CHAPTER VI.EDWARD HOWARD.

“I say, Ed, if you get away with me, it will have to be done soon.”

“Yes, Massa Coppoc; da’s ’ginnin’ to spishun you right smart.”

“I know that, Ed, and if you are ready to strike for freedom to-night, we will see what can be done. If not, I must be off.”

“Well, Massa, dis chil’ am ready. Him no lan’ to sell, no truck to ’spose of, no wife an’ chil’n to ’cupy his detention, an’ he ’queaths his ’sitiashun to any one wat wants it.”

“Very well, Ed, as soon as all is quiet, meet me at the shed in your Sunday best; and now be off.”

“Suah, sartin, bof, Massa Coppoc.”

The above conversation took place about twenty miles back from Ohio between a young Buckeye who was ostensibly vending some kind of wares among the F. F. V’s., but really paving the way to that startling episode at Harper’s Ferry, in which he, a few years later, played so conspicuous a part; and a genuine descendant of Ham, after the real Virginiantype, quaint, ungainly, and standing about six feet six, and rejoicing in the sobriquet, Ed. Howard.

Coppoc had been some little time in the neighborhood, and the impression began to prevail that his presence boded no guaranty of the retention of movable property. This his shrewd eye had perceived, and his resolve to rescue Ed. led to the above conversation, the conclusion of a series that had transpired between them.

Eleven o’clock came, and with it ablack cloud, which completely cut off all sight of the twinkling stars from a man who stood pensively listening, beneath an old shed that stood back on the plantation, and from the cloud, “a still small voice saying:” “Is you heah, Massa Coppoc?”

“Here, Ed., and now follow me without a word,” saying which he led the way to a pasture field where two fleet horses were soon bridled and saddled, and the two men rode deliberately away. Once out of the neighborhood their speed was quickened, and long before daybreak the horses were turned loose a short distance out from Wheeling. Entering the city they proceeded directly to the wharf, where a boat was found just leaving for Pittsburgh. On this they took passage, as master and servant, for Wellsville.

Once in the latter place, Ed. was consigned to the shipping department of theRoad, and young Coppoc hastened to his home, near Salem, conscious thatconfusion would likely follow as a result of last night’s ride.

Daylight crept slowly over the Virginian hills, and when it was ascertained that Ed. and the two best horses were gone, there was a commotion indeed. A rally was at once made, and dogs and men put upon the track, and about noon the horses were found near where they had been turned loose, but no trace of the fugitives could be obtained for some little time, owing to the hour in which they took the boat, but at length some one reported having seen two such persons take the night packet up the river. Taking advantage of the first steamer up, Ed’s master hastened to Pittsburgh, where he learned of the debarkation of hisproperty, and returned to Wellsville on the first boat.

In the meantime there had come down from the immediate vicinity of Salem, a Mr. Pennock, a blacksmith, the owner of a small farm. Going to the river town several times in the year for his supplies, Mr. Pennock had fitted a long close box, opening in the rear, to his “running gears” and in this the bars of iron were thrust, frequently of such length as to project several feet.

Now it so happened that the day after Ed. was left in Wellsville, Mr. Pennock went in for a supply of iron. When he had made his purchase and was about to return to his hotel, the dealer, who like Mr.Pennock, was an underground man, said, “See here. Pennock, I’ve asoft barabout six feet and a half long, I’d like to send up to Bonsall.”

“How much does it weigh?”

“About one sixty, I’d judge.”

“That will make me a deal of a load, besides I don’t see how it can be done.”

“You can leave that to me.”

“Where is it; I’d like to see how it looks.”

“No, that will not do. It is in Excelsior Station and the probabilities are there will be vigorous efforts made to recapture it, so you must ‘eyes off.’ If you undertake the carrying I will see to the rest.”

“All right.”

That night there was made a little readjustment of the wagon box, some hay and a blanket were placed on top of the projecting bars and there, extended at full length, was the form of Edward Howard, when in the early morning Mr. Pennock was ready to depart.

Meanwhile his master had procured from a Virginia friend, a couple of good horses and himself as an assistant, and entered Wellsville on the morning of Mr. Pennock’s departure. After a half day’s fruitless search with the aid of an officer, they became satisfied that the object of their regard had been forwarded, so they took the road north. Overtaking the old blacksmith with his iron rattling along, they enquired, “Have you seen any nigger along the road?”

“What kind of a one was he?”

“Why a black one with a woolly head, tall and slim like a d—d yankee bean pole.”

“Well, gentlemen, I haven’t seen no such a one, indeed I have seen none at all.”

“Well, have you heard of any?”

