Betsy Ferris married Jacob Hern. Their daughter Elsa married Elijah Steddings, indentured servant who eventually won his freedom. Their son David married Samantha Jenkins. To them in 1801 was born a son Aaron, now a third generation free Negro of Mount Holly, New Jersey. Aaron Steddings married Zaphorah Enderts, and to them were born two daughters, Mary and Deanna, and a son Moses, and now Zaphorah was three months on her way with a fourth child.
In truth, the life of Aaron Steddings was therefore fruit grown from the Quaker tree of equality between man and woman.
“What wouldst thou think, Aaron,” said Borton after the two had chatted for several minutes concerning the construction of the new gate, “after I return from Philadelphia, of making a trip to Virginia for me?”
“Virginia—that is a long way, Mr. Borton. That is south of Delaware, is it not?”
“That’s right. It would be a journey of perhaps two hundred miles.”
“I would dislike leaving Zaphorah and the young ones for that long.”
“What if I was to say thee could take them along?”
“That would be an even longer trip to take with a wife and with children!” grinned Steddings.
Borton laughed. “Thee has indeed spoken truly!” he said. “But it would be a great favor to me, Aaron,” he added seriously. “My sister s husband has recently died and she is unable to get the work of the farm done. She has but two hired men, both free Negroes like thee. But she needs a man to instruct them. The work is falling badly behind. Pemberton and I need to be here for the same reason, for our harvest. We have told her about thee and that we trust thee entirely. That is of course if thy wife’s condition will permit it. I understand she is with child.”
“Yes, sir. And she is feeling well, but… there are still slaves in Virginia, aren’t there?” asked Steddings.
“Slavery still exists, if that is what thee means. Our sister, of course, has no slaves.”
“It would cause me some uneasiness to travel where there are slaves. White folks down there, they are not like white folks here.”
“I understand. But Virginia is one of the more tolerant Southern states. It probably has more free Negroes than any other. I am certain thee will encounter no difficulty. But as a precaution, I will prepare documents that will attest to thy freedom if thee is questioned. They will say that thee works for me.”
Steddings nodded thoughtfully. Borton went on to further outline his request.
“How will we find our way all that distance?”
“I will give thee a map of the Great Road, as well as how to find our friends along the way. My sister will pay thee well,” he said. “Thee will have a comfortable place to stay for thy family, and all thy food and whatever thou needs will be provided. Thy wife should be as comfortable as she is here.”
“What about the house here in Mount Holly, Mr. Borton?” asked Steddings. “We have our bills to pay.”
“I will see to thy rent with Mr. Burr while thee is away,” replied Borton. “Thee will owe me nothing in return. It will be a way of expressing my gratitude for this favor. I know thee has wanted to set enough aside to purchase that five acres from Brother Buffington. Thee might earn enough from this harvest for a first payment. My sister does not want for money. She will be most grateful for thy help.”
Steddings took in the information with obvious interest. This did change things.
“I do not mean to twist thy arm, Aaron. The decision is thy own to make. Thee and Zaphorah pray the matter over and see what the Lord would have thee do.”
“I thank thee, Mr. Borton,” said Steddings. “Thee has always been very kind to us. We will be quiet before the Lord and see what the Light has to say.”
The white man turned and walked back in the direction of the plantation house, while the blacksmith returned to his forge and horseshoe.
Three weeks after his conversation with his employer, Aaron Steddings led a large covered road-carriage pulled by two horses from the Borton farm through gently rolling farmland of eastern Virginia. Steddings and his family had been on the road for six days, staying at homes of Quaker families on their route, to whom letters of introduction had been sent ahead by John and Martha Borton.
They had crossed the mighty Delaware at Philadelphia, then had followed the Great Wagon Road south through Baltimore. They had marveled at the cities, the likes of which they had never seen, and were grateful for the homes of Friends as a refuge from the teeming noise and bustle and activity. Their journey had now brought them halfway between Washington and Richmond.
As they progressed south through Maryland, and now Virginia, they passed many fields full of Negro laborers, some readying for and some already in full harvest of their crops of wheat, cotton, and tobacco, occasionally with melancholy songs of bondage drifting toward them. They were seeing the widespread reality of slavery for the first time with their own eyes. Aaron and Zaphorah became subdued as they went. The sight was sobering. These were their own people, their own race with whom they shared a common African heritage. And they could not help feeling a pang as now and then a weary laborer from the fields glanced up and cast upon them a longing, questioning, forlorn gaze as they went slowly by.
They also encountered more and more unfriendly stares from those they passed on the road. The sight of Negroes traveling alone seemed offensive in the eyes of whites. But the fact that they were moving south rather than north kept anyone from asking too many questions.
