Mr. Clay' s Overseer outwitted. See p„ge f

THE KIDNAPPED

THE EANSOMED.

BEING THE PERSOKAL RECOLLECTIONS OF

"VTTVTA »

PETER STILL AND HIS WIFE "VINA,

AFTER FORTY YEARS OF SLAVERY.

BY
RS. KATE E. R. PICKARD.

Iffiflj an UnirafrtriioK,
BY REV. SAMUEL J. MAY;
§^k& mt ^jjuxitbte,
BY WILLIAM H. FURNESS, D.D.
THIRD EDITION.
SYRACUSE:
WILLIAM T . HAMILTON.
NEW YORK AND AUBURN :
MILLER, ORTON AND MULLIGAN.
1856.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year One Thousand Eight Hundred
and Fifty-six, by
WILLIAM T. HAMILTON,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Northern District of New York.

CblTcBM

E. O. JENKINS,
Iritrlsr attb JSttrjeoirtfijer,
No. 26 Fkankfoet Street.

&0 i\t ^£Trt0rg
OF
LEVIN STILL,
AND OF
ALL THE U'NRANSOMED,
WHO LIKE HIM HAVE FALLEN EVEN WHILE PANTING TO BE FEEE,
A.N'D
WHO NOW LIE IN NAMELESS UNSOUGHT GRAVES,
THE VICTIMS OF AMERICAN SLAVERY,
Kjfis tyolvimt IS DEDICATED.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

THE KID NAP PEE.

First Recollections— The Kidnapper— The Journey to Kentucky— Levin and Peter
Sold to John Fisher, of Lexington ... 35

CHAPTER II.
EARLY -EXPERIENCE IN SLAVERY.
Characteristics of the Master and Mistress— Treatment of the Young Slaves—
Peter's Visits at Ashland— Friendship of the Sons of Henry Clay— A bright
Hope— The Disappointment— Peter Sent to the Brickyard— Standing in the
Wheelbarrow - - SI

CHAPTER IH.

MASTER N ATTIE.

Peter and Levin again Sold— Characteristics of Master'Nattie Gist— His Discip
line—The Sunday-School - -C87

¦ CHAPTER IY.
THE TOBACCO FACTORY.
Mr. George Norton — Mr. Kisich — Longings for Freedom- Spencer Williams-
Peter's Combat with Mr. Norton - [Tit]

VLU CONTENTS.

CHAPTER V.
T HE SEPARATION .
Excitement at Master Nattie's— Preparations for Removal— Master Nattie's
Good Bye— Levin's Departure— Peter enters the Service of Mr. John D.
Young— Evenings at Mr. Clay's— Aaron, the Coachman - 6C

CHAPTER VI.

MASTER NATTIE'S DEATH.

Peter Is sent to the Plantation— Master Andrew returns from Alabama— Master
Nattie's Illness— His Death— The Will— Aunt Mary's Contumacy 05

CHAPTER VE.
THE JOURNEY TO ALABAMA.
Peter leaves Lexington— Scenes by the Way— Holidays at Hopkinsville— Arrival
at Bainbridge— The Brothers re-united - - 70

CHAPTER VLH.
FIRST FOUR YEARS IN THE SOUTH.
New Scenes and new Employments— The Post Office— Sunday Employment of the
Slaves— Master Levi Buys a Plantation— He Marries— Peter a House-Ser
vant—Kindness of his young Mistress— The Visit to Nashville— Peter's Re
flections and Resolutions at Twenty-one — Master Levi removes to the Plan
tation—The " Great House" - - 77

CHAPTER IX.
LEVIN'S MARRIAGE.
The Master's Opposition— Old Jimmy Hogun's Plantation— Levin and Fanny
are married— Displeasure of the Master and Mistress— Consequent Persecu-
cutions • " - - - 86

CONTENTS. xi
CHAPTER X.
VINA'S EARLY HISTORY.
Ihe Foxall Family— Invitation to Alabama— Aunt Sally— Silas separated from
his Family— Mr. Foxall's Removal to Alabama— The Failure— Vina is sold—
She leaves Courtland— A sad Ride 89
CHAPTER XI.
VINA'S FIRST YEAR AT MoKIERNAN's.
Vina's Introduction to the Kitchen— First Interview with her new Master and
Mistress— House Service— Sad Hours— Vina's first Whipping— She goes to
the Field— Visit of Mr. Stout— Rosetta goes to Nashville— Vina visits her
Mother - - 97
CHAPTER XII.
THE MARRIAGE.
Peter and Vina become acquainted— Their growing Attachment— Peter hesitates
to Marry— He declines going to Lexington— The Departure of his Master
and Mistress— Peter and Vina are married— Vina's Clothing— Her second
Visit to her Mother - - 108
CHAPTER XHL
THE NEW CABIN.
The Return from Lexington—Master Levi proposes in vain to buy Vina— Mr.
McKiernan removes to Bainbridge— Peter builds his Cabin— The Furni
ture — He learns Shoemaking — The Elour-Barrel • 116
CHAPTER XIV.
THE YOUNG MOTHER.
Advent of Little Peter— Rest of the Slave— Mother at night— Her Sundays—
The Patch— Brutality of Simms, the Overseer— Vina's Illness 121

CHAPTER XV.

DEATH OF A KIND MASTER.

Master Levi again visits Lexington— Preparations for the Return— A Death
Scene— The Widowed Mistress comes Home— Grief of the Slaves— Arrange-
. ments of tt e Estate— The Mistress nobly protects her servants 129

Xli CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XVI.
levin's death.
Levin's Health Fails— His religious Feeling— The Death bed— The Burial— Peter's
Hope crushed
CHAPTER XVH.
THE JAUNT TO FLORIDA.
Aunt Sally's Troubles— Threatened Separation of Families— Mr. Peoples removes
his workinf Hands to Florida— Their Return— Aunt Sally's Visit to her
Daughter— Aspect of Vina's Cabin - 118
CHAPTER XVIII.
A SLAVE-MOTHER'S GOOD BYE.
Gathering in the Crops — Grief in the Quarter— Preparations for Removal to the
Coast — Aunt Sally parts with Quail — The Flat-boats stop at Bambrid ge —
Vina is summoned by Master Andrew to see her Mother— Night Scene on
the River Bank— The final Separation— Journey down the River— The Sugar
Farm— Mr. Peoples returns to Mississippi— Aunt Sally's Death ' 143

CHAPTER XIX.
THE MISTRESS' SECOND MARRIAGE.
Mrs. Gist married to Mr. J. Hogun— Division of the Slaves— Mrs. Hogun goes to
her new Home— A Peep at Mr- Hogun's Plantation— Peter as Head Man-
Gist Plantation Sold . 161
CHAPTER XX.
THE PLANTATION " BROKEN UP."
Peter hired to Mr. Threat— An Instance of Female Chivalry— The Political Ex
citement of 1840— Its Effects upon the Slaves— Peter is hired to Mr. Kier-
nan 157
CHAPTER XXI.
BABY-LIFE IN THE CABINS
Vina's care of her Children— Mortality among the Infants— Burning of Ann's
Child— Consequences of being "Pushed in the Morning" - 163

CONTENTS. Xlil
CHAPTER XXII.
FACTS.
Character of Mrs. and Mr. McKiernan— Vina's Contest with her Master— The
Lost Shirt— Maria's Confinement in the Smoke-House— Released by Master
Charles - 167
CHAPTER XXIII.
PETER'S YEAR AT McKIERNAN's.
General Aspect of McKiernan's Plantation— Sketch of Vina's Family in 1841—
Vina's Industry and Economy— Punishment of Ann Eliza— Religious Ex
citement - - - U75
CHAPTER XXIV.
BURTON'S REIGN.
Personal Appearance of McKiernan's Slaves— Burton's opening Speech— Rebel
lion of Lewis— Ilia Punishment — He flees to the Woods, where he is Joined
by two Companions— Young Peter's Toothache— Hunting the Runaways
with Dogs— Frank and Old Man John brought in— Frank's Punishment — Re
turn of Lewis— The Master hands him over to Burton— Peculiar Luxury of
an Overseer— Scene in Lewis' Cabin— The Runaway's Irons— Burton shoots
Abram— Ruined Crops — McKiernan becomes Dissatisfied — Burton De
posed - 182
CHAPTER XXV.
FIRST FOUR YEARS IN TUSCUMBIA.
A Northern man as Master— Peter physically comfortable— Visits to the Cabin —
Marriage of Miss Sarah Gist— Division of the Slaves among the Heirs of
the Estate— Peter hired to Rev. Mr. Stedman— Varied Duties— The Pastor's
Family— Peter hired to Mr. John Pollock— Goes to Nashville to the Whig
Convention of 1844— Camping Out— Scenes in the City— Fruitless Efforts to
Escape from Slavery— Peter hired to Mr. Brady— A new Drop of Bitterness
in the Slave-Cup - - - 199
CHAPTER XXVI.
PETER HI£ES HIS TIME.
Peter hired to Mr. Allan Pollock— Private Business Arrangements— Success In
earning Money— Consequent Hopes of Freedom— Peter hired to Mr. Joseph
Friedman— Increasing Confidence in the Integrity of the Jew Brothers—
Employment at the Seminary— Hired for another Year by Mr. Friedman 209

Xiv CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XXVH.
PETEE BUYS HIMSELF.
Peter Communicates his Wish for Freedom to the Jew— Mr. Friedman proposes
to purchase him— Peter strives to Persuade his Young Master to sell him
to the Jew— Circumstances Change— The sale Effected— Scene in the Coun
ting-Room—Sympathy of the Tuscumbians— Generosity of Mr. Friedman-
Death of Peter's youngest Son— Peter makes his last payment, and re
ceives a BUI of Sale of Himself— Cautious Concealment of the Fact that He
was Free— Preparations for going North— Tuscumbians excited— Farewell
Visit to the Cabin at Bainbridge - - 219
CHAPTER XXVLH.
JOURNEY TO PHILADELPHIA.
Peter leaves Tuscumbia— Emotions on touching the Free Soil of Ohio — Communi
cates to his late Master his early History — Leaves for Philadelphia— At
tempts of Slave-Catchers to entrap Him— Journey over the Mountains-
Arrival at Philadelphia - 237
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE KIDNAPPED BOY RESTORED TO HIS MOTHER.
Peter's Search for his Kindred— The Anti-Slavery Office— A Brother Found-
Doubts and Fears— Recognized by a Sister— An anxious Night--Sail up the
Delaware— Sees Levin's Likeness in a Brother— Meets his Mother - 246
CHAPTER XXX.
PETER'S FAREWELL VISIT TO ALABAMA.
Peter goes to Cincinnati— Receives Free Papers— Returns to Tuscumbia— Reports
of the Abolitionists— Visit to Bainbridge— Peter resumes his Labors— Pre
parations for a final Departure from Slave-Land— Parting with his Family
—Difficulties at Paducah— Visit to a Young Master in Louisville-Journeys
safely to Philadelphia -  262
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE ESCAPE.
Peter consults with his Friends concerning the Ransom of his Family-Seth
Conoklin Volunteers to Rescue them-Sketch of Concklin's Character-His
Journey to South Florone«-4nt.rvi«w with Vina-M^ta Young Peter and

CONTENTS. XV
Levin— Returns to Louisville to complete his Arrangements— Vina and her
Family obtain Passes— They meet Concklin at the Skiff— Rowing down the
River— They Land at New Harmony, Indiana— Incidents of Travel in a
Free State - 279
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE CAPTURE.
The Cottage Besieged— Slave-Catching made Easy— The Jail— Concklin's rash
Fidelity— The Telegraph— Concklin Imprisoned— Arrival of McKiernan
at the Jail— Return to Slave-Land— Concklin missed from the Boat— The
Mistress of the Hotel at Paducah, proposes to buy the Fugitives 296
CHAPTER XXXIH.
PETER PLANS TO REDEEM HIS FAMILY.
Evil Tidings— Reminiscences of Slavery— Peter Resolves upon Purchasing his
Family— Visits Cincinnati — Kindness of Mrs. Chase— Peter returns to
New Jersey— Goes into Service— Letter from Mr. McKiernan— EffortB to
find an Old Acquaintance— Mr. Thornton's Letter— Peter Resolves on Start
ing out to Raise Money - - 307
CHAPTER XXXIV.
" HOW DID HE GET THE MONEY ?''
Peter starts on his Travels— Testimonials from his Employers in Burlington-
He visits his Brother in Brooklyn — Goes, to Syracuse— Succeeds in finding
an Old Friend, who testifies to his good Character while a Slave— Goes
thence to Auburn, Waterloo, and Rochester, N. Y.— To Boston and various
Towns in that vicinity— Visits all the principal Towns in Maine and New
Hampshire— Returns to Burlington, and visits Philadelphia— Again to Sy
racuse, Peterboro', Boston, Worcester, Fall River, Providence, New York
City— Returns to Burlington— Vists Albany, N. Y., Pittsfield, Mass., New
Haven, Ot., Hartford, Middletown, New London, Northampton, Mass., Sy
racuse, Buffalo, Toronto, 0. W., Camillus, N. Y.— Returns to Burlington-
Money placed in the the Hands of Mr. Hallowell, of Philadelphia— Agent
sent to Alabama to purchase the Family 313
CHAPTER XXXV.
EXPERIENCE OF THE RETURNED FUGITIVES.
The Return of the Fugitives to the Pillaged Cabin— Punishment— Vina and
Catharine Separated— The Barbacue— Young Peter's Marriage— Susanna's
First Baby— Advent of little Peter— Susanna's failing Health-Her Death 339

XVI CONTENTS.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
" THEY TAKE GOOD CASE OF THEIR PROPERTY."
The Runaways Questioned Concerning the Route to the North— Vina's Lecture
to her Master— Sale of the Produce of the Patches— Christmas Ride to
Town— "Craps" at a Discount— Vina Invited Home from the Island—
Delphia— Leah - Ml
CHAPTER XXXVH.
THE RE-UNION.
Vina Returns to the Island— Glad Tidings— Killing Hogs— McKiernan comes to
the Island— The Ransomed Family leave the Plantation— Business Arrange
ments with the Master— Young Peter inquires the Price of his Baby— Diffi
culties in transporting Property in a Northerly Direction — The Family Re
united—Hospitality of the Citizens of Cincinnati— Visit at Pittsburg— Arri
val of the Family at Burlington, their future Home— Visit to Peter's aged
Mother— Marriage Certificate ... 363

INTRODUCTION.

Within the last four years, many hundreds, proba
bly thousands, of persons in our nominally free States,
have seen Peter Still, a neat, staid black man, going
from city to city, town to town, house to house, asking
assistance to enable him to purchase the freedom of his
wife and children. He has always been grateful for the
smallest favors, and never morose when utterly denied.
/He has not obtruded himself or his story ; but those
I who have shown curiosity enough to make any in-
j quiries, have been soon led to suspect that he was no
common man ; that the events of his life had been
thrillingly interesting — some of them even more won:
derful than Ave often meet with in works of fiction.
Kidnapped, in his early childhood, from the door-step
[xviij

XVLU INTRODUCTION.
•of his home in New Jersey ; more than forty years a
slave in Kentucky and Alabama; his unsuccessful ap
peal to the great Heory Clay ; his liberation through
the generosity of a Jew ; his restoration to his mother
by the guidance of the slightest threads of memory ;
the yearning of his heart for his loved ones; the
heroic but disastrous attempt of Concklin to bring his
wife and children to him — wherever these incidents
of his life were detailed, they seldom failed to draw
from the hand of the listener some contribution to
wards the exorbitant sum demanded for the liberation
of his family.
Words of discouragement, even from his warmest
friends, fell without weight on the heart of Peter Still.
Arguments, sometimes urged against the propriety of
paying, especially an exorbitant price, for liberty,
were parried by him with a skill not to be acquired in
"The Schools." His soul was intent upon a great
purpose. He could not be withheld ; he could not be
turned aside. His perseverance, his patience, his ex
actness, his tact, everywhere attracted attention, and
often commanded respect. In less than three years,
his wife and children were restored to him ; and, after
a few weeks spent in seeing and being seen by friends
and relatives, they all settled themselves in employ-

INTRODUCTION. xix
ments, by which they are earning comfortable liveli
hoods, and laying the foundation of future indepen
dence. It was thought, by most of those who had heard the
histories of Peter Still and Seth Concklin, that such
histories ought not to remain unwritten or unpublished.
It was believed that good narratives of both of these
remarkable men, would give to the people of the
Northern States some new illustrations of the horrors
of that "peculiar institution," which has well-nigh
subjugated to itself our entire Kepublic.
It so happened that a lady was at hand, singularly
qualified for the former and larger part of the task,
not only by her ability as a writer, but by her per
sonal acquaintance with Peter Still, while he was in
bondage. Mrs. Pickard had lived several years in 'the
very town, or neighborhood, where most of the events
transpired that would come into the narrative. She-
knew personally many of the individuals, who had
acted, conspicuous parts in the tragedy she was called
upon to write. Moreover, she had conceived a very
just appreciation of the character of this man and
woman, who, under the laws of our country, had been
subjected to all that domestic servitude can do to
imbrute human beings, and yet retained so much that

XX INTRODUCTION.
is distinctive of the best specimens of our race. She
was therefore persuaded to undertake the work, which
is now given to the public.
The writer of this narrative was a, highly esteemed
teacher in the Female Seminary of Tuscumbia, Ala
bama. There Peter Still was employed in several
menial offices, and was subject to her observation
every day for many months. She often admired his
untiring diligence, his cheerful patience, his eagerness
to get work rather than to avoid it, and his earnest
gratefulness for the perquisites that were frequently
bestowed upon him by the many, whom he served in
various ways,. and served so well. ' Little did she suspect
what was the mainspring of the intense life that she wit
nessed in the poor slave-man, who seemed to her to have
so little to live for. She did not know that (as he has
since told her)' he was" hungering and thirsting after lib-
.erty," which had been promised him by a compassion
ate Jew, who then owned him, for a sum that it seemed
possible for him to accumulate. Itwas that hunger and
thirst which filled " Uncle Peter" with all the graces,
and brought him all the gifts, that he needed to attain
the object of his heart's desire. He had long been
known, and universally respected and loved, in the
town where he lived. Everybody believed that what

INTRODUCTION. xxi
Uncle Peter said was true ; and that every duty im
posed upon him would be faithfully discharged. But
the amount of labor that he was then accustomed to
perform had come to be a matter of frequent remark
and admiration. Some attributed his severe toil to
the requirements of his Jew master. . They had yet to
learn, that there is a harder driver than any Jewish or
Christian slaveholder, even the man's own spirit, when
the priceless boon of liberty is set before him, as an
incitement to exertion.
We can promise the lovers of exciting adventure
very much in the ensuing volume to gratify their
taste ; and all those who really desire to fathom the
heights and depths of that Iniquity which is threaten
ing the destruction of our Eepublic, may turn to these
pages, in the assurance that they will find in them a
great amount and variety of information, derived from
the most authentic sources, and given with the strictest
regard to truth.
In this narrative will also be found, incidentally,
but very clearly given, intimations of many excel
lences that are latent, as well as lively sketches of some
that are patent,, in the negro variety Of our race — in
deed, all the qualities of our common, and of our
uncommon humanity — persistence in the pursuit of a

T-sdi " INTRODUCTION.
desired object ; ingenuity in the device of plans for its
attainment ; self-possession and self-command that can
long keep a cherished purpose unrevealed; a deep,
instinctive faith in God; a patience^ under hardship
and hope deferred, which never dies ; and, withal, a
joyousness which, like a life-preserver, bears one above
the dark waves of unparalleled trouble
The latter and smaller portion of this volume— the
Sketch of the Life of Seth Concklin — was written by
a gentleman who has long held so high a place among
American authors, that we shall not presume to give
him our commendation. That Dr. Wm. H. Furness,
of Philadelphia, deemed the merits of Seth Concklin to
be such as to deserve a tribute from his pen, must be
a sufficient assurance that the subject of this sketch
had evinced traits of character, and done deeds, or en
dured trials, worthy of commemoration. Those who
know that Dr. Furness never touches anything that he
does not adorn, will go to the perusal of his portion of
this book, in the confident expectation of being de
lighted with the unaffected beauty of the sketch, and
of having their sympathies and better feelings made
to flow in unison with those of the true-hearted author.
They will close the volume with gratitude to Dr. F.,
for having rescued from oblivion, and placed before

INTRODUCTION. Xxiii
his countrymen, another well-authenticated example
of successful conflict with appalling difficulties in early
life ; of unwavering fidelity to right principles, in the
midst of great temptations ; and of heroic, disinterested
self-sacrifice in the cause of suffering humanity.
SAMUEL J. MAY.
Syracuse, Feb. 14, 1856.

THE

KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.

CHAPTER I.
THE KIDNAPPER.
Late in the afternoon of a pleasant summer day,
two little boys were playing before the door of their
mother's cottage. They were apparently about six or
eight years old, and though their faces wore a dusky
hue, their hearts were gay, and their laugh rang out
clear and free.
Their dress was coarse, and in no wise restrained the
motions of their agile limbs, for it consisted merely of
a cotton shirt, reaching no lower than the knee.
How they ran races down the road, and turned sum
mersets on the green grass ! How their eyes danced
with merriment, and their white teeth glistened in the
pleasant light !
But as the day wore on they grew weary, and with
childhood's first impulse, sought their mother. She
was not in the house. All there was still and lonely.
In one corner stood her bed, covered with a clean
blanket, and the baby's cradle was empty by its side.
Grandmother's bed, in another corner of the room,
was made up nicely, and .every article of the simple
furniture was in its accustomed place. Where could
they all have gone ?
"I reckon," said Levin, "mammy's gone to church.
2 (26)

26 the kidnapped and the ransomed.
The preachin' must be mighty long I 0 1 I's so hongry I
I's gwine to meetin' to see^ she's thar."
The "church" stood in the woods, about a mile off.
It was an old white building that 'had formerly been
occupied by the family of S. G., who now lived in a
large brick house close by. The boys had often been
at the church with their father, who kept the key of
the building, and opened it for worship on Sundays,
and prayer-meeting nights:
" You better not go thar, 1 reckon," replied Peter,
the younger of. the two boys, " Mammy '11 whip you
well if you goes to foller her to meetin', and all about."
'' Mammy ! 0 Mammy !"
Thus they called their mother, and cried because
she did not answer, till their eyes were swollen, and
their pleasant play forgotten.
Soon the sound of wheels diverted them for a mo
ment from their childish grief, and looking up the
road, they saw a handsome gig approaching. Its only
occupant was a tall dark man, with black and glossy
hair, which fell heavily below his- white hat.
He looked earnestly at the little boys as he ap:
proached, and *;flterking their evident distress, he
checked his horse, and kindly asked the cause of their
sorrow. " Oh 1 Mammy's done gone off, and there's nobody
to give us our supper, and we're so hongry."
" Where is your mother ?"«
"Don't know, sir," replied Levin, "but I reckon
she's gone to church,"
"Well, don't you want to ride? Jump up here
with me, and I'll take you to your/mother. I'm just
going to church. Come! quick! What! no clothps

the kidnapper. 27.
but a shirt? Go in and get a blanket. It will be
night soon, and you will be cold."
Away they both ran for a blanket. Levin seized
one from his mother's bed, and in his haste pushed the
door against his brother, who was robbing his grand
mother's couch of its covering.
The blanket was large, and little Peter, crying all
the while, was repeatedly tripped by its falling under
his feet while he was running to the gig.
The stranger lifted them up, and placing them be
tween his feet, covered them carefully with the blankets,
that they might not be cold. He spoke kindly to them,
meanwhile, still assuring them that he would soon take
them to their mother.
Away they went very swiftly, rejoicing in their
childish hearts to think how their mother would won
der when she should see them coming.
After riding for some time, — how long they could
not guess — they suddenly upset in the water with a
great splash. The strange man' had, in his haste, driven
too near the bank of the river, and the slight vehicle
had thus been overturned. He soon rescued the chil
dren from tKe water. They were much frightened,
but nothing was injured by the accident, and in a few
minutes they were once more covered with the blankets,
and flying along the river bank faster even than before.
When the gig stopped again, the sun was just set
ting. They were at the water side, and before them
lay many boats, and vessels of different kinds. They
had never seen anything like these before, but they
had short time to gratify their childish curiosity ; for
they were hurried on board a boat, which left the shore
immediately.

28 THE kidnapped and the ransomed.
With the assurance that they should now find their
mother, they trusted implicitly in their new-made
friend ; who strengthened their confidence in himself
by gentle words and timely gifts. Oakes of marvellous
sweetness were ever ready for them, if they grew im
patient of the length of the journey ; and their child
ish hearts could know no distrust of one whose words
and acts were kind.
How long they were on the boat they did not know ;
nor by what other means they travelled could they
afterwards remember, until they reached Versailles,
Kentucky. Here their self-constituted guardian, whom
they now heard addressed as Kincaid, placed them in a
wagon with a colored woman and her child, and con
veyed them to Lexington.
This was the first town they had ever seen, and as
they were conducted up Main street, they were filled
with wonder and admiration.
Kincaid took them to a plain brick house where
dwelt one John Fisher, a mason by trade, and proprie
tor of a large brick yard.
After some conversation between the gentlemen,
which of course the children did not understand,
they were taken out to the kitchen, and presented to
Aunt Betty, the cook.
"There, my boys," said Kincaid, "there is your
mother — we've found her at last."
"No! no!" they shrieked, "that's not our mother!
0, please, sir! take us back J" With tears and cries
they clung to him who had abused their guileless
trust, and begged him not to leave them there.
This scene was soon ended by John Fisher himself,
who, with a hearty blow on each cheek, bade them

the kidnapper. 29
" hush !" " You belong to me now, you little rascals,
and I'll have no more of this. There's Aunt Betty,
she's your mammy now; and if you behave your
selves, she'll be good to you."
Kincaid soon departed, and they never saw him
again. They learned, however, from a white appren
tice, who lived in the house, that he received from Mr.
Fisher one hundred and fifty-five dollars for Levin,
and one hundred and fifty for Peter.
Poor children ! what a heavy cloud now shadowed
their young lives !
For the first few weeks they talked constantly of
going back to their mother — except when their master
was near. They soon learned that they must not
mention the subject in his presence.
He was, in the main, a kind, indulgent man — but
were they not his money? Why should he allow
them to prate about being stolen, when he had bought
them, and paid a right good price ?
"Father," said John Fisher, junior, "isn't Phila
delphia in a free State ?"
" Certainly — it is in Pennsylvania."
" Well, then, I reckon those two boys you bought
were stolen, for they lived with their mother near the
Delaware river ; and Aunt Betty says that is at Phila
delphia. It was too bad, father, for that man to steal
them and sell them here, where they can never hear
from their mother!"
"Pooh, boy! don't talk like a fool! Most likely
they were sold*to Kincaid, and he told them he would
take them to their mother, in order to get them away
without any fuss. And even if he did steal them — so
were all the negroes stolen at first. I bought these

30 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
boys, and paid* for them, and I'll stop their talk about
being free, or I'll break their black necks. A pretty
tale that, to go about the country — just to spoil the
sale if I should happen to wish to get shut of them !
Free, indeed I And what-is a free nigger ? They're
better off here than if they were free, growing up in
idleness, and with nobody to take care of them."
Before night the young offenders were thoroughly
kicked and beaten, and received the assurance that
they should -be killed outright if they dared to tell
such a tale again. So they grew cautious ; and spoke
those sweet memories of home and mother only in
whispers to each other, or to some fellow-slave that
knew how to sympathize with their sorrows.

CHAPTER II.
EARLY EXPERIENCE IN SLAVERY.
The long, hard lesson of slavery was now fairly
open before our young students. In vain they shrank
from its dreadful details. In vain they appealed for
pity to their hard-handed master. Page after page of
dark experiences shadowed their boyish eyes, and their
young hearts, so merry hitherto, grew sad and anxious.
The necessity of concealing the true feelings is
among the rudiments of slavery's lore. A servant
should be merry. A gloomy face is a perpetual com
plaint, and why should it be tolerated ?
To this necessity the temperament of the African is
most happily suited. Cheerful and warm-hearted, with
an innate love of light and harmony, the slightest sym
pathy awakens his affection, and the faintest dawn of
happiness provokes a smile.
Levin and Peter were not long in divining, with the
tact of childhood, their exact position, domestic and
social. Their master was a large, fine looking man, with a
free, hearty manner, and much real kindliness of dis
position. He never allowed this latter quality, how
ever, to interfere in business matters ; and as, in addi- -
tion to the business of brickmaking, he rented a large
plantation about a mile out of town, he had no time
to waste in unprofitable sentimentalities. How to get
(81)

32 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
the most work done with the least expense he regarded
as a problem worthy of his attention, and his success
in business proved that he considered it well.
, Mrs. Fisher was a stout, freckle-faced lady, plain
and unpretending in her dress and manner, and per
fectly devoted to her husband and children. She had,
at the time of which we speak, two boys, John arid
Sydney; and for the first three years that he lived
with them, Peter was their constant playmate. Levin
was sent to the brick-yard the second year after Fisher
purchased them, he being at that time only nine years
old. At night the little slave boys rolled themselves up
in their blankets, and slept on the floor in their mis
tress' room. They often waked in the morning under
the bed, or the bureau, where Mrs. Fisher had shoved
them with her foot, the night previous — that they
might be out of the way. They were' comfortably
clothed, well fed, and — if they said nothing of their
mother's house on the Delaware river — kindly treated.
But if a word on that forbidden subject reached their
master's ear, he became a monster. By stripes and
kicks he taught them that they had no right to that
blessed memory, that they were his property, and that
he possessed the power to quiet their restless tongues.
The plantation which was rented by Mr. Fisher he-
longed to Mrs. Russell, a widow lady, and lay about a
mile from the city, across the road from the residence
of Henry Clay. Here, while Peter was too young to
work in the brick-yard, he was sent daily for the cows,
and for vegetables from the garden; and as he had
plenty of leisure, he spent many happy hours in play
ing with the little colored children at Mr. Clay's.

EARLY EXPERIENCE IN SLAVERY. 33
Frequently the merry group was joined by young
Masters Theodore and Thomas Clay, and then the
sport was liveliest.
The heart of the little new-made slave glowed with
love for these noble boys, and he soon confided to
them his sad history ; and one day, when Mrs. Clay,
as was her custom, spoke kindly to the dusky playmate
of her sons, he simply recited to her the story of his
sorrows, and asked her if she did not think some ona
would send him back to his mother.
She quieted him with cakes and other delicacies, to
the palate of the child exceeding grateful, and then
gently dismissed the children to their play.
But the brave-hearted boys were young enough to
long to do something for their little favorite, and bade
him tell his story to their father, who, they assured
him, would send him back. There was true Kentucky
generosity in their breasts, and they felt sure their
honored father could not fail to do his utmost to redress
such a cruel wrong.
" 0 Levin 1" whispered- Peter, the first time he was
alone with his brother. " I reckon we'll go back to-
reckly!" "Go back! whar?"
"Why home, to see mother! Mass' Theodore Clay
say, his father so good to everybody, he know he'll
send us back if we tell him how we got stole — says
his father allers hope folks whar gits in trouble."
" Mass' Theodore say so ? Reckon then we will,
kase Mr. Clay mighty good to all his people. Hi!
Mars John Fisher ! you's gwine lose these chillerns !"
And with comical grimaces, Levin cut a series of
2*

34 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
f
shuffles, indicating the confusion that awaited " Mars
John." Not long after this conversation, Peter saw Mr. Clay
standing near the court-house with a letter in his hand.
His little heart bounded with hope as he ran towards
him. " O Mr. Clay !" he exclaimed, "I'm stole!"
" Stoie ? Who stole you, and where were you stolen
from?" " I's stolen from my father and mother on Delaware
river — folks say that's Philadelphia — but I don' know.
Please, sir, won't you send me back to my mother?"
" To whom do you belong?"
"I 'long to Mars John Fisher, on Main street, and I
wants to go back to my mother,"
" Well, my boy, I have no time to talk to you now;
you carry this letter to Major Pope — you know where
he lives^-and then come back and I'll attend to you."
Away ran the child dancing with delight, and cry
ing, " I's free ! I's free ! I's gwine to my mother!"
"What is that you say?" asked a gentleman who
met him. " I's gwine to be free ! Mr. Clay gwine to
send me back to my mother, kase I was stole away
from her !"
"Now look here, you little negro," said the man,
who knew the child, and understood the temper of his
master, "you'd better not talk about that to Mr. Clay,
for he will tell your master, and then old John Fisher
will be sure to skin you."
The bright vision that Hope had held before the
trusting boy faded away. With drooping head and
tearful eye he returned to tell his brother of their dis-

EARLY EXPERIENCE IN SLAVERY. 35
appointment, and after that they both avoided Mr.
Clay. Yet Hope did not desert them ; but whispered often
in their eager ears — "You shall return; your friends
will come to seek you. You were born free, and slaves
you shall not die I"
When Peter was about nine years old, he too was
employed in the brick-yard, as "off-bearer" Three
thousand brick a day was the task for two boys ; and
if one of them chanced to be by any means disabled,
his companion must " off-bear" the whole. The moulder
must not be hindered.
These' moulders— -slaves themselves — were cruel
tyrants. The boys, though seldom abused by the
master himself, were subject to all their caprices and
passions. If one of inferior station failed to perform
his task, they knew no mercy ; and their master per
mitted any punishment they chose to inflict.
Their favorite mode of chastisement was called
"standing in the wheelbarrow." The offender was
placed with a foot on each side of the wheel, and com
pelled to reach over and grasp a handle in each hand ;
and then the youngest boys — the "off-bearers" — were
compelled to whip him with cowhides. If he would
lie still, and take twenty-four lashes without attempt
ing to rise, that was deemed sufficient proof of his
humility. But if he made an effort to change his
position before that number was inflicted, the moulder
who presided over the ceremony, and who counted
off the strokes, commenced again at " one," and caused
the twenty -four to be repeated.
One day a large man, named Charles, was put into
the wh,ee|barrow, and received over three hundred

36 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
blows before he was sufficiently subdued to lie still,
and take twenty-four without moving. The boys that
were selected to inflict this horrible punishment (of
whom Peter was one) were all trembling with terror ;
but if one of them, through pity, failed to strike with
his utmost strength, the moulder, who stood aside
with a cowhide, punished his merciful folly by a vio
lent blow upon his own back.
Amid such scenes passed the childhood of these
hapless boys. Their natural cheerfulness and mild
ness of temper made them universal favorites. In
their own person, therefore, they endured few such
sufferings as they were forced to witness. A "Boston
clergyman," carefully observing their every-day life,
would have pronounced them happy, careless boys;
so ardently attached to their young masters and their
fellow servants, that it would be really unkind to set
them free. • They were well fed — their clothes were
comfortable — all they needed was supplied without
their thought or care.

CHAPTER III.
MASTER NATTIE.
When Peter was about thirteen years old, Mr.
Fisher planned a removal to Cincinnati, where his
brother had recently gone. He disposed of his brick
yard, and intended to sell all his servants, except
Aunt Betty, the cook, with her daughter and grand
child. These he could not spare, as they were indis
pensable to the comfort of the family.
Levin and Peter were overwhelmed with grief at
the news of the intended sale. There was degrada
tion in the thought of being trafficked for like horses ;
for, with all their apparent humility, and their submis
sive, gentle manners, there was a principle deep in
their hearts that claimed the birthright of humanity.
Besides, they had, through all these years, cherished
the "hope that they should yet be sought by" their
parents; and they knew that if they changed owners,
the chances of their being discovered would be les
sened. But their destiny was fixed. Mr. Fisher found
some difficulty in disposing of them, for their old story
of being stolen was remembered, and men hesitated to
buy where there was a shadow of uncertainty in the
title. Their master, however, so confidently asserted
that he had conquered them, and it was so many years
[37]

38 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
since they had been heard to say anything on the sub
ject, that a sale was at last effected.
The purchaser was Mr. Nat. Gist, of Lexington, and
he paid four hundred and fifty dollars for each of the
brothers. Mr. Fisher did not, as he had anticipated, go to Cin
cinnati, but remained in Lexington for several years,
and then he removed with his family- to Louisville,
%. The change of owners was far from being an agree
able one to Levin and Peter. Nat. Gist, their new*
master, lived in a small brick house on Dutch street,
or, as it was sometimes called, Hill street. He was
a short, stout, gray-headed man, about fifty-six years
of age, a Virginian by birth, and had been a revolu
tionary soldier. He swore hard, and drank to intoxica
tion every day ; therefore, as he was a bachelor, his
home was seldom visited by any humanizing influ
ence. He owned a brick-yard of about five acres, and
had, in all, twenty slaves. These he fed sparingly,
clothed scantily, and worked hard. In the winter,
when they could not make brick, he was accustomed
to hire them out wherever he eould get the highest
price for their services.
Mr. Gist had now among his people four boys —
Levin and Peter, with Alfred and Allison, who were
also brothers. They had been brought from Virginia,
where their parents still remained.*
* The mother of these two boys, who belonged to one George
Lewis, in Virginia, has recently, with several of her other children,
escaped from slavery, and travelled; by the "underground rail
road," to Canada.

MASTER NATTIE. 39
Peter was not long in becoming a special favorite
with his new master. Yet the strange old man never
evinced his preference by any peculiar kindness of
word or act. That would contradict his theory. He
believed there was nothing so good for a nigger as fre
quent floggings ; and while he kept Peter near him
as much as possible, and always chose him to wait
upon him, he never abated towards him a jot of his
accustomed severity. An incident that occurred soon
after he purchased the two boys of Mr. Fisher, will
illustrate his method of governing them.
He had come home from town, as usual, much in
toxicated, and ordered Peter to scatter a couple of
bundles of oats on the ground, for his horse. The
boy obeyed, but strewed them over rather more space
than was necessary. In a few minutes, his master ap
peared. " Did you feed Ned his oats?"
"Yes, sir."
" I'll see if you have done it right." And, mutter
ing curses as he went, he proceeded to the yard, where
the horse was eating.
" What the d — 1 did you throw them all about for?"
" Why, mass'r, you told me to scatter 'em."
Quick the old man's cane descended on the offend
er's head. "I did'ht tell you to scatter them all over
the yard. Follow me to the house. I'll give you a
lesson." Peter walked slowly behind him to the door.
"Now take off your shirt, you rascal, and cross
your hands."
The boy obeyed; and his master, after tying his
hands together, drew them down over his knees, where

40 THE kidnapped AND THE RANSOMET).
he confined them by means of a stick thrust under his
knees. He then beat him with a cowhide, first on one
side, and then on the other, till his drunken rage was
appeased. " There, you black cuss" cried he, when
he had finished, " I mean to make a good nigger of
you, and there's no way to do it, only by showing you
who's master."
This method of confining a negro for punishment is
called " bucking" him, and it is much practised in
slave-land. The culprit is frequently left in the
" buck" several hours — sometimes, indeed, all night — '
and, in such cases, the protracted straining of the
muscles causes intense pain.
A few benevolent individuals, about this time, estab
lished a Sabbath School in Lexington, for the instruc
tion of such slaves as might be permitted by their
masters to learn.
At this proceeding Master Nattie was indignant.
He would not. have his niggers spoiled by getting
learning — no, indeed! Niggers were bad enough,
without being set up by such rascals as these Sunday
School teachers. They'd better not meddle with his
property ; and if he heard of one of his boys going
near the school, he'd give him such a flogging that
he'd never need any more education.
But in the breast of one of these slave boys burned
a thirst for knowledge so intense, that even this terri
ble threat could not deter him from making one effort
to learn. Peter went to the school.
The teacher received him kindly, and inquired for
his "pass."
" Ain't got none, massa."
"I am sorry," said the teacher, "for we are not per-

MASTER NATTIE. 41
mitted to instruct any servants without the consent of
their masters."
Peter knew this very well ; and he also knew that
to ask his master for a pass would ,be only to apply
for a whipping ; but he did so long to learn to read,
he could not go away. He looked around on the
pupils. Their masters allowed them to come, and
surely not one of them could learn so quick as he. He
determined to make a desperate effort to stay that one
day, at least. So he told the teacher that his master
didn't care nothvri ''bout his comirJ — he'd, get a pass
next Sunday; and he was permitted to remain.
The next Sabbath, when the school was opened,
Peter stood among the pupils. The other boys pre
sented their passes — his did not appear. He had for
gotten to ask his master, but would be sure to remem
ber it the next Sunday.
But on the third Sabbath he was no better off. His
master had gone from home early in the morning, and
of course it was impossible for him to get a pass in his
absence. The teacher once more allowed him to re
main, but assured him that' no such excuses would be
taken in future.
The fourth Sabbath came, and Peter walked boldly
into the school. "Pass, boy!" as usual, was the first
salutation. " Ain't got none," replied he. " Mass' Nattie say,
don't need none ; no use, no how."
The teacher began to suspect the true state of the
case, and though he would gladly have aided to illu
mine that eager intellect, that was " stretching forward
to the light," yet he was forced to thrust it back into
the darkness, lest a prejudice should be aroused which

42 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
would palsy all his efforts. So he positively forbade
Peter's future entrance to the school without a pass,
and he was thereafter obliged to seek for amusement
on Sundays in some other direction. He had, in these
four Sundays, learned the alphabet, and could spell a
few words, and hard and bitter was the fate that con
signed him thenceforward to ignorance.
"Oh," thought he, "if I could only learn to read!
I could find out the way to write myself. Then I
might write letters to Philadelphia , and let our mother
know what'g 'come of her chilluns. There's white boys
in town that goes -to school every day, that would a
heap ruther play in the street. I's seen 'em runnin'
off to keep clar of the mas'r in the mornin'. Reckon,
if I could go to school, nobody wouldn't cotch me run
nin' off that way.'-

CHAPTER IV.
THE TOBACCO FACTORY.
After Levin and Peter had worked for four sum
mers in the brickyard, their master hired them, with
Alfred and Allison, to Mr. George Norton, a tobacco
nist, who at that time carried on an extensive business
in Lexington.
They had been hired out before to different persons
during the winter. Peter had, one winter, served as
waiter, a cousin of his master, Mr. Sandford Keene.
This was his first introduction to house service, as well
as his first experience, since he became a slave, of gen
uine kindness. Mrs. Keene was a noble-hearted lady,
who delighted to promote the happiness of all around
her, and Peter loved to serve her acceptably.
But to this Mr. Norton they were hired for the
whole year ; and violent as was Master Nattie in his
phrensied hours, and carefully as he avoided every
indulgence towards them which might seem to recog
nize their humanity, they dreaded to exchange him
for this new master, for of him report spake never
kindly. Mr. George Norton — ah 1 how grand he looked as
he stood near the shop door conversing with his over
seer 1 His broad-brimmed hat seemed conscious of its
[«]

44 the kidnapped and the RANSOMED.
elevated position, and his hair descending in a cue
behind was stiff and stately. The very smoke from
his cigar ascended with a consequential puff, and his
cane thumped on the sidewalk in exact accordance
with the great man's varying moods. It had a gentle
tap to answer words of compliment, or salutations from
the rich or beautiful. But when a breath of contra
diction came, or any sable menial hesitated to obey
his slightest wish, the expressive staff beat furiously
upon the pavement, in token of the vengeance that
should fall upon the offender's head.
A fit foil to his pompous superior was the overseer,
Mr. Kisich. Small and pale, awkward in his man
ners, and " slightly, lame," he seemed totally indiffer
ent to his personal appearance, and gloried only in
the force and accuracy with which he could execute
his employer's plans.
He was a native of the Emerald Isle, as his " rich
brogue" plainly indicated ; and, like some of his more
distinguished countrymen in these later days, claimed
liberty for Irishmen, and equality with the noblest in
every land. But when
" He found his fellow guilty of a skin
Not colored like his own,"
he could see him bought and sold, and tasked, and
beaten, without a single impulse of pity.
About thirty men and boys were employed in Mr.
Norton's establishment. Of these, three were white
men, who were hired to do that part of the work which
required more experience and skill than the negroes
were supposed to possess. These acted as spies and

THE TOBACCO FACTORY. 45
informers ; making the privilege of tyrannizing over
their dark-skinned fellows, a sort of compensation for
the degradation which is inseparable, in slave-land,
from the necessity of labor.
Peter and Allison succeeded admirably in pleasing
Mr. Norton. He liked their ready obedience, and their
sprightly, nimble movements. When he gave an
order, he could not wait with patience its dilatory
execution, and they loved to surprise him by return
ing from an errand, or by finishing a task earlier than
he expected. Yet by this they won no praise. It was
but their duty, and they had reason to rejoice if, by
performing it, they escaped the cow-hide.
For several months they thus succeeded in avoiding
any outbreak of his wrath. They had been accus
tomed to no mild exercise of authority, and the angry
strife they often witnessed, seemed to them, if not
quite necessary, unavoidable at times. Force was their
law, and force their motive to obedience; and but for
their brother-love, and the warm memory of their
mother, their hearts must have grown callous and
incapable of affectionate response.
For Levin and Peter there was ever a bright morn
ing in remembrance, and they were young — could they
live without the hope of returning once more to that
mother-home? Humble was the cabin which they
delighted to remember, but the sunshine came freely
in at the open door, and no harsh word was ever heard
within the lowly walls.
How sweet, how soothing, was the influence of these
cherished retrospects ! How often, when their tasks
were finished, the two brothers strolled away from the
noisy mirth with which their companions were beguiling

46 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
the twilight hour, and in low tones discussed the pos
sibilities of an escape from slavery — a return to the
dear home where they had known no care nor fear..
A. hundred plans they at different times suggested
to each other, but the execution of any one of them
required more knowledge than they possessed, or
could acquire. And then there were so many that
failed in such attempts. The jail was always tenanted
by captured fugitives. No — they could not run away.
But perhaps, some day, they might buy their free
dom. They could work nights and Sundays, and earn
the money, and then they would be safe. This was
their favorite aerial abode, and here they enjoyed many
bright anticipations. But alas ! they soon learned by
the sad experience of others, that such a plan was all
uncertain. The history of one man of their acquaint
ance in Lexington, taught them a lesson of caution on
that point, that chilled their ardent hopes, and deep
ened their distrust of seeming friends.
Spencer, a fine-looking intelligent mulatto, belonged
to a Mr. Williams, who kept a lottery office in Lex
ington. His master, having no need of his services,
hired him out ; usually to the keepers of hotels or livery
stables, and sometimes to Spencer himself. He was a
great favorite with the white people, and had excellent
opportunities of making money; not only by extra
services about the hotels or stables, but also by doctor
ing horses, in which he had much skill.
He sometimes speculated in lottery tickets, but here
his success availed him little. He drew at one time a
house and lot in Lexington, valued at $30,000, and
although many white people declared that it would be
a shame to deprive him of the benefit of his good for-

