her cheeks as she reached for the boot and pulled it to her chest.

  Miss Anna had given Peter the gift of clothing, and now this woman was giving her the gift of boots. And she hadn’t done a single thing to earn them. Mrs. Adeline refused to let her help with the ironing or food preparations, saying it was her job to rest and care for her baby so they would be ready for the next leg of their journey.

  “I ain’t deservin’ these, Miz Adeline. I ain’t good like you.”

  “Only God is good, Marie.” The older woman bent down and kissed her head. “That’s why He sent His Son to die for me and you both. He loved us even when we were doing things that hurt Him.”

  Marie had heard plenty of stories at Master Owens’s church about how God had sent Jesus to die for His children, but she’d always thought Jesus had died for the white children. The good children. Not for her.

  She wiped off her tears with her sleeve. “He didn’t die for me.”

  “Oh yes He did, Marie. He died especially for you and that beautiful baby of yours.” She squeezed Marie’s hand before she stood up. “He loves you so very much.”

  Someplace deep in her heart, she had known that God loved her. Before her mama had passed, she’d talked about God’s love, but Marie had never really believed her. God had protected her along her journey—she had felt Him there—but she had never understood how a loving God could take away her mama and leave her with Master Owens.

  She’d never stopped to think that maybe God wasn’t at fault for her being born into slavery. Or that maybe He loved her in spite of where she’d been born and what she had done.

  Mrs. Adeline stepped out of the room, and when she was gone, Marie thanked God for all of His gifts to her.

  Five boys, ages ten through thirteen, gathered in the small newspaper office and waited by the wall for Daniel to finish the printing. He’d been up all night setting type, proofing, and finally printing and folding the paper one copy at a time.

  His arms ached from inking the plate and cranking the press over and over a thousand times. It had felt like ten thousand times. His shirt was soaked with sweat, and the long apron he wore over his clothes was splattered with ink. With every crank, he told himself that people needed to read about the Fugitive Slave Act before Milton Kent published his paper supporting the act. They needed to read about it today.

  The truth would prevail; he was sure of it, in spite of the government’s opposition. In spite of the millions who thought that slavery was critical for their country’s su
rvival. The truth would come out, and no one could ever accuse him of running from the front lines when a very real battle was being fought. Even if, like Isaac said, the battle was against the dark rulers of the world instead of his fellow man, his fellow man was allowing himself to be used by the devil. As long as men and women volunteered to support evil’s schemes, he would speak out against them.

  The sun was stealing over the horizon when he handed the remaining boy his stack of papers for delivery.

  “Run!” he directed, and the boy flew out of the building like a hawk chasing a rabbit.

  Daniel collapsed in the chair by the window and rubbed his eyes.

  He’d done it! The paper was out. Their readers would learn about the atrocious slave act before anyone else. Then they could pass along the information to their neighbors. All it would take was a slow swelling in their community to overturn this legislation, not just among Quakers but among every denomination of people who called themselves Christian. Even if the law remained, the county of Union could band together to fight this institution. In spite of the law, they could be a safe haven for runaways.

  Outside the tempered glass, orange and red rays crept through the sleepy village. Most of the town would wake soon, many of the residents with a copy of the Liberty Era on their doorsteps, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

  He forced himself to stand. If he fell asleep in this chair, he would awaken with an aching neck and back that would bother him for days. He needed to walk across the street to his boardinghouse, change his clothes, and crawl under the heavy quilt on his straw bed.

  He glanced back out the window. The boys had dispersed with their papers. The street was quiet for now, but in an hour it would be bustling with carriages and carts and horses. Once he fell asleep on his bed, he wouldn’t hear any of it.

  Greta Lawson crossed the street toward his office, on her way to work for the day at his sister’s house. She was one of the hardest working women Daniel knew—and flexible enough to embrace his sister’s many whims.