“I’ve not heard the word nigger since I left home, two days ago, until now.”

“Where are you from?”

“Salem, and like enough you’ll find him there, for they say them Bonsalls keeps a power of runaways.”

“Well, we’re going up to see. Good day, sir.”

“Good day, gentleman,” and each party pursued its way.

That night Pennock stayed at the “Old Buckeye House,” New Lisbon, the wagon was run into the barn, and at a proper hour the “soft bar” was taken out and placed in the hay-mow, “to prevent rust,” as the blacksmith facetiously remarked to his friend Boniface. The next day on arriving home, he learned his interlocutors had preceded him some hours, and were registered at one of the taverns as cattle buyers or drovers rather, where young Coppoc had caught a glimpse of them, and informed his friends of their real character.

On the morrow the pseudo dealers called on a neighboring farmer and desired to be introduced among the best stock raisers of the vicinity.

“Thee had better be leaving these parts, gentlemen,”said the honest Quaker, to whom the appeal was made. “If thee knows when thee is well off, for thy errand is understood, and thee will have the Coppocs and the Bonsalls down on thee in an hour, and I could not assure thy lives for a moment when they come.”

There was no parley, but two horses were headed southward, and none too soon, for in a short time half a dozen young men armed to the teeth, rode up and inquired for the strangers. When informed of their departure they started in pursuit. Then began one of the most exciting races ever witnessed in Columbian county. The pursued had smelled mischief in the air, and away they flew, and after them the pursuers, dashing over hill and across valley, occasionally catching glimpses of each other, until the whole distance to the Ohio was passed. Reaching Gardiner’s Ferry, at East Liverpool, the Southerners put their jaded horses aboard the boat and were soon on the sacred soil of Virginia. When Gardiner returned the other party was in waiting, but reluctantly took his advice to remain on the soil of their native state.

All apprehension of immediate danger removed, Ed., who, by the advice of Coppoc, assumed the name “Sam,” remained quietly at Mr. Pennock’s for some time, in fact, made it his headquarters for the winter, working for his board and doing odd jobs,from the proceeds of which he purchased some clothes and a long smooth-bore rifle, of which he was passionately fond, and with which he practiced much, often repeating, “I shall put a hole through the man suah, who comes to claim that ’wa’d,” for the whole region from the river to the lake had been flooded with bills minutely describing him and offering $500 for his apprehension.

When spring fairly opened he made up his mind to seek the Queen’s Dominion as rapidly as possible, and accordingly packed his few effects in a bandana, threw “’Tection,” as he called his smooth-bore, across his shoulder, and proceeded cautiously northward.

Arriving at Warren, he sought the home of a colored family that had been pointed out to him as a safe retreat. Approaching the door, he heard a number of voices, which he recognized by the melody as being of his kind, singing with great gusto:

“Matthew’s saintWithout putty or paint,And Joel’s a prophet, we know it;Whatever they sayDon’t refuse to obey,But shut up your eyes and go it,”

“Matthew’s saint

Without putty or paint,

And Joel’s a prophet, we know it;

Whatever they say

Don’t refuse to obey,

But shut up your eyes and go it,”

words perpetrated by one John Morley on two distinguished local politicians of the Democratic persuasion of the period of ’56, and very popular as part of a campaign song.

Fully assured by the style of the singing, Sam, theonly name he now recognized, made his presence known and was cordially received by the colored brethren present, among them thedistinguishedtonsorial artist, Prof. A. L. C. Day, and Benjamin F. Scott, familiarly known as “Old Ben,” a darkey whose cupidity and avarice knew no bounds. Recognizing in Sam, as he believed, the Edward Howard of the hand-bill, he began planning for the reward.

Ascertaining what was up, Dr. D. B. Woods and Postmaster Webb, two sterling Democrats, got possession of Sam and took him to a by-road about two miles out of town, where they enjoined him to keep away from the more public highways and proceed about twenty miles north where he would find a colored man named Jenkins, in whom he could rely.

Whilst the doctor and his friend were thus humanely engaged, the colored brethren of Warren took Old Ebony out of town and so severely flogged him that his back presented the appearance of a genuine plantation administration. Determined to realize something for his time and pains, the old sinner proceeded to the northern part of the county and palmed himself off as a genuine fugitive, and so adroitly did he play the role as to secure twelve or fifteen dollars before the counterfeit was detected.

As for Sam, he took the advice of his Democratic deliverers, and in due time found himself under the hospitable roof of “Nigger” Jenkins, as he was more commonly called, residing in the township of Mesopotamia, and by him was forwarded to the home of Joseph Tinan, near the centre of Rome.