THE TOBACCO FACTORY. 47
tune, yet it was on the whole deemed an unsafe pre
cedent to allow a negro to acquire so much property.
So the prize was finally awarded to a gentleman in
Philadelphia, who stood second in the list of successful
competitors. Soon after this, Spencer conceived the idea of buying
his freedom, and proposed the subject to his master.
Mr. Williams received it favorably, and fixed the price
at one thousand dollars.
Spencer, habitually industrious, had now a new ani
mation in his labors; and so. untiring was his diligence,
that in a few years he had paid his master within
twenty -five dollars of the whole sum. ' The goal of
all his hopes was just in sight, when lo ! the perfidious
tyrant denied ' ever having promised him his liberty,
and bade him never mention the subject more.
Spencer was sorely disappointed, but not discouraged,
and when not long after a' gentleman who had heard the
history of this deception offered to purchase him, and
to give him his freedom as soon as he could earn the
price which he must pay to Williams, the hopeful slave
eagerly accepted the offer.
The bargain was soon concluded, and with new zeal,
the bondman commenced his labors. He took the pre
caution this time, to ask for a receipt whenever he
made a payment. This was readily given, and Spencer
deemed himself safe. But behold ! when he had paid
all but seventy dollars, his new master suddenly left
town ; and before the poor slave was aware of any ap
proaching change, an agent to whose care he had been
consigned, had sold him to another master. He was
indignant at this outrageous fraud, and produced his
receipts, which he had carefully preserved. But these

48 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
availed nothing. They did not show to whom the
money had been paid. And even if they had been
properly written they would have profited nothing —
for does not a slave's money as well as his person and
his labor, belong to his master?
Still hope died not in Spencer's breast. Again he
tried a man who had been lavish of his sympathy, and
loud in his denunciations of the baseness by which he
had suffered. Into his hands — for the third time — he
paid the hard-earned price of his redemption ; and when
he should have received his free papers, and a pass out
of the Statg, he was chained in a gang, and sent to the
cotton and sugar fields of the south.
To the ears of Peter and his brother came many tales
like this, and in their inmost hearts were treasured the
lessons of caution which they imparted. Surely there
was none they could trust. It were far better, by ap
parent contentment, and by cheerful manners, to win
the confidence of those in whose power they were placei
than to become objects of suspicion and dislike, by ill-
timed efforts to be free. So they toiled on, their genial
sunny natures, and the warm heart-love ever fresh
within their breasts, preserving them from despair.
Half the year at Mr. Norton's had passed away, and
neither of the boys belonging to old Nattie Gist had
fallen into any serious difficulty. They had witnessed
many exhibitions of their employer's cruelty, and one
which occurred about this time, filled their hearts with
horror. Mr. Norton's body-servant, a large black man,
chanced one day to offend his haughty master. He
was immediately put in a buck, and in the presence of
all the men and boys, Norton inflicted on his naked

THE TOBACCO FACTORY. 49
*
back three hundred lashes with a cowhide. The blood
gushed out, and ran in streams upon the brick floor of
the shop.
When the stick was removed from under his knees,
the 'poor victim was unable to rise. At this his tor
mentor was enraged. He seized a board that lay near,
full of shingle nails, and with it struck him several
violent blows , every one of which brought the blood
in streams, as though he had been pierced with lancets.
The slaves who witnessed this horrid deed were
paralyzed with fear, but the white men swore it was
just right. The cursed niggers — they must be con
quered, or they would not be worth a d — n.
Here young Peter's caution for a moment failed.
His eyes, usually so mild, flashed fiercely, and he de
clared in a low voice to his brother that George Norton.
should never strip him and put him in a buck to whip
him — he would die first.
Poor boy ! his rash speech was overheard, and re
ported to the tyrant, who from that day waited only
an excuse to punish his presumption.
The next Saturday evening, as the boys were sweep
ing the shop, an old woman came in and asked for
some tobacco. Peter, being nearest the door, gathered
up a handful of the sweepings, and gave them to her.
On the following morning, it was Peter's turn to
make a fire in the sweat-room ; and when he had per
formed this duty, he locked the door of the shop and
went to his old master's, where he usually spent his
Sundays. Here -he played marbles, and enjoyed such
other sports as are proper for the Sabbath-rest of slave-
boys, while their young masters are at the Sunday-

50 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
school or in the billiard-room — according to their
tastes. Peter had been absent from the shop but a short
time when Mr. Norton himself took a fancy to go in
and look at the tobacco. He tried the door, but it
was locked, and the key was nowhere to be found.
His anger rose. Ah ! Peter, a heavy cloud is gather
ing, and there is no shelter for thy defenceless head !
Early Monday morning, Mr. Norton came into the
shop. His eyes looked darker and brighter than usual,
and the smoke from his cigar came in quick passion
ate puffs. His cane, too, beat an ominous march upon
the floor. Something was wrong.
The great man spoke. " Whose business was it to
make a fire in the sweat-room yesterday ?"
" Mine, sir," said Peter.
"Did you attend to it?"
"Yes, sir."
" You did! where were you when I came here?"
"Don't know, sir, — reckon I was up home."
" Where is your home, your rascal ?"
" Up to Mars Nattie's, sir."
"I'll let you know, nigger, that this is your home,
and that I am your master !" and with a furious thump
ing of his cane, the mighty man strode out of the shop.
He was in a rage. It always made him angry for one
of his hired servants to call his owner, " Master ;"— d
was his law that in his shop no one should receive that
ennobling title except himself.
Before sunrise the next morning, just as the work
of the day was commenced, Mr. Norton appeared at
the door. He stood a few minutes perfectly still, and

THE TOBACCO FACTORY. 51
then taking out his knife, he commenced trimming a
switch — whistling meantime a beautiful march.
The sweet notes woke no answering melody in the
hearts of those within, for well they knew the spirit of
their master. Only when about to inflict some cruel
punishment did George Norton utter sounds like these.
His march ended, he spoke —
"Peter!""Sir."" Where were you, yesterday ?"
" Here, sir, strippin' tobacco.
"Well, Sunday, where were you?"
"Home, to Mars Nattie's, sir."
The hot blood mounted to Mr. Norton's face. " 1"
am your master, rascal, aud I'll let you know you are
to go to no other home than this ! Who swept the
shop on Saturday ?"
" We boys, sir, all of us."
" Who gave tobacco to an old woman ?"
" I gave her a handful of sweepings, sir, — no 'count,
no how, sir."
"Well, you'll find Jam your master, and you are
to obey me. Come here, and lie down across this
box." Peter obeyed, wondering at the same time that he
had not been ordered to strip. It was not Mr. Nor
ton's custom to whip his servants over their clothes,
and the boy had on a new suit of blue linsey. But
he had heard of the expression he had made a few
days before, and perhaps thought best to avoid an
unnecessary contest.
No sooner was the boy extended across the desig
nated box, than Norton struck him a violent blow.

52 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Peter raised up. " Lie down you nigger !" and he re
newed the blows with greater force. Peter raised
up again. "Lie down!" cried the fury, with a curse.
Peter obeyed the third tie, and them blows fell hard
and fast.
Once more he raised up. "Lie down! I say, you
cursed nigger — if you move again till I bid you, I will
beat you till you cannot rise."
The boy stood upright, and looked his tormentor
steadily in the face. "I have laid down three times
for you to beat me, when I have done nothing wrong;
I will not lie down again 1"
Instantly Norton seized him, and attempted to force
him across the box — but was unable. "Here, Mr.
Kisich ! Tadlock ! all of you I help me conquer this
nigger!" Quick to his aid came the overseer, and the three
other white men that worked in the shop, and all fell
upon him at once, while Peter screamed "Murder!"
and fought with his utmost strength.
People in the street heard the tumult, and gathered
about the doors of the shop ; when Norton ordered
them closed and fastened. Among those thus excluded
was Sandford Keene, the nephew of old Nattie Gist.
He listened to the uproar with anxious ears, but could
not determine from which of the boys the cries pro
ceeded. Had he known that it was Peter, his special
favorite, to whom also his wife was much attached,
he could hardly have refrained from rushkig in to his
rescue. The ruffians tried to bind his hands, but he struggled
so fiercely that they were in danger of breaking his
bones. That would have been too costly an amuse-

THE TOBACCO FACTORY. 53
ment. But they succeeded in throwing him upon the
floor, and there he struggled, and screamed, and bit
their legs and ankles, till they despaired of holding
him in any position, unless they could succeed in tying
him. One of them, accordingly, prepared a slip noose,
and threw it over his head when he rose up — with
intent to choke him. He perceived their purpose, and
quickly raising both hands, thrust them through the
noose and slipped it down below his arms.
Thus baffled in one scheme, they resorted to another.
Dragging him along by the rope now fastened around
his waist, they proceeded to the back part of the shop
where stood five or six presses, each about eight feet
high. If they could hang him up on one of these he
would be entirely at their mercy. But he foiled them
here. As they raised the rope to fasten it to the top
of the press, he sprang one side, and crept into the
narrow space between it and the wall.
Here he remained for some time. Bleeding and
panting — his bloodshot eyes glared at his persecutors,
who, on both sides, were engaged in beating him over
the head with cowhides and hoop-poles, and thrusting
sticks and pieces of iron against his bruised flesh.
At last they dragged him from his partial hiding
place ; and now he made no resistance — he had not
strength to struggle. Norton threw him across a keg,
and with fiendish curses, whipped his bleeding back
with a cowhide ; swearing he was the first nigger that
ever tried to fight him, and that he should be humbled
if it took his life.
When this correction was finished it was nearly ten

54 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
o'clock ; and, commanding the other slaves, who stood
agape with horror, to go to work, Mr. Norton, followed
by his aids, went to the house for breakfast. They
had exercised sufficiently to eat With good appetites;
and while they were enjoying a plentiful repast, and
discussing in their own peculiar style, the " obstinacy
of the nigger," their poor victim, bruised and torn,
with only a few shreds left of his new suit of linsey,
crept out of the shop, and -with his little remaining
strength, succeeded in gaining the residence of his
master, on the hill.
Old Nattie Gist had, according to his morning cus
tom, gone down town. Aunt Mary, the cook, how
ever, received him kindly, pitied him, and dressed his
wounds. She had a human mother's heatt, and her
two boys were slaves.
Peter guessed rightly, that his old master, cruel as
he was himself, would not like to see his property thus
damaged by others. Yet he spoke no gentle word to
the sufferer. He would not intimate to a " nigger"
that a white man could do him wrong. But he sought
Norton, and cursed him roundly for inflicting such
abuse upon a boy of his.
For a week he allowed Peter to stay at home, and
then he sent him back to the shop. Here he remained
till the end of the year. Norton was evidently either
ashamed of his previous violence, or afraid to repeat
its exercise, for never after that did Peter receive an
unkind word from him or either of his satellites.
Just before Christmas, Mr. Norton went to old Mas
ter Nattie, and, assuring him that the boys were all
perfectly satisfied with the past, and anxious to remain

THE TOBACCO FACTORY. 55
with him, hired them for another year. But when
their time expired, they all ran off together to their
master, and he did not force them to go back.
This was a merry Christmas-time to these four boys.
They had been accustomed to severity before, and had
lived on poor and scanty fare. Yet even their old
master, heartless as he seemed, was not systematic in
his cruelty. When he went down town in the morn
ing, there was none to watch them till he returned.
They could talk, and laugh, and sing ; if they but fin
ished their tasks, they had little to fear.
But, at Norton's shop, there was scarcely a minute
of the day that evil eyes were not upon them. Not a
laugh, a gesture, or grimace, but was remembered
and quoted as a token of disrespect to the lofty mas
ter, who could ill brook a jest reflecting on his dig
nity.

CHAPTER V.
THE SEPARATION.
In the fall of this year (1817), the community of
which old Nattie Gist was the centre and the head
became greatly agitated.
The old man had two nephews, Levi and Andrew
Gist, of whom he was very fond. They were both
sons of his brother William, who resided on a farm a
few miles out of town.
These young men, after much discussion, and not
withstanding some opposition from their friends, de
termined to seek their fortunes in Alabama. They
had heard tempting reports of the fertility of the valley
of the Tennessee, and of the ease with which a fortune
could be made by raising cotton; and besides, they
were Kentuckians, and loved adventure.
Their uncle liked the spirit of enterprise that im
pelled them ; he liked money too, and he foresaw that
they would have fine opportunities in that new country
of amassing wealth.
Levi Gist, the elder of the two brothers, had always
been a special favorite with his uncle, and to him he
intrusted six of his negroes. These he was to take
with him to Alabama, to assist him in putting in his
first crop. The old man promised to go himself the
[56]

THE SEPARATION. 57
next year, if they should like the country, and decide
to settle there.
The command to prepare to go with Master Levi,
fell with crushing weight upon the he.arts of the doomed
slaves. Old Frank and his wife Peggy were the first
to learn their sentence. They were indignant at the
word. Long and wearily had they toiled in their
master's service. Patiently had they endured hunger.
Stripes and cursings had been their frequent portion,
and these they had learned to receive without com
plaint. Now they were growing aged, and to be torn
from the old place, and from all the friends in whose
society the Sundays passed so pleasantly, seemed too
hard a trial.
Their two children were to go with them. That
was some comfort, but a deeper sorrow, for they would
be forced to work in those great cotton fields, where
venemous snakes would hiss at them, and cruel over
seers watch their toil.
Yet old Frank and Peggy had not the deepest cause
for grief. Levin and Alfred were destined to accom
pany them, and they must each leave behind his
brother, dearer to him than life itself.
The young men intended to take with them every
thing that would be needed to stock a new plantation.
To collect and arrange in travelling order all their
goods, required much time and labor, and every hand,
at home, and at their uncle's, was enlisted in their
service. At Master Nattie's, particularly, all was now excite
ment and confusion. The old man hurried to and fro,
administering curses and stripes to all who failed to
execute his plans. The boys who had been hired out,
3*

58 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
were brought home to aid in these unusual labors, and
thus the brothers, that must so soon be separated, were
allowed to spend the last few days in each others
society. The thought that his brother must go to the South
was agony to Peter. In all their sorrows, thus far,
they had been together. They had shared the same
little pleasures — their hearts had been as one. And
now, to be sundered so wide — could they live apart?
" 0 Levin, Levin ! if they take you 'way off there,
I sha'n't never see you no more, sure !"
" 0 yes," sobbed Levin, his heart almost broken,
while yet he strove to speak cheeringly to his weeping
brother — " 0 yes, Mars Nattie say he gwine bring ye
all next year when he come."
"Mars Nattie! He never gwine 'way off there!
He'll stay here long as he can get breath enough to
curse. He's too old to go to a new country, any how."
" Well, he have to die some day — he can't five a
mons's long time, sure."
" Yes, and if he dies, we'll all be sold — they allers
has an auction when folks dies — and then their people's
scattered all about. 0 'pears like 'taint no use livin'
in this yer world. I sha'n't never see you no more !"
The preparations for the journey were at last com
pleted, and one pleasant afternoon in October, 'the little
company of slaves had orders to repair to Master
William's, in order to be ready to start with their
young masters the next morning.
" Mars Nattie," said Levin, as they were all assem
bled in the yard to say good-bye, " please, sir, give me
something 'fore I go, to 'member you by."
" Well," said the old man, " go in and bring me the

THE SEPARATION. 59
cowhide, and I'll give you something you'll never
forget. If I should give you a coat or a shirt, you
would wear it right out, but if I cut your skin to pieces,
you will remember this parting as long as you live.
And' mind, you rascal, when I come out next fall, I'll
bring the cowhide, and if you don't behave yourself, I'll
give you enough then — d'ye hear ?"
Such, interspersed with numerous curses, was the
kind farewell of old Nattie Gist. The servants all
shook hands, and strove to speak in cheering tones to
their departing friends ; but great tears stood in their
eyes as they watched the little company slowly march
ing down the hill.
Sadly they returned to their work, but their thoughts
crept on toward the dim future. Which of them
should go next ? Master Nattie had sold, during the
past year, more than half his servants ; and none
could tell what caprice might seize him before another
year should pass. They might all be chained in a
gang, and driven away by some barbarous trader.
Heavily throbbed their hearts as these gloomy fancies
floated before them ; and while they fried to repress
the tears that would scald their aching eye-balls, they
pursued their task in silence.
' Peter returned no more to his work at Mr. Hudson
Martin's, where he had spent the former part of the
year, but "Was sent by his master to take Levin's place
a.s waiter at Mr. John D. Young's.
Mr, Young was not a rich man— indeed he had
failed in business, and now inhabited a small brick
house on the plantation of his father-in-law. He was
an intelligent gentleman, of pleasant manners, and
great Irindliness of heart. Had his wife resembled him

60 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
in amiability and gentleness, their home would have
been happy ; but she was unfortunately destitute of that
true independence and dignity of character, that can
meet worldly reverses with composure. She felt
humiliated by their comparative poverty, and the com
forts with which she was surrounded looked hateful in
her eyes, because the splendors wealth might purchase,
were beyond her reach. Her servants endured most
in consequence of this unfortunate peculiarity. From
morning till night they were scolded, till they came to
heed the shrill voice of their mistress, no more than
they would heed the rain-drops on the roof.
During the few months which Peter spent in the
service of Mr. Young, he passed many pleasant hours
at Mr. Clay's. His childish fear of the great statesman
had changed to deepest reverence ; and, though young
masters Theodore and Thomas Clay, no longer played,
as had been their childish custom, with their colored
favorite, they treated him ever with perfect kindness.
But with the servants, every one of whom was privi
leged beyond the common lot of slaves, he was always
at home ; and many a pleasant winter evening did he
spend at Ashland.
Among the slaves that gathered there at night, one
of the merriest was Aaron the coachman. He was the
father of Mr. Clay's body servant, Charles, who, during
the last years of his master's life, was ever at his side.
Aaron was an excellent servant— quick and ener
getic, and his mirthfulness and genuine good feeling
rendered him a favorite with all ; while his stories,
•songs and merry jests, made the warm kitchen ring
again. But he had one fault. He loved a dram, and when

THE SEPARATION. 61
tempted by the sight or smell of his favorite liquor,
he could seldom resist the entreaties of his appetite.
This weakness was peculiarly annoying to Mrs'. Clay,
as it frequently unfitted him for business at a time
when she had most need of his services.
He one day drove her carriage into town, and while
she was making a visit, he improved the opportunity
to indulge in a glass of his loved beverage ; and by the
time his mistress was ready to go home, he was wholly
incapable of driving her carriage. She was, therefore,
obliged, to hire a man to take his place, and she then
resolved that Aaron should be punished. But it could
not be done without Mr. Clay's consent, as the over
seer was forbidden to strike one of the house servants,
without consulting him.
So to her husband she recited the story of her mor
tification, and, as he had tried various mild means to
cure the slave of this unlucky propensity, he decided
that it was best to use more severe measures.
The next morning he sent for the overseer, and
directed him to take Aaron into the . carriage-house,
¦ and give him a slight whipping. " Now do it quietly,"
said he, " and be sure not to cut his skin. I don't
want to hear any disturbance. Do it as gently as
possible." The overseer respectfully assented and went out.
Instantly one of the maids, who had chanced to over
hear this conversation, stole out of the house, and
sought Aaron.
" Look yer," said she, " you know what massa say ?"
"Know what massa say? No! How I know
what he say, when he never spoke to me this
mornin' ?"

62 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
" Well, he say to the overseer — ' Aaron must be
punish — for he take a dram when Mrs. Clay want him
to drive for her — you may take him to the carriage-
house and whip him, but don't cut him up.' "
" Don't cut him up ! Massa say so ? Well, welh
reckon this chile be ready. Overseer mighty good —
he talk so clever — 'pears like he thinks I's white some
times, but the devil in his eye He done wanted, this
long time, get a cut at me. I knows what overseers
means when they gets too good. Yah ! yah ! he thinks
now his gwine give this chile all he owes him."
The girl's astonished eyes followed Aaron as he
leaped over the fence, and ran toward a small grocery
that stood at a short distance on the road to town-
Here he had no difficulty in procuring a dram ; and,
having thus fitted himself for the anticipated contest,
he walked home, and resumed his work.
Soon the overseer called from the carriage-house
door — Aaron!"
"Sir?"
" Come here."
In a moment the slave stood before him.
"Aaron, Mr. Clay says you must come into the
carriage-house and be whipped."
" Did Massa say so ?"
" Yes — he says your habit of drinking annoys your
mistress so often, that you must be punished for it.
He says he has tried to persuade you to leave it off,
but it does no good. I don't like to whip you, Aaron,
but it is Mr. Clay's orders."
¦ " Well, if Massa says so, then it must be so," and he
walked quietly into the carriage-house, followed by hia

THE SEPARATION. 63
kind friend, the overseer, who fastened the door on the
inside. "Now, Mr.  ," said Aaron, "you may whip me,
if Massa says so, but you needn't tie me — I wont be
tied." " Very well," replied the overseer, throwing down
the rope which he had in his hand, "you needn't be
tied, if you will stand still ; but you must take off your
coat." " Yes sir; but if I take off my coat to be whipped,
you ought to take yourn off first to whip me."
The man perceived that he had been drinking, and
knew he must indulge his whim, if he would obey Mr.
Clay's orders to keep quiet — so he pulled off his coat,
and Aaron quickly laid his beside it on the floor.
Then followed the vest — the slave insisting that Mr.
 should first remove his own. " Now your shirt,
Aaron," said he.
"Yes sir, but you must take off yourn first."
This was going further, for quiet's sake, than the
overseer had intended; but he hesitated only a mo
ment. It would be best, he thought, to humor him.
He had, in truth, long wished for a chance to humble
Aaron, and now the time had come.
But, behold! no sooner had he lifted his arms to
pull his shirt over his head, than Aaron seized the
garment, and twisting it around his neck, held him
fast. Then catching the whip, he applied it vigorously
to the overseer's naked back, raising the skin at every
stroke. His victim screamed, and threatened him with
vengeance, but all in vain; the blows fell hard and
fast. Mr. Clay heard the outcry, and grew very angry.

64 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
"I told him," said he, "to make no noise, and. to be
sure not to whip the poor fellow severely. He must
be cutting him to pieces."
He hastened to the carriage-bouse. The door was
fastened within, but he could -hear the whizzing of the
whip, as it descended on the sufferer's back. " Open
the door!" he cried. "Didn't I tell you not to whip
him hard? Open the door, I say !
"0, Mr. Clay! it's Aaron whipping me! I haven't
given him a blow."
"Aaron," cried the master, "open the door."
Instantly the slave obeyed. With his right hand,
in which he still held the whip that he had used to
such good purpose, he opened the door, while with his
left he retained his vice-like grasp of the twisted shirt.
His face was all complacency, yet his eyes twinkled
with mirth, and a roguish smile lurked at the corner
of his mouth.
Mr. Clay stood for a few moments mute with astonish
ment. But when he fully comprehended the strange
scene, he burst into a hearty laugh, and although the
overseer, as soon as he was released, proceeded .to ex
plain to him the manner in which he had been caught,
and insisted that he should now be allowed to whip
Aaron, his arguments were lost. The master quietly
expressed his opinion that there had been whipping,'
enough— it was not necessary to go any further.

CHAPTER VI.
MASTER NATTIE'S DEATH.
In April, 1818, Mr. Young having no further need
of Peter's services, Master Nattie sent him to his brother,
William Gist, to be employed on his plantation. Here
Allison was his companion once more, and the pleasure
of being together was, in part, a compensation to each
for the absence of his brother.
But this joy was transient. Early in the ensuing
summer, young Master Andrew came from Alabama
for a short visit. He brought news of the health and
prosperity of those who had gone with him the year
before, and gave glowing descriptions of the beauty of
the country. The rich bottom lands, with their grand
old trees, the clustering vines and graceful flowering
shrubs, and, above all, the abundance of game in the
forests, afforded exhaustless topics of discourse.
When he returned, he took Allison with him.
Peter was left all alone, and his heart was very
heavy. There was no one now to whom he could
communicate all his little trials; none that would sym
pathize with his griefs. He had nothing but work to
divert his thoughts during the day ; and at night his
dreams, sleeping or waking, were all of that dear
[65]

66 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
brother, that had for so many years trod by his side
the rugged path to which they two were doomed.
Soon after the departure of his nephew, Master
Nattie's health was observed to fail ; and though for a
long time he struggled against disease, and would not
Own that he was ill, yet he was at last obliged to yield.
His constitution was worn out by intemperance and
the indulgence of evil passions ; and now, no med
icine could retard the steady approach of the Death
Angel. Twice a week, during the summer, Peter was accus
tomed to go to market. Then he never failed to visit
his old master; and as he saw his sunken eye and
hollow cheek, and noted his vacant wandering stare,
his heart sank within him.
He did not regard his master with affection. Who
could love old Nattie Gist ? But the sale, ah I if he
should die, there would, of course, be an auction, and
the traders would be there, and then, adieu to the last
hope he had cherished, of one day joining his beloved
brother. The unhappy old man continued to fail. Death
stays not at the behest of kings or generals ; how then
should the faint pTayer of a poor slave-boy impede his
progress ?
In loneliness and gloom passed the last days of the
wretched man. His housekeeper and cook, Aunt
Mary, was his constant nurse. She understood all his
wants, and she had learned patiently to bear all his
caprices. Her will — her very womanhood — had been
crushed into submission to his authority ; for though a
slave called her his wife, she had for years been forced
to disregard her marriage ties, as well as her own

MASTER NATTIE'S DEATH. 67
honor, in order to indulge the base passions of the
tyrant. Now, in the death-hour, the down-trodden woman
moistened his parched lips, all heedless of the curses
which they uttered. Her hand smoothed his pillow,
administered his medicine, and surrounded him with
all possible comforts.
Death advanced. On Saturday morning, the thir
teenth of September, when, according to his custom,
Peter went in to see him, the final struggle had com
menced. His brother William and the doctor were
standing by the bed. Silently they witnessed his
agony as he strove with the King of Terrors. There
was no light of Christian hope in his glazing eye, no
love in his obdurate heart. He would resist — he would
live 1 Why should he die ? This world had been
gloomy. No love-light had shone upon his path —
no gentle hand had led him through the labyrinths of
evil to the Author of all good. And as his lips had
loved cursing, why should he look for blessings now ?
Could he hope for a better life than he had chosen
here ? Fearful was the frown upon his face as he was
forced to yield to the great Conqueror. He strug
gled — groaned — gasped — he was gone.
Silently they closed his eyes, and horror sat upon
every countenance.
They buried him, and raised a stone to his memory.
Ah ! he chose his own remembrancers ! Poor Levin
and his fellows need no stone to tell them that a mon
ster lived.
After the funeral Mr. Wm. Gist conveyed the greater
part of his brother's property to his place for safe
keeping. A will was found conveying to his favorite

68 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
nephew, Levi Gist, the house and lot in Lexington, as
well as all the servants. Whatever money he pos
sessed he left in legacies to his other relatives.
At the time of his death, Master Nattie owned but
eleven slaves — the six that went first to Alabama.
Aunt Mary, with her two sons, and Allison and Peter.
The others he had sold some time before.
Aunt Mary was left in town to take care of the
house, till young master Levi should come to take
possession of his property. ' As she went through the
familiar rooms, and arranged and re-arranged the fur
niture, she had time to think. The past rose before
her — the dark repulsive past. She had been young,
but it was so long ago — it was hardly worth her while
to think of all the. hopes that cheered her youth. She
was married — and her husband's love shone for a
brief time on her pathway; too soon, alas! to be
shadowed by the dark passions of her absolute master.
Two babes had nestled on her bosom, and they, too,
were branded with her humiliation.
Now, he was dead — he would curse her life no
longer. Ha ! what a pang came with that half-uttered
gratulation ! Dead — and she who had served him so
faithfully — who had meekly borne his wrathful curses,
and patiently endured the degradation to which he
had reduced her — she to whom he was indebted for
all the comfort his home had known for years — who
had attended him by day and night till the grave
closed above his head — she was coolly given to his
nephew, to be transported hundreds of miles away.
How her great eyes flashed at the thought, as, with
her hand upraised, in the sohtary room where her
master died, she swore she would not go I

MASTER NATTIE'S DEATH. 69
Her husband, a native African, named Sam, who
still spoke but broken English, was soon to be free,
according to contract with his importer. Sam had the
spirit of a prince. To five always as a slave he would
not consent; and, lest he should kill himself or his
master, his liberty was promised him at a stipulated
time. Mary was fully determined that she would never
leave him nor Lexington ; and when in the December
following his uncle's death, the young heir came from
the South to remove his goods, and desired Aunt Mary
to prepare for the journey, she revolted. They might
kill her, she said, but she would not go — she indeed,
would hang herself, and that would end it.
The young man coaxed, and threatened, but in vain.
She liked Mars Levi — everybody liked him — a heap
better than old Massa ; but as to leaving " Kaintucky,"
and going away to the South, she could not.
At last, finding that it was useless to attempt to
remove her, Master Levi sold her, with her two boys,
to his father, — and she was left to spend the evening
of her days in her beloved Lexington.

CHAPTER VII.
THE JOURNEY TO ALABAMA.
On a cold Sabbath morning, December 20, 1818,
Peter started with Master John Gist, a younger brother
of " Mars Levi," for his new home in Alabama.
He wore his old master's broad-brimmed hat, and
had his shot-gun lashed upon his back. Miss 'Maltha,
the youngest daughter of Master William, came out
just as they started, and with a kind smile gave him a
handful of biscuits. Heaven bless her for the kindly
thought ! The memory of that simple gift is still
warm in the heart of him who was then but a poor
slave-boy, going forth to meet his uncertain fortunes
amid scenes strange and new.
The farewells were all said, and the young men rode
away — silently at first, for there were last words and
affectionate charges from his parents, still ringing in
the ears of Master John ; and Peter's heart was full.
He left Lexington with few regrets. It had never
seemed to him like home : though among the many
families in which he had served, there were some who
had treated him with great kindness. Yet the memory
of his mother haunted him, and a sense of injustice and
wrong, a consciousness that he had been stolen from
home, and that the power to which he had been forced
[701

THE JOURNEY TO ALABAMA. 71
to submit was all usurped, prevented his forming a
strong attachment to the place itself.
Now he had little hope of ever seeing any of his
kindred except the dear brother that had gone before ;
and his heart grew lighter, as hour by hour the dis
tance diminished between them. Alfred and Allison,
too, he soon should meet, and they were very dear to
*him — for had they hot suffered together?
Then came a heavy sinking of the heart at the
thought, that he must thenceforth be exposed to all the
reputed hardships of the South. The constant toil in
the great cotton fields, the oppressive heat, the danger
of fearful sickness, and the deeper dread of cruel over
seers — all these fell upon his hopes like snow upon the
violets that have peeped out too soon.
And oh ! if after all these years his parents should
come in search of their children, and they both be
gone! No, no! he would not think of that — and giv
ing old master's riding-horse a smart cut with his whip,
he galloped on to overtake Master John.
Hour after hour the youths rode side by side; now
conversing pleasantly about the country through which
they were passing, or reviewing little incidents con
nected with their departure from home; and again,
their thoughts grew busy, and forgot to shape them
selves in words. Day after day they still rode on ;
one anticipating a pleasant visit with his brothers, and
a speedy return to ail the endearments of a happy
home — the other, hopeful, and yet half afraid to meet
his destiny.
They spent the nights at houses of entertainment,
which they found scattered here and there along the
roadside. At these, they were received more like

72 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
family visitors than guests at a hotel. Master John
sat in the parlor by the blazing fire, and told the news
from Lexington to his kind host, or listened to the
history of the last year's crop. Peter, meanwhile, in
the kitchen made himself no less agreeable. He had
come from town, and could tell wonders to' his less
privileged auditors, who had seldom been out of sight
of home. ,
The travellers arrived at Hopkinsville on Christmas
morning. Here dwelt Dr. William Teagarden, whose.
wife was. a maternal aunt of Master John, and at his
house they spent the holidays.
This was a merry time. All the usual Christmas
festivities were enjoyed, and Mrs. Teagarden, in addition
to these, gave a large evening party in compliment to
her nephew.
Here Peter had a fine opportunity to display his
skill and grace as a waiter, and so highly pleased was
Mrs. Teagarden with his expertness in this vocation,
that she made several efforts during the next three
years, to purchase him of his young master.
"Look yer, Peter," said a gossiping old woman, who
stood among the other servants just outside the parlor-
door, and who had been watching the dancers with in
tense interest, " your Mars John gwine fall in love wid
dat young lady, I reckon. How you like her for
missus ?"
"What young lady you mean? I reckon Mars
John ain't in no hurry to fall in love, no how."
"Why, Miss Agnes Keats. Dar! he's leadin' her
to a cheer by her sister, Miss Frances. He's danced
a'most all night wid her, and 'pears like he thinks
she's mighty perty."

THE JOURNEY TO ALABAMA. 73
"She is that," said Peter, "does her father live
about yer?"
" Yes, he's a livin' now ; but he come mons's nigh
gwine to de bad man where he 'longs. Didn't you
hear 'bout it in Lex'n'ton ? He's got a heap o' people
on dem dar two big plantations, and he does 'em
mighty mean. But it wasn't none o' de field hands 'at
lolled him."
" Killed him ? You said he was a livin' now."
" So I did ; but Tse gwine tell you how he kep'
clar. You see, he alters keeps three or four to de
home place to wait on de family — well he was dot
mean dey couldn't live in no sort o' fashion ; so two
big men what staid round de house and garden, dev
'trive a plan to get enough to eat, for one day, least
ways. Dey got hold de gun, and when de ole massa
done got settle nice in his bed, dey ris de gun up on de
winder bottom, and pint it to his heart. But de ole
cook 'voman — she hope urn, kase she fotch out de gun,
an' lef ' de winder open ; she got mighty skeered 'bout
her missus, and kep' tellin' 'em all de time dey's fixin'
de gun, 'Now min' you don't hit missus — keep it elar
o' missus. " When dey got all fix, dey pull dat dar trigger —
Hi ! didn't it pop ? but it didn't kill de ole massa —
struck his ribs, I reckon. Well, de minute de ole
cook 'voman year de gun, she lif ' up her hands and
fotch a big scream. ' 0 Lor' ! 111 lay you's done kill
missus, now!'
" Every person on de place year dat yell, and all
come a runnin' to see who's kill."
" What 'come of the men?" asked Peter, his blood
chilled at the thought of the horrid deed.
4.

74 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
" De men — 0 dey 's hung. Dey had a little court ;
did n't take long to prove dey's guilty, kase you see
dey got cotch, so dey hung 'erh mons's quick."
" Did they hang the 'oman, too?"
" No, dey sol' her way off to de Coas'. Reckon she
won't never hope no more sich work as dat. 'Pears
hke, it's mighty hard to have sich a mean massa as ole
Keats, but it's a heap wuss to try dis yer kiflin' busi
ness. De Lor' don't 'low dat dar, no how.
" Dar ! dat set's up. Mars John gwine lead Miss
Agnes up for de nex'. How nice dat pa'r does look?"
On the morning of the third of January, Master
John and Peter resumed their journey southward.
They spent*one night at Nashville, and one at Colum
bia, Tenn., and on the morning of the sixth, at eleven
o'clock, they reached Bainbridge.
Peter's heart beat fast as he approached the spot that
was thenceforth to be his home. Everything he saw
looked strange and uncouth. The town, if such indeed
it might be called, consisted of about thirty small log
cabins, scattered here and there among the tall old
forest trees. Groups of white-haired, sallow-skinned
children were playing about the doors, or peeping
slyly at the strange gentleman as he passed. Now and
then, between the trees, were seen the bright waters
of the Tennessee sparkling in the sunlight ; but even
they pursued their pleasant way in silence, as if re
luctant to disturb the quiet of the place.
"Well, Peter," said Master John, "this is Bain
bridge — how do you like the looks of the place?"
"Looks like 'taint a town, Mars John; I never
knowed folks have a town in the woods."
Oh ! the woods will be gone in a few years. Don't

THE JOURNEY TO ALABAMA. 75
you see, many of these trees are dead now ? They
girdle them that way, and the next year they die."
" Whar's the store ? Mars Levi say he got a store.
yer." " Yonder it is — where that gentleman is sitting on
the porch?"
" That the store 1 Don't look no bigger'n a kitchen !
Whar Mars Levi live ?"
"Here we are at his house, now." Master John
sprang to the ground, and gave his horse to Peter,
who with wondering eyes, was looking toward the
house. He could hardly believe that those two log cabins,
with an open passage between them, constituted Mas
ter Levi's residence in Alabama. " Ha !" thought he,
" ole Mars Nattie say, they all gwine get rich out yer.
What he say now, if he see his young gentlemen
alivin' in a cabin in the woods among pore white
folks." He followed Master John into the house. No one
was there. They went on to the kitchen, and with an
exclamation of joy, old Aunt Peggy ran forth to meet
them. "Mars Levi gone out huntin'," said she, " but
I reckon Mars Andrew in de store — he's dar mostly.
0, I's so glad to see somebody from de ole place !"
" Dar Peter !" cried she, as the sound of wheels was
heard, " dar's my ole man with his wagon ; he's gwine
to de mill whar de boys is all to work."
A moment more, and Peter was in the wagon be
side old Frank, hastening to the embrace of his brother
Levin. He could hardly wait to answer all the old
man's questions about home, and the dear friends he
had left behind.

76 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Very joyful was the meeting between the brothers.
Few were the words they uttered — their hearts were
too full for speech. Alfred and Allison,- too, were
there ; the little group of true friends was once more
complete. After two weeks spent about the house, in assisting
Aunt Peggy to cook, and in forming a general ac
quaintance with the premises, Peter was sent to the
cotton field.

CHAPTER VIII.
FIRST FOUR YEARS IN THE SOUTH.
Here a new world opened before the young slave.
The brick-yards in which his boyhood was spent, the
fields of corn, tobacco, and hemp, around Lexington,
presented no picture that could equal this. Far away
stretched the brown plain, covered with the frosted
cotton shrubs. Here and there stood a girdled forest
tree, leafless and grim, yet mighty in its very desolate-
ness. Gloomily its wasted- shadow fell across the path
way trod by its destroyers, like the mysterious dread
of ill that ever haunts the footsteps of the guilty.
The crop was now about half picked out. The busi
ness was all new to Peter, and. though it did not look
difficult, yet he worked diligently all day, and at night
had only twelve pounds and a half. The other boys
were greatly amused at his awkwardness, and played
many jokes upon him, telling him he must first break
off the boll, and then pick out the cotton.
At night, when Master Andrew weighed the cotton,
he told them he would give a new pair of shoes to the
one who would pick fifty pounds the next day. Alli
son was nearly barefoot, and he worked hard for the
prize, but in vain. Peter, however, had learned wis
dom from one day's failure, and, to the surprise of all,
[77]

78 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
he had at night, seventy-five pounds. After this, he
was seldom excelled in the cotton field. His fingers
were long and nimble, and he could pluck the fleecy
treasure from the frost-browed boll almost without
effort. Bainbridge, though mainly settled by poor people,
who gained a scanty subsistence by hunting and fishing,
was at that time surrounded by the estates of wealthy
planters. Some of these were of good Virginia or
Carolina families, but more were ignorant and vulgar
men ; overseers, or even negro traders, formerly, who
had gained wealth in these refined pursuits, and were
thereby entitled to stand in the ranks of the aristocracy
of North Alabama.
The store of the Messrs. Gist was a favorite resort of
these neighboring planters. It contained not only the
usual assortment of .dry goods, groceries, &c, with
which country storepare usually supplied, but what
was more essential to the social enjoyment of the gen
tlemen there congregated, excellent liquors of every
kind. There too, was the Post Office; and to the
patriots of Bainbridge there was never lack of interest
in the great subjects of politics, and  the cotton
market. Upon these they conversed day after day, as
they sat on the porch at the store door, and night after
night the discussions warmed, as the branched flush
crept over cheek and brow of the staunch vindicators
of their different party chiefs. Sometimes, indeed the
arguments ran so high that the disputants went home
with visages slightly disfigured by contact with oppos
ing fists ; but these wounds soon healed, and over a
bottle of good old wine, such trifling episodes were
quite forgotten.

FIRST FOUR YEARS IN THE SOUTH. 79
For two years, this little family quietly pursued the
regular avocations of the farm. They made excellent
crops in proportion to the number of hands employed ;
and the business of the store was at the same time very
lucrative. The brothers bought and shipped cotton,
corn, and bacon, and kept for sale, at a good profit, all
kinds of goods that were required by their various
customers. During the winter the slaves had many opportunities
of earning pocket money. Flat-boats loaded with cotton,
while coming down the river, were frequently stove on
the rocks in the Muscle Shoals, at the foot of which Bain
bridge is situated. The cotton, becoming wet, was thus
rendered unfit for market, unless the bales were opened
and thoroughly dried. This furnished employment
for the negroes on Sundays. Carefully they spread
the damp cotton on boards or rocks in the sunshine,
turning and shaking it frequently till it was perfectly
dry, and fit to be repacked in bales for market. For
this labor, they sometimes received a dollar a day —
thus supplying themselves with the means of procuring
many little comforts.
In the year 1821, Mr. Levi Gist bought a plantation
of four hundred and eighty acres, about seven miles
south of his home. He also built a large brick house
in Bainbridge, the lower story of which he intended
to occupy as a store. In the fall of this year, he re
moved all his servants, except Peter, to the new plant
ation. Him he retained to wait on himself, and on
the beautiful young bride whom he brought home in
December. This lady, whose generous and uniform kindness to
himself Peter still delights to remember, was Miss

80 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Thirmuthis Waters, formerly of Nashville. She had
come out to Alabama the previous spring with her
sister, Mrs. McKiernan, who, with her husband, had
settled on a plantation near that recently purchased by
Mr. Gist.
Peter had now to perform the duties of cook, house
maid, and waiter, there being no other servant in the
house, except a little boy about twelve years old, that
assisted him in performing some of the lighter labors.
These were the brightest days that had ever fallen
to the lot of the young slave. His time was all occu
pied, but he succeeded in performing his various duties
to the satisfaction of his mistress, and he felt not the
want of leisure. Her approving smile shed sunshine
on his lowly path and her gentle kindness filled his
heart with gratitude.
Now, but for the one cloud that shadowed his spirit,
he would have enjoyed comparative content. But the
thought of his mother far away, who could never hear
from him, and whom now he might not hope to see,
isolated him, in some sense, from his companions in'
bonds. It is true, that no intelligent slave can feel that
his thraldom is just, because his mother was, perforce,
a chattel ; and yet, the knowledge that he was born a
slave, like those he sees around him, and the total
ignorance of a. different structure of society, go far
to reconcile the unfortunate bondman to his lot.
A few weeks after the wedding, Mr. Gist accom
panied his bride and her sister, Mrs. McKiernan, on a
visit to their friends in Nashville.
The journey — one hundred and twenty miles— was
performed on horseback ; and as the party rode away
through the woods on a fine January morning, they

FIRST FOUR YEARS IN THE SOUTH. 81
formed a beautiful group. Mr. Gist — a well-formed
Kentuckian — his fine brown features enlivened by
splendid black eyes, and glowing with health and
vigor, rode proudly at his lady's side. She was very
beautiful. Her large, dark eyes sparkled with anima
tion, and her tall, erect figure, and graceful dignity of
carriage, rendered her, in her husband's eyes, an em
bodiment of womanly perfection.
Near the fair bride rode her sister — a graceful, ma
tronly lady, several years her senior, whose slight.
delicate figure presented a marked contrast to her own
queenly proportions.
At the distance of a few paces followed Peter, and
while he gazed admiringly at the dear forms of his
young master and mistress, he was far from being for
getful of his own fine points. He was now nearly
twenty-one, and his pleasant, lively face, and obliging
manners, won him friends wherever he went. Then,
his new suit was very becoming, and he rode as fine a
horse as he could wish. Not one of the party was
better mounted.
He was proud, too, of his young master, and deter
mined, in his own mind, that the Nashville folks should
be impressed with the dignity and consequence of the
family into which Miss Thirmuthis had married.
Swiftly flew the two weeks of their stay in Nash
ville. Several parties were given to the young couple
by the family and friends of the bride, and before the
plans which their friends had formed for their pleasure
were half accomplished, the time that they had allotted
to the visit was spent, and they were obliged to set out
upon their return.
At the age of twenty-one, Peter began to think
A.*

¦**¦
T 82 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
more seriously than he had ever thought before, of
estabhshing a character for life. He saw the moral
degradation that prevailed among those of his own
color, and he could not but discover that many of their
masters failed to keep themselves pure. The vulgar
and blasphemous oath, the obscene jest, and the harsh
tone of angry passion, he often heard proceeding from
the lips of gentlemen; — yes, even the low jargon of
drunkenness was not seldom uttered by the lordly
master of scores of crouching slaves.
All this "the young man saw, and heard — and
loathed; and now that he had reached the age of
manhood, he resolved to shun the insidious advances'
of every vice. He abandoned the use of tobacco,
which he had commenced when but a boy ; and though
he had sometimes taken a dram with his companions,
he determined that he would thenceforth touch no in
toxicating drink. Thereafter, profanity dwelt not upon
¦his lips, and falsehood was a .stranger to his tongue.
His character 'for integrity and honesty became firmly
established, and though but a slave, he won the entire
confidence of all with whom he was connected*
With these noble resolves of his opening manhood,
came ardent desires for freedom. He reviewed his
past life — there was nothing there — in feeling, thought,
or act — that proved him unfit for liberty. The curse
of slavery had embittered his heart, and with every
power of his soul aroused, he resolved that he would
struggle to escape it. By flight or purchase— some

* Of Peter's integrity and honesty, the writer speaks from per*
sonal knowledge ; having been acquainted with him for several
years of his slave-life in Alabama.

