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BlackWriterOnFreedom

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“quick round of blood,” I lived more in that one day than in a year of

my slave life. It was a time of joyous excitement which words can but

tamely describe. In a letter written to a friend soon after reaching

New York, I said: “I felt as one might feel upon escape from a den of

hungry lions.” Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be

depicted; but gladness and joy, like the rainbow, defy the skill of pen

or pencil. During ten or fifteen years I had been, as it were, dragging

a heavy chain which no strength of mine could break; I was not only a

slave, but a slave for life. I might become a husband, a father, an

aged man, but through all, from birth to death, from the cradle to the

grave, I had felt myself doomed. All efforts I had previously made to

secure my freedom had not only failed, but had seemed only to rivet my

fetters the more firmly, and to render my escape more difficult.

Baffled, entangled, and discouraged, I had at times asked myself the

question, May not my condition after all be God’s work, and ordered for

a wise purpose, and if so, Is not submission my duty? A contest had in

fact been going on in my mind for a long time, between the clear

consciousness of right and the plausible make-shifts of theology and

superstition. The one held me an abject slave—a prisoner for life,

punished for some transgression in which I had no lot nor part; and the

other counseled me to manly endeavor to secure my freedom. This contest

was now ended; my chains were broken, and the victory brought me

unspeakable joy.

But my gladness was short-lived, for I was not yet out of the reach and

power of the slave-holders. I soon found that New York was not quite so

free or so safe a refuge as I had supposed, and a sense of loneliness

and insecurity again oppressed me most sadly. I chanced to meet on the

street, a few hours after my landing, a fugitive slave whom I had once

known well in slavery. The information received from him alarmed me.

The fugitive in question was known in Baltimore as “Allender’s Jake,”

but in New York he wore the more respectable name of “William Dixon.”

Jake, in law, was the property of Doctor Allender, and Tolly Allender,

the son of the doctor, had once made an effort to recapture _Mr.

Dixon_, but had failed for want of evidence to support his claim. Jake

told me the circumstances of this attempt, and how narrowly he escaped

being sent back to slavery and torture. He told me that New York was

then full of Southerners returning from the Northern watering-places;

that the colored people of New York were not to be trusted; that there

were hired men of my own color who would betray me for a few dollars;

that there were hired men ever on the lookout for fugitives; that I

must trust no man with my secret; that I must not think of going either

upon the wharves or into any colored boarding-house, for all such

places were closely watched; that he was himself unable to help me;

and, in fact, he seemed while speaking to me to fear lest I myself

might be a spy and a betrayer. Under this apprehension, as I suppose,

he showed signs of wishing to be rid of me, and with whitewash brush in

hand, in search of work, he soon disappeared.

This picture, given by poor “Jake,” of New York, was a damper to my

enthusiasm. My little store of money would soon be exhausted, and since

it would be unsafe for me to go on the wharves for work, and I had no

introductions elsewhere, the prospect for me was far from cheerful. I

saw the wisdom of keeping away from the ship-yards, for, if pursued, as

I felt certain I should be, Mr. Auld, my “master,” would naturally seek

me there among the calkers. Every door seemed closed against me. I was

in the midst of an ocean of my fellow-men, and yet a perfect stranger

to every one. I was without home, without acquaintance, without money,

without credit, without work, and without any definite knowledge as to

what course to take, or where to look for succor. In such an extremity,

a man had something besides his new-born freedom to think of. While

wandering about the streets of New York, and lodging at least one night

among the barrels on one of the wharves, I was indeed free—from

slavery, but free from food and shelter as well. I kept my secret to

myself as long as I could, but I was compelled at last to seek some one

who would befriend me without taking advantage of my destitution to

betray me. Such a person I found in a sailor named Stuart, a

warm-hearted and generous fellow, who, from his humble home on Centre

street, saw me standing on the opposite sidewalk, near the Tombs

prison. As he approached me, I ventured a remark to him which at once

enlisted his interest in me. He took me to his home to spend the night,

and in the morning went with me to Mr. David Ruggles, the secretary of

the New York Vigilance Committee, a co-worker with Isaac T. Hopper,

Lewis and Arthur Tappan, Theodore S. Wright, Samuel Cornish, Thomas

Downing, Philip A. Bell, and other true men of their time. All these

(save Mr. Bell, who still lives, and is editor and publisher of a paper

called the “Elevator,” in San Francisco) have finished their work on

earth. Once in the hands of these brave and wise men, I felt

comparatively safe. With Mr. Ruggles, on the corner of Lispenard and

Church streets, I was hidden several days, during which time my

intended wife came on from Baltimore at my call, to share the burdens

of life with me. She was a free woman, and came at once on getting the

good news of my safety. We were married by Rev. J. W. C. Pennington,

then a well-known and respected Presbyterian minister. I had no money

with which to pay the marriage fee, but he seemed well pleased with our

thanks.

Mr. Ruggles was the first officer on the “Underground Railroad” whom I

met after coming North, and was, indeed, the only one with whom I had

anything to do till I became such an officer myself. Learning that my

trade was that of a calker, he promptly decided that the best place for

me was in New Bedford, Mass. He told me that many ships for whaling

voyages were fitted out there, and that I might there find work at my

trade and make a good living. So, on the day of the marriage ceremony,

we took our little luggage to the steamer _John W. Richmond_, which, at

that time, was one of the line running between New York and Newport, R.

I. Forty-three years ago colored travelers were not permitted in the

cabin, nor allowed abaft the paddle-wheels of a steam vessel. They were

compelled, whatever the weather might be,—whether cold or hot, wet or

dry,—to spend the night on deck. Unjust as this regulation was, it did