“Uncle Joe” was a famous agent in his day. Tall and imposing in appearance, and of more than ordinary intelligence, he commanded universal respect, and so pronounced were his opinions on the curse of slavery that his home had long been recognized as “Old Reliable Station.” By him Sam was cordially received, and hisarmcarefully inspected. Then the old gentleman would have Sam make an exhibition of his skill as a marksman. So well did the efforts of his temporary ward please him, that Uncle Joe was constrained to show him the armory of the “Black String Band,” an organization that had then but recently sprung into existence and having for its more immediate object the protection of John Brown, should his arrest be attempted. The distinctive badge of this band was a small black cord, used instead of a button in fastening the shirt collar. Hence the name.

The sight of the glittering barrels made Sam’s eyes fairly dance with delight, and he exclaimed, “Massa Coppoc say thay’s gwine to be wah an’ de cullud pussons will all be free.”

“O no, Sam, there’s going to be no war. These guns are for another purpose.”

Little did Uncle Joe, well as he was posted, know of the ultimate plans of Old Osawatomie. His dusky visitor was even a little in advance of him with regard to what was already fomenting in Dixie.

In the northwest part of Andover, Ohio, resides an old patriarch, Jehaziel Carpenter, familiarly knownas “the Deacon,” now numbering his over ninety summers. For over sixty years he has tenanted on the same farm, and his home has ever been one of the broadest hospitality, and to none more so than to the panting fugitive. Just a little way off stands the rather tall, old-fashioned country house of his former neighbor, Garlic, whose language never betrayed the fact that he had any official church relation. In fact we think his name, significant as it was, had no place on the muster roll of the church militant, and yet he wasgamein many a hard fight for truth and righteousness.

Cleveland and vicinity was flooded with circulars, advertising a man, wife and child, who had been traced to that city, and offering a large reward for their delivery to the reputed owner. Friend and foe were alike on the lookout. Efforts were making by the one to secure them a passage across the lake, whilst the other was as assiduously watching every vessel to prevent their escape.

Thus matters stood when the man, Martin by name, looking out of an upper window, espied his master among the passers by on Water street. This being communicated to those who had them in charge, it was at once determined the family should not be shipped by lake.

That night, when all was quiet and still, a close carriage passed out Pittsburgh street, and before daylightMartin and his wife were in safe quarters near Chagrin Falls. Thence they were taken the next night to the home of Mr. Cook, in Middlefield, and as rapidly transmitted by him to a pious old deacon’s in Gustavus.

Night had settled down over village and farm house; Deacon Jehaziel’s evening prayers had been said and he was quietly dreaming of the time

“When you and I were young, Maggie,”

and Garlic, just returned from Jefferson, had turned his horse into the pasture, when up to the door of each came a vehicle. Garlic at once recognized the horse of the old Baptist Boanerges, Tinan, from Rome, whilst the deacon was aroused by the quieter voice of his Congregational brother from Gustavus. What transpired from this time until the city of Erie was reached is buried in the tombs of Garlic, a Hayward, a Gould and a Drury.

In the township of Harbor Creek, Pa., east of the city of Erie, and a short distance out of Wesleyville, was the farm house of Frank Henry, a man of medium size, black hair, eyes of the same hue and sparkling like diamonds, nervous temperament, quick, wiry and the soul of honor and generosity. For a young man he was one of the best known and most efficient conductor-agents in Western Pennsylvania. About midsummer, 1858, he received the following note:—

Erie, Pa., 51, 7, 5881.

Dear Frank:

The mirage lifts Long Point into view. Oooo. Come up and see the beautiful sight. I can’t promise a view to-morrow.

Truly,

Jehiel Towner.

That evening found Mr. Henry early in the presence of Mr. Towner, inquiring diligently as to the greatnaturalphenomenon which had brought the land of the Canucks so distinctly to view.

“Yes, yes, it became visible last night about twelve o’clock, when Drury’s team came in from Girard bearing three fugitives. They are down in the ‘Retreat Himrod,’ and must be put across the lake in the shortest and safest possible manner, for parties in town are on the lookout for them, as all are liberally advertised. I believe you are just the man to undertake the transportation. Will you do it?”

“Are they to go from the ‘Retreat,’ as usual?”

“Not as usual. So close a watch is kept for them that it is thought best to send them off and have them shipped from some point along the beach.”

“There’s a big risk, Towner.”

“Yes, a chance to pay a thousand dollars and see the inside of the ‘Western’ without charge. But you know you are to have nothing to do with runaway niggers. I will just send you some ‘passengers’ to forward. Shall they be sent?”

“I shrink from no humanitarian work. Let them come.”