FIRST FOUR YEARS IN THE SOUTH. 83
means must offer — he would yet win back his human
birthright. With this goal of all his hopes, somewhere in the
hidden future, he pursued his daily round of humble
duties — patiently waiting till he should perceive some
opening in the dense, dark cloud that enveloped his
fate. In October, 1822, Mr. Gist relinquished his share in
the store to his brother, who had been his partner;
and removing to the plantation, devoted his whole
attention to agricultural pursuits.
Here they lived in true Southern country style.
The " great house" on the plantation consisted of two
cabins, built of hewn logs, and whitewashed within and
without with lime. A covered passage connected the
rooms, over each of which was a small, low chamber.
A log kitchen and smoke-house in the rear, with the
usual potato-house, saddle-house, and other small, shed
like buildings, each appropriated to the shelter of a
single article or class, completed the establishment.
At dawn of day, the master was up and away with
his hounds to the woods, and woe to the unlucky fox
or rabbit whose trail they chanced to discover.
The overseer, meantime, marshalled his forces ; and
as there were so few hands on the plantation, he was,
by his contract with the master, obliged to take his
hoe and work with them.
The domestic arrangement of the household was
perfect. The young mistress was fond of order and
regularity ; and, through her kind and constant disci
pline, those desirable qualities soon became manifest
in the habits of her servants.

84 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Thus, on the plantation of young master Levi, peace
and happiness established their dominion. One ac
quainted with the neighborhood in which he lived,
would have pronounced his place an oasis in the de
sert — a sohtary star in a midnight sky.

CHAPTER IX.
LEVIN'S MARRIAGE,
It is a pleasant Sabbath evening in early spring.
The air is filled with perfume from hosts of new made
flowers, and vocal with the merry notes of birds.
Master Levi rises from his seat on the porch, and
walks slowly to and fro in the yard. He is stouter
and handsomer than he was two years ago, when he
came out on the farm to live. Aye, and happier too ;
for the lovely little Mary, that stretches out her tiny
hands towards her papa, and sweetly lisps his name,
has unsealed a new fountain of joy in his bosom.
Yes, he is happy and prosperous. His crops all
look well, and his negroes are healthy and obedient.
" 0 mass'r 1" says a voice at his side. He turns. It
is Levin. He has grown tall and manly since we re
marked him last — of course, for he is now about
twenty-five years old, and a fine stout fellow.
"Well, Levin, what do you want?" responds the
master. " What is the matter ?"
"0, nuthin's the matter, sir; only I wanted to ax
you if you's willin' I should get married, sir."
"Get married? Why, yes — you're old enough, I
suppose — over twenty, aren't you ?
" Yes, sir, I's twenty-five." rssi

86 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
" Well, where's the girl you want to marry ? You
can have a wife as soon as you wish, if you will get
one of the right sort."
" I wants Fanny Hogun, sir ; and ole Mars Jimmy,
he say I may have her if you's willin', sir."
"Fanny Hogun! Old Jimmy Hogun's Fanny!
The very worst place in the neighborhood for a fellow
to be running ! Fanny — let me see — her mother's
Linsey, old Jimmy's housekeeper — a regular she-devil.
What put into your stupid head to go there to hunt
for a wife ? No, you can't have Fanny. You may
have a wife, and welcome ; but no boy of mine shall
be spending his nights and Sundays at old Jimmy
Hogun's — d'ye hear ?"
" But, mass'r, Fanny's a good girl, and 'pears like
'twont do no hurt to go and see her, sir. I don't want
nary nother wife, sir."
" But I tell you, Levin, I can't let one of my boys
have a wife at such a place as that. So don't talk
any more about it. You can hunt up another girl
that will suit you better."
Poor Levin walked away. He was sadly disap
pointed. He knew his, master had good cause for
disliking to have his people associate with old Jimmy
Hogun's negroes ; but he and Fanny loved each other
so dearly that he could not give her up.
Mr. James Hogun was a bachelor — an eccentric
man — silent and unsociable. He was seldom seen
from home, even within the circle of his own family
connections. But though as an individual, he was little known,
his place was famed in all the country around as the
scene of most disgraceful proceedings. No white

LEVIN'S MARRIAGE. 87
woman inhabited the premises, but many beautiful
slave girls embellished his demesne. Here "patrol-
lers" and other wild and reckless characters were wont
to resort at night, and, free from all restraint, to give
the rein to every evil passion.
All this was well known to Levin — but Fanny, he
was sure, was not like her companions. She was good
and true, and she loved him.
He disliked exceedingly to offend his master who
had always been so kind to him, and yet he could not
decide to sacrifice his deepest, truest affection. For
some time he hesitated, but at last love conquered;
and without the approbation of his master, he took
the lively Fanny for his wife.
Mr. and Mrs. Gist were both displeased. They had
reasoned with Levin, and sought by every kind method
to dissuade him from this measure, and his disobedi
ence gave them real pain.
Levin had hoped that, once married, all his troubles
would be past, but he soon ascertained that they had
but just commenced.
He could seldom go to see his wife, for the overseer,
aware that his master was opposed to his going, placed
every possible impediment in his way. Once, indeed,
he went so far, the day after one of these stolen visits,
as to strip him and tie him up, intending to whip him
well. The master, however, forbade the execution of
this design, and the disappointed ruffian could only
avenge his wounded pride by crushing his intended
victim with heaps of curses.
But when Fanny dared to come to see her husband,
she was under no such friendly protection. In vain
Levin begged that she might be spared, and threatened

88 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
to tell his master. The overseer knew that Mr. Gist
did not favor her visits, .and as he seldom had an op
portunity to exercise his disciplinary talents, now —
" Gist was so devilish careful of his niggers" — he could
ill afford to lose such opportunities for sport.
Soon after his marriage, Levin's health failed, and
he became unable to continue his labors in the field.
He could, however, do light work, and his mistress
took him into the house.
His master now renewed his efforts to persuade him
to refrain from visiting his wife, but all in vain. His
love for Fanny was warm and true, and no argument
could move him.
Mr. Gist's patience at length gave way. His anger
rose. He would not thus be baffled by a servant — he
would force him to obey his wishes ! He accordingly
bound the astonished slave, and whipped him severely.
Three hundred and seventeen lashes fell upon his
naked back.
A little later, and the marker's passion had subsided.
He was astonished at himself. Remorse and bitter
sorrow filled his heart ; and with his own brave frank
ness he confessed — even to the victim of his wrath—
that he had done a grievous wrong. " I have acted
hastily," said he, " while in a passion, and I am very
sorry." After this no force was used to prevent the inter
course of the true-hearted pair, but they were per
mitted peaceably to enjoy their transient visits to each
other.

CHAPTER X.
' VINA'S EARLY HISTORY.
In Edgecombe county, N. C, about seven miles from
Tarboro', lived a respectable planter, named William
Foxall. He was handsome in person, and in manners
most agreeable ; a kind master, and a true-hearted
friend. At the time of which we speak — 1817 — he was a
widower with two children. The eldest, a lovely and
accomplished young lady, named Mary Ann, the fruit
of his first marriage, resided with her father ; but the
little boy, a final parting gift from his last wife, was
adopted by her grandmother immediately after her
daughter's death.
Mr. Foxall was not a wealthy man ; indeed he had
never been ambitious to accumulate great riches. He
had chosen rather to five in the enjoyment of the
competency bequeathed him by his ancestors, and to
leave it, together with an untarnished name, as au
inheritance to his children.
But the quiet he had chosen was destined to be
interrupted by the entreaties of an old schoolmate, who
had resided for a few years in Lawrence county,
Alabama. This gentleman, whose name was Allen, wrote 'fre
quently to Mr. Foxall, and always begged him'to sell
[S!>]

90 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
what he termed his meagre old plantation, and to come
to the Tennessee Valley. "Here," said he, "you will
find a country beautiful by nature, and rich as beauti
ful. The soil seems eager to yield its increase, and
wealth waits but the planter's bidding. Come to this
charming valley, where, with the forces now at your
command, a few years' crops will make you indepen
dent, and insure wealth to your children after you are
gone." The alluring prospect tempted even the unambitious
Foxall ; and he sold his old plantation, endeared as it
was to him by a thousand tender associations. His
servants, old and young, he resolved to take with him.
Among these, there was one woman named Sally,
who, with her three children, properly belonged to his
daughter; she having been given to the first Mrs.
Foxall on her marriage.
Sally was an excellent servant, and devotedly at
tached to her young mistress. She had waited on her
departed mother when she too was a blooming maiden,
and had arrayed her in her bridal robes. All her cares
and sorrows she had shared ; and when their beloved
mistress was passing away, she it was that smoothed
the dying pillow, and folded the meek hands to their
long repose.
Then the deep love of her nature was transferred to
the sweet infant left wholly to her care ; and though
Avhen her own children were born, a new fount of
tenderness was opened in her heart, it was scarce
deeper than that which had welled forth for the
motherless babe she had cherished.
Her own poor children, alas ! were now fatherless—
though death had spared the husband of her love.

VINA'S EARLY HISTORY. 91
His name was Silas ; and his owner, a Mr. Sisson,
Hved a few miles from-Mr. FoxaU's plantation. Silas
was a carpenter, a fine energetic fellow, and Avas highly
esteemed by his owner. He was also full of affection
for his Avife and babes ; and was unhappy only when
by some arrangement beyond his control, he was pre
vented from enjoying their society at the stated season.
When the youngest of his three children was but an
infant, a branch of the Sisson family removed to Ala
bama, and as they would be obliged on arriving there
to build themselves a house, they took Silas with them.
Sad was his heart when he came to say " Good bye"
to Sally and her little ones, but he was hopeful. He
was not sold; and when the new house should be built
in that strange wild place where they were going, he
could return. They would not keep him there, away
from all he loved— ah, no!
But a year passed, and no permission came for Silas
to return to the old place. He had been patient, but
his endurance could not last forever ; and one night,
when all was still about the new house he had built,
he rose up quietly, and bade a silent farewell to the
kind friends that seemed so unwilling to let him go.
He was not long in returning to his old home, and
there he spent one more happy year. His little chil
dren learned to watch for his coming, and Sally's eyes
regained their wonted brilliancy.
Ah! when he had ceased to fear, then was his
danger nearest. The man from whom he had fled
came again, and carried him away in heavy chains.
Where he was conveyed, his wife knew not. Only
once more she saw his face. After she had for months
deplored his sad fate, he came to see her. Three days

92 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
his "pass" allowed him to remain with her. How
swiftly did they pass ?
He had been working at his trade, he said, but they
were about to send him to the Potomac river, to be
employed upon a boat; and when he could come
again, he did not know.
Never more did Sally's eye rest upon the form of
her husband; never more did his pleasant voice delight
her ear. Year after year she watched for his coming,
till her heart grew sick with waiting, and she knew
that she must give him up.
At last, the news that the Foxall family was about
to remove to Alabama, reached his ears, and though
he could not visit his dear ones, he found an opportu
nity to send them some little presents, as farewell tokens
of his love.
The grandparents of Miss Foxall insisted that if her
father went to Alabama, she should remain with them.
That rude new country would be no place for her, des
titute as she was of a mother's care ; and though Mr.
Foxall longed for her cheering presence, he felt that
they were right ; and with a father's blessing, he left
his daughter to their guardianship:
Sally, too, and her children, should have remained,
but he needed all his forces to make his first crop ; and
as he promised to send them back when he should he
able to dispense Avith their services, his daughter and
her friends consented to his taking them.
Sally's oldest child was named Jerry. He was a
fine healthy boy, nine years old. Lavinia, or Vina, as
she was usually called, was seven, and Quail, the
youngest, a bright merry boy, was nearly five. These
were the light of her eyes ; and though she grieved at

VINA'S EARLY HISTORY. 93
the thought of parting with her young mistress, and
wondered who would noAV perform for her all the little
services that had never yet been entrusted to less care
ful hands than hers, yet she felt that, so long as she
could keep all her own children Avith her, she should
not repine.
Dr< Allen, the friend who had urged Mr. Foxall's
emigration, was settled near Courtland, Lawrence
county. Here he had a fine plantation, and his friend
bought one adjoining. Then Avith the idea that they
could thus work their hands to better advantage, they
entered into partnership, working all the land together,
and sharing equally the profits.
Year after year passed in his new home; yet the
bright visions of wealth that had enticed Mr. Foxall
thitherward, vanished into thin air.
Not that his friend had exaggerated the fertility of
the soil, or any other of the peculiar natural advantages
of the beautiful valley in which he had settled. No ;
the rich bottom lands near the river teemed with vege
tation, and the broad plains for miles back brought
forth abundant crops. Nature's work was all perfect ;
and the laborers performed their duty well.
Cotton was "made" and sold; and corn, in quanti
ties that astonished the Carolinians, who had all their
lives been accustomed to tilling a less prolific soil.
Yet? notwithstanding all this apparent prosperity, the
coffers of the planters were not full ; and as years passed
on, though crops were regularly gathered in and sold,
great debts accumulated, and ruin stared them in the
face. Ah, William Foxall ! could you hope to grow rich,

94 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
when your fortune was linked with that of a drunkard
and a gambler ?
With the cowardice characteristic of the votaries of
dissipation, Dr. Allen, when he saw that a crash Avas
inevitable, privately quitted the country, leaving his
partner to endure alone the consequences of his own
criminal self-indulgence, and to arrange the business as
he could.
Poor Mr. Foxall .was overcome with grief and humi
liation. The debts had been contracted by his partner,
but as his share of their wasted property was insuf
ficient to pay one-third of them, he was obliged to turn
out all his OAvn. Even the trusting servants, more hia
friends than slaves, that he had brought with him from
the dear old home, must go to satisfy the gambler's
creditors. Oh ! what a wave of sorrow rushed over the spirits
of those doomed slaves, when they learned their des
tiny ! Even Sally and her children, who should have
been sent back to their young mistress, to whom of
right they still belonged, they, too, were given up.
As many as could be sold at private sale were thus
disposed of. That was better than to be put up at
auction, where they might fall into the hands of traders,
and thus become so widely scattered that they could
never more hear from each other.
Vina was the first of all the number to be sold. She
had been hired out as a nurse for two or three years,
and was now in the service of Mrs. Smith, at the hotel
in Courtland.
It was Sunday morning, and Aunt Sally was com
ing in that day from the plantation, to see her children.

VINA'S EARLY HISTORY. 95
Vina had dressed the baby, and was just finishing the
arranging of her mistress' room, when Dr. P  , of
Courtland, entered.
"Your name is Vina," said he, "and you belong to
Mr. Foxall?"
"Yes, sir."
" Well, I have bought you, and you must be ready
to go with me in an hour."
He left the room, and Vina gazed after him like
one bewildered. It was so sudden, only one hour,
and her mother had not yet come.
She looked up the street. There was no one in
sight that cared for her. A thought struck her. She
would go and see her master,' and learn from his own
lips her fate. She would beg him to let her stay till
her mother should come ; she could not go away with
out bidding her " Good-bye."
Mr. Foxall lived in the village, in a large brick
house, near the hotel. Thither the excited girl ran.
" Is Mass'r in the house ?" asked she of the first servant
that she met.
" I reckon so ; I aint seen him gwine out."
But the master, well-nigh broken hearted at the ne
cessity of parting with his servants, could not be found.
Vina ran through the house, searching every room
that was unlocked. He had expected this, and he
could not bear to meet her, after he had sold her to a
stranger. The poor girl returned to the hotel. She had
learned from some of the servants that Dr. P. had not
bought her for himself; but that, being indebted to
Mr. McKiernan, of Franklin county, and his former
partner, Mr. Stout, of Nashville, he had, at their re-

96 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
quest, bought her and a young girl named Rosetta, for
them. With an aching heart, she stood watching for her
mother. There was no tear in her eye, and her fea
tures were fixed and rigid. Ah Sally ! came there no
spirit-voice to thee, bidding thee hasten to thy child,
whose heart was breaking ?
" Ready, girl ?" shouted a coarse voice. "Come!
can't wait. Bring along your traps, if you've got any,
but you can't take a big bundle, seein' there's two on
you to ride."
Vina gazed a moment at the speaker, an ill-looking
young man on horseback, and then, seeing that Rosetta
stood by his side, holding another horse by the bridle,
she silently picked up the little bundle she had pre
pared, and went out. One long look she cast up the
street, with a faint hope that she might yet see her
mother's form approaching.
That hope was vain. She saw many happy mothers
with their children, walking to the house of God ; and
maidens of her own age tripped by, unconscious alike
of grief and care. No tearful pitying eye rested upon
her face, no heart sighed at the utter desolation of her
hopes. She mounted the horse mechanically, as one in a
dream ; and Rosetta sprang up behind her.
Silently, hour after hour, they followed their rough
guide. Now, blooming fields, on either side, smiled
on them as they passed ; and then, their road crept
through thick gloomy woods, that hid the darkness in
their shadowy depths through all the bright Spring
days.

CHAPTER XI.
VINA'S FIRST YEAR AT McKIERNAN'S.
Late in the evening, the two young maidens reached
their destination, and were conducted to the kitchen.
Bashfully they crept into the darkest corner, while cu
rious eyes stared at them from every side, and wonder
ing whispers passed from lip to lip.
The cook alone seemed not surprised at the arrival
of the strangers, but with a wise look that well became
her elevated station, bade them come closer to the fire ;
for " 'Pears like," said she, " de evenin's sort o' cold.
Missus '11 be home to-reckly ; she went to Tuscumby
to church, to-day, wid her sister, Miss 'Muthis. Dar,
warm yerself, honey, you looks sort o' chilly like,"
continued the old woman, as she drew Rosetta towards
the blazing fire, at which she was preparing supper.
Rosetta had left neither father nor mother behind,
and though she was sad at leaving her young compan
ions, and above all, her master, Avhom she almost
adored, yet these slight regrets soon subsided, and she
readily glided into conversation, with the new associ
ates to whom she had been so unceremoniously pre
sented. The iron had not entered her soul.
But Vina crept further back into her shadowed
corner, where, heedless of the numerous visitors that
5 . [97]

98 ' THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
love to assemble on Sunday evening in a planter's
kitchen, she yielded to the influence of her desponding
thoughts. Yet no tear moistened her eye-hd, no sob
gave vent to the choking anguish of her heart.
" Missis come : say, bring in supper ;" said a young
girl, appearing for a moment at the kitchen door.
Supper was carried in, and, one by one, the dark
visitors to the kitchen went out ; some to prepare their
own scant evening meals, and others to collect again
in little groups for confidential chat.
"Hi! dem's nice gals in yon!" said the tallest in one
of these groups— a kind hearted fellow, that had
pitied the confusion of the young strangers.
" Not over an' above nice, I reckon ; dat little un's
sort o' fa'r, but t'other looks Hke she don't know
nuthin'. She aint much 'count, no how."
"You don't know 'bout dat dar," rejoined the first
speaker, " she mought 'a' lef ' — her sweetheart — 'way
yon' — pears Hke she feels mighty bad."
"Missus say, come in de house; she want to see
what ye all looks like ;" cried the same young girl at
the kitchen door.
"Dar, go 'long honey," said the old cook, as she
drew Vina from the shaded corner, and placed her
beside Rosetta. "Hoi' up yer heads now, children,
and look peart like when ye goes in to see Missus; go
'long." " De. Lor' help 'em, poor little critters," sighed the
kind old woman, as - she Avatched them from the
kitchen door, "dey's got a she wolf to deal wid now.
'Pears like dey aint used to hard times, no how, but
nobody cant say dat dar 'bout em, arter dey's done
staid on dis yer place one year."

vina's FIRST YEAR ATMoKIERNAN'S. 99
Timidly the two girls advanced into the presence of
their future. mistress. She fixed her keen cold eyes on
them for a moment, and then addressed herself to
Vina. " What can you do, girl?"
"I's been used to nursin', ma'am, and waitin' in the
house." " Did you never work in the field ?"
"No, ma'am."
" Ah ! you've been raised quite a lady ! Can you
round corn?"*
" I don't know what that is, ma'am."
" Can you chop through cotton ?"f
"No, ma'am." ¦
"You're such a lady, I suppose you never saw any
cotton grow."
"Yes ma'am, I's seen a plenty of cotton a growin',
but I never worked it."
Mr. McKiernan then approached, , and unfastening
her frock behind, examined her back. "Have you
ever been whipped ?" asked he.
"No, Sir."
" So I thought, your back is as smooth as mine."
He then proceeded to make a more minute examin
ation of her person, inspecting her limbs, to see whether
she were well-formed and sound.
Rosetta then underwent a similar examination, and
the master and mistress both seeming satisfied, they
were dismissed.
" See that you behave yourselves," said the master,
* "Weeding around the hills.
t Thinning the cotton by removing all superfluous stalks, so as to
leave only enough for a stand.

100 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
as they Avent out, — " if you do well, you'll find that we
shaU be good to you."
Martha, the young girl before mentioned, accom
panied them back to the kitchen. "Your coat is un
fastened," said Rosetta, as they went out, "stop a
minute till I button it."
" 0 no," whispered Martha, "I can't have it fastened,
my back's so sore."
"What's the matter with your back?"
"Why, whar missus cuts me up. She's alters a
beatin' me. 0 I wish I's dead !"
The strangers exchanged mournful looks, but not
another word was spoken.
After they went out, a consultation was held in
" Missus' " room, concerning the most profitable dispo
sition that could be made of the two girls. " Mr. Stout
will not be on for his till some time in the summer,"
said the mistress ; " there wiU be time enough before
that to ascertain which will make the most valuable
servant ; but it isn't best to let them know that either
of them is to go to Nashville. We will try them, and
keep the one that we like best."
They were both unaccustomed to field labor, and
after due consultation it was decided best to send
Martha out, and to keep both of the new ones for the
present in the house. Accordingly, the next morning,
Martha was sent to the field. She was glad of the ex
change, for she was not strong, and her mistress had
taxed her powers of endurance to the utmost. To Vina
was assigned the post of housemaid and waiter; and
Rosetta was installed as nurse of Bernard McKiernan,
Junior, then but a few months old.
Mrs. McKiernan was much pleased with her two

vina's FIRST YEAR AT MoKIERNAN'S. 101
new maids, and with good reason, for they were quick
and careful, and attentive to all her instructions. Poor
Martha's bruised back had filled their hearts with
terror ; and from the conversations of their fellow-ser
vants in the kitchen, they gained no impressions of their
new mistress that, tended to dispel their fears.
For three months the young girls quietly pursued
their monotonous round of daily duties ; and thus far,
they had scarcely given occasion to their mistress for a
reproof. Rosetta had become quite happy and contented ; but
poor Vina's heart pined for her mother. All night
she lay very still, wrapt in a blanket, on the floor of
her mistress' room, and wondered if her mother and
brothers had been sold, and wished she knew where
they had been carried. When she feH asleep, her heart
was wandering still through strange, lonely places, in
search of those whose forms, alas ! she might never
more behold. But after all, they might be very near
her — Oh! rf she could only hear who had bought
them! This perpetual anxiety could not fail to impair her
health. She lost all appetite for food ; and though she
uttered no complaint, one could plainly see, by her
wasted figure, and by the look of melancholy that
never left her face, that she was wretched.
One morning in June, as Mrs. McKiernan, accord
ing to her custom, was making a tour of discovery
through the house, to be sure that everything was in
order, she chanced to spy a- silver ladle in the kitchen,
that must have remained there since dinner-time of
the preceding day. It was the first.instance of care
lessness or neglect that had occurred iu Vina's depart-

102 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
ment since she had been in the house ; and with quick
anger, the mistress seized the cowhide.
Vina had never in her life been whipped, except
when, for some childish fault, her mother had correct
ed her ; and now, when her mistress called her in an
angry tone, saying she could make her remember to
take care of the silver, the thought of Martha's lacerated
back sent a shudder through her frame. But she did
not weep, nor beg for mercy.
With her own fair hands the delicate lady chastised
her trembHng slave. She did it very gently, for she
was not half as angry as she oftentimes- became at
smaller provocations. Yet the blood oozed through
the bruised skin that was swelled in ridges across poor
Vina's back ; and she imagined — ignorant creature that
she was — that she had been severely punished. Ah!
the day was coming, when she would designate such a
whipping as " only a slight bresh."
From that morning, she determined, if possible, to
escape from the immediate jurisdiction of her mistress;
and soon after, seeing her master alone, she went to
him, and asked him if she might go to the field.
"Why?" said he, "what the devil put that into
your head ? You don't know anything about field
work, do you ?"
" No, Sir, but I reckon I could learn; and I mought
as weU take my chance in the field as to stay in the
house. But, please Sir, don't let missus know I axed
you." " Yes, yes ; well, I won't tell her. I'd Hke to have
you in, the field, any how, for Martha's sickly, and not
much account. Go along now ; I'll talk to your mis
tress about it."

VENA'S FIRST YEAR AT MoKIERNANS. 103
"Look here," said he to his wife, soon after this con
versation ; " Martha don't do much in the field ; she s
sickly, you know, and she can't keep up with the
others. I reckon we 'd better bring her back into the
house, and take Vina in her place. She seems to be
weU, and willing to work."
" WeU," replied the lady, in her characteristic asper
ity of tone, "I'd rather have Vina in the house ; but
if you can't manage Martha, send her in. I can make
her work ; she will never conquer me with her sickly
complaining." The next morning Vtna went to the field, where,
though at first all was strange, she soon learned to
" round corn," that being then the work in season.
About midsummer, Mr. Stout came on from Nash
ville, to see the girl that had been bought for him, and
to take her home.
Both the girls were shown him. He seemed to
prefer Vina, but Mr. and Mrs. McKiernan both assured
him that as he wanted a house servant, it would be
much better for him to take Rosetta* for she was a
very bright girl, and was becoming every day more
useful. They could make Vina do very well in the
field, but she , was exceedingly ignorant, and withal
quite deaf, so that it would be utterly impossible for
her to learn the duties of a waiter or a nurse.
Mr. Stout, having been for many years a partner of
Mr. McKiernan in a carriage factory in Nashville, un- .
derstood his- habits and principles of action. He had
also some idea .of the prevaiHng characteristics of his
wife; and, suspecting that their advice was not. entirely
disinterested, he improved an opportunity to go alone
to the field where the hands were all at. work. He

104 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
talked awhile with the head-man, Nelson, about the
weather and the crops ; and then, noticing Vina at her
work, he carelessly asked the man Avhat sort of a girl
she was.
" Oh ! she is a good hand, Sir, fus rate, Sir."
" Can she hear well ?"
" Yes, Sir," repHed Nelson, with a puzzled look.
" Your mistress told me she was right deaf."
"Well, call her, Sir, see if she can't hear. Yah!
yah ! Dat little gal deaf."
" O, Vina !" said Mr. Stout. She looked up from
her work. "How do you get along, Vina? Would
you like to go and Hve with me ?"
" Whar you Hve, sir?"
" I live in Nashville. Would you Hke to. go there ?"
" Oh ! I don't know, sir. I's fur enough from my
mother now. I reckon I don't never want to go no
furder." Mr. Stout returned to the house. He saw the true
state of the case, but it would be of no use to seem to
understand it ; so when a few days after, he left for
home, he took Rosetta with him. She had no ties to
bind her here, and was well pleased with the idea of
Hving in Nashville ; of which city she had heard glow
ing descriptions from the old servants. They were
" raised" there, and still remembered the place with
true home-love.
Towards the last of August, when the crop was laid
by, Vina, who stUl pined for her mother, received from
her master a "pass" to Courtland. .She had some
clothes there, which she wished to get; and even if her
mother were sold, she hoped at least to learn where she
had gone.

vina's FIRST YEAR AT MoKIERNAN'S. 105
She started on Thursday morning • and, as she rode
alone on horseback over the road that a few months
before had seemed so dark and lonely, the shadow that
ever since that day had rested on her heart, was lifted.
She was young ; and Hope, though crushed and silent
long, revived again ; and whispered in her fainting
spirit's ear, sweet promises of brighter days to come.
It was noon when she reached Courtland. How
her heart beat as she rode up the familiar street !
Soon her eager eyes rested on an old acquaintance,
and she inquired in trembling accents for her mother.
" La ! honey," replied the old woman she had ac
costed, " whar you been all dis time, and never know-
ed yer mammy sol' ? Mr. Peoples done bought her ;
dat Peoples whar live off yon' east o' town 'bout four
mile. He got ole Moses and Jerry too ; yer mammy's
mighty lucky — got sol' 'long o' her ole man, and one
o' her boys. Mr. Peoples mighty good massa too ;
leastways so all de folks say whar lives out dar. But
yer mammy to Mr. • Mosely's now. Mr. Peoples done
hire 'em all out for de balance o' dis year."
Vina could listen no longer. Her heart was throb
bing wildly ; and tears, that despair Had long forbid to.
flow, were standing in her eyes. She' turned her horse
in the direction- of Mr. Mosely's ; — he must not stop
to rest till she Should arrive at that goal of all her
hopes — her mother's side.
Aunt Sally was at work in the field, at a short dis
tance from the house, and little dreamed that she
should that day behold the daughter for a sight of
whose features she had so earnestly prayed.
Vina left her horse at the house, and walked to the
field. She came very near the group of slaves at work
5*

106 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
before she was perceived. Suddenly her mother
raised her head : — " My chile ! my chile I" she cried,
as with, uplifted hands and streaming eyes she ran to
meet her daughter, and pressed her closely to her breast.
Mrs. Mosely had bidden Vina to tell her mother
that she might " have hoHday" while she remained ;
and when the first gush of emotion had subsided, they
walked together to the house.
" 0 Vina !" said her mother, " how I did mourn
when I come to town dat Sunday, and you was gone.
I reckon I skeered 'em all a screamin' and takin' on.
I didn't know what to do, so I went right to mass'r.
He felt mighty bad too ; but he say he can't hope it ;
he's 'bliged, he say, seU every thing — and de Lord
knowed he wouldn't part wid his. servants if dar was
any Avay for him to keep 'em. He cried a heap while
I Avas dar. 0 'pears like, gentlemen mought keep out
o' debt when dey knows what trouble it '11 aH come to
at las'. He couldn't teU me nuthin' 'bout de place
whar you done gone ; all he said, he done sol' you
and Rosetta to Dr. T. ; and he's gwine send one to a
gentleman in Franklin, and t'other to Nashville. 0
Lord I how my" heart did ache ! and 'pears Hke it
never stop achin' 'till I see your blessed face. Is you
got a good mas'r and missus, chile ?"
" Not over and 'bove ; but they 'aint troubled me
much yit. They's mighty tight on the rest. 0 how
some o' the people thar does git cut up ! 'Pears like
they will kill 'em sometime."
" Poor chile ! poor chile ! May de good Lord keep
de wolves off o' your flesh ! Der aint no way to Hve
wid dem kind, only to pray to de Lord to keep de
Hons' mouths shut up."

VINA'S FIRST YEAR AT MoKIERNAN'S. 107
Aunt Sally had married a man named Moses, since
she came to Alabama , and having been sold with him
and her oldest son, she felt that her, lot was far better
than that of many of her companions. She possessed
a kind and grateful disposition, and her trust was in
the arm of her Redeemer. " We's poor critters in dis
yer world," she would remark, " but dars a croAvn for
us yon', if we minds de word of de Lord, and keeps
patient to de end."
"Now," said Aunt Sally, as they all sat round the
door, enjoying the cool air of evening, " if Quail only
knowed you was yer, Vina, and if mass'r could spare
him, we'd be altogether once more. Poor Quail!
mass'r say he gwine keep him ; but I don't know — I
'spect I shaU hear he's sol', too."
Swiftly passed the hours till Sunday ; when, as her
" pass" specified, Vina must return. She fingered as
long as she dared, and when she must go, and Jerry-
had saddled her horse, and brought him to the door,
she tore herself from her mother's arms, sprang into
the saddle— and was gone.
Vina returned safely to her master's house. The.
old light came back to her eye, and the accustomed
elasticity to her step ; and the old cook remarked that
little Vina had " gone mighty peart like since she tuck
dat dar jaunt to de ole place."

CHAPTER XII.
THE MARRIAGE.
During the first months of Vina's residence at Mr.
McKiernan's, she formed no intimacies- with her com
panions. Herheart was too heavy to sympathize in
their transient griefs, or to join in the merry sports
with which they sought to enliven their brief intervals
of, rest.
Mr. Gist's plantation lay very near, indeed, the dwell
ings were not more than a mile apart, and from the
near relationship of the two families, a greater intimacy
existed betAveen the servants than is usual between the
slaves even of near neighbors.
. Peter was at this time a fine, cheerful fellow, in the
first fresh vigor of manhood; and, being a special
favorite with his mistress, he was always a welcome
visitor at the plantation of her brother-in-law. Mr.
and Mrs. McKiernan Hked him, for he was always re
spectful and obliging; and to their servants, his bright,
good-humored face brought ever a gleam of the heart's
sunshine. Even the lovely little Vina felt the genial influence
of his presence, and her shyness and reserve gradually
melted away in the warmth of his smiles. At the first
sight of the desolate stranger his heart was moved to,

THE MARRIAGE. 109
pity ; and, as he never failed to speak kindly to her,
she soon began to look for his coming, as a weary
Avatcher waits for the morning.
Thus, week after week, and month after month,
grew and strengthened the sympathy between the
brave-hearted youth, and the timid, shrinking maiden ;
and when Vina had been a year in her new home, they
had confessed their mutual love, and only waited for a'
favorable opportunity to be united in marriage.
True, Vina was but fifteen years old, but she was
very destitute and helpless, and there was none but
Peter to care for her.
Her master and mistress were pleased to observe this
growing attachment. Air. McKiernan had always
fancied Peter, and longed to own him ; and, as he knew
it would be inconvenient for him to have a wife away
from home, he determined to encourage him to marry
Vina, that then he might perhaps be able to induce his
brother-in-law to sell him.
To his master and mistress, Peter dreaded to com
municate his wishes. He had seen poor Levin's suffer
ings in consequence of having formed a connection
which they did not approve ; and he was conscious of
the difficulties that would attend his caring for a wife
on any neighboring plantation. His mistress always
wanted him at home. She depended on him; and he
knew that she would object to having his attention
diverted from her business by family cares of his own.
Yet, while he understood all this, he felt that he
was, himself, a man. Was he not twenty-five years
old, and had he not a right to marry ? Surely, when
he had waited for so many years upon his master's
family, without ever indulging a wish that cjjuld inter-

110 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
rupt their pleasure, they might be content to spare him
now and then on a Sunday for the cultivation and en
joyment of his own affections.
Still he knew they would oppose him, and he could
not bear to vex them ; so he postponed speaking to
them of his wishes till something should occur that
would naturaHy open the Avay for the communication.
¦ Thus the matter was suspended, when, early in May,
Mr. and Mrs. Gist announced their intention of visit
ing Lexington. They had for several years been talk
ing of going there, and had promised Peter that when
they went, he might drive the carriage. He had anti
cipated much pleasure in the visit; and when, year
after year, circumstances had rendered its postpone
ment necessary, he had keenly felt the disappointment.
But now, to the surprise of all, he did not wish to
go. " Not go !" cried his master, " I thought there
was nothing you would like so weU !"
" Well, so I would," replied Peter, " but it's so long
noAV, that I 'm 'feared everybody there done forgot me.
There would 'nt be nobody glad to see me, no how."
" WeU, weU, then old man Frank can go — he'H not
want to be asked twice."
Uncle Frank was wild with delight at the intelli
gence that Peter Avas to stay at home. There, were so
many old friends there that he would be glad to see —
"yah ! yah ! Reckon all de folks in Lexington ain't
forgot ole Frank."
Mrs. Gist had a brother living near ; and to him,
while he should^be away, Mr. Gist entrusted the care
of his servants. The overseer was to be under his
authority ; and no slave was to be whipped, or in any
way abusgd, during the master's absence. He knew

THE MARRIAGE. Ill
that some of them might do wrong, and might even
deserve whipping ; but he chose to be there himself
when they were punished, in order to be sure that
justice was administered ; and so, Avhatever might be
the offence, the execution of the penalty should be
postponed tfll his return.
On a fine May morning, the carriage drove up to the
door. The trunks were strapped on behind, and a
dozen Httle baskets and bundles were stowed away in
side. The mistress, with her sister-in-law, Miss Mary
Gist, was handed in by Master Levi, and the nurse
foHoAved with her little charge, the precious baby,
Mary. Uncle Frank mounted the box ; he was dress
ed in a new suit, and as he boAved good-bye to all his
colored friends that stood about the door, his white
teeth gleamed in the sunshine, and his black face shone
with delight.- •
With a grand flourish of the whip he gave the signal
to the spirited horses,- and away they went; while
loving eyes looked a fond adieu from the carriage
windows, and many a dark hand from the crowded
porch waved an affectionate response.
Master Levi's horse was ready ; and, after shaking
hands aU around, and charging the servants again and
again to take good care of everything in his absence,
he sprang into the saddle, and galloped on to overtake
the carriage.
Many were the warm wishes for a pleasant journey
to <lyoung Mass'r and Missus"- that followed the travel
lers from that sable band; and many a fear was
breathed that " Miss 'Muthis" or the sweet baby would
" git mighty tired a ridin' off so far."
Soon they dispersed to their necessary labors — all

112 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
but Peter. He remained upon the porch alone. His
eyes were fixed on the spot where the carriage had
disappeared, and lo ! they were dim with unshed tears.
Ah ! it was a great pleasure he had sacrificed. . Now
he should never see Lexington again. There he had
suffered much ; but, after all, he loved the old place.
His boy-friends were, doubtless, scattered; yet he
would like to learn their history — he hoped they were
all happier than he.
" Ha ! what a fool I am !" thought he, as some sound
of busy life within the house roused him from his re
gretful reverie; "here I stand, and they're gone. I'll
be married to Vina 'fore they come back, and then it'U
be too late to make a fuss about it."
He walked quietly away to his work, and all day
long, his thoughts were busier than his hands. When
his task was done, his plan was laid ; and with a light
step he trod the path to Aunt Lucy's cabin, which,
since Vina went into the field, had been her home.
It was easy to win her consent to immediate mar
riage ; for she was but a lonely girl ; and her young
heart, so long unused to sympathy, bounded at the
approach of the footsteps of love.
Her master readily assented to the plan proposed by
Peter; and, on the evening of the twenty -fifth of June,
all preliminary arrangements having been completed,
they were married.
Old Cato Hodge, a Baptist preacher belonging to
one of the neighbors, performed the ceremony. That
over, a merry company, consisting of all Vina's fellow-
servants, and a few of Peter's best friends from his
master's plantation, enjoyed a substantial supper in the
kitchen.

THE MARRIAGE. 113
The bride was very pretty, notwithstanding her gro
tesque attire, which consisted of an old white dress and
a few quaint old-fashioned ornaments, that she had
gathered from the .discarded finery of her mistress.
Vina was very poor. The clothes she had brought
with her from Courtland were worn out, or had been
stolen by the negroes ; and a white linsey frock, which
her mistress had given her the preceding fall, was
minus the front breadth. This was the only article of
clothing she had received since she had been on the
place ; and, as there was no immediate prospect of her
getting another, Peter gave her a black surtout coat of
his own with which she patched it; and though it was
now hah? black and hah? white, it was quite comfortable.
She had driven four forked sticks into the ground
in Aunt Lucy's cabin, and laid poles across from one
to the other. On these she placed four clapboards,
four and a half feet long. This was her, bed ; and her
only covering consisted of a piece of an old blanket,
which the kind Aunt Lucy had been able to spare to
her. Other property she had none.
Peter, however, had good clothes; and when he
found that Mr. McKiernan would supply them with
no comforts, he sold many articles from his own ward
robe, that he might provide decent clothing for his -wife.
Not long after her marriage, Vina again obtained
permission to visit her mother.
She found her now at Mr. Peoples' place, and though
there was, perhaps, less rapture in their meeting than
at her former visit, there was more unmingled joy.
Long and earnest were the conversations they held
together, and many times the "Good Lord" was
thanked for all the kindness he had shown them.

114 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Aunt SaHy had now a kind, considerate master,
and her husband and her oldest child were with her
there. Her former master had gone back to North
Carolina ; but he had sold Quail in. Courtland to a Mr.
Bynum. The poor boy had lost in the exchange of
masters ; but he was stiU near his mother, and for. that
she rendered thanks to Him who reigns above.
It were needless to detail the thousand items of
advice and instruction which the young wife at this
time received from her mother. The few days allotted
to the visit passed aH too soon, and the beloved
daughter was forced to say " Good-bye." This time,
however, there was less of anguish in the parting — all
she loved was not left behind.

M

W- %

The Mistress1 welcome home
See paj^llo.
CHAPTER XIII;
THE NEW CABIN.
There was an anxious gathering of dark faces just
after sunset. Earnest eyes were peering through the
trees in the direction of the great road, and- long fingers
• shook threatfully at each little sable urchin, that could
not stand stiU, and listen for the carriage -wheels. The
cook bustled about — now in the kitchen, watching her
biscuits lest they should bake too brown ; now in the
house, to be sure that nothing was wanting on the neat
supper table, and then her steaming figure came puffing
through the crowd before the door, that she might. be
the first to welcome " Missus."
There 1 the faint rumble of wheels is heard approach
ing. A joyous shout rises from the excited throng,
and a score of tiny feet fly in the direction of the sound.
There-is a merry strife between the proprietors of all
these Httle feet for the high privilege of opening the
gate for ".Missus," but it lasts not long. The carriage
comes in sight, and all the Httle eager hands are laid
at once upon the gate, which flies wide open at their
touch. Hoare they come! Old Frank's smile is brighter,
even in the twflight, than when last it beamed upon
DIB]

116 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
us in the full morning sunshine, and as he wheels
proudly up before the door, his old heart warms at the
kindly smiles that beam upon him.
How quickly is the carriage door flung open, and
the steps let down ! and how lightly the beautiful mis
tress is set down in the midst of her delighted servants,
every one of whom pushes fonvard to offer a warm
welcome home. The fair hand she presents is rever
ently shaken or tenderly kissed, and "How d'y'
Missus?" " Oh ! you's pertier 'an ever !" " How glad
I is you's come home once mo' !" greet her on every
side, as she passes into the house.
Nurse tenderly lifts the little Mary from the carriage.
She is fast asleep, and as she lays her in her late
deserted cradle, the dark faces steal along, one by one,
to get a peep at her sweet baby -face.
" Bless my life ! if dar aint Mass'r ! Hi ! we all's so
glad see Missus, we done forget Mass'r gwine come^too!"
The hearty welcomes are repeated, the extended hand
is duly shaken, and by the time Missus, Avith the aid
of a dozen eager hands can be prepared to sit down at
the table, supper is brought in.
" Well Peter, -so you've stolen a march on us since
we've been gone — been getting married, hey ?"
"Yes, Sir, I's been gettin' married."
" Ha ! ha ! you thought the folks at Lexington had
all forgotten you. Well, since you have been so smart,
I must try and buy your wife for you. You'll not be
Avorth much if you have to be running off every week
to see your family. Besides, Mr. McKiernan intends
to move to Bainbridge about Christmas, and then you'll
have a long road to travel.
But Vina's master had no intention of seuing her.