At the Quaker homes where the Bortons had arranged for them to stay, however, they were warmly received as if they were part of the family, as indeed they were. On account of the letters sent out, they were welcomed as emissaries from the two legendary Quaker families they represented, reminding their hosts nostalgically of a golden age in Quaker history when ministers such as John Woolman traveled up and down the country visiting in homes and, one person at a time, changed the attitude of many in the country toward slavery. In the circles in which they were traveling, the name Woolman was of a stature equal to, if not greater than, those of Franklin, Washington, Adams, Madison, and Jefferson. Even after his untimely passing from smallpox, the tailor of Mount Holly spoke as an invisible conscience to the fledgling nation.*
Thus the arrival of Aaron and Zaphorah Steddings and their three children each night at a new Quaker home or farmhouse was imbued with greater significance than it might have been had the letter of introduction not come from scions of the Borton and Woolman lines. And the fact that they were Negro Quakers, a uniqueness of its own, added to the charm of their speech and the fascination of the visit. Zaphorah was well spoken, and their children respectful and delightful. The family could not help enchanting most of their hosts.
Quakerism had changed over the years. Gradually, as they had prospered and integrated into the society of the English colonies and later of the growing nation, Quakers became in general patriotic and lawful citizens. As much of colonial government, especially the laws of Pennsylvania and New Jersey, had been founded on the basis of Quaker principles, the need for civil disobedience on the part of religious individuals had not been widely felt as it had been earlier in England.
But as the problem of slavery intensified in the decades of the nineteenth century, a split began to be felt within the Society of Friends, brought into sharp focus in 1793 by the Fugitive Slave Law.”* Though Quakers were opposed to slavery as an institution, this law presented them with a difficult quandary—whether or not to obey the law of the land and return runaways to their owners, or to government officials and bounty hunters, or whether, like their English forebears, to defy the nation’s laws on a principle of conscience. It was a moment in their history when Quakers had to put their beliefs to the test.
Many Quakers were prosperous businessmen, farmers, and plantation owners. They understood the principle of ownership. Some felt that not to return a slave to its owner was equal to robbery, preventing a man regaining what he owned. Those on the opposite side of the argument insisted t
hat slave owners had no right to what was in truth stolen property in the first place. The slave had been stolen from his homeland. His freedom had been stolen from him… everything he possessed as a human being—family, dignity, ancestry—had been stolen from him. What right, then, did a plantation owner have to claim that he “owned” such a man from whom all human dignity had been stripped?
So the arguments went. Some Quakers insisted that they had an obligation to obey the government in support of the Fugitive Slave Law. Many others believed that they must help runaways to get north where they would have a better chance of being free. By the middle of the nineteenth century, most Quakers agreed that slavery was wrong. But would they or would they not place that conviction against slavery on the line when it came to helping runaways?
The dispute was heated. Men and women were read out of Meetings for helping runaways. Some entire Meetings were read out of their larger regional Meetings for their policy of aiding runaways.
As more and more slaves escaped and fled north, more and more Quakers did choose to help them. The term “Underground Railroad” first came into widespread use in connection with Indiana Quaker Levi Coffin, later called the President of the Underground Railroad, who helped more than three thousand runaways escape.
By the 1830s and 1840s it had become extremely dangerous to participate in the illegal activity of helping fugitive slaves, with hostile neighbors or accidental visitors reporting suspicious activity. Yet throughout the states, more and more Quakers ran the risk of detection, even imprisonment. The homes and farms and plantations of such brave men and women secretly became known as safe havens for runaways.
Quietly the word about such places of refuge spread.
The Steddings arrived at the Virginia home of William and Hannah White, a day’s ride south of Richmond. The sun was just setting. After unhitching the team and seeing to the horses, they were shown to the water pump to wash, and then straight into the house for supper.
“So, thee is from Mount Holly,” said Mrs. White as she set down a steaming platter of meat on the table in front of their guests.
“Yes, Mrs. White,” replied Aaron.
“And thee works for John Borton?”
“Yes, ma’am. He is a good and fair man.”
“He speaks well of thee also, brother Steddings,” said William White from the head of the table as his wife continued to set plates and platters of vegetables before them. At last she sat down beside her husband.
They all bowed their heads. “We thank thee, God,” prayed White, “for thy bounty which we are about to receive, and we pray thy blessing upon our lives for thy service. Amen.
“So tell me, friend Steddings,” said White as they proceeded to serve onto their plates the bounty they had received, “has thee read the Journal?”
“To be honest with thee, Mr. White, I do not read very well. I have not been to school. But most folks in the Meeting, they are proud of old Mr. Woolman, all right.”
“Aaron’s great-great-grandmother’s in Mister Woolman’s book,” said Zaphorah proudly.
“Is that a fact!” said White with interest.
“She was one of the slaves he wouldn’t write a will about that was later set free.”
“I am familiar with the account,” said White. “That is interesting indeed! You are almost a celebrity then, Mr. Steddings!”
“Hardly that!” laughed Aaron. “I am just a man who is trying to live by the Book and keep my family happy.”
“Is Mr. Woolman’s shop still in Mount Holly?” asked Hannah White.
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” replied Aaron. “I think one of his people owns it now, though she is not called Woolman.”
“It must be wonderful living so close to where events in the Journal actually took place.”
“I reckon so, Mrs. White. And I think most folks in the Mount Holly Meeting, like I say, are proud of it because there are still a heap of Woolmans around that area. Woolman and Borton and Haines and Burr and the rest of the names from those first days—they are all still around Burlington and proud of their heritage. But there are lots of folks that are not Friends too, and they don’t know or care much about what went on a hundred years ago. They are busy with their own lives, I reckon. Folks forget quickly.”