A few preliminaries were settled and the parties separated. The next night Hamilton Waters, a nearly blind mulatto, long a resident of Erie, guided by a little boy, drove into Mr. Henry’s yard and unloaded a cargo which the receiver thus describes:

“The old man brought me three of the strangest looking passengers you ever saw. I can, to-day, remember how oddly they looked as they clambered out of the wagon. There was a man they called Sam, a great strapping fellow, something over thirty years old, I should say. He was loose jointed, with a head like a pumpkin and a mouth like a cavern, its vast circumference always stretched in a glorious grin; for no matter how bad Sam might feel, the grin had so grown into his black face that it never vanished. I remember how, a few nights after, when the poor fellow was scared just about out of his wits, that his grin, though a little ghastly, was as broad as ever. Sam was one of the queerest characters I ever met. His long arms seemed like wrists, his long legs all ankles; and when he walked his nether limbs had a flail-like flop that made him look like a runaway windmill. The bases upon which rested this fearfully and wonderfully made superstructure were abundantly ample. Unlike the forlorn hope who

‘One stocking on one foot he had,The other on a shoe,’

‘One stocking on one foot he had,

The other on a shoe,’

he on one foot wore an old shoe—at least a number twelve—and on the other an enormously heavy boot, and his trouser-legs, by a grim fatality, were similarlyunbalanced, for while the one was tucked in the boot-top, its fellow, from knee down, had wholly vanished. Sam wore a weather-beaten and brimless ‘tile’ on his head, and carried an old-fashioned, long-barrelled rifle. He set great store by his ‘ole smooth bo’,’ though he handled it in a gingerly kind of a way that suggested a greater fear of its kicks than confidence in its aim.”

Sam’s companions were an intelligent-looking negro about twenty-five, named Martin, and his wife, a pretty quadroon girl with thin lips and a pleasant voice, for all the world like Eliza in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. She carried a plump little picaninny on her breast, over which a shawl was slightly drawn. She was an uncommonly attractive young woman, and I made up my mind then and there that she shouldn’t be carried back to slavery if I could help it.

As there was close pursuit, station “Sanctum Sanctorum” was again called into requisition, though as it was summer, no draft was made on the church wood-pile. Here they were kept for several days, none knowing of their whereabouts except two intimate friends of Mr. Henry, whose house being under nightly espionage necessitated their assistance.

Through Wesleyville runs a little stream, Fourmile Creek, to the lake, and nearly parallel to it a public highway. From the mouth of this creek it was proposed to ship the fugitives to Long Point, Canada, a distance of some thirty-five or forty miles,but for some days the wind was unfavorable. At length one dark and stormy night Mr. Henry received notice that the wind was favorable and a boat in readiness.

What was to be done? It would not do for him to take anything from his house, that would excite suspicion; the same would be true if he went to the houses of his friends. Bethinking himself of an honest Jacksonian Democrat, a man with a generous heart, residing about half way down to the lake, he decided to take a venture. Proceeding to the old church he formed the little party in single file and marched them through the rain to the door of this man, familiarly known as “General” Kilpatrick, a man of giant proportions, and afterwards sheriff of Erie county.

Rap, rap, rap, went the knuckles of the leader against the door, which soon stood wide ajar, revealing the proprietor with a thousand interrogation points freezing into his face that July night, as he paused for a moment, one hand holding aloft a candle whilst the other shaded his eyes as he peered out upon the wet and shivering crowd gathered about his doorway, the very picture of dumfounded astonishment. The situation was soon grasped; he hustled the party into the house, gave the door a significant slam and in a pious air that would have startled even Peter Cartwright, exclaimed, “Henry, what in hell does this mean?”

“It means, General,” replied Mr. Henry, “theseare a party of fugitives from slavery I am about sending to Canada; they are destitute, as you can see, and closely pursued; their only crime is a desire for freedom; that young woman and mother has been sold from her husband and child to a dealer in the far South for the vilest of purposes, and if recaptured will be consigned to a life of shame.”

Meanwhile the woman’s eyes were pleading eloquently; whilst a dubious grin overspread the entire of Sam’s ebony phiz, and the host looked assumedly fierce and angry as he retorted, “Well, what the d—l do you want of me?”

“Clothing and provisions.”

“You do, do you?” came back in tones even gruffer than before. “See here you darkies, this is a bad job. Canada is full of runaway niggers already. They’re a-freezin’ and a-starvin’ by thousands. Why, I was over there t’other day, and saw six niggers dead by the roadside. More’n forty were strung up in the trees with the crows feedin’ on their black carcasses,” and turning to Sam, “Youbetter go back, d’yehear! They’ll make your black hide into razor strops ’nless than a week. I paid a dollar for one made from a black nigger. They’re sending hundreds of them across the sea every week.”