THE NEW CABIN. 117
She was one of the best servants he had. He would,
however, be glad to buy her husband — very glad.
That was out of the question. Neither Mr. Gist nor
his wife would consent to sell him, and if they had
been wilHng to part with him, Peter himself would
have remonstrated. He knew too well the difference
between the two masters to wish for an exchange.
Thus matters stood till Christmas. Peter went fre
quently to see his wife, as it was so near, and neither
his master nor his mistress endeavored to dissuade him
from doing so. They had tested their influence with
Levin, and they had no desire to repeat the strife.
The brick house that had been built at Bainbridge
was now occupied by Mr. McKiernan. He had bought
a large plantation there, — much of it new land, and to
clear it, and fit it for corn and cotton, required the ut
most diHgence.
There was no time to build cabins, though there were
not half enough for the numerous families of slaves
that he carried with him. Every family, therefore,
that wished a house to themselves, were obliged to
spend their Sundays in building it.
Peter immediately commenced preparations for build
ing a cabin for his wife. Every Saturday he walked
to Bainbridge — a distance of seven miles ; and early
on Sunday morning, he was at his work. AH the holy
day he tofied, and often when the moon shone, his
work ceased not tiH late at night. Then by the first
peep of Monday's dawn, he was up and away, to com
mence his weekly labors for his master.
Peter was obliged to cut the timber for his house,
himself, and then to haul it across the creek. When
that was aU prepared, he hired men to help him

118 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
raise it ; and though he did his best, it was April when
he had the Httle building finished.
The roof was made of boards, and the chimney of
sticks and clay. Puncheons (slabs) formed the floor,
and the ground itself made an exceUent hearth. Peter
was more extravagant than many architects of kindred
edifices, in that he had a floor at all. The bare earth
is generally deemed sufficient, and it- becomes at length,
by constant treading, almost as hard as brick.
The house completed, it was empty. Peter had
worked nights and hoHdays, and had earned aH he
could, but, alas ! that was very Httle ; and now he was
forced to sell more of his clothes to buy the most neces
sary articles of furniture. Two or three cooking
utensils, two chairs, and a trunk, he procured at first.
Then he cut a walnut tree, and "hauled" it to the mill
for a bedstead, and when that was done, a straw bed
was prepared and laid upon it.
Every Sunday .morning, at Mr. McKiernan's, the
Aveekly allowance was weighed out. This was gener
ally practised by the Kentucky planters. Their serv
ants aU ate together, and usually a plentiful supply
Avas cooked for them. But here, a peck of unsifted
meal, and three and a half pounds of bacon, was the
weekly allowance. The piece might be more than half
bone, yet no additional weight was allowed on that
account. No vegetables Avere provided for them, if
they wished any they might raise them for themselves?
and then, if they had any desire for decent or comforti
able clothes, or any little articles of furniture, they could
sell the feAv vegetables Avhich their patches produced,
in order to procure them.
Mr. Gist had bought a shoemaker, not long before,

THE NEW CABIN. 119
and he had cheerfuUy imparted instruction in his art
to his friend Peter. The slight skiU he acquired in
this branch of industry Avas now of great use to him,
as he was able to ma'ke his OAvn shoes, and those of
his wife ; thus saving many a doUar that must otherwise
have been expended. He also earned many comforts
for his cabin by making shoes at night for his feUow
slaves. After a while, as the wealth, of the young couple in
creased, they bought a cupboard, and afterwards a
chest. This latter article was very necessary, that
Vina might lock up her week's provisions, and any
little comforts which Peter brought her; as, if they
were exposed, some of the half-clad hungry slaves
were sure to steal them.
A flour barrel, too, the provident young husband
bought, thinking it would be useful in their humble
housekeeping ; but before he had a chance to take it
home, Mr. Gist's overseer took the Hberty to appro
priate it to his own use.
" That's my bar'l, sir," said Peter, as he saw him re
moving it, " and I want to use it myself."
"D — n you! hush your mouth, you nigger! I'U
let you know you're not to forbid me to use a bar'l
when I want it."
" But it's mine," persisted Peter; "I bought it, and
I's gwine carry it to my wife."
ffhe overseer was enraged; but he dared take no
vengeance except the weak one of showering upon the
offender his most terrible curses. When he had ex
hausted his stock of these, he was forced to wait till
the master returned from town.
He then complained to .Mr. Gist that one of his

120 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
niggers had been impudent to him, and swore he
would have revenge. "And if," added he, "I don't
whip him now, I'll give him something that will hurt
him a* heap worse."
The master hesitated, but finaUy, judging from the
feUow's temper, that such a course would be safest for
his slave, he gave him permission to whip him very
sHghtly. Accordingly, Peter was taken to the stable,
where twenty-five lashes were inflicted on his naked
back.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE YOUNG MOTHER.
On the twelfth of September, 1826, the waiHng of a
tiny voice was heard in Vina's cabin. A new fount
of love- gushed up in her mother-heart, to bless the
little trembler; and her frame thrilled with a delicious
joy, as she proudly placed in her husband's arms his
first-born boy.
Oh ! how happily to his mother passed the first four
weeks of the existence of this little one. Quietly Vina
sat in her cabin; and, as she gazed upon the innocent
face of her chUd, and saw his Httle eyes learning to seek
hers in loving trustfulness, her cup was not all bitter.
She knew her babe was born to slavery — and sorrow ;
but oh! so dearly did she love it! And, perhaps,
after all, it might fall into kind hands, and be far hap
pier than its parents.
Now, with her joy, her care was doubled. As soon
as she was able to sit up, she toiled to the extent of
her strength to put everything in order in her cabin,
before her month was up.
Peter had managed to provide materials for a com.
fortable wardrobe for the little stranger ; and she now
took great pleasure in making up the tiny garments.
They were certainly not very fine, nor traced with ele-
6 [1311

122 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
gant embroidery; but when she had them aH finished,
and laid, neatly folded, in the trunk, she could not
help lifting the lid, now and then, to see how nice they
looked. Then she washed and mended aU her own and
Peter's clothes; for she knew she should have but
little time after she went to the field again.
When she did go out, poor Httle Peter (for the baby
bore his father's name), was left aU alone upon her
bed. Four times in the day, whUe yet he was very
young, she was permitted to go in and minister to his
Httle wants. But she had then only a few minutes
to stay ; and, though in her heart she longed to lull
him to sleep upon her breast, and though he cried so
hard when she laid him down, yet she must go.
How tenderly, when she was employed as nurse in
Courtland, had she cared for the Httle ones entrusted
to her care ! How anxiously had she watched every
indication of uneasiness, lest they should be sick!
And when the moan of pain fell on her ear, how well
she knew the simple remedies for all their Httle ail
ments ! Now that her own babe needed her constant
care, she could not be spared. The cotton must be picked.
How her heart ached when she heard him crying, as
she often did, when she was at work in the field near
the quarter. And if the overseer chanced to be at a
distance, so that she thought he would not observe her,
how suddenly she darted between the trees that shel
tered the cabins, and entered the house! How she
pressed her baby to her breast, while her tears feU on
his little face! And when she dared not stay a minute
longer, how gently she laid him down again, and im
printed one fond kiss upon his cheek.

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 123
When she came in at night, she buflt a bright fire
on the clay hearth, and cooked her supper. Then she
brought water from the spring, and having undressed
her boy, she washed him thoroughly. How he enjoyed
the nice cool bath ! and how he kicked and laughed in
token of his gratitude ! But his mother had no time to
play with him, for it grew late. So when she had ar
rayed him in clean clothes, she tied him in a chair, and
hastened to her work. There he sat and watched her
tiU his eyelids drooped, and he sank quietly to sleep,
while she washed aU the garments he had worn that
day, and hung them up to dry. Then, after making
her cabin as neat as possible, and preparing her food
for the next day, she threw off her clothes, and with
her baby on her bosom, laid her down to rest.
Many times when she had some extra work to do,
her own and her husband's washing, for instance, or
an old coat to mend, the morning of another day
dawned in the east before her task was done. But the
overseer's horn blew not a minute the later, because
she had not slept. With aching eyes, and weary limbs,
she went forth to the field; and through aU the long
day, her feet lagged not, though sometimes " 'pears
Hke," to use her own expression, she could not keep
awake. " But I wouldn't see my child go dirty and
raggety," added she, "if I didn't never git a wink o'
sleep." How welcome to poor Vina was the approach of the
Sabbath day ! < How her eyes brightened, and her
heart grew Hght, as its morning beams fiUed her little
cabin, and revealed her husband playing with his boy.
Sometimes they dressed in their best clothes, and,
taking Httle Peter in their arms, walked to meeting on

124 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
that day ; but oftener they were busy through all its
precious hours, working in the patch, or performing
sOme necessary labor about the house.
A large field was divided into as many Httle patches
as there were field hands on the plantation ; and every
slave could here work nights and Sundays to cultivate
his crop. Some raised cotton, others corn ; and many
planted their patches entirely to water-melons. If the
overseer chanced to be "far'ard" with his work, and
there was not much grass among the corn and cotton,
they could sometimes have a half hoHday on Saturday
to work for themselves. But chiefly they depended
on their Sundays. Early in the morning they were
out with mules and ploughs, and till late at night they
toUed to raise their Httle crops. When the moon
shone brightly, if they were getting "in the grass,"
they often remained at work all night.
The corn and cotton that they " made" they were
obliged to sell to their master — at his price, which was
seldom more than half the market value. But the
water-melons they were aUowed to carry to town.
This was the most profitable crop they raised, if they
could get the fruit into market at the right time ; but,
as Saturday was the only day on which they could go,
and as aU that had fruit to seU could not have wagons
at the same time, they frequently lost portions of their
crops. They also raised chickens ; and for these there was
always a ready market in the neighborhood. Mrs.
McKiernan, herself, frequently bought them of heT
servants, and she never faUed to pay them a fair price.
When little Peter was about a year old, his mother
had a severe illness. The disease was inflammation of

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 125
the brain, and the cause thereof we give in her own
words. " I never got a heap o' whippin' no how, but when
Bill Simms was oversee' he give me one mons's hard
beatin', bekase I wouldn't s'mit to him 'bout every
thing he wanted.
. " He pestered me a heap, but I told him I. would n't
never do no such a thing; I told him I'd got a
husban' o' my own ; and I was n't gwine have nothin'
to do with nobody else. He tried to starve me to it —
many a Sunday, when he weighed out the 'lowance, he
never give me half my sheer, and I could n't git no
more for a week; but I did n't mind that.
" At last he told me if I didn't 'bey him, he'd whip
me nigh 'bout to death, t told him he might kill me,
but I would n't never do it, no how. So when I's in
the field one day, he tuck and whipped me — I did n't
caU it whippin' — I called it beatin'. He tied my
hands with his hand'chief, and pulled my coat off o'
the waist ; and then he beat me tiU I could n't hardly
stand. He struck me over the head mos'ly, and tried
to knock me down with the butt end o' his bull- whip.
My head was cut in a heap o' places, whar the scars is
on it yit.
" I reckon he wouldn't 'a' give me so much, but I
tried to fight him at first, and he had to caU two o' the
men to help him tie me. By that time he got so mad
that he jist went 'cordiri' to his oavu mercy. I knowed
I's in his power, but I's determined to die in the cause.
" The other people was all in sight, and he made out
like he's beatin' me 'bout my work ; but he told me
it's aU bekase I would 'nt 'bey him.
"When he done beatin' he curse me powerful, and

126 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
say, if I ever tole this yer to mass'r, or to any person
else so it would get to him, he'd give me a heap more ;
and if that did n't do, he'd shoot me.
" I was determined he should n't never conquer me,
no how ; but he was that mean, I was feared he mought
kiU me sly ; so I never said nothin' 'bout it, to nobody
but Peter. He came home a Sunday, and when he's
sittin' by me, he sort o' put his arm 'round me. ' Oh !'
says I, ' don't put yer arm thar, you hurt my back !'
" ' What's the matter o' yer back ?' says he.
" ' Oh, it's mighty sore whar ole BiU Simms done
beat me,' says I, ' but don't you tell nobody, for if he
finds out I done tol' the tale, he'll kill me, sure.'
" Peter felt mighty bad when I told him what I got
the beatin' for — 'peared like, he could 'a' gone right
out and killed ole Bill Simms on the spot. He never
liked him, no how — they had a fallin' out, afore, when
he was overseein' for Mars Levi Gist.
" But 'twas n't no use gittin' mad 'bout it, nor tellin'
mass'r nuther ; bekase he allers say if any person come
to him with complaints 'bout the oversee's, he'd give
'em worse, hisself.
" The next Sunday, Simms come up afore my house,
and spoke to Peter, whar was a standin' in the door.
" Peter answered him mighty low, and that made
him mad, bekase he 'lowed I done told him how I been
'bused. ' Seems to me,' says he, ' you're gettin' mighty
grand. You're too great a gentleman to speak to a
white person with respect. Never mind, I'll do you a
kindness some o' these days. I owe you something
this long time.'
" ' Well,' says Peter, ' that debt never will be paid
tiU the judgment day.'

THE YOUNG MOTHER. 127
"I tremble every minute, for I 'lowed I should have
to take more next day; but I reckon he thought how 't
• was n't no use, for he never said nuthin' to me 'bout it
no more.
" I had a heap o' misery in my head all the time for
two weeks arter I tuck that beatin', and then I got
right sick, and they said I's out o' my senses for a
week. They sent for the doctor, but I did n't know
' nuthin' 'bout it, and he said I'd tuck some mighty hard
blows oh the head. He left medicine, and missus, she
stay by me all the time. She sent for Peter to come —
she reckoned I'd know him — but 'twas n't no use.
They aU 'lowed I's gwine to die ; and then Peter, he
told 'em all 'bout what done make me sick.
"Mass'r was mighty mad. 'Why the devU didn't
she tell me this afore ?' says he.
" ' Bekase,' says Peter, ' she knowed your rule, that
you don't keer how hard an oversee' beats your serv
ants, if they comes to you, they shall git worse.'
" Mass'r felt mighty bad then, but he 'loAved I might
knowed he'd protect me in that.
" I reckon I should n't never got well, if they all
had n't tuck such good care o' me. When I got so I
could talk, mass'r ax me why I never told him what a
beatin' old Simms done give me.
" ' What I come to you for,' says I, ' you allers told
us never to' do that, without we wanted more. If I'd
'lowed 'twould done any good I'd 'a' come to you, sir,
mons's quick.'
" Soon as I's able to walk from the bed to the fire,
mass'r come in to see me, and brought old Simms with
him. Then he axed me 'bout that beatin' right afore
him, and I told it to his face. 'Twas so true, he

128 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
couldn't deny it. Mass'r cursed him mightily, and
told him he should pay my doctor's biU, and pay for
every day whar I was sick. I never knowed 'bout the
payin' whether he done it or not, but mass'r drove him
off the place, and he never come on it agin.
" I see him twice, after that. The first time we's aU
gwine to meetin'. I see him comin', and says I, ' Thar
comes the devU ; I ain't gwine to look at him.' So
I pulled my bonnet down over my face ; and when he-
come 'long, and say how d'y' to the rest, I never look
up. " The next time I met old Simms, look like he's the
picter o' Death. He been mighty sick, and jist got
able to ride out.
" That thar was the last o' his ridin'. He took a
'lapse arter that, and then he died in a mighty short
time. " When I heard he's dead, I's so glad ! My heart
couldn't help from shoutin', though it oughten't."

CHAPTER XV.
DEATH OF A KIND MASTER.
The sunshine of prosperity beamed steadfly upon
the peaceful home of Mr. and Mrs. Gist. Gradually
their worldly substance increased; and the dearer
treasures of their hearts were multipHed.
The Spring of 1830, when she had waked the deli
cate flowers of the forest, came noiselessly on, and with
careful hand, unfolded the rosebuds that climbed on
the porch.
Near the half-open door sat the young husband and
his stiU beautiful wife. Not a line of care or sorrow
had stolen across their foreheads; not a shade of cold
ness or distrust had fallen on their hearts. Their
children sported before them— two lovely girls and a
brave boy, the youngest, and the pet of all.
Ah! came no whispering voice to bid them prize
these golden moments ? Entered no dread of change
into all the plans they formed together ? None ! The
sweet Spring smiled on them from without— the
parching Summer drought she never heralds.
They were planning a visit to Kentucky. It was
five years since they had enjoyed the hospitalities of
that endeared home of other days; and the beloved
parent, from whom they had been so long severed,
6* [12a

130 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
were growing old. Yes; they would go to Lex
ington. /
On a bright May morning, a few weeks after, the
famfly carriage rolled away from the door, with its
precious burden of gentle trusting hearts. Tears
gathered in dark eyes that gazed fondly after the trav-
vellers ; and fond adieus to loving favorites were tossed
back by tiny hands.
" 'Pears* like," sobbed Aunt Ceely, " somethin's
gwine happen. I's had mighty bad dreams dese las'
nights." " Oh ! you's allers a (freamin' ; reckon yer dreams
aint much 'count," repHed a cheerful girl at her side.
" I reckon nuthin' aint gAvine hurt dem, no how;
dey's been to Kaintucky 'fore dis," said another, who,
though sad herself, would fain dispel Aunt Ceely's
gloom. The old woman turned towards the kitchen, and her
croaking was soon forgotten. But when at night she
smoked her pipe before her kitchen door, the shadow
of impending Ul darkened her heart.
Summer came with its heat, and wearying toil, and
September passed away, and still the house was closed.
Now and then, for a few hours the windows were
thrown open, that the fresh air of morning might wan
der through the deserted rooms. But it would not
tarry long ; for it missed the merry children, to whose
radiant eyes and blooming cheeks it had been wont to
lend a deeper glow. So, after kissing lovingly each
little couch, and chair, and scattered toy, the soft air
flew away, to daUy with the summer leaves that
danced at its approach.
Early in October, new life seemed to have awakened

DEATH OF A KIND MASTER. 131
on the plantation. The laborers stepped more briskly
out at morning, and the house servants went busthng
through the lonely rooms, "clarin' up, and putting
things to rights for Missus."
There were no gloomy faces now — no dark forebod
ing of approaching woe ; Aunt Ceely herself forgot
her dreams, she was so busy planning a nice supper,
such as she knew suited " Mars Levi when he come
home hongry."
The last day of September was the time appointed
for the fanuly to leave Lexington, and though the
summer had passed most pleasantly in the society of
valued friends, yet not one of the little group wished
to remain longer.
On the day previous to their intended departure, a
few friends sat down with them to a farewell dinner,
at the house of an uncle of Mr. Gist.
The party were in fine spirits, albeit a shadow of
regret that they were so soon to part, did now and then
steal over them. Plans of future re-unions, however,
were proposed, and promises of more frequent visits
interchanged. "What is it?" whispers with bloodless lips, the
beautiful young wife, as her husband sways towards
her, and she sees that his face is ashy pale. Quickly
his friends spring to his assistance. They bear him
from the table, and support him in their arms upon
the sofa.
Ah ! they saw not the Death Angel, as with white
wings he approached, and gently sealed those loving
eyes and stilled that throbbing heart. No ! they saw
him not. They did not knoAV how vain were aU
their agonized endeavors to restore the warm breath to

132 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
that manly form, " He has only fainted — give him
air!" Vain hope ! The warm hands grow rigid — cold.
The features become fixed. Can it be he is dead ?
God pity thee 1 fond wife — and grant thee tears —
that thy young heart break not.
In the parlor, at his childhood's home, was laid aH
that was mortal of Levi Gist. His father and mother,
Avith great tears on their aged cheeks, gazed tenderly
upon the face of their first-born son ; and his little
chUdren stole up on tiptoe to look at dear papa ; and
wondered that he lay so stiU, when only yesterday, he
told them they should start for home to-day. Dear
Httle ones ! too soon shaU ye learn the fuU meaning
of that cold Avord — fatherless !
The funeral was over. Fond eyes had gazed for the
last time on those dear features, and to the earth had
been consigned the sacred dust. Words of condolence
had been duly uttered — Oh ! how they rent her heart !
— and curious eyes had scrutinized the widow's face
and manner, to ascertain how keenly she felt the stroke.
All these were satisfied. They saw her glazed eye,
and paUid cheek ; and even their morbid jealousy for
grief could exact no more.
The desolate woman ^returned, with her children to
her thenceforth darkened home.
No smiles greeted her coming now ; but 'great hot
tears glistened on the dark cheeks of the faithful band
that came forth to meet her.
Well might they weep that their only protector had
fallen! Where, in aU the country round, could be
found another such master ? His servants had been,
in some sense, his children ; subject, it is true to hia

DEATH OF A KIND MASTER. 133
passions and caprices — and who is free from these ?
StiU he had ever protected them from the violence of
overseers and other ruffians, and their supply of whole
some food and comfortable clothes had not been scant.
Equally kind, and even more indulgent, had been
their mistress, and she was spared to them. But now
the government would, partiaUy, at least, faU into
other hands ; there was no wiU, and the estate must
be settled according to law.
Deeply, notwithstanding her own grief, did the kind
mistress sympathize with her people in their peculiar
sorrow ; and earnestly did she resolve to do her ut
most to alleviate the hardships of their lot.
Mr. John Gist, a brother of the deceased, proceeded
to administer upon the estate, while Mrs. Gist remained
on the place, and preserved, as far as possible, the ac
customed order of affairs.
She was now a stately woman, of somewhat haughty
presence, and with an eye whose lightning few would
dare to brave. Usually, her voice was gentle, and her
manners rmld ; but when the helpless were outraged,
she summoned aU her powers to awe and to command
— for their reHef. One instance wUl suffice to show
her spirit.
It was Sunday evening, and Peter and Allison, who
had been to visit some of their friends on a neighbor
ing plantation, were returning home, when, to make
their road shorter, they crossed a field belonging to
Col. John D  .
Now, the gallant Colonel had made a law that no
negro belonging to his. neighbor, should cross his field
on Sunday; and his overseer, named S  , by chance

134 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
spying these trespassers, ran after them cowhide in
hand. They heard him on their track, and made aU speed
for home. Bounding over the door-yard fence, they
imagined themselves safe; but in an instant, their
pursuer leaped over after them, and even foUowed
them to the kitchen, where they hastened to take
refuge. Here the slaves determined- to do battle, and one of
them had seized the roUing-pin, and the other a large
knife, when their mistress, hearing the tumult, came
to the door.
The overseer quafled beneath her haughty eye.
" What is your business here, sir," said she, in a voice
steady and brave.
He explained his errand ; with much trepidation
however, for her great eyes were fixed upon him, and
her majestic form seemed to grew taUer every instant.
" Well, sir," said she, when he ceased speaking,
"leave these premises immediately, and let this be the
last time your foot approaches my house on such an
errand. My boys are not subject to your authority ;
if they do wrong, it is not your business to punish
them." The overseer departed in sUence, seeming much
smaller in his own eyes than he had appeared an hour
before.

CHAPTER XVI.

LEVIN'S DEATH.

Just a year after the death of his master, Levin's
health, which had been poor for several years, began
rapidly to decHne ; and it was soon plain to aU who
saw him that his work was done.
His sufferings soon became intense, but he endured
them with great patience. Levin was a Christian.
His inteUect, it is true, had possessed few means of de
velopment, but he had heard of the Lamb that was
slain. Upon that bleeding sacrifice his hopes had long
been fixed ; and though in much ignorance and weak
ness, yet earnestly had he sought to follow his Re
deemer. Now as the death-hour approached, he heard
a voice, saying, " My peace I give unto you, not as
the world giveth, give I unto you;" and, calmly re
signing himself into His arms who is a Saviour of the
weakest and the lowliest, he waited quietly the coming
of the last Messenger.
Poor Fanny was permitted to spend the last days by
his side. This was a great comfort to both, for they
had suffered much for each other, and it was very hard
to part so soon. But Levin talked so sweetly of the
green fields and still waters of that better land, that
[1361

136 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
She could not wish to prolong his painful sojourn
here. It was the twenty-eighth of December. Peter had
gone to Bainbridge, to make his usual Christmas visit
to his wife and Httle ones, and by the bed-side of her
dying husband sat the devoted Fanny. Yet, though
her eye watched every sign 'of change, she knew not
that he was departing.
Sadly she gazed upon his placid face. Ah I did he
not look happy? Why should she Weep? — and yet
the tears would flow.
" Call Peter, Fanny," said he, suddenly waking from
a gentle sleep.
" Peter's gone to Bainbridge."
A shade of disappointment passed over his face —
for a few moments he remained sflent. Then sud
denly, with aU his strength he cried, " Peter ! Peter !
O, Peter 1"
But the loved brother answered not. Ah! little
thought he, as he sat fondHng his chUdren, and hold
ing pleasant converse with their mother, that poor
Levin's heart, even at that hour, was breaking.
There was but a sHght struggle, — a faint gasp, — and
the freed spirit of the lowly slave was carried by the
angels into Abraham's bosom.
They placed the lifeless form in a rude coffin, and
bore it to its lowly grave. No stone marks his resting
place ; no fragrant flowers adorn the sod that covers
his silent house. Yet he sleeps sweetly there. The
loud horn of the overseer reaches not his ear at dawn ;
the harsh tone of command and the bitter blasphemous
curse break not his peaceful slumbers.
The death of this dear brother cast a heavy gloom

137
upon Peter's spirits. He felt that he was now alone.
The memories of their early childhood, of their
mother's love, and of the sad, sad day Avhen they were
stolen from their home, there was now none to share.
And the fond hope, which through all their years of
bondage had Hved far down in some hidden recess of
his heart — even that one hope went out — and all was
dark.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE JAUNT TO FLORIDA.
Patiently, month after month, Aunt Sally pur
sued her labors on the plantation of Mr. Peoples. She
had a kind master, and her boys were near her, as was
also Uncle Moses, the husband of her latter years.
Of poor Silas, to whom her heart's young affections
had been given, she never heard. He might be dead,
and — oh ! what torture in the thought ! — he might be
enduring sufferings compared with which, even death
itself were naught. She could only pray for his weal ;
and trust, as she ever found it sweet to do, to that com
passionate father, who loves the prayers of the humble,
while " the proud he knoweth afar off."
But it was concerning her daughter that Aunt
Sally's spirit was most deeply troubled. She was so
young to be taken away — and alone among strangers
too — how often would she need her mother's sympathy
and counsel !
" Well," said she to Uncle Moses, at the close of one
of their frequent conversations on the subject. " I's
mighty glad de pore chile done got married. 'Pears
like she Avont be so lonesome now. I'd like to see her
ole man. But her missus — she's a screamer. Laws !
Vine say de little gal whar waits in de house gits her
back cut up powerful, and she's a sickly Httle thing.
Hi I Avont dem kind o' ladies cotch it mightily when
[188]

THE JAUNT TO FLORIDA. 139
de bad man gits 'em ? Reckon he wont think dey's
so mons's nice, kase dey's white. De Lord years all
de screams o' his chUluns, and he aint gwine put harps
o' gold in dem dare hands, whar aUers a playin wid de
cowhide yer."
There were at this time two sets of slaves on Mr.
Peoples' place; his own, and those belonging to the
estate of a deceased brother, with whom he had been
in partnership. Many of these were united by family
ties,, and aU were strongly attached to each other, as
they had lived together for many years.
Suddenly, late in the autumn of 1827, the gloomy
tidings came among them that they were to be sepa
rated. Their master, having heard tempting accounts
of the beauty and fertility of Florida's fair plains, had
determined to remove there with his working hands :
whne those belonging to his brother's estate, as well as
the children and any that were unfit for labor, should
remain on the home place, in the guardianship of an
overseer. Aunt Sally was overwhelmed with sorrow. She
was more fortunate than many of her companions, for
her husband and her oldest son were to go with her ;
but poor Quail must stay behind, and Vina — she had
not seen her for two years. She longed to make her a
fareweU visit, but such was now the haste to secure
the crop, and to complete the needful preparations for
the journey, that she could not go even to "tell" her
dariing chUd "good-bye."
The master strove to comfort them by the promise
that they should some day return ; or, if he liked the
country so weU as to wish to remain in Florida, then
their friends should come to them. But the dim hope

140 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
in the distant future could not dispel the present gloom:
and with bitter lamentations fond mothers pressed their
weeping chUdren to their aching breasts, and loving
husbands turned back for one more look on those dear
faces which they never more might see.
They have gone ! Their friends stand mournfully
watching the sad procession tiU it passes out of sight,
and their stricken hearts breathe earnest prayers for
the safe keeping of their dearest treasures.
Vina did not hear of Mr. Peoples' intended removal
tUl his famfly had already arrived in Florida ; and her
grief was then extreme. To lose her mother thus,
without receiving so much as a parting message, was
harder far than all her previous trials. Not even the
laughing prattle of her Httle Peter could dispel this
heavy sorrow; not even her husband's love could
soothe her aching heart.
But a kind Providence was better to them than then-
fears. Mr. Peoples did not like Florida ; and when he
Tiad " made one crop," he returned with aU his slaves
in glad procession, to his former home.
Ah ! earth is not aU gloomy, for there be sometimes
glad reunions, when the partings have been dismal —
hopeless. There be transient gleams of joy, though
misery hath hung her heavy clouds over aU the sky.
There is an Infinite Father who looketh down in love
on the weakest of his chUdren ; and though he suffer
them to drink a bitter cup, he often mingles therewith
rare drops of sweetness.
The summer following her return from Florida, Aunt
SaUy paid a visit to her daughter.
What changes have been wrought during the four
years that had passed since she had seen her child-

THE JAUNT TO FLORIDA. , 141
Vina had grown quite taU, and her face, instead of the
timidity and sadness that then marked its expression,
now wore a careful mother-look. Poor chUd ! she was
not strong, and the fatiguing labor of the hot summer'
days, together with the care which her two chUdren
claime4 at night, taxed her exertions to the utmost.
Aunt Sally had not been long on the plantation, be
fore she learned the policy pursued by Mr. McKiernan
towards his slaves. Their lot was truly hard. Not an
article of furniture or clothing did they receive from
their master, except, that once a year he gave a coarse
plantation suit to such as were old enough to work.
Even this, however, was sometimes withheld, and then
those who had no means of procuring garments for
themselves, went to their daUy tasks in such a ragged
filthy state, that the more respectable of the overseers
could not endure their presence. Several of these, at
different times, left the plantation, for no other reason
than that they could not stay in the field with such a
miserable gang of negroes.
Little cared the master for their departure. Others
were always ready to be hired, who heeded not such
trifles, so that they could have full power over the
half-naked wretches that instinctively recoHed at their
approach. But Vina and her chUdren, thanks to Peter's indus
try and self-denial, had always decent clothing, and
their cabin boasted many convenient articles of furni
ture, such as slaves seldom possess. They had also'
better food than most of their companions, for to the
scant allowance of bacon and corn meal which was
doled out to Vina on Sunday mornings, Peter often

142 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
found means to add a little coffee and sugar, or a few
pounds of flour.
All this Aunt Sally learned during her short stay,
and for each kindness thus bestowed upon her child,
she rendered thanks to Him, whose hand she recog
nized in every good.
Too soon the time allotted to this precious visit
passed away ; yet much of hope Hngered in the sad
fareweU. " Dat dar jaunt to Florida," Aunt Sally
thought, had cured her master of his thirst for novelty;
and now, she trusted, she should never more be widely
separated from her daughter.
Vina's eyes were dim, as from her cabin door, she
watched her mother's departing form. A heavy sad
ness oppressed her spirits ; and the kind voice of her
husband, who stood beside her, could scarce dispel her
gloom. But many little motherly duties claimed her
thoughts. Young Peter wanted his supper, while little
Levin raised his pleading voice to beg for her attend
ance ; and soon the pleasure of contributing to the
comfort of those she loved restored her accustomed
cheerfulness.

CHAPTER XVIII.
A SLAVE MOTHER'S "GOODBYE."
Aunt Sally rode briskly homeward. She had
not felt so happy in many years as noAV. Her children
were all comfortably situated ; even Vina, about whom
she had been so anxious, had now so kind a husband,
'and such fine "peart" children, that she could no
longer repine at her lot.
A few weeks glided calmly on. Summer stole
noiselessly away, and Autumn came with quiet steps,
to cool the parched earth.
The cotton fields grew brown with age, and snowy
tufts burst from the ripened bolls. Tremulous they
hung — those fleecy tassels — and the cool breeze, as
with mock sympathy it sighed among the withering
leaves, lingered to whisper softly to these fair strangers,
and toss in amorous sport their dainty tresses.
The crops were all gathered in. Beside the gin-
house lay great heaps of hoary cotton-seed, and the
mighty press had uttered the last creak of the season.
Under a shed hard-by, the old-fashioned, tight-laced
bales were huddled close together, and yet it was not
winter. The hands upon the place were very proud. There
was not another plantation in all the country round,

144 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
but had great fields, where stfll in fleecy clusters the
precious cotton gleamed.
It is night — and the people are all in their cabins.
The smUes of triumph which but a few hours since
brightened their faces have departed, and a waU of
anguish resounds through aU the quarter. Mr.
Peoples has bought a sugar farm away down on the
dreadful Gulf Coast, and thither his slaves are all to be
conveyed, as soon as they can make the necessary pre
parations for the journey.
Look! Aunt SaUy comes forth alone from her
cabin door. Tears are upon her cheeks, and her
breast is convulsed with sorrow.
She walks slowly and with drooping head along a
narrow footpath leading to the woods. She kneels1
upon the rustling leaves. Oh ! with what humble
trustfulness she offers her agonized petitions! Has
she heard that it is written, " Like as a father pitieth
his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him ?"
The preparations for emigration were conducted
with the bustle and confusion usual on large planta
tions. There were full three hundred slaves; and
their master intended to carry along provisions suffi
cient for one year's consumption, as weU as corn for
the horses, mules and cattle. Then aU the utensils
of the farm were collected and repaired ; and each
famUy had to arrange its own Httle store of clothes
and furniture.
During the day, the constant occupation of the
slaves prevented the contemplation of their gloomy
prospects. At night, however, they had time to think ;
and then the torrent of their grief broke forth afresh.
In every cabin might be heard the voice of weeping;

A SLAVE MOTHER'S " GOOD-BYE." 145
and the rude paUets, on which reposed their Aveary
limbs,- were wet with bitter tears.
When all was ready, and the cattle and stores had
been conveyed to the river's bank,, then came the final
leave-taking. Husbands and wives, brothers and
sisters, parents and chUdren, who belonged on neigh
boring plantations, came Avith sobs and tears to say
" farewell" to those whose hearts were breaking.
Aunt Sally came hurriedly, with a smaU bundle in
her hand, from her empty cabin. Hastily she walked
along the road to Courtland, and paused not untU she
reached the residence of Mr. B  , where dwelt her
youngest chUd.
Poor Quail ! henceforth he would be motherless ! He
saw her form approaching, and ran to meet her. Oh !
the tender agony of that last long embrace.
He was her darHng boy, hoAv could she leave him ?
He clung around her neck. She felt his warm breath
on her cheek. 0 Saviour ! pity them ! It is their last
fond meeting— their last heart-crushed " good bye."
With desperate strength she tore herself from his
arms; and with one prayer to Heaven to bless and
keep her boy, she thrust the Httle bundle into his
powerless hand, and hastened on to join her gloomy
comrades. The rendezvous was Bainbridge. To. this point some
came on foot, and others on the boats over the shoals.
Here they were obliged to wait till all the boats ar
rived ; and now a faint hope sprang up in Aunt Sally's
heart that she might yet see her daughter. She deter
mined at least to make one effort.
A gentleman on horseback Avas slowly riding by.
It was Andrew Gist. Hastily she approached him.

146 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
He pitied her eAddent distress, and Hstened kindly to
the recital of her sorrows.
" So your daughter is at McKiernan's. What is her
name ?"
" Her name Vina, Sir."
" Vina ? why that is Peter's wife."
" Yes, Sir, her man name Peter. He belongs to Mara
Levi Gist."
" WeU, I'U* find, her myself, and send her down to
see you. Come, cheer up, Auntie, you'U have good
times yet."
The field where Mr. McKiernan's people were at
work was three mUes from the landing, but the Ken-
tuckian's fine horse soon bore him there.
" Which of you all has a mother at Peoples' ?" said
he, as he rode up to a group of women.
"It's Vina's mother whar lives dar, Sir: — yon's
Vina," replied a young girl, pointing as she spoke, to
the object of his search. She was working alone, at a
short distance from her companions, and did not look
up till she was addressed.
"Howd'y' Vina, does your mother belong to Peo
ples?" "Yes, Sir."
" Well, if you go down to the landing, you'll see the
last of her, I reckon, for she's going down the river.
Peoples is moving down to the coast."
He rode away, and Vina gazed after him in speech
less terror. Her mother — the coast — could it be? One ¦
moment she started towards the overseer to ask permis
sion to go to the river — the next her courage failed
her, and she felt sure he would not let her go. She

A SLAVE MOTHER'S " GOOD-BYE." 147
tried to work, but her limbs seemed palsied, and her
eyes were full of blinding tears.
After nearly an hour had passed, she summoned aU
her strength, and left the field. With fearful steps she
walked to the house, and fortunately her master and
mistress were both at home. She told them what Mr.
Gist had said, and touched with pity, they bade her go
immediately to the landing, and stay with her mother
as long as the boats remained.
A strange picture met her eye as she approached the
river. Along the bank in the dim twilight, gleamed
the blaze of numerous fires, and around these were
gathered groups of unhappy slaves. Some were cook
ing their simple suppers, and others close huddled
together, warmed their benumbed limbs, while they
bewaUed, in low sad tones, their gloomy destiny. Mo
thers hovered tenderly over the dear little ones that
never more might hear their fathers' voices, and here
and there, like a majestic tree by lightning blasted,
stood a lone father, who had left all--wife, chUdren,
hope, behind.
Vina paused, and Hstened, but in the sad murmur
that met her ear she heard not her mother's voice. She
passed on. Four large flat boats were tied to the bank,
and one of these she timidly entered.
A great fire was glowing at the further end of the
boat, and dark figures were moving slowly about in
the uncertain light* She heard no niirthful voices, no
gay laugh ; but heavy sighs and mournful wailings
filled her ears.
On a low stool near the fire sat a female figure. Her
bowed head rested on both her hands, and her body
swayed to and fro, in unison with the melancholy

148 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
measure of her thoughts. Vina came very near. She
paused. Aunt Sally raised her head, and with a cry,
half joy — half anguish, she clasped her daughter to
her breast.
" 0 my chUe ! I's studyin' 'bout you, whether I's
ever gwine see you agin or not," and she sobbed aloud.
" Oh ! how can I go and leave you, honey? I shan't
never come back no more I 'Way down on de sugar
farm I shall die, and der wont be no daughter dar to
see 'em lay me in de grave !"
Long sat Vina and her mother close together, con
versing in low tones, and weeping over their sad doom.
The slaves who had been gathered around the fires
upon the bank came in, and wrapping themselves in
their blankets, lay down to sleep.
As midnight approached, it was announced that the
boats would probably not leave Bainbridge until Mon
day morning ; and Aunt SaUy obtained permission of
the overseer who had charge, to go home with her
daughter, and spend the next day which was Saturday,
at. her cabin. Immediately they left the boat, and
hastened home.
The hours of that short Saturday passed swiftly by,
and at night Vina accompanied her mother back to the
boat. There she left her, promising to come again in
the morning, that they might spend one more day
together. The dawn of the Sabbath-day ^aw the affectionate
daughter on her way to the river. She walked rapidly,
for every minute of that day was precious.
She comes in sight of the landing. Why does she
pause ? and Oh ! what means that heavy groan ?
The boats have gone ! The fires are smouldering

A SLAVE MOTHER'S " GOOD-BYE."
on the bank. Here and there lies a fragment of hoe-
cake or a bit of an old blanket that has been forgotten.
All is sUent. '
Slowly the freighted boats pursued their way be-
tAveen the lonely banks of the Tennessee. The trees
that overhung the stream shivered as they saw their
leafless branches in the still clear water, but the bright
mistletoe clung closely to the desolate trunks, and
strove, with its rich green, to hide their rigid outlines.
Slowly they floated on. The broad Ohio bore them
on her breast to the Father of Waters, and stUl they
stayed not. The tall cotton-woods that guard the
Mississippi's banks Hstened to the murmur of the
slaves' sad voices; and every breeze, they met went
sighing past as though it sorrowed with them.
Their fears were all too true. The sugar farm upon
the coast was to them as the "Valley of the Shadow
of Death."
So many of his slaves died during the first year, that
Mr. Peoples, when he had made one crop of cane, sold
his plantation and left the coast. He could not endure
to see his faithful servants dying there, even though
he knew the profits of the business would enable him
to buy others in their stead. So he purchased a plan
tation in the north part of Mississippi, and returned,
with the remnant of his people, to the culture of corn
and cotton.
Here, after several years, Aunt Sally sank peace
fully to her last, long slumber. She had no dread of
Death. Long had she waited for his coming; and
now that she knew he hovered near, her heart was
filled with holy joy, and aU who saw the light of loVe
and hope that beamed from her faded eye, knew well

150 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
that she had been with Jesus. And when her pulse
was still, and her cold hands lay meekly folded across
her breast, a heavenly smUe stiU Hngered on her face;
blest token that her weary spirit had reached at length
that happy home where she had so longed to rest.
Her master, who, during her sickness, had done all.
in his power for her comfort, wrote to inform her ab
sent chUdren of her decease. He told them of her
faith and patience, and of her final triumph over the
terrors of the grave; and added that he provided a
neat shroud and coffin for her sleeping dust, and
buried her with every token of respect.
Happy Aunt Sally. She had never known other
than the " sunny side" of slavery. Neither of her
masters had been capable of wanton cruelty, and her
exceUent character had made her a favorite with both.
Yet the system of slavery cursed her life. It bereaved
her of the husband of her youth, and robbed her of her
beloved chUdren. It tore her from scenes endeared by
association with all her pleasures, and dragged her
away into strange lands, of which, from her childhood,
she had heard nought but tales of horror.
And for all these, what compensation reaped she
from the institution. Verily, none — save such as is
bestowed upon the faithful ox. Even the unusual
kindness of her master could grant no other boon than
a shroud, a coffin, and a promised letter to tell her
chUdren that they Avere motherless.
Such is a " South Side View."

CHAPTER XIX.
THE MISTRESS' SECOND MARRIAGE.
On the. twelfth of November, 1833, Mrs. Gist was
married to Mr. John Hogun, a man more than twenty
years her senior. He possessed few personal attrac
tions, and stiU fewer inteUectual or social accomplish
ments. But he o-wned two large plantations, one in
the neighborhood of Mrs. Gist's residence, and another
in Mississippi. Both of these were well stocked, the
slaves numbering more than one hundred.
The marriage of their beloved mistress caused great
grief among the slaves on the plantation, for it fore
shadowed the partings that must come.
The servants, thirty-four in number, were to be
divided equally between the mother and her four
children (one daughter was born after her father's
death). In order to this, they were placed in five lots,
and these were so arranged as to keep the families
together. These lots were not of equal value ; but the
discrepancy was to be made up by a corresponding
difference in the distribution of the other property, so
that the revolting scenes of an auction might be
avoided. The mistress drew first. Old Frank, and Aunt
[151]

152 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Peggy, Avith their three daughters, together with a
yellow boy named Nelson, fell to her share. She felt
disappointed, for she had always hoped to retain Peter
in her service; but notwithstanding he loved and
honored his mistress, he was grateful that he had not
faUen under the dominion of her husband. The re
maining lots were not draAvn at that time, as the chil
dren were still very young.
About a month after the marriage — a sad and
gloomy month to all upon the place — Mrs. Hogun,
with her children and servants, left, the quiet home
where she had spent so many happy hours, and went
to the residence of her husband.
This was a large framed house? situated on a rich
plantation, about four miles from her late abode, and
four and a half miles from Tuscumbia. The former
Mrs. Hogun had been dead four or five years, and her
eldest daughter, Miss Louisa, had since her decease,
presided at her father's table. This young lady was
married soon after her father, and there were then
three chUdren left at home, John, Robert, and Thir
muthis. Mr. Hogun was emphatically a hard man. His
heart knew no mercy to those upon Avhom the laws of
his State, as weU as the customs of surrounding society
aUowed him to trample. To his own children he was
ever indulgent; to his neighbors and acquaintances,
smooth-tongued and polite ; but he had a will that
could not brook resistance, and a temper Avhich, when
roused, was capable of inflicting any cruelty. He con
sidered his servants as his, body and soul, and strove
to compel them to make his Avishes their law in all
things. He allowed none of them to marry off the

THE MISTRESS' SECOND MARRIAGE. 153
the place, and by watching them carefully, and pursu
ing prompt measures, he usually managed to bring
them together according to his mind.
When he saw a young man and woman engaged in
any Httle sport together, or noticing each other in any
way, if he thought they would make a good match, he
ordered the overseer to buUd them a house. Accord
ingly, on the first convenient day thereafter, a sufficient
number of the hands were called to the work, and the
cabin was erected. It was but a small task to complete
the structure — one little log-room, having a door on
one side, a small unglazed window with a wooden
shutter on the other, and at one end a chimney, built
of sticks and smeared with mud. Nothing further was
considered necessary. The ground sufficed for all the
purposes of floor, bed, table, and chairs ; unless the
inmates, by working on holidays, or by selling eggs or
chickens, managed to procure some Httle comforts for
themselves. When the house was finished, the master ordered
Bob, the head man to bring Joe and Phfilis, and put
them into their house. Then, putting a smaU padlock
on the door, he gave the key to Bob, saying, " Here,
Bob, I have put my seal on this door ; now here is the
key ; you keep this nigger and this wench together,
or, by jings, you'U pay for it. Do you make Joe buUd
a fire for Phillis, and see that Phillis cooks for Joe,
and washes his clothes ; and, mind, Bob, I shall look
to you."
No expostulations from either party could alter his
decree. He had been to the trouble of building a house
for them, and now they should live in it, or take toe
consequences of braving his authority.

154 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
a
When such were the marriage rites, what must have
been the morals of the place ?
The slaves on this plantation were worked very
hard. Before the daAvn of day the horn was sounded
to call them to the field, and in hurrying times, they
Avere not allowed to go to rest tUl late at night. "Cot
ton," — "cotton" — was ever the watchword and reply;
and the great crops which they " made" brought wealth
into the master's coffers, while they drained the life-
founts of the toUing slaves.
One year, however, they had, providentially, a little
rest. The crop was nearly destroyed by the early
frost, very few bolls ripening at all.
Late in this "unlucky" year, a gang of slaves were
one day repairing the fence around a large field, and a
few were picking the cotton from the scattering bolls.
"Well, boys," said the overseer of a neighboring
plantation, Avho chanced to pass, " aint you sorry you've
got no cotton to pick this year ?"
"Ah! no, mass'r," replied one of the oldest men,
" we's mighty glad in place o' bein' sorry. De Lord
has done a mon's good work for us, mass'r ; if he'd
on'y sent de fross a Httle sooner, we wouldn't had none
to pick at all."
The overseer, angered by the old man's "impu
dence," cursed him bitterly.
" Yah, yah, mass'r, 'taint no use bein' mad, I reckon,
kase nobody aint to blame but de Lord, and it wont
do no good to be mad wid him ; can't' skeer him a
cussing, no how."
For six years after the marriage of their mistress,
the slaves belonging to the Gist estate were kept upon
the plantation. The overseer with his family took

THE MISTRESS' SECOND MARRIAGE. 155
possession of the house that had so long been the abode
of peace and happiness ; and everywhere on the place
a new order of things was established.
Peter was made foreman of the hands, which posi
tion he retained as long as the famUy of slaves was
kept together. The overseer gave him his orders at
night, with particular directions concerning the next
day's work. In the morning' he was obliged to rise
first, to call his fellow-servants .from tiieir slumbers,
and to see that each was ;m his place, f and that his
his work was properly .commenced. AU day he took
the fore-row and led his gang. At night it was his busi
ness to see that the tools they had used were safe and
in order, and the people were all in their cabins,
before he could go to bed. In picking time, he also
was obliged each night to weigh the cotton, and to
report to the overseer the number of pounds which
each of the hands had picked. His extraordinary
memory was now a great advantage to him, for though
he could not write, he was never known to report
erroneously the contents of the baskets.
The loss of their kind master Avas keenly felt by the
slaves during all these years. The overseers, always
men of the lowest stamp in intellect and morals, had
full sway. J£ they succeeded in making a good crop,
they satisfied their employers, the administrators of the
estate ; and why should they hesitate to use any means
that might advance this end ? The slaves, men and
women, were therefore required to labor at their utmost
strength ; and when over- wearied, they found no sym
pathy. The kind word of encouragement was want
ing, the voice of commendation became strange unto
their ears.

156 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
In the year 1839, it was thought best, by the guar
dians of the estate, to sell the plantation and to hire
out the negroes. The tidings of this approaching
change in their condition spread a panic throughout the
little community. They had suffered much since their
master died, but they had suffered together. Now to
be scattered — they could not bear the thought !
Many were the consultations which they held together
over their gloomy prospects ; but none could suggest
a plan of escape from the Uls that threatened them.
They could only submit to their fate, and meet what
ever awaited them with patience — since hope had fled.
"Oh!" thought Peter, "what's the use in livin'?
Mass'r Levi's gone, and Levin; and then missus, she
must go too, and leave us all without nobody to care
whether we lives or dies. Here I've served the family
so many years ; and now I must go to wait on some
strangers, that wont care for nuthin' only to git all the
work they can for their money. Oh ! if they send me
off where I can't go to see Vina, it '11 kUl her, sure."