“Does thee read, Zaphorah?” asked Mrs. White, turning to Aaron’s wife.
“A little, Mrs. White,” she replied. “But not well. But my girls, they are learning to read very well, is thee not, Mary?”
“Yes, Mama,” replied the seven-year-old.
“I hope thee will not mind sharing the guesthouse with another family,” said Mrs. White. “We have—”
She paused, suddenly reluctant to finish what had been on the tip of her tongue. She glanced toward her husband.
“We had unexpected guests arrive yesterday,” he said.
“We do not mind, do we, Zaphorah?” said Aaron. “We are just grateful for a roof over our heads. If thee hasn’t room, we can sleep almost—”
“It is not that at all, brother Steddings,” interrupted their host. “Thee and thy family are most welcome, especially at the request of John Borton himself. Tell me… what does thee know about the railroad?”
“There is a train that goes to Philadelphia,” replied Aaron, “but I have never been on it.”
“I meant a different kind of…,” began White. “Well, never mind. I do not suppose it matters. It is just that the only extra beds we have are out in the guesthouse, and there is another family spending a few nights with us too.”
“We are happy and grateful for wherever thee has to put us, Mr. White. We are just simple folk and not overly particular.”
As supper concluded, Mrs. White could not help noticing that the younger Steddings girl had not eaten much from her plate.
“Is thy daughter not hungry?” she asked.
“Deanna has not felt herself today,” replied Zaphorah.
“Is thee ill, child?” asked Mrs. White with a smile.
The six-year-old girl shrugged and glanced down.
“Perhaps, William,” said Mrs. White, rising from the table, “we should show them their beds.”
William White led Aaron Steddings outside, followed by his family, across the yard, and into a smaller detached guesthouse that had at one time, many years before, been used as the small farm’s slave quarters. The main house was unusually small and the guesthouse, though mostly one large room, was nearly the same size. As they entered, by the light of two lanterns burning inside, they saw three adults—two men and a woman—and three or four children, all black, seated on wooden chairs and lying on bunks across the room. An empty food tray and a pitcher of water and cups sat on a small wooden table.
“I am afraid it will be a little crowded,” said White. “I am sorry, but there should be enough bunks for everyone.”
He left them and the Steddings family sat down together on two of the empty beds. One of the women came toward them.
“I’s Elvira,” she said. “Y’all jes’ git here?”
Zaphorah looked up and smiled. “Yes,” she said. “We are the Steddings. This is my husband Aaron, and I am Zaphorah.”
“Pleased ter make yo’ ’quaintence,” said the woman. “Where’s y’all boun’?”
“Where is it, Aaron?” said Zaphorah, glancing toward Aaron.
“Down in southern Virginia, a place called Stony Creek.”
“You’s trablin’ souf!” the woman exclaimed.
Aaron nodded.
“Why you wants ter do sumfin’ like dat?”
“I have work there.”
One of the other men who had been listening, now sauntered over to join the conversation.
“You’s gots ter git norf, man,” he said. “Dat’s where all us be tryin’ ter git—norf. Dat’s where freedom be. You go souf, you’s git caught! What kind er work you talkin’ ’bout anyway?”
“Just work, a man’s honest work.”
“You talkin’ ’bout paid w
ork?”
“What other kind is there?”
“Dere’s nigger work, dat’s what kin’! Dere’s paid work an’ dere’s nigger work. An’ paid work—dat’s da talk er a free man.”
“We are free,” said Aaron.
“Laws almighty—you’s free niggers!” exclaimed the woman called Elvira. “What’s you doin’ dis far in da Souf?”
“I am going down to help with the harvest, to help a lady—she is the sister of a man I work for.”
“An what’s you gwine do den, when you’s done?” asked the man.
“Go back home. We are from up Philadelphia way. But what is thee doing here?”
“We’s runaways. We’s tryin’ ter git norf ter freedom.”
“Runaways!” exclaimed Zaphorah. “Are Mr. and Mrs. White part of it… they are helping thee?”
“Dat dey is. Dat’s why we’s here. Dese kin’ er religious folks, dey gib us a place ter stay an’ den sen’ us on ter da nex’ station, on what dey call the Underground Railroad.”
Just then Hannah White walked in. She walked over and picked up the tray of supper things.
“Is there anything else you need?” she asked.
“We’s jes’ fine, Missus,” said Elvira.
Mrs. White smiled and walked toward the door, then paused. “Zaphorah,” she said, “might I speak with thee?”
Zaphorah rose and followed the farmer’s wife outside.
“With thy young one ill,” said Mrs. White, “perhaps thee would be more comfortable in the house. We have but a small extra room with one bed. Why dost not thy daughter and thee come and sleep inside.”
“That is kind of thee, Mrs. White. I shall go ask what Aaron thinks.”
An hour later, Hannah White softly entered the room where she had put Zaphorah and Deanna Steddings.
“How is she?” she asked.
“She has just fallen asleep,” replied Zaphorah. “I have sung her all the lullabies I could remember.”
American Dreams Trilogy Page 112