During this harangue, Sam was shaking in his footgear and his eyes rolled widely on the background of that inexpressible grin. His fingers clutched convulsively his shooting-iron, and he evidently didn’t know which to do, turn it upon hisDemocratic entertainer or keep his “powder dry” for Canuck crows. The woman caught, through this assumed roughness, the inner heart of the man, and though she shuddered at the pictures drawn, and the possibilities of a grave in the lake, yet she preferred that, or even to be food for the vultures of Canada, to return to an ignominious servitude.

Then came a strange medley: Blanket and hood—“there, the huzzy”—a basket of provisions—“d—m me if I’ll ever help a set of runaway niggers, no sir, it’s agin my religion”—off came his own coat and was hurled at the astonished Sam with, “There you black imp, you’ll find ’em on the Pint waitin’ for ye; they’ll catch ye and kill ye and skin yer carcass for a scare-crow and take yer hide for a drum head, and play ‘God save the Queen’ with your bones. Yes, sir, I shall see them long shanks converted into drum-sticks the next time I go over.”

All else being done, he thrust his hands into his pockets and drawing thence a quantity of change bestowed it upon the woman, exclaiming, “There, take that; it will help bury the baby, if you will go. Better go back, you huzzy; better go back.”

Everything ready, the party was shoved out, but as he passed over the threshold, Sam’s tongue was loosened, and with the smile all the time deepening, and the great tears rolling down his sable cheeks, he broke forth:

“Look ’e hyar, Massa, you’s good to we uns, an’ fo’ de Lo’d I tank you. Ef enny No’then gemmenhankah fur my chances in the Souf I’zins in favor ob de same. For de good Lo’d, I tank you, I dosuah.”

“Hist, you black rascal,” said the man in the doorway, “And see here, Henry, remember you never were at my house with a lot of damned niggers in the night. Do you understand?”

“All right, sir. No man will ever charge you with abolitionism. If he does, call on me. I can swear you denounce it in most unmeasured terms.”

The rain had now ceased; the stars were out and the party trudged rapidly down to the lake, caring little for the mud and wet. The boat was found in waiting, and Martin and his wife had just waded out to it when Henry and Sam, standing on the shore, had their attention attracted by a noise, as the crushing of a fence-board, and looking to the westward they saw a man sliding down the bank into the shadow. Old “’tection” was immediately brought to aim, so exact that had Henry not struck the barrel upward just as the trigger was pulled, sending the ball whistling in the air, there could not have failed a subject for a “first-class funeral.” The sneak took to his heels, Sam took to the boat, and Henry stood long upon the shore peering into the darkness, catching the rich, mellow tones of Mrs. Martin’s voice as she warbled forth in real negro minstrelsy, interrupted by an occasional “’lujah” from Sam as the boat receded,

“There is a railrod undergroun’On which de negroes lope,An’ when dey gets dare ticketDare hearts is full ob hope;De engine nebber whistlesAn’ de cars dey make no noise,But dey carry off de darkies,Dare wives, an’ girls, an’ boys.”

“There is a railrod undergroun’

On which de negroes lope,

An’ when dey gets dare ticket

Dare hearts is full ob hope;

De engine nebber whistles

An’ de cars dey make no noise,

But dey carry off de darkies,

Dare wives, an’ girls, an’ boys.”

Returning homeward, Mr. Henry traced the human sleuth-hound by his footsteps in the mud, the nibbling of his horses where they had been left, and the marks of his carriage wheels at Wesleyville where they turned toward Erie, and were lost in the new made tracks of the early morning marketers.

Time passed; the years of the war came and went; peace smiled upon the country; John Brown and young Coppoc slept beneath sodded mounds, whilst the soul of the former went “marching on,” and the genial, generous Henry was keeping the lighthouse on the eastern extremity of Presque Isle, at the entrance of Erie harbor or bay. Going over to the city one day he received a letter bearing the Dominion post-mark. It was without date, and with some difficulty he deciphered the following:

Dere Ser, Mistur Henri:

I’ze glad ter bee abul to rite ye. I’ze dun wel sens dat nite. I’ze got a wife an’ chilin’. De lor sen me into de ile kentry bress him and Sam make sum muni. I sen to yer adraf for 100 dollars gib fift to de men in de bote an’ kepe 50 fo’ buks fo’ you one selfe tel de kros man Sam feah no kro ’oz no razr strap, tank de lor.

Your lubbin fren Sam,

wo wuzEdwud Howud.

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