CHAPTER XX.
THE PLANTATION "BROKEN UP."
The last Christmas came which these doomed people
were to spend together at the old place, and instead of
the mirth which usually reigned at that season, mourn
ing and weeping filled its hours. The slaves had all
been hired out here and there, and, after the holidays,
they were to go to their new homes. Fourteen of the
number, including Peter, were destined to spend the
ensuing year on the plantation of a Mr. Threat, about
four mUes from Bainbridge.
The one great dread, that of being conveyed still
further from his wife, was now removed, but other
wise his situation was not bettered. Mr. Threat had
immigrated from Virginia, about four years before, and
had bought a small plantation. He owned no slaves,
and was therefore obliged to hire them year by year.
Peter, having led the hands on the old place, was
stUl retained as head-man, and his labors were in no
degree diminished. His.fare too, was scanty, for the
young master was just beginning in the world, and
could Ul afford an abundance of wholesome food to
other people's negroes.
The Threat family, as we have said, came from Vir
ginia, and though the young man to whom Peter and
his companions were hired, was not rich, yet, his
D573

.- 158 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
parents, who resided in the neighborhood, possessed a
competency. His mother, we should have said, for the
elder Mr. Threat had faUed in business in Virginia,
and his property was aU sold under the hammer. Two
brothers of his wife, men of great wealth, bid it in,
and settled it upon their sister and her chUdren ; giv
ing to her the entire control during her lifetime. The
family then removed to Alabama, where Mrs. Threat
assumed the reins of government. Her husband Hved
with her, and she permitted her servants to wait upon
him, but in business matters, he was not consulted.
Mrs. Threat kept no overseer, and hesitated not to
show her subjects that the sole authority over them
was vested in herself, and that her arm was strong
to punish their transgressions. She frequently rode
over her fields with cowhide and rope at hand, and in
spected the labor of her slaves. If she found one of
them dilatory or otherwise -remiss, she quickly dis
mounted, and. ordered him to strip. Then after com
manding one of his feUow slaves to tie him, she vigor
ously appHed the cowhide to his naked back, until she
deemed that he had expiated his offence.
One spring morning, while Peter was hired to her
son, she mounted one of her carriage horses, a large
bay, and rode to the field. She had, the day before,
whipped a large, powerful negro, and on this morning
she started with her rope and cowhide, intending to in
flict the same punishment upon another who had
incurred her wrath. But when she had nearly reached
the spot where her people were at work, her horse took
fright, and springing aside, threw her to ,the ground.
The slaves hastened to her assistance. They bore her
home, and a doctor was soon summoned. Her hip

THE PLANTATION "BROKEN UP." 159
was badly injured, and it was a long time before she
recovered. Ever after, she used a crutch, and dragged
one foot after her Avhen she walked. Her good right
arm, however, was not weakened, as the scarred backs
of many of her slaves could testify.
This may be regarded as an extraordinary instance
of female "chivalry," but in truth, similar cases are
not rare. Frail, delicate ladies, whom one would in
stinctively shield from a rude breath of the free air,
can strip and tie their slaves, both men and Avomen,
and beat them with the zest of a base-born overseer.*
During the summer which Peter spent at Mr.
Threat's — 1840 — the well remembered poHtical excite
ment of " Tippecanoe and Tyler too," spread through
that vicinity. A Convention was held at Tuscumbia,
and party men on both sides were loud in the defence
of the liberties of their country. Speeches were made,
songs were sung; and each busy patriot seemed to
imagine himself destined to save the nation from mis
rule and consequent destruction. The excitement was
contagious. Ladies' fair hands embroidered banners,
and their soft voices joined in the exciting songs of
the times.
The slaves could not remain uninterested listeners
to the conversations concerning Hberty that Avere held
everywhere — at the dinner-table, and on the street.
They interpreted literally the language of their masters,
and in their simple hearts imagined that the dawn of
Hberty had come. What else could it mean? The
white people were already free; and if liberty was to
* In making this assertion, the writer relies not wholly upon in
formation derived from Peter, but speaks also from personal
knowledge.

160 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
become universal — and people on each side declared it
would become so, if their party should succeed in the
election — then the "black folks" would enjoy its
blessings, "sure."
On Sundays the slaves from "town" met their
plantation friends at their fish-traps on the river, and
there the joyful news was communicated — in whispers
at first — but as they became more certain that their
hopes were well-grounded, they graduaUy grew bolder,
till at length they dared to discuss the subject in their
religious meetings. The preachers were inspired by
this bright hope of freedom, and as it grew nearer its
imagined fulfilment they preached it to their people
with thrilling eloquence.
" 'Taint no dream, nor no joke," eried one of these ;
" de time's a'most yer. Der won't be no mo' whippin',
no mo' oversee's, no mo' patrollers, no mo' huntin' wid
dogs ; everybody^ a gAvine to be free, and de white
mass'r's a gwine to pay 'em for der work. 0, my
brudders ! de bressed time's a knocMn' at de door !
De good Lord 'U ramshackle de devU, and aU de people
in dis yer world, bof white and black, is a gwine to
Hve togedder in peace."
Alas ! their bright visions were speedUy shadowed.
Their masters learned the subject of their earnest dis
cussions, and then a system of espionage was estab
lished, which pursued its objects with a vindictive
energy worthy of the best days of the Inquisition.
The black preachers Avere silenced ; all assembling
of the slaves forbidden ; and patrols estabUshed
through all the country. Every negro encountered by
the patrols was whipped, if he had no pass ; and even
that important slip of paper often lost its magic, if the

THE PLANTATION BROKEN UP. 161
bearer chanced to have the reputation of being a man
of spirit.
A panic pervaded the whole community. "The
negroes intend to rise," was whispered with white Hps
by timid ladies in their morning visits ; and-every sigh
of the night-wind through the lofty trees was inter
preted by the fearful into the rush of black assassins.
Old stories of negro insurrections were revived, and
the most faithful and attached servants became objects
of suspicion.
This excitement, however, like that to which it owed
its origin, at length passed away. The few old privi
leges were restored to the slaves, and the services of
the patrols were no longer in constant requisition. Yet
the confidence of the slaveholder is always imperfect,
and easUy shaken. When injustice constitutes the
base of the system, how can faith adorn the super
structure ?
Some of the better class of servants about Tuscum
bia have not to this day recovered from the effects of
the suspicions which they then incurred. Many, in
their joyful excitement, had run after the wagons that
bore in procession the log cabin with its admirers, and
cried", " The year of jubUee is come I We aU's a gwine
to be free !" These were almost crushed by the dis
appointment, and by the sufferings consequent on
too frank an expression of their hopes. They were
9 scourged and persecuted in a manner befitting the nature
of their offence.
Toward the close of 1840, Peter was hired for
the ensuing year to Mr. McKiernan. To this he was
greatly opposed, even though he would by such an
arrangement be able dafly to enjoy the society of his

162 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
family. He loved his wife and chUdren most fondly,
but their master had long sought to buy him, and
Peter feared that if he went there, he might succeed in
accomplishing his wish. The idea of becoming the
property of such a man was dreadful to him, and this
fear shadowed the otherwise bright prospect of Hving
constantly with his beloved Vina. Yet he carefully
concealed his feeHngs on the subject from any that
would report them to Mr. McKiernan. His wife was
in the tyrant's power, and he dared not offend him.

CHAPTER XXI.
BABY LIFE IN THE CABINS.
We left Vina at the landing straining her weeping
eyes to retain the images of the flat-boats that were
bearing the goods of Mr. Peoples down the river.
Long she stood gazing there ; even till the last faint
outline of a boat was lost, and then with swollen eyes
and aching heart she returned to her cabin.
She had then two chUdren. Peter, the eldest was a
Httle more than three years old, and Levin, who was
born on the twenty-fourth of June previous, had seen
about six months. They were 'peart,' healthy little
fellows, and they received much better care than is
usually bestowed upon the children of a field woman.
At that time there was no old woman on the place
to take care of the chUdren ; and every mother, when
she went to the field in the morning, locked her little
ones in her t cabin, leaving some bread where they
could get it when they became hungry. Or, if there
was one too small to help itself to bread, the thought
ful mother tied a little mush in a rag upon its finger,
so that when, as babies wUl, it thrust its finger in its
mouth, it could suck the mush through the rag, and
that would keep it quiet.
Sometimes, when the day was very hot, the mothers
D65]

164 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
left their cabin doors open, that the Httle ones might
have air. Then those that were able would creep out
over the low threshold, and perhaps fall asleep on the
hot ground. " Many's the time," saysVina, " I come
home and find my baby sleepin' with the sun a beatin'
on its head, enough, 'peared like, to addle its brains."
Very few infants Hved on this plantation. The
mothers were obHged to work so hard before their
birth, and so often suffered cruel beatings whUe in a
situation that required the utmost kindness, that most
of the children, if born alive, died in spasms when a
few days old.
When Vina's chUdren were smaU, not an article of
clothing was provided for them by the master, tiU they
were old enough to be employed in some Hght work
about the house. Their mother might manage to
clothe them, or let them go naked. But for the last
few years, they have lost so many in consequence of
the total lack of necessaries, that now they give each
mother clothing for her chUd. But if the baby dies,
every Httle garment must be carried back to the mis
tress, not even excepting a covering for the tiny
corpse. H the mother cannot provide something to
shroud her baby, she may have it buried without.
Those clothes must be laid by for some future necessity.
In 1831, October twenty-fifth, another Httle voice
was heard in Vina's cabin, pleading for care. She
called the baby WUHam, and he was a fine brave boy.
His little brothers gave him a joyous welcome, and so
did his fond parents ; though, in truth, they scarcely
knew how they were to supply his baby Avants. " But
'pears Hke," says the mother, " every baby I had I

BABY-LIFE IN THE CABINS. 165
growed smarter, so 't when I had three, I tuck just as
good care of 'em all as I did of the first one."
When little WUHam was a few months old, a chUd
belonging to a woman named Ann, was burned to
death while its mother was away in the field at work.
It was winter, and the mother, as Avas necessary at that
season, had buUt sufficient fire to keep her half-naked
chUdren comfortable ; and then, locking her door, had
left them to amuse themselves during her absence.
When she came in, her chUd was lying lifeless upon
the clay hearth. It had crept too near the pretty
blaze, and had probably faUen on the burning coals.
The burning of Ann's child brought about a new
order of things on the plantation. Thereafter, every
mother was required to leave her little chUdren at the
kitchen when she went to the field, and then the cook
could mind them.
One morning, not long after this law was made,
Vina was "pushed" to get out in time. She had slept
but little during the night, and she did not wake as
early as usual. So she thought she would leave the
chUdren in the cabin till she came in to nurse her
baby, and then she would carry them to the kitchen.
The other little ones were crowing and crying about
when the mistress's eye missed Vina's. She counted
them aU over.
" Where are Vina's children ?"
" She never brought 'em dis mornin', ma'am."
"Well, I'll settle with her when she comes. I've
told them aU not to leave their children at home — they
don't care whether they're burnt up or not."
When Vina came at breakfast time to her cabin, (all
but the mothers of young chUdren ate their breakfast

166 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
before they went out) she took her three little ones to
the kitchen, and sat down there to nurse the baby
Soon the mistress came in, holding the cowhide partly
behind her.
"How's this, Vina?" said she, "I thought I told
you that you was n't to leave your chUdren in your
house of a morning."
" Well, Missus, I's pushed this mornin'. I had n't
time  "
" I don't care how much you was pushed. I told
you to bring them here ; and if the sun was an hour
high you should obey me. Lay down your child;
I'm going to whip you now, for I said I would do it.
If your chUdren had got burnt up, you would have
blamed me about it."
" No, ma'am, I would n't  "
" Lay your chUd down. I'U let you know you are
to obey me."
Vina obeyed; and when her weary shoulders had
received twenty hard lashes, she went out to her work.
Verily, as a lady in that neighborhood remarked, not
long since, to a Northern friend: " The negroes ought
to be very thankful to us for taking care of them: ihey
make us a great deal of trouble."

CHAPTER XXII.
FACTS.
Among the slaves on Mr. McKiernan's plantation
were a number of handsome women. Of these the
master was extremely fond, and many of them he be
guiled with vUe flatteries, and cheated by false prom
ises of future kindness, till they became victims to his
unbridled passions.
Upon these unfortunate women feU the heavy hatred
of their mistress ; and year after year, as neAv instances
of her husband's perfidy came to her knowledge, her
jealousy ran higher, tUl at length reason seemed ban
ished from her mind, and kindliness became a stranger
to her heart. Then she sought a solace in the wine-
cup ; and the demon of intoxication fanned the fires
of hatred that burned within her, till they consumed
aU that was womanly in her nature, and rendered her
an object of contempt and ridicule, even among her
own dependents.
• The master was, at the time of which we are writing,
not far from fifty years of age. He was short and
burly in person, with a large head, and a very red
face. His hair was quite grey, and as he walked
towards the quarter in the morning with his hat on
one side, cursing and spitting Avith equal zeal, he
[167]

168 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
looked, as some of his slaves remarked, "like a big buz
zard just ready to fly."
Vina thoroughly understood her master's character;
she knew also the temper of her mistress ; and she
strove by her prudence &nd correctness of demeanor,
to avoid exciting the evil passions of either. But one
day, when WiUiam was a baby, her trial came. The
foUowing is her own account of her contest with her
master, and it shows that she possessed a brave, true
spirit :
" I was in my.house a spinnin' one rainy day, and
firs' I knowed, Mass'r he come to the door, and ax me
what was I doin'. I told him I's a spinnin' -fine yarn.
' Who's thar with you ?' says he, ' Thar aint no per
son yer but my chiUerns,' says I; and so he come in
and sent Peter and Levin out. I knowed what Avas a
comin' then, for his eyes looked mighty mean.
" He sot down and talked till I got tired a hearin',
and I told him I wished he'd go 'way and leave me
alone. I told him he got a wife o' his own, and I
didn't never want no fuss Avith her. Well, he 'lowed
she wouldn't never know nothin' about it, no how, so
it wouldn't do her no hurt.
" I told him that thar wasn't my principle, to wrong
any person behind their back, thinkin' they wouldn't
know it. I wouldn't like any body should do me so.
At las' I told him I got a task to do, and if he wouldn't
go off, and let me do it, I'd go myself;  so I started
for the door.
"He sprung after me, and cotch me by the neck of
my coat, and tore it half way down the skirt behind.
That made me mad, and I fell at him, and tore his

FACTS. 169
shirt mighty nigh off his back. I pulled his haU too,
right smart, "and scratched his face, and then tripped
and flung him on the floor.
" He was powerful mad when he got up, and he say
he gwine whip me weU for that. I told him just so
sure as he give me a lick, I'd tell Missus what it's for ;
and he knowed he never'd git no chance to whip me
'bout my work, so he neeedn't make no such pretence.
'You tell her one word,' says he, 'bout this yer, and
I'U cut your two ears off close to your head I' ' No,
sir, you wont,' says I, ' you know you dares not crap *
one'o' your servants.'
" Then he went up to the house, and slipped in sly,
and put on a clean shirt. But that thar raggety one
never was' seen. His wife missed it, though, for she
knowed he put on a clean shirt that day. She axed
all the house servants had they, seen it, but none of
'em didn't know nuthin' 'bout it. Then she 'lowed
some of 'em done stole it, and she laid it to Jinny, —
she was cook then. She 'lowed she done give it to
Jacob her husband. They both 'clared they's inno
cent • but the missus and the overseer give 'em more'n
three hundred lashes to make 'em own they got it.
" ' One of your best shirts is gone,' says she to the
Mass'r,^' and I'm determined to whip the servants tiU
I make "them tell where it is. I've had Jinny and
Jacob whipped well, but they wont own any thing
about it. I shaU have to try the others.'
"'Jinny,' says Mass'r, 'what about that shirt of
mine? " ' Missus has whipped me 'bout that shirt, sir,' says
Jinny, ' an' I don't know no more 'bout whar it is an'
you does yourself.' 8

110 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
" ' Well, go 'long,' says he, 'but mind, Jinny, you've
got that to find.'
" All the house servants got whipped 'bout it, but
none of 'em didn't take so much as Jinny ; and they
had every house in the quarter searched. There was
more'n five hundred blows struck 'bout that shirt, and
they never found no sign of it.
"Two or three weeks after, old Mass'r come into
the field to whar we's plowin' ! He tried some o' the
other women's ploughs, and then he ¦ come to me.
' WeU, girl,' says he, ' how does your plough run ?"
" ' Oh ! it runs weU enough,' says I.
" ' Let me try it;' says he.
" ' I don't want nobody a holdin' my plough', says I.
" ' The devU you don't!' I see he's gittin' mad; so
I stepped back and drapped the Hne. He cotch it,
and ploughed a few rods. ' What you think now,'
says he ' of a servant fightin' her master ?'
" ' What you think, sir, 'bout a Mass'r doin' his-
servants that way?' says I. 'You see 'em misbehave
with any body else, and you'd whip 'em sure !" .
" ' Yes, but I'm your master.' ' '
" ' That don't make no difference to me, sir,' says I.
' How could you see your poor house servants cut up
so 'bout that shirt, and you knowin' whar j^was all
the time? I b'lieve I'll go up this very night, and-
tell 'em all about it.'
" ' By G — d,' says he, ' I wish you would. I'd like
to have you tell it. I'd give you the devU.'
"But I didn't have no notion o' tellin' ! They had
storms enough without havin' any 'bout me, and I
knowed I could allers keep him away by fightin' him.
I Hked to fight him a Httle, anyhow, he's so mean. If I'd

FACTS. 171
told, I'd allers had Missus agin me, and they mought
'a' sold me away from my family, and that would, 'a'
been the end o' me."
Vina's wisdom in refraining from reporting to her
mistress, may be inferred from the following incident,
with the circumstances of which she was well ac
quainted. Jinny; the cook, had a young daughter named
Maria. She was smaU of her age, a bright mulatto,
and uncommonly pretty ; and her mistress had always
kept her about the house.
One morning, when Maria was about thirteen years
old, the mistress called her to perform some little
service, but she did not answer. She. sent to the
kitchen, but she was not there, and, thinking she had
perhaps fallen asleep somewhere in the house, the lady
proceeded to look for her in the different rooms. She
opened the parlor door, and there was the chUd 
.with her master.
AU the fierceness of her nature was aroused. Her
husband immediately mounted his horse and rode off
to escape the storm ; though well he knew that its full
fury would fall upon the young head of his victim.
Thefcnraged woman seized the trembling child and
put her in a buck. Then she whipped her till she was
tired, but not satisfied ; for as soon as she had rested
her weary arms, she flew at her again, and after beat
ing her tiU she had exhausted her own strength a
second time, she shut her up in the brick smoke-house.
The matter was no secret, for she told the story to
aU the servants, and to every one else who chanced to
come to the house whUe her wrath was burning.

172 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE. RANSOMED.
For two weeks she kept the poor girl constantly im
prisoned there, except that every day she took her out
long enough to whip her. She gave her nothing to
eat or drink, and all the light or air that could enter
the gloomy place came through the smaU holes that
were left by the buUders to admit air to the bacon.
Through these, Jinny, when she could steal an oppor
tunity, passed small pieces of bread, and a little water
in a vial, that her child might not die of hunger.
Some of the elderly servants expostulated with their
mistress, and even hinted that Maria was but a child,
and that it was " mass'r" that was to. blame. " She'll
know better in future," was the stern reply; "after I've
done with her, she'll never do the Hke again through
ignorance." .
" But she'U die, missus, if you keeps her shut up
thar much longer."
" That's just what I want ; I hope she wUl die."
The poor chUd grew very thin and pale, and some
times, when she was taken out to receive her dan)*
whipping, she could hardly stand. " 0 missus, '\ said
she one day, " if you whips me any more it will kill
me." " That's just what I want ; I hope it win; "was the
only reply. But some merciful angel restraHied her
cruel arm for that one day, and she thrust her back
without beating her.
" Please, missus, wont you let me have a drink of
water?" said the chUd, as the door was once more
-about to close upon her.
" No ; not a drop of water shaU you have, nor a
mouthful to eat; "and she shut the door upon the
youthful sufferer.

FACTS. 173
After she had kept her thus imprisoned for two
weeks, her eldest son, Master Charles, came from
Louisiana on a visit. To him his mother told the story
of Maria's depravity, and begged him to take her away
with him. " SeU her," said she, " to the hardest mas
ter you can find, for, if she stays here, I shaU certainly
kill her."
Master Charles readily assented to his mother's pro
posal, and proceeded at once to the smoke-house to let
Maria out. Poor child, how changed. was she from
the bright young girl of two weeks before ! Her face
had now an ashy hue, and her large eyes were dull
and sunken. Her flesh, too, was aU gone; so that she
was indeed frightful to look at.
"Why, mother," said the young man, "you must
have this girl fattened up or she wUl never seU. I
should be ashamed to offer her for sale looking as she
does now."
The mistress went to the kitchen. "Jinny," said
she, " I want you to feed my young mistress well, and
fatten her for the market."
Poor Jinny was greatly distressed, and as soon as
she could find him alone, she begged young Master
Charles not to sell her chUd.
"0 Aunt Jinny," said he, "lam not going to sell
her. I want to take her home with me, to get her
away from the old lady. I shaU keep her myself, and
I'll take good care of her.
The young man kept his word.' He took her to
Louisiana, and kept her till she had recovered her
health and her good looks. Then he hired her out to
a lady of his "acquaintance, who taught her to sew, and
she became an exceUent seamstress.. A few years after

174 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
when he came home on a visit, he brought her with
him that she might see her mother. She was then a
large, fine looking woman, so changed from the poor
persecuted chUd that left them, that her friends could
scarcely credit her identity. Yet, though years had
passed, she dared not come into the presence of her
angered mistress. Master Charles left her at his sister's ;
and only when her enemy had left the plantation for
the day, did Maria venture to steal a visit to her early
friends.

CHAPTER XXIII.
PETER'S YEAR AT McKIERNAN'S.
On the first day of January 1841, Peter commenced
his labors on the plantation of Mr. McKiernan. Now
came his most intimate acquaintance with the realities
of slavery. He had witnessed much suffering both in
Kentucky, and also since his removal to Alabama ; and
had even endured, in his own person, enough to give
him some idea of the meaning of the word slave, but
never did he comprehend its full, fearful import till he
learned it here.
Not that he suffered personal abuse, for aside from two
or three violent cursings, he received during the year, no
unkind treatment. This exemption he owed partly to
his own cautious avoidance" of any act or word that could
annoy his irritable master ; and partly, no doubt, to the
fact that Mr. McKiernan wished to buy him, but was
well aware that he could not be purchased from the
estate of his late master without his own consent. Mrs.
Hogun, his former mistress, was stUl his kindest friend ;
and though she had now no real authority over any of
the- slaves except the six that had been allotted to her
self, she still possessed great influence with those who
managed the estate ; and she would never sanction the
sale, against his wUl, of one of her favorite servants.
ma

176 *HE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
So Mr. McKiernan was wondrous kind to Peter. He
employed him during part of the year as moulder in
making brick, with the professed intention of budding
new brick cabins for his people ; but to this day the
old log huts remain their habitations.
It was not in personal sufferings or privations that
Peter found the bitterest woes of slavery. It was the
stifling influence of the deep degradation of his race
that most oppressed his spirit. The moral malaria of
the place filled his blood with hatred of the oppressions
by which it was engendered ; and his own conscious
ness of higher aspirations than those indulged who
caUed themselves his masters taught him that, though
his skin was black, they were, in truth, beneath him
in aU that constitutes a man.
But though Peter found much to sadden his spirit
whUe he remained on Mr. McKiernan's place, his con
stant presence there was a rich blessing to his family.
Vina had now, in addition to the three chUdren we
have previously named, a little daughter about three
years old. She had, during the autumn of 1833, buried
a baby a week old ; and Httle Silas, after remaining
with her just one year, was borne away to> the hill-side
in August, 1836. Again in March, 1840, a Httle
daughter, five months old, was strangled by the croup.
In July, 1841, another little boy was welcomed to
their humble cabin. They called him Bernard, and
for three years he remained the pet of aU the Httle
household. Then he Avas seized with spasms — and
soon his merry voice was hushed, and his little form
grew cold and stiff in death.
The three boys, Peter, Levin and William, were
uqav old enough to work on the plantation, and their

peter's year at m°kiernan's. 177
obedience and kindness to their mother fully rewarded
aU the care she had bestowed upon them. Yet she
was forced even now to labor very hard to keep them
comfortably clad. She made all their clothes herself,
and washed and mended them by night. Their stock
ings, too, she knit, though she was obliged first to card
the wool and spin it. Of this the slaves had usuaUy
as much as they needed for stockings, if they could get
time to manufacture it. The master had plenty of
sheep, and was not in the habit of selHng the wool.
All the fragments of their worn-out clothes the care
ful mother saved, and pieced them into bed-quUts.
She managed to get help to quUt these, by inviting in
the other women.on Saturday nights.. They were not
aUowed to leave their cabins after the blowing of the
horn for them to go to bed ; but they were welcome
to sit up and work tUl morning, if they could furnish
themselves with lights.
Thus, in exhausting and continual toil, had passed
the years of Vina's motherhood. Her husband had
been unable to share her cares, except on Sundays,
when he had done aU he could to aid her in her labors.
No wonder she was glad when every night his smfle
-brightened her cabin, and his pleasant voice beguiled
her hour of toU ; and yet, in her unselfish heart, she
wished his lot had faUen elsewhere.
Peter, as we have seen, had been long accus
tomed to plantation life ; and, during the ten years
that had elapsed since his master's death, he had seen
many hardships. But still, the kindness of his mis
tress had never fafled him; and even when she no
longer possessed the power to ameHorate his condition
the knowledge that she pitied him, and exerted all

178 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
her influence in his behalf, endued him with new
strength to bear his troubles. But on this plantation
a phase of slave-life was presented for his observance,
new, and more revolting than any he had elsewhere
Avitnessed ; for here the women suffered most, and
oftenest by their mistress' hand, or in obedience to her
orders. The main house-servant, at this time, was Ann Eliza,
whom with her husband, Edward, Mr. McKiernan had
bought several years before in Mississippi. She knew
how to read weU, understood aU the branches of good
housewifery, and was withal possessed of exceUent
sense and real piety. Yet, although her services in
the house were invaluable, and her conduct was above
reproach, her mistress hated her. She was too hand
some, and had "such a tongue!"
Ann Eliza was not impudent or bold ; but when
her mistress violently upbraided her, and accused her
falsely, she threw back her head, and fixed her large,
clear eyes upon her face, whUe with a steady voice she
declared her innocence. This dignified defence the
passionate lady could only answer with the cowhide,
and she frequently exhausted her own strength in
fruitless efforts to subdue the spirit of her slave.
Once, during the year that Peter spent there, the
mistress, as a punishment for some offence, sent Ann
EHza to the gin-house, to assist in moving a quan
tity of cotton. After she had gone, a messenger was
despatched for a man named Anderson, who was in
the habit of attending to any necessary business on the
place during the master's absence.
"Look here, Mr. Anderson," said the lady, when
that personage presented himself before her. " I want

PETER'S YEAR AT M°KIERNAN'S. 179
you to go to the gin-house, and get Ann Eliza, aud
give her one good whipping. I have Avhipped her
myself tiU I am tired, but it does no good. She needs
bringing down, for she is the torment of my life. Lay
it on weU ; you needn't be afraid. It is a good time
now, as Mr. McKiernan is away from home. He is
mighty careful of the pretty girl, himself, and that is
what makes her so impudent."
"Yes, ma'am," replied Anderson, "I'U give her a
lesson she'U remember ;" and he departed to the gin-
house. Ann EHza saw him coming, and she knew her
doom. She cast one imploring look at her husband,
who was working at her side. Edward returned it
with a glance so full of terror, pity, and an intense
longing to avenge her wrongs, that all her powers
were roused, and she felt strong to endure the worst.
She stood calmly by her husband's side, while, with
his rope, the ruffian bound her hands ; and then, at
•his command, she followed him towards the house,
leaving poor Edward gazing after her in silent terror.
One moment a flash of vengeance gleamed from his
dark eyes ; and then he realized his utter helplessness,
and his head drooped low, whUe great tears feU upon
the heap of cotton.
Peter stood in the shelter of one of the out-buildings,
and watched Anderson as he led his victim to the
orchard. There he " staked her out" upon the ground,
and, with a zest unknown to uncultivated natures, he
appHed the cowhide to her naked back and limbs.
Her screams of agony only excited his demoniac mirth.
" That's right," he cried, "Hike to hear you shout;

180 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
that's ' the way ye aU shout at the camp-ground.
Shout away ! you're gittin' happy noAV."
He beat her there, mocking the whUe her cries of
pain, tUl she became too much exhausted to utter ano
ther sound ; and then, untying her, he deHvered her
to her mistress. "Thar, ma'am," said he, "she ain't
got use for no more this time. She's got the devU in
her, but I reckon he'U keep stUl tiU she gits over this

Much religious excitement existed at this time
among the slaves in the neighborhood, and particu
larly upon the plantation of Mr. McKiernan. An old
Baptist preacher, named Archie Eggleston, had been
hired here the preceding year ; and he had zealously
preached to his brethren in bonds the love and com
passion of Jesus ; and had sought, in his simple way,
to encourage them to hope for a home among " the
spirits bright." His language, it is true, was fuU of
the quaint idioms of his race ; but it spoke to the hearts
of his unlearned auditory; for the Httle which he
could tell them of the blessed Saviour was just what
they loved to hear. They "received the word with
gladness," and, with its warm and cheering rays, it
iUumined their darkness, and strewed the thorny path
they trod, not with the roses of content, but with the
trembHng violets of hope.
Sweet, when their daUy toU was done, was the hour
which, borrowed from their needed rest, they spent
alone in prayer ; and, as the breath of their humble
souls ascended on the soft air of evening, their trusting
hearts were fUled with heavenly consolations.

peter's year at mckiernan's. 181
But even these few precious moments were not un
disturbed, if the overseer, or young Master Charles
discovered their retreat. " Ye all needn't pretend to
be praying, when you're just hiding around to get a
chance to steal ; take that — and learn to stay at home
of nights 1"

CHAPTER XXIV.
BURTON'S REIGN
The overseer on Mr. McKiernan's place was usually
a representative of the lowest order of his profession.
The master could tolerate no other, and those of the
better class would not remain in his employ. If, by
chance, he hired one of a higher grade than the brutish
fellows to whom his business was wont to be intrusted,
his stay was short.
" Why don't you put on some decent clothes ?" said
such a one to a half-naked negro, soon after he entered
upon his duties in the field.
" Ain't got none but dese yer, sir."
"Where's the clothes your master gave you this
fall?" " He ain't never give us no clothes, sir, in more'n a
year." " Humph ! I'll not have anything to do with his
lousy niggers ; I shaU get lousy myself."
" Mr. McKiernan, I can't .do business for you; your
niggers are too filthy and ragged ; I can't oversee such
a gang." "Well, I'm going to get them new clothes soon;
I've been intending to get some this long time, but it
has been neglected." [MS]

burton's reign. 183
Nothing more was heard of them, however, and the
scrupulous overseer found another situation, leaving
his place to be filled by one whose tastes accorded bet
ter with those of the old master.
One of this latter class was employed upon the place
a few years after Peter's sojourn there, who had so
keen a relish for the varieties of his profession that a
few instances of his reign should be related here.
His name was Burton. He was a tall, dark man
Avith grey hair, and shaggy eye-brows, as fierce and
disagreeable in countenance as he was cruel and hard
of heart.
He came on Saturday, and commenced business on
Sunday morning by summoning all the hands to Hsten
to his rules.
"D'ye all hear? Every man of you must get your
axe and saw, and go to the woods, and chop and saw-
logs for boards. And you girls, get your mattocks
and handspikes, and go on the new ground and grub ;
and, d'ye hear? mend every log-heap, and every
brush heap there. And mind ; the same's to be the
law for every Sunday morning. Ye all are to work
tUl noon, and after that you may go the devil."
The sable company gazed at each other in blank
amazement. They had been "pushed" when they had
been aUowed to wash and mend, and work their patches
on the holy day, but now — 
The sUence was interrupted by one of their number,
named Lewis, a very black man with a round -face and
heavy figure, who stepped forward, and said, as he
looked the new overseer firmly in the face,  "Well
Sir, de res' cun do as dey likes, but dis chUe aint gwine
to do it."

184 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
"You teU me," criedBurton, "that you're not going
to do it?"
"Yes, Sir, I teU you I wont do it. I aint gwine to
work a Sunday for no man."
"Very well — v-e-r-y w-e-1-1." The enraged over
seer turned his fiery eyes upon the other slaves, and saw
that they obeyed his orders. With roUing eyes and
pouting lips they aU went in their dirty clothes to work.
TUl noon they labored; none dared a moment to lag;
for the monster with his heavy whip was near. At twelve
they returned tired and angry to the quarter. They
were unwashed, their cabins were untidy, but they had
no heart to move ; and there they sat in suUen sUence.
Presently the overseer summoned five or six of the
strongest men to go and help him " take that gentle
man that would'nt work on Sunday."
They dared not disobey. Burton took a rope, and,
attended by these unwilling aids, entered the cabin of
Lewis. He did not look up as they went in, but sat
with his head incHned, and with a look of fierce de
cision on his face. They approached to bind him.
Instantly he sprang to his feet, and fought like a tiger.
For half an hour the uproar in the house continued;
and then they brought poor Lewis out, wound up iu
ropes. The cabins were built in a hoUow square, one side
of which was formed by the overseer's house and gar
den. Into the centre of this square Burton led his
victim, and there in sight of all the slaves, he stripped
him entirely naked, and then whipped him tiU the blood
streamed from his back. Then commanding, as before,
other negroes to his aid, he led him to the smoke-house,
and put him in the stocks.

burton's reign. 185
These consisted of two heavy timbers, Avith mortice
hole cut in each, through which they thrust the hands
and feet of the offender, securing them by heavy iron
bolts at each end of the timbers.
Thus the pitying slaves confined their mangled bro
ther. Alas ! they had no power to aid him, and they
dared not refuse to obey the orders of the overseer,
though every appealing look of their suffering com
panion was a dagger to their hearts. "
After supper that night, a Hght was seen gleaming
through the small apertures in the smoke-house wall ;
and some of the slaves peeped in. Burton sat com
posedly in a chair which was kept there for the con
venience of overseers on like occasions, and as his
cowhide, with a sharp twang fell on his prostrate vic
tim, they heard his muttered curses mingle with the
sufferer's groans. " WeU," whispered one of these
curious Hsteners, "I gives it up. Der aint no use
talkm' 'bout de Lord's orderin' all things ; kase its plain
to my comperhendin' dat nobody sent dat dar ole feller
yer but the devU himself. De Lord knowed we done
seen hard times enough on dis yer place ; we didn't
need no more o' dat sort."
The next day at noon, Burton let the offender out,
and ordered him to go to work.
" I aint able to work," growled Lewis.
"But you shall work," rejoined the overseer," or I'll
give you more of the same sort."
Notwithstanding this threat, Lewis went to his cabin,
and there day after day he sat brooding over his in
juries. " How long are you going to sit there, you d-:— d
sulky nigger?" cried Burton at the cabin door.

186 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
"I's gwine stay yer tiU I gits weU, and den I's
gwine to de woods."
Lewis kept his word. A day or two after this, he
rose in the morning at the sound of the horn, and
went out. Soon after Burton appeared at the door.
"Where's Lewis?" demanded he, of Lucy, his wife)
who was preparing to go to her work.
"I don' know, sir, I reckon he's some're 'bout de
yard." The day wore on, but no Lewis appeared. "I teU
you, my lady," said Burton to Lucy, " I'U fetch the
truth out of you." So saying, he seized her, and tying
her arms around a stump, whipped her crueUy. But
thus he gained no knowledge of her husband ; for she
still protested that she supposed he had only gone into
the yard.
Week after week passed on, and yet no tidings came
of Lewis ; but he was not alone, for soon a man named
Frank, and " old man John," were driven by Burton's
cruelty to join him in his " den."
Yet the cowhide of the overseer had no rest ; for so
dearly did he love its music, that a day seldom passed
on which he could find no occasion for its use.
Young Peter was one day suffering from a severe
toothache, and he quit his work, and sought his mo
ther's cabin. It was a busy time, for they were to
kill hogs the next day.
He had been in the house but a short time, when
Burton came to the door and bade him go and help to
make the necessary preparations for the morrow. " I
can't work, sir," said he, " my tooth aches too bad."
" Well," said the overseer, "come along to my house,
d — n you, and I'U cure it, or knock it out — one."

burton's reign. 187
"If that be the case, sir," said Peter, "I wont go;
for I aint gwine have my teeth knocked out Hke I was
a horse or a hog."
"So you teU me you Avont, young man — v-e-r-y
w-e-1-1." The next morning,' Peter, having been kept awake
nearly aU night by his tooth, did not go out tiU sunrise,
though he was called soon after midnight. Meantime,
the master visited the scene of slaughter.
" Master Peter is laid up with the tooth-ache," said
Burton to his employer, " and I told him yesterday if
he would come to my house, I would give him some
thing to ease it ; but the young gentleman told me he
would not."
Vina stood near, and as she had heard the conver
sation the day before, she determined, if possible, to
shield her son from the impending storm. She had
always been a most useful servant ; and since the time
when the overseer Simms had so nearly murdered her,
the master had not suffered her to be beaten. So with
a consciousness of her own high standing in his esteem,
she boldly repeated, in his presence, the precise lan
guage which the overseer had used to Peter.
"You told him," said she, "to come to your house,
and you'd cure it or knock it out ; and he said, if that
was the case, he wasn't gwine come, kase he didn't
want his teeth knocked out like he was a horse."
Burton gave her an angry scowl. " Was I talking
to you?" said he.
" No, sir, but you's tryin'-to git Peter whipped, just
for nuthin ?"
" Hush your mouth I" cried her master.

188 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED..
"I told the truth, sir," said she, nothing daunted,
and looking him earnestly in the face.
After a whUe, Peter came out. " What's that im
pudence you were giving to Mr. Burton last night,
teUing him you wouldn't?" said the master.
The young man repeated the conversation.
" Well," said Mr. McKiernan, turning to the over
seer, "you can tie him up to that apple tree."
Burton needed nothing further. He quickly tied
Peter to the tree, and gave him a hundred lashes, after
which he ordered him to go to work.
This scene was highly amusing to the master, who
often told the story with great glee ; swearing that the
best cure he ever knew for a nigger's tooth-ache was to
tie him up to a tree, and " give him the devU."
For three months no trace was found of the three
runaways, though many days were spent in hunting
them, and no means were left untried to induce their
fellow-slaves to betray them to their foes. Their wives,
from the time of their flight, received weekly but half
their usual -aUowance of meat, that they might have
no surplus "to feed the rascals." "Go out and hunt
them," said Burton, when they complained of the scanty
fare, "and when you bring them in, your allowance
shall be made up to you."
The master at last despaired of taking them by
ordinary means, and he resolved to try a desperate'
measure ; one that should frighten aU the others who
might thereafter be tempted to try the woods.
About half way to Courtland Hved a negro-hunter,
named ElHott, and Mr. McKiernan now sent for him
to come and catch his runaways. ElHott promptly

burton's reign. 189
obeyed the summons ; bringing with him his trained
dogs — seven hounds and a bull-dog.
He arrived just before supper, and early the next
morning the hunt was to commence. That night Frank
came to the quarter. His friends informed him that
the- dogs had come, and bade him haste to flee beyond
their reach. But he was very swift of foot, and he felt
sure he could outrun them. He however, hastened
back to the " den " which the three occupied together,
and told the news to his companions, Lewis, and "old
man John."
Lewis lost no time in fleeing beyond their scent.
The dawn of the next morning found him -in the
woods near La Grange, distant from their rendezvous
about seven miles.
Early in the morning the party, composed of Mr.
McKiernan, ElHott, and a slave named Vollen, started,
on the hunt. They were mounted on the swiftest
horses the place could boast, and the dogs with their
noses to the earth, sHently followed them.
They passed the gang of slaves just going out to
work, and from many a heart the fervent prayer went
up to Heaven that they might miss their prey.
Late in the afternoon the baying of the dogs was
heard. " Thar," said Vina to. the_ woman who was
plowing next her, " I'll lay anything they's started one
o' the poor fellers."
The horrid sounds came nearer — the hunters' yells
mingled with the dogs' loud baying ; and as aU eyes
were turned in the direction of the woods, a man
bounded over the high fence, and ran with desperate
speed into the midst of the excited slaves. The fright-

190 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
ened mules set up their ears, and ran furiously through
the field, dragging the plows behind them over the
young corn.
"Hold on! Hold on!" cried the master, who rode
close behind poor Frank ; " don't let 'em run I"
But few tried to obey, and those few were dragged
at full length along the ground, adding by their shouts
and cries, to the confusion of the scene.
" Take off de dogs! call 'em off! dey's killin' me!"
cried Frank.
" Let 'em go !" shouted his master ; " who cares if
they do kiU him ! He's made me more expense and
trouble than his neck's worth."
The buU-dog, with the ferocity of his race, kept
close to the poor feUow's legs, and tore great pieces of
flesh out of them as he ran. At last Frank seized a
~ stick that lay across his path, and attempted to beat
him off. Up rode EUiott. " You d — d rascal ! how
dare you strike my dog ?" So saying, he gave him
several blows over the head and neck, that sent the
blood gushing out.
" Mercy ! Mercy !" cried the slave, " you're killin'
me!" "I mean to kill you, you black cuss."
When they called off the dogs, and started for the
house, poor Frank, faint with fatigue and loss of blood,
could walk no further ; so the master commanded one
of the men to take his mule out of the plow and carry
him to the house.
They lifted him, all covered with blood, upon the
mule, and when they reached the quarter Mr. McKier
nan delivered him to the overseer. " Here, Burton, is

BURTON'S REIGN. 191
one of your runaways— Elliott says he'll bring in the
other two to-morrow, if they're any where this side of .
h— 11."
Burton ordered the slaves to go on with him to the
smoke-house, and put him in the stocks.
The next day the overseer went in to "take his
satisfaction." He first fastened the hands of his victim
in their mortise ; and then, sitting down, whipped him
till his demoniac rage was " satisfied."
For several days thereafter, Frank Avas left in the
stocks. His wounds inflamed, his bruises festered, and
at last he told the overseer, who daily paid him a visit,
that if he did not have his legs dressed where the dogs
had bitten him, he should die, " sho 'nough." Burton
made no reply, but the next day he took him out of
the stocks, and let him go.
For two months he remained in his cabin; and,
though his wife had dressed his wounds with the great
est care, five of them were stUl unhealed. Then the
order came for him to go to work ; and though he was
stiU very weak, he dared not refuse obedience. " He
had lost a heap o' time, but mass'r 'lowed his example
would skeer the others, so't they'd keep out o' the woods."
Burton swore, when he released him, that he should
work every Sunday in the year to make up lost time ;
and for five Sundays, he kept him all day in the field,
visiting him occasionally, to see that he was not idle.
After that, however, he was released at noon with his
companions. The next day after Frank was taken, "old man.
John" was brought in. He was not torn by the dogs,
for on their approach he climbed a tree, where he re-

192 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
mained tUl Elliott caUed them off. No trace of LeAvis
' 7as discovered, and the hunter, with his dogs, went
home. About a fortnight after this, at midnight, Lewis
came to VoUen's house. This was a cabin, near tthe
kitchen ; VoUen's wife being one of the house servants.
" Is you come in to stay?" said VoUen.
" Don' know ; think I better?"
" Yes, I reckon you mought as weU, for de dogs
done tore Frank a'most to pieces."
" What you reckon dey'U do if I comes back?"
" Don' know ; best ax ole mass'r — I'll go teU him
you done come in."
Soon the master came to the door. " Well, Lewis,"
said he, "you had your race? Come back to stay,
eh?" " I don' know, sir, I'U stay ef I can be left alone,
and not git whipped to death."
" WeU, you go to the kitchen and wait tiU morn
ing." The slave obeyed, though with many misgivings.
Something within urged him to flee; but then he
could not believe his master would allow him to be
beaten more. It surely would not be for his interest
to render him unfit for labor at a season when all the
the forces he could summon were needed in the field.
The master rose at dawn ; and sent a note to Burton,
saying that Lewis had come in, and desiring him to
come up " soon."
Promptly, with rope in hand, the overseer presented
himself at the kitchen door. Lewis threw at him a
glance of angry defiance. " No I" cried he,, as Burton

burton's reign. 193
attempted to tie him, "my mass'r 's yer ; — he cun kill
me if he will ; but you shan't tie me, nor Avhip me —
nary one. You's done enough o' dat dar."
" Cross your hands !" shouted Mr. McKiernan.
" Very well ;" responded the slave, " If mass'r says
so, you cun do it ; but if he was n't her, I'd die fus."
" Lewis," said his master, " I want Mr. Burton to
make me a crop ; and how can he do it, if you all are
off to the woods ?"
" I'se Avillin', sir, to help make you a crap," replied
the slave, " but when you gits such a mean oversee',
whar whips all de time, I can't stand it."
" Burton," said the master, " you take your satisfac
tion out of him, and then give him an extra fifty for
me, to make him tell Avho fed him when he was
out." With a grim smUe upon his repulsive face, the over
seer led Lewis to the smoke-house, and put him in. the
stocks ; then, leaving him there to meditate upon the
manifold benefits ensuing to his poor heathen race
from being allowed to dwell in a Christian country, he
went out to see that all his other subjects had com
menced their daily toU in accordance with the orders
he had given them.
After dinner, he went in to chastise, his victim. He
fastened his wrists in their appropriate mortise, and
then, lighting his pipe, sat down to his delightful
task. Burton was in his element. He wasted not his
strength by violent exercise or undue excitement, for
his long arms swayed leisurely in unison with his
pleasant thoughts. He' had plenty of time to " take his
satisfaction," and at every cut of the cowhide that
9

194 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
forced an extraordinary groan from the prostrate
wretch before him, a gleam of fiendish exultation
flitted across his savage face ; and through his closed
teeth he hissed : " Ah ! that's a good one ; it takes me
to break a nigger in."
When he had given him enough for once, he called
two of the boys, and ordered them to make "a bucket
of strong pickle." and carry it to his house. "My
wife," said he, " will put in some spirits of turpentine,
and then it will do to rub down this gentleman."
They soon brought the brine, prepared according to
his directions ;¦ and then, by his command, they
washed poor Lewis from head to foot. Oh ! how he
shrieked and writhed as the stinging fluid penetrated
every bleeding gash the cruel whip had made ! Then,
after giving him a few more cuts, as he said, " to beat'
the medicine in," Burton loosened his wrists, and,
leaving his feet stUl in the stocks, went out arid locked
the door.
For four days, the slave remained fast in the stocks;
his loneliness unbroken, save by a daily visit from the
overseer, who came in "just to give him a few cuts to
wake him up." By this time his wounds were much
inflamed, and he begged to be allowed to go to his
cabin and put oh clean clothes.
Burton granted this request ; but placed him in
charge of two other slaves, who were informed that if
they did not bring him back when he had changed his
clothes, they should take " the same bounty."
They led him to his cabin, and his wife called in
several of the other women to see his back. Vina
was one of these. She says: '" When I went in the
door, Lucy was a wettin' his shirt with warm water to

burton's reign. 195
loosen it from his back ; and his two children, Charles
and 'Muthis, was a cryin' like their hearts Avas done
broke. Lucy soak the shirt a long time, tUl she think
it done got loose ; but a heap o' times, when she tried
to pull it up, it fotch up welts o' flesh about the size o'
my finger 'long with it. Then the blood trinkle down
his back, and 'peared like, he'd faint, constant. She
wash his back till it done stop bleedin', and then she
kivered it aU over with tallered plasters. Then, when
he got his clean clothes on, the men whar fotch him
from the smoke-house, they carried him back. Lucy
and her children stood in the door, and watched him
tin he done got out o' sight ; and 'peard Hke, they all
would sob theirselves to death."
This, was Sunday. Early the next morning Lewis
was taken out of his prison, and led by two men to
the blacksmith's shop, to receive " the runaway's
irons." An iron ring, weighing fourteen pounds, was
welded on his ankle ; and to that was fastened one end
of a heavy log-chain, the other end of which was
brought up and passed twice around his waist, where
it was secured by' a lock. A collar was then put
around his neck, from Avhich an iron horn extended
on each side nearly to the point of the shoulder.
He was then sent to the field, and forced to work,
though he could hardly drag himself along. Through
all the long hot summer days those heavy irons galled
his neck and ankle, and even on the Sabbath he had
no rest. " Sometimes," says Vina, " 'peared like he
would run crazy. But he never got no pity from
them whar was the cause of aU the trouble. They
only laughed at his misery, makin' out Hke thar's
nuthin' bad enough for runaways."

196 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
One wet morning in the summer, Burton told
Abram, a blacksmith, who was then headman of the
hoe hands, to go to one of the bills to scrape cotton, as
the bottom was too wet. Abram accordingly led his
hands to the hiU which he supposed Burton meant,
and they all feU earnestly at work. Soon they saw
the overseer coming with his grey horse at full gafiop.
"Why in h — 1 did n't you go where I told you?"
shouted, he to Abram.
" I thought this yer de place, Sir."
"You thought! You're not to think; you're to
do." Abram attempted to explain, but Burton grew furi
ous ; and at last he drew forth his pistol and shot the
slave through the leg — thus crippling him for many
months. The master " cursed and blustered a heap" about this,
but he was so sure that such a tight fellow must be a
first rate overseer, that he could not think of turning
him away.
Yet even he at length grew weary of the sight of
his ragged, filthy people. "I say, Burton," said he
one day, as he rode through the field, " how the devil
can you work such a miserable gang of niggers?
Why don't you make them wash and mend their
clothes ?
"D — n'em; I don't care how they look ;" replied
the overseer. " If they only work, I don't care if the
lice eat 'em alive."
" Well, I do ; and by G — d, they look too bad. I
say, if they don't wash and mend their clothes, you
give them the devU."
"Vina stood near and Hstened with indignation to

BURTON'S REIGN. 197
this order. "W_hen__we^g?rane~w«st?" jcrkd^she.
" We got to work every day, Sundays and aU ; we
ain't got no time to wasTi^noTTneTid^' — ~~— • -"
~~" Whalfare you~au^oIrigTrigTif:S, d — n you?"
" ^^sa^wgs^^^j^y^j^l ^-e time, day and
night; and drove and whipped till we's EalTlltead^ any
how? He turned away. " Burton," said he, " you might
asweU give the worn en J2£fljia£££sj>?£swn of a Saturday
tQ^washjjbxJay-G™^ they're tofcd— d'jfflthy."
The next Saturday, just as the sun was going behind
the trees, Burton dismissed thawomeri to go home and
wash. BuiU^hexjgO-uld..not please him^bx^c^ting
that for "two hours bvsun^Lan&sa on Monday morn-
ing^-they"we^*our"in „the.. same., tattered frocks — the
lags saUing in the wind. They had everyw-eek jrashed
their under garments by night — but jthis they kept a
secret. They were determined to look as badly as they
goul3Puati3r4hefr^astersJwuId give j;hemjf least their
Sundays toj^fe jhemseiyes^
~~"Thrr effect oTTBurton's constant whipping and crip
pling the hands was. manifest in the fields. So many
of the people were driven to the woods, or otherwise
unfitted for their usual labors, that the corn was
choked, and the cotton could scarcely be seen amid the
tall, rank grass.
This unpromising state of his darling crop at length
opened the master's eyes. He rode through the field one
day when Burton was not there. "What the devil ails
you all ?" said he ; "I never was in the grass like this."
" No wonder," repHed one of the boldest men,
" reckon you'll never git out de grass long 's you keeps
ole Burton yer. He knows nuthin 'bout farmin,' no

198 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
how ; he des beats your people, and cuts 'em up con
stant; dat dar's all he know. Dem whar's able to
work at all can't do past half a day's work, kase dey's
all so bruised and cut up."
" 'Pears like," says Vina, "this teched his heart. He's
mons's 'shamed o' bein' in the grass so much wuss 'an
aU his neighbors."
Soon after the angry old man cursed the overseer,
and ordered him off the place, and though Burton
swore he would not "go till he was ready, yet after a
few weeks he departed.
For the discharge of this inhuman monster the
master received no thanks. His servants knew he
cared not for their sufferings, but only fot the grass
which waved so boldly in his fields of corn and cotton.
To use the words of Vina, " when, it come to that, they
didn't try to git him out o' the grass. He done kep'
that mean ole Burton thar all the forepart of the year,
and let him cut 'em up 'cordin' to his oavti mercy, and
now they wasn't gwine try to make a crap. Sii_that_
year wfi-did^&mak^^oimjmoughjoj^ We
had to go half fed, and the mules got so poor they'd
fall down in the plough. They didn't git nuthin' but
fodder, for it come mons's hard to have to buy corn."
The next overseer Avas the reverse of Burton. "_TJie^
people all HkejliTm~mTghiily, andhe_madeanelegant
crap without _anyjuss." The stocks were emptyPthe
runaway's irons laid by to rust, and the cowhide was ,
almost Avholly idle. But this did not suit the master :
and before the year closed he' was discharged. Mr.
McKiernan declared that his niggers were "all free, and
going about kicking up their heels ;" he must get some
body that would be " tight." " Niggers must be kept down"

CHAPTER XXV.
FIRST FOUR YEARS IN TUSCUMBIA.
At the beginning of the year 1842, Peter was hired
to Mr. James A. Stoddard, at that time teacher of the
boys' school in Tuscumbia. He was a New England
man, an elder in the Presbyterian church, and an ex
ception to the often-quoted rule, that "persons Avho
have been raised in the free States make the worst '
masters." The peaceful home of Mr. Stoddard, with the light
labor Avhich devolved upon him, formed a pleasant con
trast to the plantation where he had spent the preced
ing year. He Avas now' weU-fed ; and was furnished
during the year with four suits of clothes, which was
one more than he had been accustomed to receive.
These suits consisted each of a coarse cotton shirt, Avith
roundabouts and trousers, of blue jean. They Avere
not rich, nor costly, it is true, but they were always
clean. During .this year, he went regularly once in two
weeks to see his family, and on these occasions he was
often able to carry them some little comforts. These
he earned by performing little services "for others at
times when Mr. Stoddard had nothing for him to do.
Sometimes he went on foot to the plantation, twelve
miles distant, but often some kind gentleman lent him
[199]

20.0 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
a horse ; and then with the little package of coffee and
sugar, or perhaps with a comfortable jacket for one of
his beloved sons, he rode along with a hopeful heart.
•Eagerly did his three boys, with their little sister,
watch for their father's coming ; and when they heard
his approaching footsteps, although the night was dark,
they bounded forth to meet him with shouts of joy.
Ah ! they knew he brought the sunshine in his heart.
In October of this year, Miss Sarah Gist, the second
daughter of his deceased master, was married to young
John H. Hogun, a son of her mother's husband. The
eldest daughter, Mary, had died about two years after
the second marriage of her mother.
A division of the property was now made. The
' slaves numbered thirty-four, but to one old man,
Uncle Pompey, the guardians of the estate granted his
Hberty. The remaining thirty-three were examined
and appraised by 'a committee of five men ; and then,
after being divided into three lots, they Avere drawn by
the agents of the three heirs.
The lot in which Peter was placed was drawn by
Miss Sarah's agent ; and the guardianship of his affairs
was consequently transferred to her father-in-law. He
took charge of the property of his children until they
should become of age, the young bridegroom at his
marriage being but eighteen years old, whUe the bride
was only sixteen.
Uncle Pompey, Avho was kindly set free on this
occasion was about eighty years old. His wife was
the property of Rev. Mr. L. of Leighton. The poor
old man was not wanted there, and for some time he
wandered to and fro, a prey to the cruelty of patrols
and other ruffians Avho abounded in that region. By

FIRST FOUR YEARS IN TUSCUMBIA. 201
these he was persecuted and beaten tiU Miss Sarah,
pitying his sufferings, took him home and cared for
him during the remainder of his life.
Great was the consternation among the slaves that
were drawn by Miss Sarah and her young husband,
when they learned that the elder Hogun was, at least
for a time, to be their master. They knew his charac
ter, and feared that he might take them home to work
on the plantation. He, however, allowed them to
remain where they were during the year, and at
Christmas time, he hired them out again.
Mr. Stoddard was, throughout the year, a kind friend
to Peter; and at its close, he recommended him so
warmly to his pastor, the Rev. Mr. Stedman, that he
hired him for the ensuing year of Mr. Hogun. Mr.
Stoddard soon after quitted teaching, and re-opened.
his store in Tuscumbia, where he still remains — a
highly respected merchant, and one of the best citi
zens in town.
To Mr. and Mrs. Stedman, Peter soon became ar
dently attached. In all their dealings with him they
respected, his humanity ; and no effort on their part
was spared that could promote his happiness.
His duties were various^and required all his time ;
but he performed them cheerfuUy, for his heart was in
his work. He took the whole care of the Church —
kept it clean, rang the beU, and buUt fires when they
were needed. Then he hauled all the wood for the
family, and prepared it for the fire; " hauled water"
from the spring for two families besides his own; and
performed also the duties of waiter and errand boy.
H the cook chanced to be sick a day or two, he took
her place, and filled it with abUity— in short, he
9*

202 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
spared no effort that could conduce to the comfort of
those who showed by their steady kindness, that they
regarded him as a man.
Morning and evening, when they knelt at the family
altar, the servants were called in, and as the man of
God poured forth his petitions to the Great Father, the
heart of the lowly slave was lifted upward, and from
the loving household band a pure offering of thanks
giving ascended to the throne of the Invisible.
Mrs. Stedman was a native of New England, and
from her conversation and manners, Peter received his
first impressions of life in "the North." Oh! how
ardently he wished that he might one day behold that
Wondrous land where all are free I
The Christmas HoHdays arrived, but Peter instead
of going, as was the usual custom, to spend them with
his fellow-servants at his mistress' home, remained in
town with his good friend, Mrs. Stedman. She had
need of his services untU the end of the year, and
though his time for that week was his own, he had no
wish to leave her.
His failure to come out with his fellow-servants, Mr.
Hogun construed into a sign of increasing indepen
dence of his master's famUy. Such an offence must
needs be punished. He therefore hired him for the
next year to Mr. John Pollock, a merchant of Tus
cumbia. He -knew this would be distasteful to Peter,
because he would naturaUy choose to remain in the
service of the kind Pastor ; but when the slave ven
tured to express this preference, he received only
curses, and an assurance that he " asked no odds of a
nigger." "You've got mighty independent all at
once;" said he, "couldn't come out Christmas to teU

FIRST FOUR YEARS IN TUSCUMBIA. 203
me where you wanted to Hve ; so now you shall go
where I say, d — n you."
On New Year's Day, 1844, Peter went to Mr. Pol
lock's. Here, too, he was kindly treated, and his labor
Avas not severe. He filled vacancies among the house
servants, worked in the garden, and Avas -drayman for
the store, where he slept whenever the clerk chanced
to be absent. He was diligent and faithful ; and his
employer ever after spoke in his praise.
In August of this year, Mr. Pollock, at Peter's re
quest, hired him out to go as cook with a company of
gentlemen to the Whig Mass Convention at NashvUle.
The party numbered sixty-three; and they were
well supplied with tents, provisions, and various con
veniences for camping out on the road. They had
quantities of bread and bacon, Avith a store of meal for
the indispensable hot corn cake.
At about nine o'clock on the morning of the fifteenth
day of August, the procession passed gaily through
the town. At the doors and windows, bright eyes
were beaming, and fair hands waved hopeful adieus to
husbands, sons, and lovers ; and though the day was
intensely hot, the merry band responded in high
spirits. Many of the gentlemen rode their o.wn horses, while
others went in the wagons ; and conversation, mirth,
and song, enlivened all the hours. They stopped occa
sionally \o, rest their horses, and to enjoy for a little
while the deHcious shade at the bright springs which
sparkle here and there in the pleasant Valley of the
Tennessee. Just before sunset, they reached Blue Water, a quiet;

204 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Httle stream, that flows between banks of softest green
into the lovely river. Here they encamped for the
night. The gentlemen proceeded to put up the tents,
while the servants buflt a fire, and prepared "the sup
per. The cooking devolved on Peter, and a man be
longing to Mr. W  , of Florence ; and while they
vied with each other in displaying their knoAvledge of
the elegancies of their art, the two remaining servants
were sent to the neighboring Whig farmers to bring
straw for the floors of the tents.
Forked sticks were then driven into the ground to
support two or three long planks which had been
brought in one of the wagons. These formed their
table, on which were set the bread and bacon, and the
hot coffee which had been prepared in a great kettle
over the fire.
Each of the party was suppHed with a Httle tin plate,
which he filled himself, and with this he seated him
self on a stump or on the soft green turf. Here he
enjoyed his simple 'supper with a relish unknown to
those who pine for appetite beside the heavy-laden
board of luxury.
After supper, wine, cards and merry conversation
filled the hours, tUl as sleep began to steal over their
senses, they sought their tents, Avhere on the clean
straAv were spread their mattresses and blankets, in
viting them to gentle slumbers.
The early morning found them all astir. Hot coffee
steamed on the rude table, and a hearty breakfast was
soon dispatched. Then the tents were struck, and,
with the blankets and cooking utensils, the slaves re
placed them in the wagons. The horses, which after
being well fed, had been hitched to the trees at night,

FIRST FOUR YEARS IN TUSCUMBIA. 205
Avere soon prepared -for motion, and, with a loud
" Hurrah 1" the party commenced their second day's
journey. At every town through Avhich they passed, they
were greeted with welcoming shouts. Ladies waved
their hands as they passed by, and little children raised
their tiny flags, and cried, "Hurrah for Clay!"
They reached NashvUle on the eighteenth, at noon.
The Convention was already in session ; and the white
tents of other visitors dotted the green fields and
groves in the suburbs, whUe in the wood southeast of
the city, were set long tables for the entertainment of
the guests from abroad. These tables were abundantly
furnished by the Whigs of the city with substantial
viands, suited to the taste of all. Bands of music en
livened the groves, and it seemed a universal gala day.
Stands for speakers were erected at various places in
the city; and wordy poHticians talked themselves
hoarse on the beauties of high tariffs, and the disastrous
consequences that would follow the election of Mr.
Polk. Banners Avith full-length portraits of the great
Kentucky statesman were borne in front of processions
through the streets — though Mr. Clay himself sat in
his quiet home.
The Tuscumbia delegation pitched their tents on a
hiU near the city, and at once entered heartily into the
excitement. Their four servants also, keenly enjoyed
these lively times, which formed a variation in their
monotonous existence; and to this day the stirrino.
scenes and noisy crowds of the great Convention form
the basis of many a tale, which beguUes the dreary
hours of toU.
They spent a week in the city ; though the Conven-

206 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
tion adjourned three days afte:B»their arrivals The re
maining time was spent by the gentlemen in visiting
friends, or in such other amusements as were suited to
their various tastes and habits.
Peter had hoped that, during his stay at NashvUle,
he might find some chance to escape from slavery ;
and it was with this purpose in his heart, that he asked
leave to go. He had brought with him his little stock
of money — only fifteen dollars, it is true, but it seemed
to him a large sum, and he was sure it would do him
" a heap of good" if he were free. Thoughts of leav
ing his dear wife and chUdren made him very sad ;
but the idea of freedom was mighty; and he resolved
to try.
He walked in the evening down to the river, but on
no boat could he espy a corner where he might hide
and sail away to the far land of the free. He could
not be long absent from the camp without being missed
by some of his many masters ; and when the week had
passed away, and the company were about to return,
he had been able to discover no avenue of escape. So
he aided in the preparations for the homeward journey ;
and smothered in his heart' those wUd longings for
liberty that had so long been struggling there for
breath. The gentlemen all noticed with approval his active
industry, and enjoyed the comforts which they owed
to his quick perceptions of order and fitness in the ar
rangement of their few conveniences ; yet not one of
them guessed what a brave, true heart he. bore ; or
hoAV that heart, like a caged bird, was even then beat
ing and struggling to be free. Their return home was
gayer even than their outward journey. Jests and

FIRST FOUR YEARS IN TUSCUMBIA. 207
merriment abounded. -Amusing experiences during
their sojourn in the city Avere reviewed; and none
noticed or cared that the servant was less happy than
his masters.
Arrived once more at home, Peter moved on in the
old channels. His faUure to escape from thraldom
had not caused him to despair ; and as each day he
fulfilled his round of duties, the hope was strong within
him that a brighter morn would yet appear.
On the first day of 1845, Peter entered the service
of Mr. Michael Brady, a wealthy Irishman, also a mer
chant of Tuscumbia. He was a young bachelor of
pleasing manners and strict business habits.
Peter had now better opportunities than he had
ever before enjoyed for gaining general information.
He was employed about the store, in waiting on his
young master, and doing errands; and he was fre
quently an interested Hstener to conversations Avhich
they did not dream he had the sense to understand.
He had also many opportunities of becoming ac
quainted with the citizens of the town, and his habits
of close observation tended to his rapid advancement
in a knowledge of human nature. Even at this time
few more correct judges of character could be found in
town than this quiet, docile slave. He seemed to see
beneath the surface, and to glance deep at the motives
of the heart.
Mr. Brady, although extremely kind to Peter, had
some peculiar notions. He paid for his board at a
hotel, instead of letting him earn it by waiting on the
table, as was the custom with young men who hired a
slave ; and he. positively forbade Peter's performing

208 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.-
the slightest service for any person except his partner
and himself. In this prohibition Peter felt the galling
chains of slavery. He loved to do a kindness ; and it
was so natural to bring a bucket of water, or to black
a pair of boots for some young gentleman who ad
dressed him kindly, that he could scarcely avoid
offering such little services, though he knew that thus
he should incur the displeasure of his young master.
But Mr. Brady was firm. He did not intend that
his servant should need favors from others. He pre
ferred supplying his wants himself; and often, when
Peter was going on Saturday night to make his accus
tomed visit to his family, the young man gave him
some Httle present for them from the store. ,
For aU these kindnesses Peter was duly grateful, but
they did not sweeten the slave-cup. It stiU overflowed
with bitterness ; and in his heart he spurned the draught,
and vowed he would be free.

CHAPTER XXVI.
PETER HIRES HIS TIME.
The next year, 1846, the young master, John H.
Hogun, having become of age, assumed the control of
his Avife's property, and hired Peter to Mr. Allen Pol
lock, a bookseller of Tuscumbia.
Mr. PoUock had, some weeks before Christmas, pro
posed to Peter that he should live with him the ensu
ing year, and hire his own time. He had not much
for him to do, he said, and after cutting his wood,
putting his store in order, blacking his boots, and
doing such other small jobs as might be' necessary, he
could get work elseAvhere in town ; and all he earned
above the eighty-five dollars hire which Hogun must
receive, should be his own. True, this arrangement
was against the law, but if it were kept secret, it could
do no harm.
For a long time Peter hesitated. Mr. PoUock was
said to be a close, penurious man, and our student of
human nature doubted the disinterestedness of his
motives. StUl there was a chance that he might suc
ceed in saving something ; he might, at least, procure
more comforts for his family than they had yet pos
sessed ; and he at length resolved to try.

210 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
So the bargain was concluded; openly with Mr.
Hogun, privately between Mr. Pollock and the slave ;
and Peter entered, trembling, upon the new year. He
had never before occupied so respectable a position.
The eighty-five doUars must be earned, and that was a
great sum to be raised by dimes and half dimes, for
doing Httle jobs about town.
At a short distance from the store was Major Pope's
hotel, where he engaged his board, for which he was to
pay by waiting on the table. He then looked about for
work ; and was recommended by some friend to the
teachers of the -Ladies' School, as a neat and careful
man, who would be capable of keeping the rooms in
order, and of performing any other labor that might be
required about the building. He was immediately
engaged for this service, which occupied him two or
three hours each day.
He also, now and then, found Avhitewashing to do;
and Avhen extra servants were Avanted on occasion of a
wedding or a party, he found profitable employment.
If a cook was sick, he was competent to take her place;
and Avhen some weary chUd of earth had finished his
short pilgrimage, Peter was called upon to hoUow his
loAvly grave.
He was at the same time hired by the month to take
care of several stores — to sweep, black boots, take up
ashes, and bring water; and thus he became well known
to most of the business men in town.
The young gentlemen frequently gave parties at the
Franklin House, then the principal hotel in town.
They furnished the refreshments and table furniture,
merely occupying the rooms of the hotel for which
they paid a reasonable sum. On these occasions, Peter

PETER HIRES HIS TIME. 211
was invaluable. Ho prepared the rooms and arranged
the tables, and the pleasures of the evening were never
marred by neglect or carelessness in his department.
Then he had a quiet way of keeping things in place,
and of seeing that the guests Avere suppHed Avith all
conveniences throughout the evening; and after the
gay company had dispersed, he returned all borrowed
articles, and re-arranged the furniture of the rooms in
its accustomed order.
His ready kindness, and his promptness in executing
his employers' wishes, won him the confidence and
esteem of all he served ; stiU, these numerous cares and
diverse occupations Avere extremely fatiguing. AU the
day long, and often till late at night, he was in active
exercise of mind and body, yet though his limbs grew
weary, his energies of spirit never drooped.
Thus passed the year away. Every week or two he
paid his hire to Mr. Pollock, who several times pro
posed to act as his treasurer. These offers Peter de
clined, excusing himself by saying that he spent the
most of his money to buy things for his wife and chU
dren, and so he had not much to keep.
"I don't see, then," said the gentleman, " any use in
your hiring your time, if you "spend all your money."
" Oh! that's what I work for," repHed the slave, "to
buy comforts for my famUy."
At the end of the year he had saved seventy-five
dollars, besides having spent thirty-five dollars, during
the year, on his wife and chUdren. But this was a
profound secret to all but Vina. No one in Tuscumbia
knew even that he hired his time. It. was understood,
by those for whom he labored, that Mr. PoUock per-

212 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
mitted him to make his own bargains, and that to him
he paid in all he earned.
His success this year was an astonishment to himself.
It opened a new world before him. Hitherto, his only
hope of escape from slavery had been in flight ; but
now came other thoughts. " Seventy-five doUars in
one year ! How long would it take to buy myself if
I could get the same chance every year? Oh! if I
could be free !"
Towards the close of the year. Mr. Pollock pro
posed to his master to hire Peter again ; but Mr. Hogan
declined making a second bargain with him until he
had consulted Peter.
" WeU, boy," said he, a few days before Christmas,
"do you want to Hve with Mr. PoUock again next
year ?"
"No, Sir," repHed Peter, "I don't keer 'bout Hvin'
with him."
"Why, I reckon he's used you well this year, and
he offers to pay me up now for your hire. I reckon
you'U do as weU with him as any where. It's not
often that a man offers to pay money before it is due."
" Well, Sir, if you hire me to Mr. Pollock, I shall
have to stay with him ; * but there's Mr. Joseph Fried
man — he'll pay you as well as Mr. PoUock, and he'd
like to hire me for next year."
The young master immediately called on Mr. Fried
man, and learning that what Peter had told him was
correct, he hired him to the Jew before he left the
store. The Jew I Yes ; Joseph Friedman was a German
Jew, who had resided in Tuscumbia for six or seven

PETER HIRES HIS TIME. 213
years. He came there at first with a small stock of
goods and opened a store, and by untiring industry
and strict economy he had now accumulated a hand
some little fortune.
He was small in stature, with the black hair and
keen dark eyes peculiar to his race. Associated with
him in business was his younger brother, Isaac, who
Avas taller and handsomer than Joseph, but scarcely his
equal in sagacity and force of character.
At the commencement of their sojourn in Tuscumbia,
these Jews, the first that had ever settled in that region,
were regarded with suspicion and dislike. But as their
stern integrity and manly independence of character
became known to the citizens, the prejudice excited by
their pecuHarities of religion and manners graduaUy
subsided. As business men, they gained the confidence
of the public, and though they never mingled freely in
society, they were no longer exposed to rudeness or
neglect. Peter during the past year, had been mysteriously
attracted towards these somewhat isolated brothers.
His thoughts had been intensely occupied in devising
some method by which he might yet taste that liberty,
which, notwithstanding he had been forty years a slave,
he stiU felt was his right. Day and night he had pon
dered this subject ; but one great difficulty was ever
present to his mind. He knew not a man whom he
could trust. If he dared to breathe, in human ear, his
wish for freedom, the bold thought might be reported
to his master, and from that moment he would be
looked upon as unsafe property. The consequence of
this might be a sale, and a journey to the. low country;
and then the light of hope would be forever quenched.

214 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
And even if his master should be wUling to sell him
to himself, what security could he have that he would
not deceive him, and whUe he took his hard-earned
ransom, retain him also in his iron grasp ? His long
acquaintance ^with slavery in every, guise had made
him wary. He remembered Spencer WUHams of Lex
ington, who three times paid the price of his own re
demption, and was at last sent to the hated South in
chains. No Avonder that Peter trembled at the thought
of such a blighting of his budding hopes. No wonder
that he weighed each word that fell upon his ear, in
order to discern the spirit of the speaker. Oh ! that
he knew a man of soul so brave that he could safely
confide to him his heart's great secret! There might
be many such in town ; but hoAV could he distinguish
them from those whose flattering words proceeded from
the deep, dark caverns of deceitful hearts ?
While his ear was thus eagerly bent to catch the
breath of honesty, some chance remarks of Mr. Fried
man drew his attention. The Jew made no display of
his opinions, or declaration of his principles ; but ut
tered merely some careless sentence, which revealed
his sympathy with the suffering, and his hatred of in
justice and oppression. Peter had often performed
sHght services for the two brothers, and whenever he
was in their presence, although no word respecting
himself was uttered, he felt that he was regarded as a
man. It was this feeHng which induced him, before his
year expired at Mr. Pollock's, to ask Mr. Friedman to
hire him for the ensuing year. If he could persuade
him to do this, he could have an opportunity to be
come more thoroughly acquainted with his character;

PETER HIRES HIS TIME. 215
and perhaps — oh! how the bare idea thrilled his
frame ! — perhaps he should thus discover the path to
Hberty. To Peter's request the Jew readily assented, and, as
before related, the bargain with his master was con
cluded. On the first day of January, 1847, Peter commenced
his labors under the protection of Mr. Friedman. Ac
cording to their private contract, he was to board and
clothe himself; and then, Avhatever he earned above
his hire should be his own. He waited on the table at
a hotel, as during the previous year, to pay his board ;
and his clothing cost him very little — as the Friedman
brothers gave him all their cast-off clothes, as well as
occasionaUy the material for a neAV garment from the
store. Besides these, he frequently received presents
of half- worn clothing from other young men whom he
was always glad to serve ; or from married ladies, of
discarded articles from the wardrobe of their husbands.
These clothes, however, he never wore, but sold
them to slaves from the surrounding plantations — re
ceiving in payment, eggs, chickens, or any little pro
ducts of their patches, .which they brought into town
for sale. These articles he conveyed to the hotel,
where they were always in demand, and so were
speedUy converted into money. He always appeared
inTihe same attire — blue roundabout and trowsers, with
strong shoes ; and a more respectable looking servant
could not be seen in aU the town.
At the opening of this year, Mr. A. E. Sloan, form
erly of Syracuse, N. Y., who had purchased the in
terest in the school of the former Principal, established
the Tuscumbia Female Seminary. Mr.. Sloan was a

216 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
gentleman of agreeable personal appearance, scrupu
lously neat in his dress and surroundings, and orderly
to fastidiousness. He determined at once to estabhsh
in the school a new system of order and discipHne;
and soon made inquiries for a -person competent to
carry out his plans in the arrangement of the school
rooms. Peter was the first one named to him, and he
immediately secured his services. This measure he
afterwards found no reason to regret, for so quiet was
he, and yet so prompt and regular in the performance
of his duties, that soon his presence, for a few hours
each morning, seemed indispensable to the comfort of
the school. A few weeks later, Mr. G. H. King, of
Northampton, Mass., came on to teach music. He,
too, soon learned Peter's exceUent traits of character,
and gave him employment whenever he had pianos to
move, or any work to be done which required careful
ness and promptitude.
He was now employed about the school-rooms a
much greater proportion of his time than he had been
during the preceding year. His grateful love for Mrs.
Stedman had predisposed him in favor of- Northern
ladies ; and as at the Seihinary he ever received kind
looks a'nd pleasant words, he soon became warmly
attached to aU the teachers. Yet he never confided to-
one of them his secret. They regarded him as an em
bodiment of good humor and content; never imagin
ing that the idea of freedom had been struggling in
his breast for years. Once or twice, he says, he was on
the point of opening his heart to one of the young
ladies, but when he tried to speak the great hope that
was swelHng in his breast, something seemed to choke
him, and he could not utter it. He took an oppor<

PETER HIRES HIS TIME. 217
tunity however, to sound Messrs. Sloan and King on
the subject of slavery ; and they represented the con
dition of the slaves as so far above that of the free
blacks at the North, that he judged it would be idle to
look to them for sympathy in his one engrossing hope.
" Why, Peter," said Mr. King, " negroes in the
North do not fare half as well as you, and they are not
so weU thought of. Few people will employ them or
trust them they are shunned and disliked. To tell
the truth, most of them deserve no better treatment ;
for they are an idle, worthless set of fellows."
AU this did not discourage Peter. A voice within
him whispered, " ToU on ! Heed not such words as
these ! Liberty is before you ; and you have drunk
too deep in slavery to believe that freedom would ren
der, you less happy, or, less worthy of esteem."
The confidence between the worthy Jew and his
faithful servant was constantly omthe increase ; yet, as
the year drew near its close, and Mr. Friedman made
no advances towards hiring him for the next, Peter
became uneasy. Several other persons had proposed
hiring him, but he had told them aU that he thought
Mr. Friedman wished to keep him another year.
.At length, when Christmas was very near, he one
day saw his young master across the street, and he re
solved to terminate his suspense So he approached
the Jew. "Look yer, sir," said he, "ain't you wil-
Hn' to do the same by me next year that you have
done ?" •>
"Yes, Peter."
" WeU, are you satisfied with the way I have done
this year ?"
" Yes ; — are you satisfied ?"

218 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RAN0SMED.
" Yes, sir, to be sure I am : and if you're wiUin' to
do agin Hke you've done this year, why don't you go
and hire me ? Thar's my master, over yon."
"I see him there, but I wUl not run to speak to
him." "WeU, sir," exclaimed the delighted slave, "I'll
teU him you Want to hire me ; and we shan't have no
new bargain to make; if you'U do Hke you have
done, so will I."
The conference ended, and soon Peter was hired for
another year to Joseph Friedman.

CHAPTER XXVII.
PETER BUYS HIMSELF.
Peter commenced the year 1848 with high hopes.
His last year's gains' had greatly encouraged him, for
he had laid up, besides expending over thirty doUars
for his farnUy, one hundred and five doUars ; which,
with thirty. doUars which he had saved before he hired
his time, and the seventy -five that he had accumulated
while Avith Mr. Pollock, made two hundred and ten
doUars now in his possession.
The hope of being free he had thus far communi
cated to none but his true-hearted wife ; but now, as
he had become satisfied that Mr. Friedman was his
friend, he determined to seek his co-operation in his
plan. This resolution Avas not formed Avithout the
most careful consideration; and yet, when he ap
proached the counting-room for the purpose of opening
to the Jew his cherished plans,- his heart throbbed
painfully, and his knees trembled so that he could
scarcely walk.
" Mr. Friedman," said he, " I've got something I
want to tell you, but it 's a great secret." .
"Well, Peter  "
" I've been a thinkin', sir, I'd Hke to buy myself ;
and you've always dealt so fa'r with me, I did n't know
but you mought buy me, and then give me a chance."

220 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
The Jew's countenance brightened. He had become-
much attached to Peter, and had often wished in his
heart that by some means the faithful fellow might
be free, but such a plan as this had not occurred to
him. " Can you get the money, Peter ?"
" I reckon I could, if you did n't pay too high for
me. Mars, John Henry ought n't to ask a great price
for me, no how, when I've served the famUy so
long." " How much shall I give for ydu ?"
" I think, sir, five hundred dollars is as much as
you ought to pay."
" Hogun will not sell you for that price," said the
Jew. " John Pollock offered him six hundred, and
he laughed at him. Some men in town would give
eight hundred dollars for you — not because you are
worth so much, but because they know you."
" Well, sir, I have served the family for thirty -five
years. I have earned 'em a heap of money, and have
been mighty Httle trouble or expense. They can af
ford to seU me for five hundred doUars."
" Yes : — well, I will speak to Hogun."
The proposition of the JeAv received, at first, but
little favor. Peter was an old family servant, and
they intended to keep him in the famUy as long as he
lived. They did not wish to seU him.
" Well," said Friedman, " I would like to buy him.
He has a. cough, and if he belonged to me, I would
try to cure it, but whUe he is your property, I can do
nothing for him. I wiU give you five hundred
dollars." Hogun turned away. He did not want to sell the

PETER BUYS HIMSELF. ' 221
boy ; if he did, that was no price for him. He would
bring twice that sum.
A few months after this conversation, Joseph Fried
man went to the "Red River Country," Avhere he
opened a store ; leaving his brother Isaac in charge at
Tuscumbia. This made no change in Peter's con
dition. He toiled on as before, steadily adding to his
precious gains, while the great hope of freedom grew
stronger in his heart.
Soon after his brother left town, Isaac renewed to
Mr. Hogun the proposition to purchase Peter, but
with no more success. The young mistress did not
Avant him sold ; - especially to a Jew, who had no
higher wish than to make money. He would pro- ,
bably soon sell him again : for what use had he for a
servant ? — and then, perhaps, the poor old fellow
would be carried aAvay to the " Ioav country."
After several attempts to purchase him had been
unsuccessful, Peter determined to try the power of his
o-wn eloquence. Accordingly, during the last week
of the year, he went out to the plantation.
His young mistress had gone with her husband to
town ; but they soon returned. Peter met them at the
gate, and "Miss Sarah," after shaking hands with him,
went in; while the young master remained in the
yard to inquire after his health. His cough was par
ticularly troublesome whenever any of his master's
family were near, and now it annoyed him exceed
ingly. "Ugh! ugh! Mass'r John Henry, I come to
see you 'bout Mr. Friedman buyin' me. I Hke to live
with him ; and he said he done named it to you."
"Yes, he did; but he didn't offer any price for
you — only five hundred doUars."

222 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
" WeU, Mass'r John Henry, aint that thar enough
for me?"
" No — I can get a thousand doUars for you any
day." " Ugh ! ugh ! I think you mighty hard to ask such
a big price for me when I been in your service so long.
Miss Sarah done got all my arnins ever since I be
longed to her great uncle, Mars Nattie Gist. Now
when I'm a'most 'fifty years old, ugh! ugh! ugh! I
think five hundred doUars is enough for me; and
'pears Hke, sir, you oughtent to ask no more."
"WeU, Peter, you know people Hke to get all they
can for their property ; and it makes no difference to
¦ you, any how, whether I sell you for a big price or a
Httle one."
"Yes, sir, it does, Mass'r John, kase if a person
gives a thousand doUars for me, he 'lows he's gwine to
work it out of me; but Mr. Friedman just wants me
to wait on him about the store; and he says he'll
cure my cough, too — ugh ! ugh ! He can't afford to
pay a big price for me, and then doctor me up."
" Well, go 'long — I don't want to seU you anyhow;
I'd rather bring you home to wait on your Miss Sarah,
and to drive the carriage than to seU you for any such
price." " Yes, sir, if you and Miss Sarah was a Hvin' by
yourselves, I'd like that ; but I don't never want to
come back to work on the plantation — ugh ! ugh ! I
couldn't stand that now. But I belong to you, sir, and
of course I must do just as you say. What shaU I do,
Mass'r John?"
" Go back to town, and stay till I come to see about
you."

PETER BUYS HIMSELF. 223
"Goodbye, Mass'r John. Ugh! ugh! ugh!"
Thus he coughed himself out of the yard. All the
way back to town he walked with a heavy heart. If
his master would not seU him, all his bright hopes
would yet be blasted. He had, hoAvever, done all in
his power. He had used every argument that would be
likely to influence him in whose young hand his des
tiny Was held — now he could only wait with patience
the result.
When the young master was next seen in town, the
Jew hired Peter for another year, and with his wonted
cheerfulness of demeanor, the disappointed slave en
tered upon the labors of 1849. Was there no sublim
ity in his patience ? — no grandeur in his maintenance
of Faith and Hope against the giant forces of Despair ?
It was not long before the young master's aversion to
sell an old famUy servant was suddenly removed. On
the tenth of January an auction was held in town of
certain goods — the property of his late uncle — " Old
Jimmy Hogun." Among these "goods," were ten
choice negroes, two of whom were boys about sixteen
years old. These boys, young John Henry wished to
own ; and before they were put up, he called upon the
Jew. "Look here, Friedman," said he, " you want Uncle
Peter, and I want those boys that are for sale to-day.
H you wUl go in and bid off one of the boys for me, I
wUl let you have Peter in exchange."
"I wUl think about it. How high wUl the boys
go?" "I don't know, — they're not worth as much as a
tried hand like Uncle Peter. Step in, and see how
the sale goes on."

224 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
He left the store, and Mr. Isaac immediately held a
consultation on the subject with Peter himself. The
wary slave objected to the plan. " You are not used
to dealing in slaves," said he, " and you'd best not buy
the boy. There'll be some game about it. H young
master wants to buy him, he'll come round, I reckon."
Soon the young gentleman called again to learn
the decision of the Jew. Isaac renewed his former
offer for Peter, but declined to buy the boy.
" Five hundred doUars is no price for such a serv
ant ; you may have him for six hundred, though he
is worth more."
"No — I wiU not -pay six hundred."
Away way went Hogun to the auction. The two
boys were soon to be put up. He grew more and
more and more anxious to buy them, and at last de
termined to make one more effort to bring the Jew to
his terms.
"Well, Friedman," said he, as he stepped into the
store, "you may have Peter for five hundred and fifty
dollars." The black eyes of the Jew twinkled with deHgbi,
but he was firm.
"I will give you five hundred doUars," said he,
"my brother authorized me to pay that sum."
"But," argued Hogun, "he is a great favorite in
town — I have been offered six hundred doUars for
him." " I say I will give five hundred ; not one dollar
more." The sale was going on — Hogun grew desperate.
The boys he wanted would not wait for bidders, for
they were choice feUows.

PETER BUYS HIMSELF. 225
"Well," said he, as he walked towards the door,
"you may have him for five hundred; but it's a
shame to sell him so."
" Then he is mine I"
"Yes."" For five hundred doUars I"
"Yes." "Yery well, your money wiU be ready when you
want it."
Hogun hastened back to the auction. The boys
were just going up. He bid off the youngest for seven
hundred and fifty dollars, and the other became the
property of a planter, named W — , a "few mUes south
of the town.
It was night. At his desk sat the young Jew, re
viewing the business of the day. Cautiously the door
was opened, and Peter entered the counting-room —
pausing to listen before he closed the door lest some
chance visitor might be approaching. All was still.
" Now, Mr. Friedman," said the slave, whUe his
voice trembled, and his whole frame was agitated, " I've
come to pay you that money ; and I reckon you wont
cheat me. I've worked mighty hard to get it. There's
three hundred dollars in this yer bag."
So saying, he drew the precious treasure from his
pocket, glancing instinctively towards the corners of
the room, to be sure that no spy was there concealed.
He proceeded to untie the bag. It was made of
leather — about twelve inches long, three inches wide
at the bottom, and half that width across the top.
If contained pieces of sUver of all sizes, and now
and then, as they came forth with a melodious cHnk*

226 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
ing, a piece of gold glittered in the lamp-light.* When
the bag was about half emptied, Peter paused. It "would
be so easy for him to lose it all, and he had known so
many slaves defrauded of their hard-earned gains, that
it seemed impossible for him to trust. " But," thought
he, " I've knowed Mr. Friedman a long time, and I
never knowed him to do a mean trick. H I can't trust
him, the Lord help me ! I can't never be free without
trustin' some person, any how."
He emptied the bag upon the table, and both counted
it twice. It was right — three hundred doUars.
Mr. Friedman wrote a receipt for the money, and
signing it, handed it to Peter. Poor feUow ! He could
not read it ; but he beHeved it genuine, and a load
was lifted from his heart. After aU, he might be de
ceived. He was in this man's poAver; but he resolved
to trust, and to go to work with aU his might to earn
the balance of the sum required to make him a free
man. The next day Mr. Hogun received the stipulated five
hundred dollars, and gave a bUl of sale, of which the
following is a copy :
" $500. For the consideration of five hundred dol
lars, paid to me this day, I have sold to Joseph Fried-
* It was Peter's custom, when he saw a piece of gold in the
hands of a gentleman whom he had served, to ask him if he would
not like change for that. If he received an affirmative reply, he
would bring from his precious bag the amount in small silver coin.
The writer knew him at one time to get ten dollars in five-cent-pieceB,
changed for gold. His habits of industry were so well known that
such a request excited no suspicion — the small amount thus chauged
at once was presumed to be the sum of the poor fellow's wealth.

PETER BUYS HIMSELF. 237
man a negro man named Peter. I bind myself and
heir's to defend the title of said negro, Peter, to the said
Joseph Friedman and his heirs against all claims what
ever. Given under my hand and seal this 15th January,
1849. John H. Hogun."
Great sympathy was felt in Tuscumbia for "poor
Uncle Peter." It was so strange that Hogun would
sell such a faithful old man to a Jew. Of course, Fried
man wanted to make money out of him ; and when he
became no longer profitable, he would not scruple to
carry him off and sell him.
Thus spake gentlemen and ladies; and soon their
chUdren caught the tone. "Don't you think," said
one bright eyed Httle girl to another, as they walked
to school, " Uncle Peter is sold !"
" Sold? I'm so sorry ! Who's bought him ? Are
they going to carry him off?"
" No — no not now. Mr. Friedman 's bought him ;
and 'ma says he's a Jew, and she -says Jews will sell
their own children for money. Pa says he don't doubt
that Mr. Friedman wUl sell him the very first chance
he gets to make money out of him ; and then, perhaps,
he'U be taken off. to the rice swamps."
" Oh ! that wUl be too bad ! Aunt MUly says that
in the rice swamps they don't care no more for killing
black folks than they do for pigs and chickens. Oh !
I'm so sorry for poor Uncle Peter ! But what did
they sell him for? He did'nt run away — nor his mas
ter did n't die."
" I don't know what made them sell him, his master
wanted the money, I reckon. Oh! I wish my Pa

228 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
owned him — he would n't sell him, I know. Ma says
she thinks it's a pity for black folks to be sold at'aU,
but sometimes it can't be helped."
" Well, I think it ought to be helped, for they feel
so bad to be carried away off from everybody that
loves them. Just think — if Mr. Friedman should sell
Uncle Peter away off where he never could come back
— Oh ! would n't it be too bad ?"
Said a gentleman, " Why did't you let me know,
Peter, that your master wanted to sell you ? I'd not
have let that Jew get you. He'll sell you again ; or,
perhaps, Avork you to death."
" No, sir, I reckon not," replied Peter ; " Mr. Fried
man's always been mighty good to me, and I reckon
he'll use me fa'r. Leastways, I belong to him now,
and he'll do just as he thinks best."
Such was the judgment pronounced upon the noble-
hearted Jew by men and women who had bought and
sold, and beaten, and oppressed the poor until their
cry had gone up to heaven. They considered it their
right thus to trample on their darker brethren. They
were born slaveholders, and when their servants ne
glected their duties, or so far forgot their station as to
speak improperly to their superiors, they must be
beaten, though their heads were grey. Money, too,
was sometimes "tight," and then the sale of a few of
the young negroes that were " really in the way about
the kitchen" would help to fill the purse. These Avere
their rights under the Constitution; but for a JeAV to have
such power over a choice old servant was quite too bad.
" A foreigner too ! How could he know the feelings
of tenderness cherished by a true Southerner for his
dave?"

PETER BUYS HIMSELF. 229
MeanwhUe the despised and suspected Jew was ar
ranging, with the object of all this sympathy, their
future relations to each other. "You may work, as
you did before," said he to Peter, "but you may keep
your earnings. When you get two hundred doUars
more, I wUl give you free papers, and you shall go
where you like. I do not want your work — get all
you can for yourself."
Did the heart of the slave bound at these words ?
Did the tears of gratitude sparkle in his eye ? and the
bright beams of hope irradiate his countenance ? Ah !
there is One " who seeth not as man seeth," and in His
eye the generous truthfulness of the slandered Jew
outshone the gaudy hypocrisy of his traducers.
Peter continued his usual labors with a light heart.
He had -now no hire to pay — his earnings were all his
own. The night after paying his three hundred dollars to
Mr. Friedman, he went out to make his usual semi
monthly visit to his wife. How her heart throbbed
when he told her all ! Again and again she asked him
if he were sure Mr. Isaac would be true. The chU
dren, too, had their hundred questions. Their father
was very dear to them ; and now he possessed new
dignity, even in their eyes. "Just think, he would
soon be free !" No selfish dread that thus he might
be lifted above them dimmed their transparent hearts.
They loved their father, and they could not doubt
him. A few months later, a heavy sorrow feU upon this
loving group. The third son, WiUiam, who, at Peter's
soHcitation, had been hired, as waiter, to Captain .BeU,

230 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
in Tuscumbia, was found drowned in the Spring Creek,
just below the toAvn.
It Avas a warm morning in July, and he had obtained
permission to go out fishing. Several boys were near
him bathing, but after a while they all left, him, and
went some distance down the creek. Here they con
tinued their play tiU about dinner time, when, as they
came up, one of them noticed a boy's clothes on the
bank. " They're William's clothes," said two or three
at once. "Where is he?" Alas, they could obtain
no answer to their question, and they ran up to town
and gave the alarm. A crowd of men and boys has
tened to the creek; and after diving for some time,
they found him at the bottom.
That night the sorrowing father conveyed the life
less body of his son to the cabin of his wife, whence he
was buried beside the little ones that in their infancy
had sunk to happy slumbers.
Poor Vina's heart was almost crushed by this af
fliction." William was her darling; indeed he was a
favorite with all who knew him. " Oh !" sobbed his
mother, "I could a seen him die if I'd thought it was
the Lord's wUl ; but to think o' his strugglin' and goin'
down thar all alone, 'pears like, it's more'n I can b'ar."
In September of this year, Joseph Friedman returned
from Texas ; and soon after, Peter paid to him one
hundred doUars, which- he had earned since January.
The Jew seemed delighted at the success of his humble
friend, and congratulated him on the prospect of soon
becoming free. Only one hundred dollars was now
lacking, and that, if he were prospered, he soon could
earn ; and then he should be free.

PETER BUYS niMSELF. 231
Patiently he toUed on. ¦ His brow was all unruffled,
and no trace of care was visible on his cheerful face.
He moved so quietly in his accustomed course, that
men forgot their jealousy of the Jew, and Httle maidens
ceased to pity " poor Uncle Peter."
Late in the evening of the sixteenth of April, 1850,
Peter sought, once more, the counting-room of Mr.
Friedman. His hand might weU tremble as he raised
the latch ; for his aU was now at stake, and he was
helpless. He entered. There sat the little Jew, look
ing at him with his keen black eyes. Timidly he drew
forth his leather bag, and commenced counting out the
money. A footstep approached. Mr. Friedman quietly laid
a pUe of papers over the coin, and Mr. S  , the
auctioneer, walked in.
" What, Peter," said he, " are you paying up ?"
" Yes, sir. Mass'r Joe make me pay him up close "
" How much do you have to pay ?"
" WeU, sir, he makes, me pay him half a dollar a
day." " That's pretty tight, but it's the best way, after all."
"Yes— that is so— I like to keep aU close. Peter
must pay me promptly."
When the neighbor's chat was ended, and they
heard his receding footsteps on the sidewalk, they
finished counting the money. How beautiful it looked
to Peter ! that Httle heap of coin, as he shoved it to
wards the Jew, and felt that now his fate hung entirely
on the wUl of the little man before him.
Mr. Friedman took up his pen, and wrote a receipt
in full, together with a Certificate of Freedom, as fol.
lows :

232 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Received, Tuscumbia, January 26th, 1849,
of my boy Peter, three hundred doUars . $300 00
Jos. Friedman.

Reed. Sept. 1st, 1849, of my boy Peter, $88 00
Eighty-eight dollars and twelve dollars 12 00 100 00
Reed. March 29th, 1850, of Peter, sixty doUars, 60 00

Jos. Friedman, $460 00
Received, April 16th, 1850, forty dollars, 40 00

$500 00
For, and in consideration of the above five hundred
dollars, I have this 16th day of April, 1850, given
Peter a BUI of Sale, and given him his freedom.
Joseph Friedman.
Tuscumbia, Ala., AprU 16th, 1850.
Precious was this paper in the eyes of the self-ran
somed slave, and yet he felt not aU secure. The habit
of doubting that truthfulness of which he had so seldom
seen an Ulustration, could not at once be overcome.
He had five dollars left, with which he bought a
trunk of Mr. Friedman ; and then in one old silver
dollar, which he had kept for many years, consisted
aU his store.
Mr. Friedman had charged him no interest on the
two hundred doUars which he had advanced to pur
chase him of Mr. Hogan, and during the last year he
had bestowed upon him many Httle presents. Jew

peter buys himself. 233
though he was, and sometimes quoted' as a miser, yet
he knew the happiness of being a blessing to the poor.
Immediately after receiving this last payment from
his servant, Joseph Friedman started for California,
leaving Peter in the care of his brother Isaac. The
whole transaction was stiU a secret, no mortal save the
two brothers, and Peter's own famUy were aware that
he had even wished for liberty.
He "was one day engaged in cleaning the church,
when two or three ladies came in to superintend his
labors. Among them was Mrs. D. one of the most
exceUent ladies in town. " Peter," said she, when she
had finished giving him some direction, " you ought
to be free. You have been a faithful servant for a
great many years ; and now that' you are getting old,
you deserve to have your freedom, instead of being
sold to those Jews."
"Oh!" repHed he, " what use would it be for me to
be free?"
"Why then you could do as you chose, and go
wherever you liked."
"What! now I've got to be an old man, a'most
fifty ? I've got no house nor garden ; and if I was free,
I'd have to hire a house, and buy my own clothes; and
then if I should be sick, there'd be nobody to take care
of me. No, ma'am 'taint no use for me to think of
bein' free. I'm too old to be turned off to take care
of myself."
Thus carefully did he conceal his real feelings, lest
he should place in greater peril that freedom which he
had so dearly won.
At the approach of summer, Mr. Isaac Friedman
decided to seU out his stock of goods in Tuscumbia, in

234 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
order to remove to Cincinnati, where his brother Levi
then resided.
Peter no sooner learned this plan, than- he requested
leave to accompany him as far as LouisviUe. In all
his intercourse with the Jew, he had never revealed to
him his early history, or breathed to him his own great
wish — that of seeking his parents, and his childhood's
home. But he had often talked of Lexington, and now
he said he should like once more to visit " the. old
place." Mr. Friedman readfly assented, and Peter com
menced his preparations for the journey. His earnings
since he had finished paying for himself, together with
his receipts from the sale of a few articles which he no
longer needed, amounted to eighty doUars. That he
thought, would be sufficient to meet his expenses on
the Avay.
The Tuscumbians. again became excited. Some gos
siping oracle "reckoned" that Joseph Friedman had
faded, and straightway that important reckoning was
announced to be a fact. Joseph had failed, and Isaac
was about to sell off his goods at auction, and quit the
country. Uncle Peter, too was to be dragged off and sold,
or, as some said, to be hired out upon a steamboat, and
thus exposed to all the frightful sickness that then raged
upon the Western rivers. "Now Uncle Peter," said one,
" if you find out that those Jews are about to seU you,
just let me know, and I wUl buy you."
" It wUl be too bad for them to speculate out of you,"
said another, "but I expect that is what they bought
you for."
To all these kind expressions of interest in his wel
fare, Peter had but one reply. " Mass'r Joe and Mass'r

PETER BUYS HIMSELF. 235
Isaac always has been good to me ; and any how, I
belong to them, and they can do what they like."
" What a contented old feUow he is 1" said one who
Hstened to this quiet answer. "I'd Hke that some of
the abolitionists should hear him talk, they would be
obliged to own that niggers' pining to be free is moon
shine." The Saturday before Mr. Friedman intended to leave
town. Peter went out to pay a farewell visit to his
family. To them he unburdened all his heart. His
great hope had been, if he could once be free, to find
his own relations, whom he always thought of as living
in or near Philadelphia. Then, if they were able, per
haps they might assist him in the purchase of his wife
and chUdren, and so, at last, they could all dwell to
gether. This hope had so inspired the Httle family at Bain
bridge, that their grief at parting with their beloved
father was lost in the bright vision of a speedy re
union in the dwelling of the free. They knew nothing
of the difficulties to be encountered ; or of the time re
quisite to perfect such a work, even if their father were
successful in his search. He had bought his freedom;
and in their eyes, such an achievement proved him
equal to the attainment of any end. Not thus sanguine
was their father ; but he was strong in his fixed resolve
to work while he had breath for the redemption 'of his
loved ones.
In sweet, though somewhat mournful, conversation
passed the hours of this precious visit. They were all
too short for the utterance of the many last fond words •
and on Monday morning, when the father was obHged

236 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
to leave them they had not found time for half they
wished to say.
The loud horn called them to their labors, and the
chUdren said " Good-bye," and hastened out-^-but Vina
lingered. Oh ! it was hard to see him go away alone
— but still she would not bid him Stay. She mounted
her mule, and rode toward the field, whUe Peter
walked for a short distance. by her side.
His heart was very heavy, but he uttered not his
gloomy thoughts. He would fain leave her cheerful;
for he knew that ere his return, her heart would often
times be shadowed. So he spoke hopefuUy of the
future, and bade her never fear for him. " I wUl
come back," said he, "whether I find my people or
not — I wUl come back, and let you know. Now take
care of yourself and the chUdren ; and mind they don't
tell the secret."
Too soon their paths diverged. When they came
opposite the half-plowed field they stopped. "WeU
Peter," said the brave-hearted wife, " this: yer's your
road, and yon's mine. Good-bye." One pressure of
the hand — one last earnest look — and they each pur
sued a separate road; the one to slavery's dreary
labors, the other toward that Paradise of hope — The
North.

-^tw

y^,#-«p^

' Well Peter, this yer' s your road, and yon' s mine. See page 236.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
JOURNEY TO PHILADELPHIA.
On the twentieth of July, all preliminaries being
arranged, Mr. Friedman and his servant took the boat
for LouisvUle.
" Now, Peter," said Dr. W  , as he shook hands
with him upon the sidewalk, " mind what I tell you ;
if those Jews go to sell you, just telegraph to me."
" Thank you, sir, I will ; but I reckon they ain't
gwine to sell me, any how."
Several other gentlemen, as he passed along, gave
him similar assurances ; and with the kindest wishes
of all the citizens, he left the town.
"That is outrageous," said a kind hearted gentle
man, Avho watched the faithful servant as he passed
out of sight — " for that Jew to carry off such a fellow
as old Peter, and to have a right to sell him whenever
he likes."
Peter paid his fare to Louisville by working on the
boat — The Greek Slave— Captain Francis. When
they reached that city, the cholera was raging fear
fully ; and Mr. Friedman thought best to make no
stop, but to hasten on to Cincinnati. Thither also,
Peter obtained permission to accompany him ; and at
six o'clock on the morning of the twenty-sixth of
July, the free soU of Ohio was pressed by his weary
feet. B37]

238 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Now, for a time, he threw off his pretended bonds,
and gave way to his emotions of delight. Springing
from the boat, he clapped his hands in ecstasy, shout
ing, "I'm free! I'm free! This is free ground ! The
water runs free ! The wind blows free ! I am a slave
no more!"
"Hush! Peter," said Mr. Friedman, "people will
think you are a fool I"
That day7 in the house of his brother, Levi Fried
man, Peter revealed to his late master the story of his
life. He told him all that he remembered of his early
childhood — of his being stolen, of his brother's life
and death, and of the one hope which had animated
all his labors — that of returning to the spot where he
was born, to find, if possible, his kindred, and to see
his mother's grave.
Friedman listened with astonishment; and when
Peter described, as weU as he Avas able, his early home,
Avhich he located at PhUadelphia, the Jew could not
believe the tale. "No, no," cried -he, "you came from
Kentucky — your master told me so."
"Yes," repHed Peter, "so I did come from Kain-
tucky ; but I was stole and carried there when I was a
little boy. I remember the Delaware river — it was not
far from my mother's house ; and that river is at Phila
delphia — leastways, so people has told me. And now
I Avantsto go and see if I can find my relations."
The wonder of his auditor was intense. He could
not comprehend how, during all these years, so cruel
a Avrong had been suffered to go unredressed.
" I do not like to have you go away alone," said he
to Peter. " The cholera is raging on the river, and
you might be sick and die among strangers."

JOURNEY TO PHILADELPHIA. 239
But his fears could not detain the enthusiastic free
man. " Never mind," said he, " if I die, nobody don't
lose nuthin by me. I'm my own man, any how, but I
reckon I won't die. 'Pears Hke, now I've got so fur,
my work ain't g-wine to be lost."
After spending a day and a half at a colored board
ing house in Cincinnati, where he had his clothes all
put in order, he started for Pittsburg. A cousin of
Mr. Friedman accompanied him to the wharf and saw
him on board the boat.
How anxious was his heart as the steamer dashed
away. He was aU alone, and utterly ignorant of the
perils he might meet. But he trusted in the Lord, and
kept a cheerful countenance.
His characteristic caution prompted him to observe
closely the movements of his fellow-passengers, and
one of them soon absorbed his attention. This was a
short dark man, with a disagreeable expression of
countenance. Peter remembered seeing the same man
on the boat from Louisville to Cincinnati, where he
had made several attempts to draw him into conversa
tion, without, however, learning anything further in
answer to his questions than that Peter was going to
Cincinnati. Now he renewed his advances, striving to
draw him into conversation, and at last asked him if
his owner were on board.
"I don't need any," said Peter, as he walked
away. Soon an elderly gentleman, very genteelly dressed,
approached him, and asked if his master were on
board. " I have no master," repHed he, " who said I had a
master ?"

240 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
"But you are a slave," persisted the gentleman,
" or at least have been one. I knew it as soon as I
saw you. Where are you going ?"
" I am gwine to Pittsburg, and then to PhUadelphia;
and I am a free man. Who said I had a master ?"
" Where did you come from ?"
" From Cincinnati."
His interrogator left him in no pleasant mood. Two
colored barbers on the boat had told him that the short
dark man was watching all his movements. He Avas
whispering, too, they said, among the other passengers,
that he knew that fellow was a runaway; and he
would take him up, if he had not other business to
attend to. He was hunting, he said, for a rascal who
had escaped from prison ; and he could not undertake
another job."
When the boat approached Wheeling, several indi
viduals came to Peter, and offered their advice. The
short dark man kept his eye upon him, but said
nothing. One young gentleman with a pleasant
countenance stooped down and said in a low voice,
" Now, my friend, there are a great many watching
you ; and if you are free, stand' to it. Don't leave the
boat ; — -just say that you are free." Seeing some one
approaching, the young man rose up, and walked to
another part of the boat. " I thought," said Peter, as
he narrated this incident, " that the Lord sent that
young man, and that he was a true friend ; so I deter
mined to take his advice."
Soon came another. " See here, my friend," said
he, " the people tell me that you are running away.
Now, I am a friend to colored people. Here is five
dollars — you'd better not stop in WheeHng, for they

JOURNEY TO PHILADELPHIA. 241
talk of taking you up. You take this five dollars,
and walk across the bridge — and you'U be in a Free
State, where they can't hurt you."
"No, sir, I thank you," said Peter, "I have paid
my passage to Pittsburg, and I shaU not leave the
boat. Let 'em take me up if they like; I can tele
graph to my friends in Cincinnati, and I reckon they
can make 'em pay for the time I'm hindered. Yes ;
let 'em take me up, if they think best."
NotAvithstanding the bravery of his bearing, he felt
extremely uneasy ; and as Mr. Friedman had given
him no instruction respecting the proper method of
procedure in such cases, he was forced to rely alone
upon his own judgment. He readUy suspected the
hypocrisy of the very kind friend who offered him five
doUars, and advised him to hasten across the bridge.
Had he accepted the- gift and counsel, he would tacitly
have acknowledged himself a runaway, and so he
might have become an easy prey to the vultures that
pursued him.
But he was not arrested. He saw groups of men
whispering together in different directions — and he
knew they watched him constantly ; but he seemed to
regard them with such cool indifference, that they did
not venture to attempt the execution of their plots.
The boat arrived at Pittsburg early in the morning ;
and Peter was conducted by a colored fellow-passenger
to the house of a friend of his, where they took break
fast. After remaining about five hours in the city, he
took the stage to cross the mountains. He was
anxious to reach Philadelphia as soon as possible, for
he was told in Pittsburgh that there would be a great
turn-out of the colored people there on the first day of

242 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
August; and that, he thought, would be a favorable
time to seek his kindred.
He paid for a seat inside the stage ; but it being
crowded with passengers, he was requested to ride out
side. He accordingly seated himself beside the driver,
where he rode all day. The grand scenery of the
mountains was new to him, and wonderful. Wife and
chUdren were behind. He could hear their voices,
now sad, now trustful, as they talked of "father,"
whUe their mother cooked their scanty supper. Sub
dued were the tones of their dear voices, for on no
strange ear must faU the cherished secret that he was
free. They Httle dreamed that he was riding now
over these wUd rough mountains. How strange the
scene ! The tall hemlocks which sheltered the highest
peaks, seemed stern and unloving— but the warm sun
looked down upon them all. The same sun even then
was shining upon his toUing loved ones ; and oh ! per
haps it also shone upon the graves of aU those whom
he had come so far to seek.
Such were his thoughts as, hour after hour, he gazed
upon the ever-varying grandeur of the AUeghanies. '
After travelling by stage about twenty four hours,
he took a seat in a rail-road car. This was another
wonder. His previous ideas of raU-roads had been
gained from the only one he had ever seen — that ex
tending the length of the Muscle Shoals, and connect
ing Decatur and Tuscumbia. On that he had been
accustomed to see, once a day, two or three little
rickety cars come jolting into town, loaded chiefly
with freight, but occasionally bringing also a few tired
passengers. These cars were drawn by two or three
sleepy-looking mules or horses ; for the snake's-heads

JOURNEY TO PHILADELPHIA. 243
were so numerous upon the road, that the wheezing
old locomotive, which sometimes came down with
freight alone, rendered the journey too perilous for
passengers. What a contrast to all this was now before him !
The bright locomotive, the long trains of elegantly
furnished cars, and the smooth, level track of Pensyl-
vania road, astonished him; whUe the frequent vU-
lages he passed, the highly-cultivated fields, and the
substantial farm-houses, with their great stone-based
barns, impressed him with still greater wonder.
On the afternoon of the first day of August, the
train reached Philadelphia. Peter sprang to the
ground; and, getting possession of his trunk, he
stepped aside^ and stood an amazed spectator of the
noisy scene. Porters accosted him with — " Where
want to go, sir?"
"I don't want to go no further than yer."
The crowd began to scatter. Friends met friends,
and departed in their company ; every one seemed in
haste ; he only was alone and purposeless. Far aAvay
O'n every side stretched the great city — the goal of all
his hopes, perhaps their grave.
He stood still by his trunk, till his fellow-passengers
had all dispersed. He knew not where to go. He
had been advised, AvhUe in Pittsburg, to go to a cer
tain boarding-house in Philadelphia ; but the name he
could not now remember. "Suppose," said he to
himself, " some Abolitionist should come along noAv,
mighty friendly, and tell me where to go, and so I
should be entrapped and sold again. I must be careful."
After he had stood alone for more than half an hour,
an elderly colored man came up, and kindly accosted

244 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
him. " Do you wish to go to some part of the city,
friend?" " Yes," repHed Peter, " I was recommended, in Pitts
burg, to go to a boardin'-house, kept by a Christian
man, a preacher; and I would Hke to find it."
"What is his name?"
" I can't think. I've been a studyin' all the time
since I stood here, and I can't remember it. I only
heard it once in Pittsburg ; but he is a Christian man,
and a minister."
The stranger suggested many names, and at last
mentioned " Dr. Byas."
"Thar — that's the man — I knowed I should re
member it, if I heard it spoke."
" Well," said the stranger, " I know where he fives,
and I wiU carry your trunk there for a quarter."
Peter assented, and foUowed him! With the trunk
upon his shoulder, the stranger led the way through
the handsomest part of the city ; but the beautiful
buildings which they passed scarcely won a glance of
admiration from Peter. His dear dead brother's fea
tures Avere in his mind's eye ; and, in the face of every
colored man he met, he looked to find their counter
part. He gazed in vain. No lineament of that well-
remembered face could he discover among the passers-
by, and he was glad Avhen his guide stayed his steps
before the modest residence of the good Doctor.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE KIDNAPPED BOY RESTORED TO
HIS MOTHER.

Mrs. Byas herself answered the bell. She Avas a
bright mulatto woman, with a kind smUe and a pleas
ant voice. Dr. Byas, she said, Avas not at home — he
had gone to Cincinnati. Peter explained to her that
he was sent there by some friends in Pittsburg.
" Oh, well, then, come right in," said she, " I can
take care of you."
He entered the house, and sat down, whUe the good
Avoman proceeded to explain to him the cause of her
husband's absence. To this he hearkened not. "Do
you know how fur it is to the Delaware river?"
said he.
" Why, yes — it is right down here at the wharf."
He sprang to his feet. " That is just the river I'm
a huntin' for. I was born on that river ; and I want
to go down and find the old house where my father
and mother lived — right on the side of the hill."
" Oh, stay tUl I get you some dinner," said Mrs.
Byas, "and then I will show you the way to the
river." " No, no — I must go now — I believe I can find the
house." EB463

246 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
But she prevailed on him to sit down and eat a
lunch ; and then, according to her promise, she directed
him to the river ; giving him at the same time her
street and number, so that he might find his way
back. When he reached the river he walked a long way
up the stream looking for the well-remembered woods
upon the hill-side. But the city stretched a long way
up the river, and as far as he could see, the bank was
dotted with the costly dwellings of the rich ; — no hum
ble cottage like the one in his memory, met his eye ;
and when thoroughly Avearied in the fruitless search,
he returned disappointed to the residence of his kind
landlady. She was much interested in the stranger, and to aid
him in his efforts, she sent a man with him into the
streets, directing him to inquire of any aged colored
people he might meet for a man named Levin, and his
wife, Sidney, who lost two children about forty years
before. This search was unsuccessful ; and at night Peter
turned, with weary feet, towards his boarding-house.
Early the next morning he arose, and with new
strength and energy, re-commenced his search. He
found one old man who had Hved in PhUadelphia
fifty -three years. He told him that he knew of sixty
colored chUdren that were missing from that vicinity
in one year; and in another year for jy were carried
off, of whom no trace was ever found. Yet he had
never known the Levin and Sidney whom Peter
sought. Hour after hour he continued these fruitless in
quiries; and at last he was forced to abandon this

PETER RESTORED TO HIS MOTHER.' 247
method of search, and to return to Mrs. Byas for fur
ther counsel.
Towards evening the good woman devised another
plan. She told Peter that at the Anti-Slavery Office
were kept old records of colored Churches ; and that,
as he was sure . his - parents were reHgious people, it
was quite possible that their names might there be
found. She thought it best for him to go there imme
diately, and ask them to search these records.
He did not hesitate to folloAV her advice ; and, with
the same guide who had previously accompanied him,
at about six o'clock, he started for the Office.
The guide who had been sent by Mrs. Byas had no
confidence in Peter. His story seemed to him impro-
ble ; and he suspected him of being a spy sent out to
hunt for fugitives. This distrust soon became mutual.
Peter dreaded the Abolitionists of the North, of whose
decoying people away and selling them at the far South
he had so often heard; and as he noticed that the
guide spoke frequently in a low voice to those he met,
he feared some net was spreading for his feet.
At last they reached North Fifth street, and as they
passed a window of the Anti-Slavery Office, they saw
a young colored man within, writing at a desk.
" Did you. ever see a black man doing that at the
South?" asked the guide.
"No, indeed," repHed Peter, "if a black man thar
knowed how to write, he'd best keep it a secret."
They entered the office. The young clerk whom
they had noticed through the window was there alone.
He was graceful in his bearing, and dressed with
extreme neatness.
" Good evening, sir ;" said the guide. " Here is a

218 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
man from the South that says he is huntmg for his
people ; and he wants to make me believe he was born
in PhUadelphia. Mrs. Byas sent me here with him —
she thought possibly you might find the names of his
parents on some of your books."
" What were you parents' names?" asked the young
man of Peter.
" I was stolen away from the DelaAvare river," said
he, "with my brother Levin, when I was about six
years old. My father's name was Levin, and my
mother's name was Sidney ; and we had two sisters —
one name 'Merica and the other Charity ; though my
brother always said that 'Merica was our cousin. One
day when our mother was gone, as we thought, to
church, a man came along in a gig, and asked us if
we didn't want to ride. He told us he would carry
us to our mother ; so we got up with him'. But in
place o' carryin' us to our mother, he taken us off into
Kaintucky, and sold us. We used to talk a heap
about our mother, but nineteen years ago my brother
died in Alabama ; and now I've bought my liberty,
and come back to hunt for my relations."
The young clerk listened with much apparent inte
rest, and when Peter had ended his simple story, he
requested him to wait tiU he had finished putting up
those papers for the Post Office, when he would render
him any assistance in his power.
Peter constantly grew more uneasy. He could
not shake off the idea that some snare was here laid
to entrap him, and while the young man was busied
at his desk, he slipped along a little nearer to the door,
in order that he might escape if any violence should
be attempted.

PETER RESTORED TO HIS MOTHER. 249
When the papers were all prepared for the mail, the
clerk sat down near him, and entered into conversa
tion. "It will take sometime," said he, "to look over
those old papers, and this man may as well go home.
I wUl show you the way back to Mrs. Byas'."
The guide rose to depart, — and Peter prepared to
accompany him. " I'U go, too," said he.
"No, no, — stay;" said the clerk, "I wiU do my
best to find your friends."
"Yes, stay — by all means;" added the guide, — if he
will look for them, it isn't worth while to go away
now." Peter was greatly frightened. He thought he
could detect a mutual understanding between the two,
to keep him there till night, that they might commit
some outrage upon his person ; but he knew no way
of escape, for he was a stranger. Trembling, there
fore, he consented to remain; but seated himself as
near as possible' to the door, and watched intently
every motion of the young man whose treachery he
so much feared.
- When they two were left alone, the clerk questioned
him further respecting his early memories of home and
mother; and then, looking him in the face, he said,
" Suppose I should tell you that I am your brother?"
Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, he could not
have been more astonished. But the doubt was up
permost in his mind, and with an incredulous look he
answered, only, "Supposin' you should?"
" Well," continued the young man, " from all you
have told me, I believe that you are a brother of mine.
My father's name was Levin, and my mother's name
is Sidney ; and they lost two boys named Levin and

250 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Peter, about the time you speak of. I have often
heard my mother mourn about those two children,
and I am sure you must be one of them."
The young man's voice trembled as he spoke ; and
Peter, more frightened than ever, knew not what to
say. He did not believe one word the clerk had said ;
for had he not merely repeated his own story ! At
last he spoke : "I want to ask you one question— is
your father and mother a livin' ?"
" My father has been dead some years," repHed the
clerk, " but my mother is stiU Hving."
"WeU, sir," said Peter, "then your mother is not
my mother ; for my mother must be dead. My brother
said, before he died, that he was sure she was dead;
and that is nineteen years ago. Yes, my mother must
be dead. I don't expect to find her aHve, but I thought
I mought find her grave."
In vain the young man strove to convince him that
they might both be sons of the same mother. In vain
he related little incidents connected with their loss,
which he had heard from his mother's Hps. Peter still
believed that he was merely constructing a tale to
match his own. "Oh [".thought he, "what a fool I
was to tell him, any how !"
"Where does your mother live?" asked he, after
some minutes spent in painful thought.
" She Hves in New Jersey, but I have two sisters
living in this city.
"New Jersey!" Where could that be ? It must be
a great way off, for he had never heard of it. Perhaps
it was across the sea. " New Jersey," said he aloud,
" how far is that from yer?"
" Oh, it is just across the river. My mother lives

PETER RESTORED TO HIS MOTHER. 251
fifteen or tAventy miles from the city. Come, go with
me to my sister's ; one of them lives quite near. She
is several years older than I, and can tell you much
more about our famUy."
"No, sir; if you please, show me the way to my
boardin'-house. It is night, and I'd ruther go thar."
But the young man urged him so strongly, that he
at last consented to accompany him to see his sister
Mary, an unmarried woman, Avho taught a Httle school,
and kept a few boarders.
She was engaged, when they entered, in removing
the tea-things; and, as she supposed Peter was some
stranger who was going home with her brother, she
took no special notice of him. Soon she started to go
into the basement, and the young man followed her.
Peter heard them talking, in a Ioav tone, upon the
stairs, and all his worst fears returned. He had heard
of houses kept by infamous women in cities ; and of
strangers being beguiled into them to be robbed and
murdered. He had heard, too, of kidnappers, that em
ployed colored agents to ensnare their victims ; and the
perspiration started from every pore, .as he fancied
himself thus entangled. .He could not flee, for he
knew not where to go ; and if he made inquiries for
his boarding-house, he might fall into other dangers.
After a few minutes, whJLch seemed an age to Peter,
the brother and sister returned into the room, and sat
doAvn. "Sister," said the clerk, "here is a man who
tells a strange story. He has come to Philadelphia to
look for his relations, and I should Hke to have you
hear what he has to say."
She turned to Peter. "For whom are you looking?"
said she.

252 THE KIDNAPPED" AND THE RANSOMED.
" Oh," he repHed, I'm a lookin' for a needle in a hay-
slack: and I reckon the needle's rusty, and' the stack is
rotted down, so it's no use to say any more about it."
" But tell her," said the young man, " what you re
lated to me in the office."
He proceeded to repeat his story ; but when he spoke
the names of his father and mother, his listener could sit
still no longer. Seizing the candle, and holding it
near his face, she cried, " 0 Lord! it is one of our lost
brothers! I should know him by his likeness to
our mother. Thank God! one of our brothers has
come!" Then checking herself, she turned to the
young brother, "0 William, this wUl kUl mother!"
Peter was still more agitated, yet not convinced.
He was so unprepared for such a joyful greeting, that
he could not believe they were sincere. He promised,
however, to come again in the morning, and to go Avith
her to see an older sister, who resided in another part
of the city.
After spending a few minutes in further conversation
respecting their family, the clerk, according to his
promise, accompanied Peter to his boarding-house.
"Good evening, Mrs. Byas," said he, as he entered
the neat parlor ; "did you send this man to the Anti-
Slavery Office this evening ?"
" Yes, sir. I thought h^might find some account
there of his people."
" WeU, he is my own brother."
The good woman looked amazed.
" My parents," continued the young man, "lost two
chUdren over forty years ago ; and from this man's
story I am convinced that he is one of those brothers.
And now I have brought him back here, as I promised

PETER RESTORED TO HIS MOTHER. 253
at the office ; but I want him to go home with me and
stay all night. In the morning I will take him to see
other members of our family.
" No, sir," said Peter, who could not yet fully trust
his neAV-found brother, " I'd as lief stay here to-night ;
and then I can go with you in the morning."
Mrs. Byas, however, joined in urging him to go
home with Mr. Still; assuring him that he did resem
ble him in looks, and that she doubted not they were
reaUy brothers. At last, after much persuasion, he
reluctantly bade his kind landlady" good night," and
departed with the clerk.
"Still," — thought he as they walked along — "it
seems this man's name is WUliam StUl. Then if he is
my brother, that must be my name, too. I wish' I
knowed. And his mother has always loved the boys
she lost, and talked a heap about 'em. Well, this is
an oncommon case. 'Pears Hke they all believe this
man's tale ; but I can't think my mother's a livin' yet,
and that Pve come right on to one of her children.
It seems mighty queer that they all are so ready to own
a stranger, any how. Well, I shall know more about
it to-morrow, when I come to see the other 'ooman ;
but I'd a heap ruther staid with Mrs. Byas this yer
one night. Thar's no knowin' what'll happen afore
mornin'." Thus, full of doubts Sid. fears, he walked silently
beside his young companion towards his home. This
was a substantial three-story brick house, situated in a
retired, though pleasant part of the city.
Mrs. Still was absent on a visit to her husband's
relatives in New Jersey ; and after eating their supper
the excited brothers separated for the night. '

254 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Peter, when left alone in his chamber, gave way to
his long-pent grief. Oh ! why had he thus exposed
himself to every danger ? Why did not Mr. Friedman
give him more instructions with regard to his future
course. Did he not know that his path would be beset
with dangers? Then came thoughts of poor Vina,
and the children ; and he knew they were thinking of
"father," and feeling sure he must be happy now that
he was free. Ah well, he was glad they could not know
the dangers which surrounded him. What could these
people intend to do ? Oh ! if he should find after all
that their tale were true — but it could not be. Per
haps they were all Abolitionists, and had contrived a
plan to carry him off and sell him.
' For fear that he might fall asleep and be surprised,
he pUed the furniture of the room against the door ; ,
looking first under the bed, and examining carefully
every corner, to be sure that no enemy was concealed
in his chamber. He then lay down ; and after weary
ing himself with striving to devise some plan of escape
from the imaginary dangers which encompassed him,
he fell asleep. Even then he found no rest, for soon
his room Avas stealthily entered by armed men. Start
ing from his slumber, he Hstened to hear their foot
steps, — but all was still. Then he was about to leave
Tuscumbia with his master ; and all his clothes were
gone. Again he was in the little cabin where Vina
cared for his children, and prayed for their father, and
ruffians came and tore him from their arms. All night
his dreams were gloomy horrid ; and in the morning
he was unrefreshed. Yet the light of a new day was
welcome ; for he was anxious to learn more of these
strange people who claimed him as a brother.

PETER RESTORED TO HIS MOTHER. 255
After breakfast he returned to his boarding-house ;
where he had a long conversation with Mrs. Byas.
She Avas utterly unconscious of the existence of his
doubts and fears ; yet her frankness of manner, and
her evident confidence in the integrity of " Mr. Still"
went far to remove them from his mind.
At twelve o'clock he went, according to appoint
ment, to the house of Miss Mary StUl, in order to ac
company her in a visit to other members of her family.
She received him with sisterly affection — manifesting
not, by word or look, a doubt of his being indeed one
of her own lost brothers ; and the two soon started
for the residence of the other sister who lived in the
city. Her name was Kitty. She was several years older
than her sister Mary, and was, at this time, a widow.
Her daughter was standing near the door as they
entered, and inquired for her mother. Away she ran
to call her.
" 0 mother," cried she, " Aunt Mary has come and
brought a man with her that looks just Hke my grand
father. Come, quick, and see him."
" Kitty," said Mary, as her sister approached, "here
is one of our lost brothers. He came to William last
night, and I am going right away Avith him to see
mother." Kitty asked no explanation. She saw in him a
striking likeness to both her parents ; and after the
first burst of joy was over, she prepared to accompany
them. " Yes, I'll go too ;" said she. " How glad I
am ! What wUl mother say ?"
The small steamboat, as it left the wharf that after-
¦ noon, bore no more interesting group than this. The

256 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
two sisters alternately questioned and congratulated
their new-found brother ; and he — his heart was full.
Now, for a moment, he beHeved that it was real — that
they were indeed his sisters ; and then his doubts re
turned. The joy was greater than his brightest hopes
had promised.
But of one thing he was sure. He was upon the
Delaware river — that beautiful stream which had ever
been the pole-star of his hopes. He blessed its bright
waters, and its verdant banks. They had been beauti
ful in his mind's eye, and now he felt that even if this
new hope were aU delusive, he must yet be near the
home of his chUdhood. He strove to recall the look
that his mother wore when last he saw her face, and
then he wondered how he could for a moment hope to
meet her again in life.
Thus between hope and fear, between confidence and
doubt, he wavered, tiU they reached Long Bridge,
about ten miles above the city. Here they landed,
and took- seats in the stage forMedford; near which
town resided their brother — Dr. James StiU.
When they arrived at his house, it was nearly dark,
and they thought best to remain there aU night, and
go to see their mother the next morning. " There,"
said one of the sisters, " is brother James now walking
towards the barn."
He turned, and looked towards them, and the mo
ment Peter saw his face, his doubts departed, to return
no more. He was so Hke poor Levin, that dear brother
who lay low in Alabama, there could be no mistake.
The fuU tide of joy rushed over his soul. He had
lound brothers and sisters! His mother Hved! He
should yet see her face.

PETER RESTORED TO HIS MOTHER. 257
For a short time after their arrival, all was excite
ment and confusion ; the sisters who had accompanied
him both talked at once, and all the famUy pressed
eagerly forward to greet him who had come, as it were,
from the dead. His resemblance to their famUy was
so striking that they hesitated not for a moment to
receive him as a brother.
In relating incidents of the long years of his bond
age the evening passed away — that pleasant evening,
long will 'it be remembered by each member of that
little circle.
Peter's heart was now at rest. He had reaHzed the
dream of his boyhood — the great hope of his riper
years. "Oh," thought he, "if poor Levin could be
with us now ; and if Vina and the dear chUdren were
only free, I shouldn't know what more to ask for."
Early the next morning, Dr. Still, with his new
found brother, and the two sisters set out to visit their
mother, Avho lived eight miles distant. On the way
they agreed, as far as possible, to avoid surprising or
exciting their mother, as on account of her great age
(she was nearly eighty) they feared that by a shock,
even though it were a joyful one, she might be over
come. The venerable woman Hved with Samuel, the oldest,
except Peter, of her sons, upon the farm which had
been owned by her late husband. When her chUdren,
arrived, she had just risen, and was standing in the
door. Peter's first impulse was to spring from the
wagon, and to clasp the precious form of his mother to
his heart, but his sisters' caution sounded in his ears,
and he struggled to control himself. Forcing back the

258 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
flood of tenderness which came gushing up from his
throbbing heart, he walked with placid face behind his
sisters, who advanced to greet their beloved parent.
"Mother," said Kitty, "you know it is the custom,
when one of your daughters marries, for her to come
home, and bring your new son-in-law. Now which
of these would you rather take for your son?" pointing
as she spoke to Peter, and to the man who had been
hired by her brother James to drive them out. The
mother answered with a smUe, and the party entered
the house.
Peter chose a seat near his mother, and subduing his
emotions, gazed earnestly upon her aged face. There
was the same mole concerning which he had so often
disputed with his brother Levin, who always main
tained that it was only a dark spot upon her face. His
thoughts were busy with the past. Ah ! how weU he
remembered the time when his young Hps had pressed
that mother's cheek, when aU his childish griefs had
been forgotten whUe he lay folded to that loving
breast. He remembered too, the kindnapper, with his shmy,
lying tongue ; his transfer to Kentucky, and the heavy
blows by which they strove to crush out from his
young heart the memory of his mother's love, aU his
long years of weary, unrequited toU — a sad procession,
passed before him as he sat apparently a calm spec
tator of the joyous greetings of his kindred. His
brother also, he remembered, and that brother's grave,
a far-off, unmarked grave, and all that brother's sor
rows. Yes, he remembered aU the past. The host of
cruel wrongs which he had suffered rushed at once

PETER RESTORED TO HIS MOTHER. 259
into his mind, and from the stand point which he had
now gained, the heartless acts of his oppressors, looked
a hundred fold more hateful than before.
But he was not long left to his own thoughts. The
excitement of their arrival having subsided, he said to
his mother, " Are all these your chUdren."
"Yes," she replied, "the most of them are mine."
"You have a large famUy."
"Yes, I have had eighteen' children."
" How many have you livin' ?"
"I have buried eight, and I have eight living."
"I thought you said you had eighteen — eight livin'
and eight dead would make but sixteen."
The breast of the aged woman heaved as with long-
pent anguish ! " Ah !" said she, " them two boys have
been more trouble to me than all the rest of my chU
dren. I've grieved about them a great many years."
"What became of them?" asked Peter.
" I never knew what became of them. I left them
asleep in the bed, the last time I ever see them. I
never knew whether they was stole and carried off, or
whether they Avas dead. I hope though, they're in
heaven." At that moment, her oldest daughter, Mahala,* who
Hved very near, came running in. " Do tell me," cried
she, half out of breath, " what is the matter? Is any
body dead?"'
No one replied. She glanced around the room.
" Who's this ?" cried she, talking to mother. "Who
is he ? Is n't he one of mother's lost chUdren ? He
* Peter remembered her as 'Merica. The little Charity he also
remembered, was- the daughter of his mother's sister.

260 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
favors the family, and I'm sure he must be one of
them." "Who? me?" said Peter.
" Yes ; mother lost two children a great many years
ago, and you must be one of them."
" I'm a stranger from Alabama," said he.
" I can't help it," cried the excited woman. " I am
sure you are one of mother's children, for you favor
the family."
One of the other sisters then approached the mother,
and broke to her the joyful news. The aged woman
sat for a moment bewildered by the strange scene-
then rising, she walked into the next room, where she
knelt in prayer.
In a short time she returned, trembHng in every
limb, though her face was calm. "Who are you?"
said she, approaching the stranger.
" My name," said he, " is Peter, and I had a brother
Levin. My father's name was Levin, and my mother's
name was Sidney  ."
The mother raised her tear-dimmed eyes to heaven.
"0, Lord," she cried, "how long have I prayed to see
my two sons ! Can it be that they have come ? Oh!
if you are my chUd, tell me how d'y' once more!"
The long-lost son was blest. He clasped his mother
to his warm, full heart, and joyful tears stole down his
dusky cheeks.
One week he spent with his new-found kindred.
As he related to them the history of his years of bond
age, and described the strangely varied scenes through
which his path had led, his listeners were never weary;
and when he told of all poor Levin's sorrows, of his
years of patient suffering, and of his peaceful, happy

PETER RESTORED TO HIS MOTHER. 261
death, the spirit of their departed brother seemed to
hover near the little circle, and to Avhisper to each
weeper there — " Dry now your tears, for where I dweU
are neither bonds nor tortures — sottoav and sighing are
unknown." Peter soon discovered that the habits and condition
of his relatives differed widely from those described in
the South as universal among " free negroes." They
were all industrious and frugal ; and consequently, in
comfortable circumstances.
He did not envy them, but, as he noticed their in
telligence, and saw the comforts by which they were
surrounded in their own homes, he could not avoid the
thought that slavery had kept him ignorant and poor.
" But times will change," thought, he, " and if ever I
get my family, my chUdren shall have a chance to
know as much as others."

CHAPTER XXX.
PETER'S FAREWELL VISIT TO ALABAMA.
Gladly would his friends have retained Peter in
their midst, but his plan was fixed. He determined to
return immediately to the South, that he might
acquaint his family with his success, and arrange some
plan for their redemption. He felt that he could not
himself enjoy the blessings of freedom, and the sweet
society of those who loved him whUe his own wife and
chUdren toUed in hopeless bondage.
To his proposed return his friends, at first, refused
to listen. They could not bear to lose him now, when
they had just learned to love him, and they felt sure
that if he went again to Alabama they should see his
face no more.
It would be far better, they said, for his family to
gain their Hberty by flight, and perhaps if he would
remain, some one would go and aid them to escape.
It Avould be so hazardous for him to venture where, if
his secret were discovered, he might be thrust into- jail,
and sold upon the block. But he Avas firm. He knew
the dangers which awaited him, yet he had promised
his family that he would return; and he would rather
lose his life than forfeit his word to them. He knew

PETER'S FAREWELL VISIT TO ALABAMA. 263
how anxiously they would Avatch for his coming ; he
knew how their hearts would faint if he delayed ; —
ah ! he knew that his love was the one blessed light
which shone upon poor Vina's darkened path. From
his own Hps she should first hear of his great happi
ness, and together they would try to devise a plan by
which herself and chUdren might come to share his
joy- Perhaps he could purchase their freedom. This had
ever been his hope ; and though his friends beHeved it
was impossible, they faded to shake his confidence in
the wisdom of making the attempt. He had rescued
himself from bondage, and he knew " no such word as
fail." "I can die," said he, "but I cannot live with
out tryin' to do something for my family — I must go
back." With many tears, the affectionate circle bade him
adieu. "0, my child! mychUd!" sobbed his aged
mother. "I never shall see your face again. You
can't get back; and your poor old mother will go
down to the grave a mournin' for her son. May the
Lord bless you wherever you go, and defiver you from
every danger!"
On the eighth of August, Peter left Philadelphia, on
his return, to Alabama:' He feared that if he remained
longer in that city, he might meet some merchant
whom he knew; as at that season they were ac
customed to come on for their FaU goods. If a Tus-
cumbian should see him there, the news would sAviftly
fly, that he had run away from Mr. Friedman ; and
then he could not return, even with free papers, to
complete his cherished plan.

264 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
A kind Providence, however, attended him ; and he
reached Cincinnati without meeting a familiar face.
Strangely commingled were his emotions, as he re
turned. The- regretful voices of his brothers and
sisters still sounded in his ears ; and the memory of
all their kindness during his short stay, was warm
within his heart. He rejoiced that he had found them.
Even if he should never be able to return to them,
the dark uncertainty which had so long hung over his
parentage, and had shrouded aU his life in gloom, was
gone. Not less did he rejoice in the character of his
newly-discovered kindred. They were evidently
honest people — trusted and respected by the surround
ing community. They had enjoyed great privileges
too, for they were aU weU educated ; yet they were
not proud. Ah, weU, it was some satisfaction that he
had ever done the best he could. He had risen above
aU who had been his companions in bondage, and he
felt that, though he was ignorant of books, his friends
had no cause to be ashamed of him.
Arrived at Cincinnati, he related to his former mas
ter all his success, and communicated also his plans for
the future. The Jew was both astonished and de
lighted at the good fortune of his humble friend, and
readUy promised to aid him, if possible, in negotiating
for the purchase of his family.
Peter remained in Cincinnati a week, waiting for
his free papers. These he was anxious to possess on
his return to Alabama, as something might occur
which would render it necessary for him to prove his
freedom. At last he obtained the valued certificate,
of which the foUowing is a copy :

PETER'S FAREWELL VISIT TO ALABAMA. 265
" State of Ohio, ) rSS
City of Cincinnati. $
" Be it known that before me, Henry -E. Spencer,
Mayor of said City, personally appeared Isaac S.
Friedman, who being duly sworn, deposes and says :
that he has been acquainted with a colored man
named Peter StiU, alias Peter Friedman, for the last
five years : that the said Peter was formerly a slave
belonging to John H. Hogun, residing about three
miles from Tuscumbia, in the State of Alabama : that
Joseph Friedman, of Tuscumbia, hired the said Peter
for about two years of the said John H. Hogun, and
afterwards bought him, and*held him as a slave for
about two years longer, when Peter bought his free
dom from his master, the said Joseph Friedman,
brother of this deponent, by paying him the sum of
five hundred dollars ; as fuUy appears from a bill of
sale given by said Joseph Friedman to said Peter, and
dated Tuscumbia, Ala., the 16th day of April, 1850,
which bUl of sale this deponent fuUy recognizes as
genuine. " And further this deponent sayeth not.
" Isaac S. Friedman."
" The foregoing affidavit of the above-named Isaac
S. Friedman, to the freedom of the within-named Peter
StUl, having been duly sworn to and subscribed before
me, —
" I therefore do declare the above-named Peter Still,
afias Peter Friedman, to be a free person, -and entitled
to all the privileges of free persons of color, accord
ing to the laws of the State of Ohio.
" Said Peter Still is about forty-nine years of age
12

266 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
is five feet seven and a half inches in height, of a
brownish black complexion, and without any marks
or cuts.
" Given under my hand, and the Corporate Seal of
the City of Cincinnati, this 22d day of August,
1850.
"H. E. Spencer,
" Mayor."
Peter was now a man. His years of patient toil for
noble objects had not made him such — his warm, un
selfish heart had never proved him worthy of the en
nobling title — but he possessed free papers. Guard
weU the treasure, Peter ; for the papers lost, you
may again be bought and sold — a thing of merchan
dise — a slave.
Immediately after receiving his papers, he started
for Tuscumbia. He wore not proudly his new honors,
but laying the precious certificate in the bottom of his
trunk, he travelled meekly as a slave upon a." pass"
from Mr. Friedman. This pass was directed to Mr.
Alexander, of Tuscumbia, a gentleman who had once
before acted as his guardian, during the temporary
absence of both the Friedman's. It requested this
gentleman to permit Peter to stay at Tuscumbia as
long as he should wish to do so ; and to send Mm back
whenever he should be ready to return ; — as his labor
could be made profitable on a steamboat, and his
owner could also take better care of him if he had him
near himself.
Nothing of interest occurred on the homeward
journey. The boat reached Tuscumbia Landing on
the evening of the last day of August ; and early the
next morning, Peter walked up to town.

peter's farewell visit to Alabama. 267
Many were the friendly greetings he received as he
passed through the streets that day. Many questions
were asked him concerning Mr. Friedman — his busi
ness prospects, etc. To all these Peter replied as he
had been instructed. Mr. Friedman would be there
before Christmas, and if Peter worked till that time on
a steamboat, he should then come with him. Mr.
Friedman said he could earn him more money upon a
boat than any Avhere else, and had promised to give
him something for himself if he did Avell.
Many gentlemen questioned him very closely re
specting the Free States ; how he liked Cincinnati, and
whether he saw there any Abolitionists.
His ideas of these " desperate characters" had been
greatly modified during the week which he had spent
among his relatives j but he answered in accordance
with his old ideas — ideas which are carefully inculcated
in the minds of slaves. He Avas "mighty skeered,"
he said, aU the time he was in Cincinnati ; and did not
dare to go out "after night." One night, he "reck
oned" he heard the " AboHtionists fightin' in the
streets ;" but he was away up stairs, and " too badly
skeered to come down."
To aU these questionings he answered as truly as he
could, and keep his secret ; but they made him very
uneasy. He saw that the moment he should speak a
Avord in favor of the Free States, he would-be sus
pected, and all his movements watched. Then, if the
secret of his freedom should be discovered, his kind
friend, the Jew, would be drawn into trouble, as the
citizens would at once accuse him of sending "back a
free negro to poison the minds of the surrounding
slaves. So he represented the black people of Cincin-

268 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
nati as being wretchedly poor ; and the contrast which
he drew between the laborers of that city, and the
happier slaves by whom he was surrounded, would
have delighted the author of the " South Side View."
. The same day on which Peter arrived in town, a
letter came from Mr. Sloan, Principal of the Seminary.
He was then spending the Summer vacation at the
North ; and he wrote to request Peter to whitewash
the Seminary, and to put the whole budding in com
plete order, for as he intended to bring on a new corps
of teachers, he wished to find the place prepared for
their reception.
This was most fortunate for Peter. He entered, at
once, upon this work, and soon feU into the old chan
nel of promiscuous labors. His cheerfulness remained
unchanged — indeed he was the same industrious,
respectful, obedient servant ; and those of the Tus
cumbians who had most jealously watched his move
ments, at last decided that not even a trip to
Cincinnati could spoU Uncle Peter — he had too much
sense to be carried away with the folly of the Abo-
Htionists. The Saturday evening after his arrival in town,
Peter rode out to Bainbridge. He would have gone
sooner, for he was most impatient to see his beloved
family ; but he had determined to resume his old
habits, and to do nothing which could betray the least
unusual excitement of his feelings.
As he rode along the lonely road, his thoughts were
busy. Only six weeks had passed since last he saw
his dear ones, but even in that short time what a
wealth of experience had he gained ! He had seen—
had tasted — liberty ; — yet he could not enjoy it. He

PETER'S FAREWELL VISIT TO ALABAMA. 269
could never, indeed, be really free, while those he
loved so well were slaves. But how should he get
them ? He knew not what course would be the best,
but he knew how to trust in that Good Father, who
had thus far prospered him in all his ways. He re
solved to work hard, and earn all he could, for what
ever plan he might adopt, money would never faU to
be of use.
But perhaps even now, and his thoughts grew sad,
— some one of that little number had gone down to
the grave. The sickly season was at its height ; and
Death, within the last few weeks, had entered many a
lowly cabin, and many a lofty hall.
He hastened on, yet it was quite dark before he
reached the plantation. He halted at the door of
Vina's cabin, and glanced anxiously at the group
within. They were all there. Vina was preparing to
cook the supper, and the boys were busied in making
a fire for her. Thank God ! they all lived !
His approach was not long unperceived. " Yes, it
is father 1" burst at once from the lips of the two sons,
and after the first joyful how'dy', they took his horse
and led it away.
" 0 Vina," whispered Peter, as he still held her by
both her hands, " I've found all my people. I've seen
my mother ! Vina, my mother's a Hvin', and I've got
five brothers and three sisters V
Soon the boys came in, and then the history of the
journey, with its glad results, was narrated to them
all. How they marveled as he described to them the
great cities through which he had passed, and all the
new strange sights his eyes had seen! But still
greater was their wonder at the story of their far-off

270 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
kindred, to whom their father had come as from the
dead. And then to think that father's people were aU
free ! Ah ! how the faint hopes they had cherished
of joining their father, at some future day, in the
happy home he would provide for them, away off
where aU were free — how these hopes grew and
strengthened in their Hearts till they could scarcely
refrain from shouting them aloud! Yet 'they were
silent. AU these bright visions of the coming joy
they shut closely in from the curious eyes of their
outside companions — in their mother's cabin only, and
even there with caution might they give utterance to
their joyful hopes.
Peter's return caused much excitement among the
slaves on the plantation. It was whispered around
that he had been to Cincinnati, and they were aU eager
to learn what he saw there ; and how the people lived
in a Free State. The mistress also questioned him
concerning his new manner of life upon a steamboat —
how he enjoyed it, etc. He replied, that he liked the
business very well ; and that his master was very
kind to him.
' ' Mass'r Isaac says he'll buy my family, if I do well,"
added he, " do you reckon old Mass'r would seU 'em,
Ma'am?" " I don't know," replied the lady, " he thinks a great
deal of tnem all, and I reckon he would ask a high
price for them. I don't beHeve less than three thou
sand dollars Avould buy them all, if indeed he would
consent to let them go at all."
To his wife and chUdren Peter revealed all his plans
for their redemption. He would work, he said, in
Tuscumbia, till he had earned enough to bear his ex-

peter's farewell visit to Alabama. 271
penses back to PhUadelphia. He dared not stay in
Alabama longer than was necessary, for fear something
might occur which would compel him to reveal his
cherished secret. WhUe there his liberty was all the
time unsafe.
On his. return to the North, he intended to set
diligently to Avork to earn money to buy his family ;
and he hoped his brothers would be able to advance a
part of the price. This could soon be refunded to
them, when they were all free and able to work
together. He mentioned to them, also, the suggestion
which some of his friends had made with regard to
sending a man to assist them to escape. " My people
told me," said he, "that folks are runnin' aAvay con
stant, and gwine to Canada, a place away to the North,
where they never let the masters go to hunt them."
But still there were so many chances for them to be
taken and carried back before they could reach that
distant haven, that he decidedly preferred to purchase
them. Yet, "if they do send for you," said he, "you
must be ready — and do the best you can." They Avere
all AvUling to do whatever he thought best. The
bright hope of freedom with their father illumined aU
the paths which Fancy painted in the future.
Early on Monday morning, Peter returned to town,
and resumed his accustomed labors. • His first busi
ness was to put the Seminary in order, according to
Mr. Sloan's request. His manners and appearance
were all unchanged. He wore his blue jean rounda
bout and trousers ; and as he stood among the waiters
in the dining-room of Mr. Home's hotel, none of the

272 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
boarders dreamed that he was that despised and hated
biped — " a free nigger."
For two months and a half he remained in Tuscum
bia; and during that time he earned sixty doUars.
Once in two weeks, as had been his custom for many
years, he went to see his famUy. He would have gone
every week, now that he was so soon to leave them,
but he dreaded to excite observation by any change
in his old habits ; and besides, he would have to hire
¦ a horse to ride, and that would diminish his gains.
On Saturday, the ninth of November, Peter rode
out to the plantation for his last visit. He had sold
every article he possessed, except his necessary cloth
ing, and such articles as he knew would be useful to
his family. With these last his horse was now loaded,
and at sunset he rode up to the cabin door.
His famUy were expecting him, and they knew this
would be his last visit. Its hours Avere, therefore,
doubly precious. Oh ! if they should be the last which
the whole family might ever spend together !
He renewed his promise to buy them, if possible,
and charged them to hold themselves ready. " Now,
boys," said he, " you'd best not marry tUl you hear
from me, for if I live, I wUl get you all, sure. And
be good and kind to your mother, for she'U have no
one to take care of her now but you. Get every thing
you can to make her comfortable ; — and you, Catha
rine, dont you do any thing that avUI make your
mother ashamed of you, — for she has a heap of trouble,
any how, and you aU oughtent to give her no more.
Behave yourselves weU ; and then people wUl trust
you, and you wUl be well thought of by every one."

PETER'S FAREWELL VISIT TO ALABAMA. 273
About five miles above Bainbridge, in the Muscle
Shoals, is an island containing about two hundred
acres, which belongs to Mr. McKiernan. Here young
Peter and Levin were to be employed during the week;
and, as the cotton-picking season was then at its height,
they were obliged to go with their week's allowance
on Sunday evening, that no time might be lost on
Monday. After the boys had gone, Peter's friends — and he
had many on the place — all called to say, " Good bye,"
till Christmas ; when they expected he would come,
as usual, to spend the Holidays.
These partings over, he was left alone with his wife
and daughter. Poor Vina! she possessed not the
buoyant hopes that filled her children's hearts — she
was not so young as they ; — and though she lacked
not confidence in her husband's truth, yet she could
not quell the fear that this was the last evening they
should ever spend together. She selected from her
simple wardrobe two or three articles of clothing which
he had been accustomed to see her wear, and gave
them to him. " When you want to see something
that looks like me," said she, "you can look at these
yer. They'U make you think of Vina."
Monday morning came, and Vina and Catharine
must go early to the field, while the husband and
father was forced to return to town to complete the
arrangements for his final departure. They all arose
at dawn and in the dim morning twUight — they
parted. Peter lingered a moment at the cabin door. How
could he say " Good bye!" There stood his wife and
daughter — and great tears were in their eyes. How
12*

274 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
gladly would he shield them from every breath of
sorrow ! — but noAV he could not stay. Once more he
kissed them both — ah ! was it for the last time ? He
could not speak, but with one long pressure of their
hands, he tore himself away, and mounted his horse,
whi#h stood already at the door.
How the sobbings of these loved ones resounded
in the depths of his fond heart ! For a moment he
almost wished he had not thought of becoming free ;
but then the great glad hope of saving them returned,
and he rejoiced that he had power to make the effort.
Heavy were the hearts of the mother and her chil
dren, as they traversed the long cotton rows that day ;
but their fingers must needs be light. The overseer's
whip takes no note of aching hearts. The baskets
must be filled.
The light of hope soon returned to her children's
eyes, but Vina was stiU in darkness. Accustomed to
the helplessness of slavery, she could not realize that
it was possible for her husband to be safe, " 'way
off yon' by himself, without anybody to take care of
him." The next Wednesday morning, November 13th, Mr.
Alexander, to whose guardianship Peter had been con
signed by Mr. Friedman, placed him on board the stage
for Eastport, a small town at the foot of Colbert's
Shoals, about thirty miles below Tuscumbia. (The
water was, at this time, so low in the river, that boats
could not pass these shoals.) Here he took passage
on a smaU steamboat, with the Captain of which, Mr.
George Warren, he was acquainted.
This boat, however, went no further than Paducah,
at the mouth of the Tennessee, and there he was

PETER'S FAREWELL VISIT TO ALABAMA. 275
obliged to wait for a boat to ascend the Ohio. Soon
one came along — a Cincinnati boat — bound homewards
from St. Louis.
Peter stepped on board and inquired for the Captain,
whUe two boys from Captain Warren's boat Avere
bringing on his trunk. The boat was again underlay,
before the Captain could be found. " Here," said the
clerk, as at length his superior officer appeared, " this
man wants to go to Cincinnati."
" Why didn't you name it before ?" cried the Cap
tain in a passionate Voice; and, turning to the pilot, he
ordered him to land and " set that feUow ashore."
" But," said Peter, " I did inquire for the Captain — "
" Never mind, never mind, step right off."
" I have got a pass and other papers, and I want to
go to Cincinnati, or leastways, to LouisvUle."
" Never mind — step right off — step right off."
Captain Warren seeing the distress of his humble
friend, caUed out to the Commander of the Cincinnati
boat — " It is all right — let the boy go. He has a pass,
-and everything regular."
But the little great man was inflexible. " Step right
}ff — step right off " — was his only answer ; and Peter
was obHged to go ashore and wait for another boat.
This was Saturday evening, and here he remained
till eleven o'clock on Sunday night, when Captain
Francis' boat came down from LouisvUle. This was a
Tennessee River Packet, but on account of the low
water, she could not go up the river, and so made only
short trips between LouisvUle and Paducah. Captain
Francis having resided many years in Tuscumbia,
knew Peter well, and therefore hesitated not to take
him up the river on his boat,

276 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
They reached Louisville on Wednesday morning,
and as he would have several hours before the Cincin
nati boat went out, he went to see Dr. WUHamson
Fisher, a son of his old master, John Fisher, of Lex
ington. This gentleman received his father's former slave
with great kindness ; though he was so young when
the two boys were sold to old Nattie Gist, that he
scarcely remembered them. He had, however, in his
possession the bill of sale which his father received at
the time he bought them.
This short visit was highly enjoyed by Peter. The
days of his chUdhood came vividly to his recollection ;
and though they were not free from hardships, yet the
sunshine of youthful hope had never ceased to gild their
memory. What were the buffetings he then received
compared to the anguish which he had suffered in later
years. As a " little negro," he rose each morning from
his ample couch — the floor, with supple limbs, and
heart unmindful of the old day's sorrows, and ate with
a keen reHsh his homely breakfast of corn cake. He
thought of his far-off mother, and longed to return to
her — but his attention was easUy diverted by surround
ing objects, and he was, after all, a merry child.
During his manhood he had suffered few of the physi
cal ills of slavery — but the iron had entered his soul.
He had seen his felloAVS crushed — his brother beaten,
even by the master whom he loved, because he could
not stifle the pure affections of his heart ; his own
loved Avife had been insulted — and well nigh murdered,
because she would not submit to the vUe wishes of a
remorseless ruffian ; and yet he had not dared to raise
his voice, or lift his own right arm in their defence,

peter's farewell visit to Alabama. 277
AU these remniscences of other days crowded his
memory as he stood in the presence of him who, when
an infant in the cradle, was his " little master," and who
had inherited from his father the price of his young
nerves and sinews. And then came the sweet thought,
that by his OAvn exertions, through the blessing of that
Father who had never yet forsaken him, he was no
more a slave.
Dr. Fisher gave him much information concerning
his early companions in Lexington ; from many of
whom he had not heard since he left there in his youth ;
but before he was half satisfied with listening to these
interesting details, his time was spent, and he was
forced to leave.
He next went in search of a young Mr. Johnson,
from Tuscumbia, to whom Mr. Alexander had sent a
letter bespeaking his assistance, if necessary, in procur
ing a passage for the bearer to Cincinnati. This gen
tleman was pursuing the study of medicine in Louis
ville ; and Peter went to the Medical College, and to
various other places in the city, but failed to find him.
He was now at a loss what to do, for he had learned
from his experience at Paducah how little favor his
pass would gain from the Captains of the Cincinnati
boats. He walked down to the wharf, and the first man he.
met there was a young Mr. McFarland, from Tuscum
bia, who had formerly been clerk on Captain Francis'
boat. Mr. O'Reilly of the Telegraph was also there,
and he immediately recognized Peter, having em
ployed him during the time he spent in Tuscumbia to
take care of his office. These two gentlemen kindly
procured a passage for him on the boat to Cincinnati,

278. THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
and with many thanks for their friendly assistance, he
Avent on board.
He had now bid a final adieu to slave-land, stiU his
heart was not at rest. For himself he had little fear.
His free papars were safe, and he was at length beyond
the necessity of affecting any relationship to slavery.
But his famUy — ah 1 when he thought how long a time
might pass before they could be loosed from bondage,
he could only trust in the power above, and pray for
patience. He was disappointed in his hope of finding Mr.
Friedman in Cincinnati, he having gone to Illinois.
Peter therefore hastened on to Pittsburg, and thence to
PhUadelphia. His free papers he carried in his pocket,
but as no zealous negro-catcher chanced to fix upon
him his greedy eye, he had no need to show them on
the way.

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE ESCAPE.
Late at night, on the thirtieth of November, Peter
reached his brother's house in PhUadelphia. He
trembled not now, as when at first his feet approached
his kinsman's threshold. A sense of personal security
rested upon his heart, and the light of quiet happiness
beamed from his smUing face.
During the few days which he spent with his brother
WilHam, the idea of sending a man to rescue his famUy
was again suggested. Many of his brother's friends
were earnest advocates of such a plan. It would take
too long to raise the sum requisite to purchase them,
and besides, the offering of money for their ransom
would in some sense recognize the right of the slave
holder to claim property in human flesh. " We are
anxious," they said, "to aid your loved ones in
escaping from bondage, but we cannot bear to give
gold to him who has so long defrauded the helpless
laborers of their hire."
To aU these arguments of his friends, Peter opposed
the dangers of their scheme. It would, he said, be
very difficult for them to escape ; and then, if they
should be pursued and taken, the sufferings of their
whole past lives were nothing to the punishment they
[279]

280 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
might receive. And worst of all, they might be sold;
and then all chance of getting them would be for ever
lost. But those to whose proposal he objected were edu
cated men, while he was but a poor emancipated slave,
who never in his Hfe had read a book — and their per
suasions triumphed. He described to them, though
with reluctance, the location of the premises where his
family might be found, and also the persons of his wife
and chUdren.
He then left these friends to mature their plan, while
he went to visit his mother. He was deeply anxious
concerning the result of the deHberations then going
on in PhUadelphia, for he could not yet give up the
idea which he had so long cherished — that of attempt
ing the purchase of those whose safety he prized above
all Other objects.
Many people in the vicinity of his mother's home
had heard of the return of the long-lost son and
brother, and now, when they learned his anxiety to re
deem his family they kindly volunteered to aid him.
He accepted with a grateful heart the contributions
which they offered, though how they could be made
avaUable was stiU a question.
When he had been two weeks in New Jersey, he re
ceived a letter requesting his immediate return to
Philadelphia, and he hasted to obey the summons.
He had already received one hundred dollars as the
beginning of a fund to ransom those he loved, and
that he took with him to the city.
During his absence, a man named Seth Concklin,
who had heard of his case, had offered to go to Ala
bama, and bring his wife and chUdren. He asked no

THE ESCAPE. 281
further equipment for the journey than sufficient
money to defray his necessary expenses, and some
sign whereby the family would recognize him as a
friend. Peter's heart trembled. To the proposal of his
friends he had assented; but then it was indefinite,
and he doubted the possibUity of their finding a man
who would face the dangers of such an undertaking.
He had all the time cherished a secret hope that they
would yet abandon this project, and aid him in accom
plishing the plan which he so much preferred. Not
that he thought it would be unjust or wrong to aid
them to escape. Ah, no ! He had never yet become
so thoroughly enslaved in spirit as for a moment to re
cognize the right of man to hold his brother man in
bonds ; but merely as a matter of policy he had chosen
to purchase their freedom — though to do so would cost
him both toil and patience.
Now, however, the scheme was all arranged, and
these good friends had manifested so warm an interest
in promoting his happiness that he could not refuse
them all the aid which it was in his power to give.
He accordingly gave Concklin an accurate descrip
tion of Mr. McKiernan's place, with directions con
cerning -the best methods of approaching it. He told
him also the names and ages of his family ; and gave
him a cape of Vina's — one of the articles of dress which
she had given him as a keepsake. " When she sees
this," said he, " she will know that you are a friend;
but please, sir, be careful and don't get 'em into
trouble. It '11 go mighty hard with 'em if they try to
run off, and Mr. McKiernan cotches 'em."
The one hundred dollars which Peter had received

282 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
in New Jersey was now devoted to defraying the cost
of this expedition, and early in January, aU . the
arrangements having been completed, Concklin enter
ed upon his perilous undertaking.
We subjoin the account which is given by Rev. Dr.
Furness, of ConckHn's introduction to the friends of
the slave in PhUadelphia, and also of the first steps that
were taken in this daring enterprise.
" Of this remarkable person, whose history, and
heroic tragedy, must not be suffered to die, but very
little was known at that time. He was not a member
of any Abolition Society, nor was it known that he
had any fixed residence. A man, plainly dressed, and
slightly buUt, but evidently active and vigorous, with
a face expressive of great decision, had come occasion
ally to the Anti-Slavery Office in PhUadelphia, to in
quire about Mr. Chaplin, then in prison in Maryland,
for aiding certain slaves in an attempt to escape from
the District of Columbia. The stranger manifested a
deep interest in Mr. Chaplin's fate, contributed a smaU
sum monthly to the ChapHn fund, and on one occasion
produced a statement in writing of a plan, which he
had devised, subject to the approval of Mr. Chaplin's
friends, whereby he offered to go to Maryland, Hberate
Mr. Chaplin, and bring him safely into the Free States ;
requiring only a moderate sum to defray his expenses.
The scheme was striking for its boldness and sagacity,
but all participation in it was declined by the agents
of the Anti-Slavery Society, on the obvious ground
that it was not by such methods that they were seek
ing the Abolition of Slavery. (It is not an object of
the Society to assist, directly or indirectly, in the ab-

THE ESCAPE. 283
duction of slaves.) The proposals, however, on the
part of Mr. Concklin, served to show the character of
the man. It was made apparent that heavas an Abo-
Htionist on his own account. He Avas understood to
be one of those few men in whom the hatred of slavery
has become a ruHng passion. He was a whole Aboli
tion Society in Himself; with very limited pecuniary
means indeed, but with what is infinitely better than
uncounted gold, a single and commanding purpose,
which danger could not shake, but only animate. His
subsequent history, and all that was afterwards ascer
tained of his previous life, only corroborated the im
pressions received of his character upon the occasions
of these visits to the Anti-Slavery Office. He was a
man whose constitutional love of adventure, exercised
from early boyhood by a series of privations and
trials that would have broken down any ordinary man,
had come to be consecrated to the knightly office of
succoring the miserable ; and especially the enslaved,
as of all men the most to be commiserated. In con
trast with his tried heroism, the wordy chivalry of
the South shows as rags and tinsel.
" As soon as he was informed of the condition of
Peter's family, he offered, with the help of a small
sum to defray his travelling expenses, to go to Ala
bama, and bring them into the free State of Pennsyl
vania. He asked for no companion, and no compen
sation ; only for the means of paying the expenses of
the journey, and for credentials to satisfy Peter's wife
that he came from her husband.
" A daring enterprise, indeed ! It is not easy to
conceive of an undertaking more hazardous, or one
that more peremptorily demanded, in him who should

284 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
attempt it, aU the qualities that give the world assur
ance of a man.
" The plantation that Seth ConkHn was to reach lay
in the north-western part of Alabama, eight hundred
mUes from Cincinnati. He was to traverse two slave
States — Kentucky and Tennessee. To penetrate thus
deep into slave-land, at a time when the ferocity and
the fear that guard it had been startled from their long
slumber by the far-off coming of the step of doom, for
the purpose of plucking therefrom a poor bondwoman
and her chUdren, outdoes all the fabled feats of old
knighthood. " Our hero took with him neither pistol nor bowie-
knife, although he knew how to use them, for, as
has since been learned, he had been a soldier. ' He
should be tempted to use them,' he said, ' and then he
should be sure to be overborne.'
" His first object was to explore the route, to dis
cover safe hiding-places, and to ascertain who in the
border free States would be wUling to befriend and
aid him, when he should have succeeded — if he should
succeed — in escaping with his protegees from the slave
States. At Cincinnati, he met with devoted friends,
who appreciated aU the hazards of the attempt. But
he soon ascertained that his perils would be far from
being at an end when he should have got, on his re
turn, beyond the Hmits of Kentucky. Indeed, when
he entered the slave States, it Avas under the impres
sion that the chief hazard of the undertaking,- as the
result most fearfully proved, would be encountered in
the bordering free States. In seeking to provide
places of refuge in Hlinois and Indiana, he found the
southern boundaries of these States, free as they claim

THE ESCAPE. 285
to be, infested with men thirsting for the rewards
offered to those who are willing to cast aside their
humanity, and do the work of bloodhounds — hunting
the outcast, and seeking and dragging back the fugi
tive. ' Searching the country opposite Paducah, Ky.,
I found,' he wrote, in a letter dated Eastport. Miss.,
Feb. 3d, 'the whole country, fifty mUes arqund, is
inhabited by Christian wolves. It is customary, when
a strange negro is seen, for any white man to seize
him, and convey him through and out of the State of
Hlinois to Paducah, and lodge such stranger in Padu
cah jail, and then claim such reward as may be offered
by the master.'
" Failing in the attempt to secure friends on the
borders of Illinois, to meet him upon his return, yet,
trusting, nevertheless, to his own address, and to a
good Providence, he crossed to Paducah, and took a
steamboat on the Tennessee river for South Florence,
the final point of his journey. This was a little town,
four hundred mUes up the river, containing about
"twenty families, and a post-office, but no school !"
This place he reached on the twenty-eighth of Jan
uary, having been four days coming up the Ten
nessee. Soon after his arrival at South Florence, ConckHn
made his way to the plantation of Mr. McKiernan,
and succeeded in obtaining an interview with Vina.
It was a cold, dark night. Trembling, the faithful
wife went forth from her cabin to the place where it
had been intimated to her she should hear from her
husband. Every few steps she stopped and Hstened,
for fear some curious neighbor had watched her exit,

286 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
and would follow her, or — what was worse — report
her absence to the overseer. And then she grew
afraid to venture forward, lest some trap were laid for
her unwary feet.
At last, however, the thought of Peter, and the
hope of hearimg of his welfare, conquered aU her fears,
and she walked on. Soon she discerned a figure at a
little distance, but the darkness was so intense that she
could not tell whether it was friend or foe. She
paused. " Is your name Vina?" said a strange voice.
"Yes, sir," she whispered.
" Are you Peter Friedman's wife ?"
" Yes, sir, I's his wife."
" How would you like to go to him ?"
" I'd like it mons's weU, sir, if I could git thar."
" Well, I have come on purpose to take you to see
him. Do you believe me ?"
"I don't know, sir."
" Can you see me, so as to know me if you should
meet me again ?"
" No, sir, it's so dark ; I can't see your face good." •
He held up one hand. " Do you see my hand?"
" Yes, sir."
" Well, if you see me again, you wiU know me by
• that hand. You see that half the forefinger is cut off?"
"Yes, sir."
" Do you believe that I came from Peter ?"
" I don't know, sir."
He drew forth from his pocket the gingham cape
which Peter had given him as a sign. She could see
its form, and she recognized it in a moment. That
moment her doubts of his sincerity were gone.
Yet she hesitated. She well knew the difficulties

THE ESCAPE. 287
and dangers that would attend an effort to escape;
especially when a famUy of four should make the
attempt together; and nothing but her deep love for
her husband, and her faith in his discretion could have
tempted her to dare it. " But," thought she, " he never
would 'a'sent a man 'way here to help us if he didn't
think we mought git off. Leastways we'll try. He
knows best what we can do, for he's done took the
journey twice."
" When does you want us to go ?" said she aloud.
" Just as soon as you can get ready. How long will
it take you, do you think?"
"I don't know, Sir. I don't beHeve Ave could git
ready short o' four weeks."
" Well, I can wait. I must go back to Louisville to
do some business before I take you on. But I want
first to see the boys, where are they ?"
"Oh, they're off on the Island, they won't come
home 'fore Saturday night."
" WeU, you teU them to come down to the land
ing on Sunday. I will be there walking about, and
if I see two young men, I will keep this hand in
sight. You describe it to them, that they will know
me. Now, good bye. Don't be afraid. I will do all
I can for you, but you must help yourselves."
Vina returned to her cabin. Her heart was full.
One moment the hope was strong within her that they
should all escape in safety. She saw the face of her
husband, she listened to his voice ; again she heard the
fierce pursuer on her track, and felt herself dragged
back to meet a tenfold darker doom than she had yet
encountered. "Icouldn' b'ar," she says, "the idea of
iotin1 a scabby back from one year to another, and some-

288 THE KIDNAPFED AND THE RANSOMED.
times, 'peard like I couldn't teU whether to go or not.
One mind say, yes, and t'other mind say, no, but at
last I des' thought I would start, any how, whether I
prevailed or not.
The next Sunday, Peter and Levin Avalked down
towards the river, and when about half-way to the
landing, they met a stranger. He Avore an old pair of
low quarter shoes without stockings, and his pantaloons
were rolled up half-way to the knee. Altogether, his
appearance was that of the "poor white men," who
inhabit the mountainous districts back of the rich plan
tations. As he approached they noticed the mutilated
finger, but they did not speak, they would not appear
too hasty.
The stranger stopped. " Do you know me ?" said he.
"No, Sir."
" Did you ever see me before ?"
"No, Sir."
"Your name is Peter, is it not?" said he, addressing
the oldest.
"Yes, Sir."
" And yours is Levin ?"
" Yes, Sir, but how did you know it ?"
"I know you by your resemblance to your father."
" Where did you see our father ?"
"I saw him only once, in Philadelphia."
They then turned aside into the woods, and there,
seated upon a log, they held a long consultation con
cerning the best means of escape. Conckiin told them
all his plans, and listened patiently to their suggestions,
and then, lest some wanderer in the woods should dis
cover them in council, they separated.
The next Wednesday the stranger left the neighbor-

THE ESCAPE. 289
hood on board the boat for Louisville. On the same
boat Mr. McKiernan started for his usual annual visit to
NeAV Orleans ; but as Concklin appeared in humble garb,
and neither drank nor gambled, he came into no contact
with the planter.
This trip down the Tennessee confirmed ConckHn in
the opinion he had already formed — that it would be
unsafe to depend upon escaping with his poor helpless
friends upon a steamboat. He procured a skiff, and
early in March he returned, having made all possible
arrangements for their speedy transport beyond the
bounds oi slavery's domain.
For two weeks he was obliged to wait for them to
complete their preparations, or.rather, for an opportunity
for the whole family to leave the place without exciting
suspicion. At last, on Saturday night, the boys ob
tained of the overseer passes to go to South Florence
on Sunday, to buy sugar and coffee for their mother.
Vina and her daughter also procured passes to go to
Mrs. Jackson's, a few mUes distant, where they were
to remain until the boys returned. They asked for the
passes at night in order, as they said, that they might
start soon in the morning, and get to Mrs. Jackson's
before breakfast.
When all was stiU throughout the quarter — and " it
seemed that night as though some of the people never
would go to bed," the little family went out into the
night. Vina, locked the door, and gave the key to a
young girl named Susanna, desiring her to go in and
prepare supper for them the next evening.
The mother and her children walked away in sUence
and at first with stealthy steps. Their hearts quaked
Avith fear, but they had gone too far to recede. Chok-
13

290 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
ing doAvn the sobs that strove to break the midnight
sUence, they pressed each other's hands to renew their
courage, and hastened on.
The clear sky hovered lovingly over the trembling
fugitives, the stars, all sUent, shone upon their path
way ; but they saAV neither sky nor stars, one faint dim
hope beamed on them from afar, but the thick clouds
of terror often obscured its light.
With timid steps they approached the river, arid
walking along the bank, they soon descried the skiff.
Levin whistled. No answer. Could it be that Conck
lin had disappointed them ?
They turned and walked down the stream thinking
perhaps he had gone in search of them. "Thar!" said
the mother, "this yer jaunt's a gwine to turn out bad,
for nobody has good luck when they turns back after
they's started on a long journey." Failing to perceive
the object of their search in this direction, they returned
to the skiff, and stooping doAvn, saw ConckHn lying
fast asleep in the bottom. He had waited for them till
he was weary, and Levin's timid whistle had failed to
Avaken him from his first sound slumber.
It was now nearly three o'clock, and entering the
skiff, they. hastened off. The two boys, as well as
ConkHn, knew how to use the oars with skUl and
poAver, and they fairly flew over the water.
At daylight they passed Eastport, distant about forty
mUes from Bainbridge Landing. Just below that town
they met a steamboat, but by the direction of a kind
Providence, she kept on the south side of a small
island in the river, while ConckHn guided his skiff
towards the north bank, and thus they escaped the
notice of the crew. Upon that boat was Mr. McKier-

THE ESCAPE. 291
nan, then on his return from Louisiana ; and had the
skiff been noticed, he might easUy have recognized
the two boys, who were both at the oars.
"During Sunday," wrote Concklin to a friend, "we
were haUed once by half a dozen men on shore, to
know where we were from, where going, &c. There
being a strong head- wind, I appeared as if I could not
hear them. I know not what they would have done
if they had had a good skiff. Several parties of men
gazed at us along the river. I had previously informed
myself of the scarcity of good skiffs on the Tennessee
river, on which thing alone rested a part of my safety.
I stood at the helm whenever we were in sight of any
body, keeping Levin and Peter at the 'oars. At all
other times, and during the nights, I was principally at
the oars. In the daytime I caused Vina and Catharine
to He under the blankets, so as not to be seen. They
had a hard time of it. Having a strong head- wind, the
water dashed into the boat, so as to keep the blankets
all the time wet. Peter and Levin got sleepy Sunday
evening, and were so by times all the way through.
" At five o'clock, Monday evening, for the first time,
I lay down under a blanket, when • the boys said two
men were calling to us in a skiff near the shore, and
coming towards us. I ordered that no effort should
be made to run. The two men came alongside, eagerly
demanding where they were going, and 'whar from?
Are you all black men a'board?' My boys replied in
Southern phrase, ' White Massa lyin' thar, sir. When
I arose on my knees, partly throwing off my blanket,
and staring my assaUants in the face, they bowed, with
' How de do, sir.' I returned the compliment. They
demanded where I was going, and from whence I came.

292 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
I dignifiedly repHed, ' To Paducah, and from Eastport.'
They bowed, gave my boat a scrutinizing look, and
retired. " During Monday night a squaU of wind came near
dashing our craft to pieces against the large trees, but
by good management I succeeded in getting between
the trees to the shore, and there remained one hour
before we could start. Arrived on the Ohio at sunrise
Tuesday morning — fifty-one hours time. It should
have been done, under favorable circumstances in
thirty-six hours. The current of the Tennessee is very
stiff. On the Ohio I intended to travel exclusively
at nights. Circumstances were against me, and I was
compelled to travel as much by day as by night. One
half of two nights it was so dark, that I could not
navigate. My crew murmured in consequence of the
hardships. They did not seem to understand that they
were to work for themselves and for their Hves. I had
no fair wind from the time I started tiU I arrived at
Harmony. It would be impossible to describe the
difficulties I have encountered."
At ten o'clock on Sunday morning March 23d, they
landed at New Harmony, la. Seven days they had
rowed in that frail skiff, exposed each moment to the
danger of discovery and seizure by some one of Slavery's
numerous spies. Seven nights had chilled their limbs,
and Avell nigh exhausted their energies, both of mind
and body, for except the mother, they were aU unused
to patient labors. Theirs had been years of toU without
an object, and they were at this time scarcely capable
of self-imposed endurance of fatigue.
Now, although their feet pressed the soil of a Free
State, their perils were not passed, and they pursued

THE ESCAPE. 293
their way on foot towards the North with anxious
hearts. Concklin, who had assumed the name of MUler, had
¦doffed the shabby garb which he had worn before, and
now appeared neatly and comfortably clad. The boys
wore pants of Kentucky jean and black cloth coats,
whUe Vina and her daughter in their plaid shawls and
comfortable hoods would scarcely have been recog
nized, even by those who had often seen them at their
labor, as field hands from McKiernan's place. ¦
All day they travelled on the public road; and
though they " met a heap of people," they were not
questioned. There was nothing, indeed, in their ap
pearance to excite remark, except that they were dark
in hue and journeying towards the North. At night
they reached the house of a friend, where they were
received most kindly. A bountiful supper was quickly
prepared for them, and they soon lay down to peace
ful slumbers. AU the next day, too, they rested, for
in their future journeyings, it was deemed wisest to
accept the friendly guidance of the stars.
After supper on Monday night came another friend
to carry them northward to his home. He brought
two horses which the women rode ; whUe himself and
Concklin, with the two re-animated brothers, walked
beside them. At three o'clock on Tuesday morning
they reached their second resting place, where they
remained tiU Wednesday night. They then resumed
their journey, and travelled all night on foot. Cheer
fuUy they walked along, for every hour their hope
became stronger as their old master's success in over
taking them grew more and more improbable. At
late breakfast time on Thursday they reached another

294 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
station, where they rested tUl Friday morning. They
were then so far from the river that Concklin thought
they might venture to travel in the day-time, so he
proposed to continue their journey. But Vina had
awaked that morning with a burdened spirit. She
" had bad dreams all night," and she feared to start by
daylight. "'Pears like," said she, "something wUl
happen if we starts to-day. You can do as you likes,
sir, but if I was you, I'd put off this yer jaunt till
night. 'Pears like 'taint safe, no how." But Concklin
was naturally hopeful and bold, and the presentiments
of the' ignorant slave woman he regarded as mere idle
superstition. They were so nearly out of danger, that
he felt extremely anxious to push on.
Vina started with reluctance. The kind friend at
whose house they were, lent her a horse for a few
mUes, and sent his son to ride the animal back. Soon .
the rain began to fall, and all day long "it rained
constant." AU day, too, they journeyed on, for they
dared not stop where they were not sure of finding
friends. Late in the afternoon, as with dripping umbreUas
and weary feet they walked along, \ spotted horse
which had escaped from a field by the road side, came
gaUoping before them. His owner caUed upon the
traveUers to stop him, but Vina, in a low tone, bade
the boys go on. Peter, however, naturaUy obliging,
caught the horse, and deHvered him to his owner. A
little further on they passed a saw-mill, in front of
which a large man stood gazing at the Httle company.
"How d'y', Aunt Lucy," cried he, "which way are
you traveUing?" No answer Avas given as they hastened
on, but their hearts beat quick with fear.

THE ESCAPE. 295
Just before night they approached the dwelling of
the friend where they were' next to rest. His son
Hved in a smaU house close by, and here Concklin bade
them " run in out of the rain," whUe he went on to
the main station to announce their coming.
They obeyed, and soon they were all seated beside
a cheerful fire. The bright blaze imparted new life to
their chilled and weary Hmbs ; and from their hearts
ascended a sUent thanksgiving to Him who had
brought them safely to the end of this day's journey,
 when suddenly the sound of many horses' feet was
heard.

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE CAPTURE.
One glance at the window sent a shudder through
the Httle party — for there, halting at the gate, were
seven men on horseback.
" They done come after us ;" hoarsely whispered one
of the boys.
" Yes," answered their mother, " I'U lay anything
we're gwine to be tooken now."
The men dismounted and tied their horses to the
fence. Foremost was the owner of the spotted horse,
upon the very animal which Peter had delivered into
his hand, and next was he who had accosted " Aunt
Lucy" but an hour or two before.
What to do the helpless creatures did not know.
Concklin was away. Oh ! why did he leave them ?
The house was small, and the only place of egress
they could discover was the door by which they had
just entered, and this their foes were even then ap
proaching. They saw no place to hide, and the young
man and woman, whose house they had so recently
entered, stood petrified with amazement, and gazed
upon the scene.
The seven men entered the little dwelling. Three or
four of them remained near the door, while the others
advanced into the middle of the room and opened a

THE CAPTURE. 297
conversation with the boys. The heart beat wUdly
beneath each dark-hued breast, but they strove to look
indifferent while they repHed to the questioners as
they had been previously instructed.
" Where are you going ?"
" To Springfield, Sir." *
" Do you belong to the man that brought you here ?"
"Yes, Sir."
" Where did you come from ?"
" From Kaintucky, Sir. Mass'r died last year, and
left us to his brother, and now he's a takin' us on to
his farm."
" What did he bring you through here for ? Did n't
he know that it was against the law ?"
" Don't know, Sir, reckon he 'lowed 'twas right."
" I'U be d — d if I don't believe he stole you all."
The brave seven then stood aside and consulted for a
few minutes, and then one of their number went out.
Soon he returned with a half-gallon jug of liquor, and
a wagon. The besieging party then took a drink aU
round to raise their courage. They offered, too, to
treat Levin and Peter, but the boys declined the honor.
Another brief consultation Avas held, and then, pro
ducing ropes, these zealous priests of the Moloch of
Slavery, proceeded to bind their victims for the sacri
fice. How the boys longed to resist ! — but they were
aU unarmed, while their assailants carried both bowie-
knives and pistols. Besides, their host, who stood
silent by, would, for aught they knew, join with their
enemies against them. It would be idle to attempt to
fight against such fearful odds ; so they stood still while
their hands were tied behind them, and then, obeying
13*

298 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
the orders of the foreman of the band, they climbed
into the wagon.
The women followed in sUence. Despair was writ
ten on their faces, but their captors had no pity for their
helpless woe. The coarse jest, and the blasphemous
oath went found, whUe now and then a burst of bois
terous laughter came from the " law-abiding" band that
guarded their return towards the "land of chivalry."
When they had proceeded a short distance, .Conck
lin came running after them. Oh ! that he had never
left them ! then had they been safe. He sprang into
the wagon, and commenced untying the captives. But
he was soon discovered by the ruffians in attendance,
who, pointing their pistols at his head, swore that they
would blow out his brains if he did not desist.
He remained in the wagon, however, until they
reached the jaU at Vincennes. It was very late. The
lights were extinguished in aU the houses, and the
jailor was asleep. " Ho ! HaUo !" cried the leader of
the band.
The jaUor at length appeared.
" Do you want some more stock ?"
" I don't know ; that depends on what sort it is."
" WeU,- its a sort you've not had here lately. Take
them in ; they're tired, and want to go to bed."
The jaUor held up his light and took a survey of the
captives. "Well," said he, "if they're tired, I don't
think they're sleepy; say, are you sleepy, old woman ?"
" No, Sir," repHed Vina, "I don't feel like sleepin'."
"So I thought ; I should'nt if I were in your
place." After some further conversation with the chief of

THE CAPTURE. 299
the band, he took the prisoners in and locked them up.
" But he acted," Vina says, " like he felt mighty sorry
for us ; and I beHeve, if we had'nt been watched so
close, he mought 'a' let us go."
In the jaU they were visited every day by Concklin,
who came and talked with them through the window ;
and daUy Vina begged him to leave them there and
seek his own safety. " Now you can't do us no good,
Sir, no how, and 'pears like you best take care o'you-
seE" " Oh," repHed he, " I don't feel at all uneasy."
"WeU, Sir, I feels oneasy about you, and you best
not stay round yer no longer. It wont make it no
better for us, and you'U git into trouble, sure."
But some dream of rescuing them haunted his mind;
he could not bear to leave them. It was something
new for him to be foiled in any undertaking ; and he
had set his heart upon deHvering this famUy to the
husband and father, who he knew was waiting, with
trembHng heart, to welcome them.
Immediately after lodging them in jaU, the chief of
the marauding band had telegraphed in aU directions
to ascertain if four negroes, answering the description
of these had anywhere been missed ; and also what
reward was offered for their capture. The " lightning
postboy" hasted to execute their mission, and soon
returned them answer. "Four likely negroes had
been stolen from Bernard McKiernan, near South Flor
ence, Ala., and their owner had offered a reward of
four hundred doUars for the property, and six hundred
for the apprehension of tty? tbjef, and his deHvery ia
South Florence."

800 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Upon the receipt of this information, ConckHn was
seized, and thrust into prison. StUl his brave hope
ful spirit bore him up — " 'peared Hke he couldn't feel
discouraged." It was night; and night in prison is never lovely.
Catharine and her brothers were asleep, but Vina's
eyes closed not. Her thoughts were busy picturing the
sorrows to which they were returning, the tortures
that awaited them, and aU the hopelessness of their
future fives. Never more should the voice of her
husband greet her ear — never more should his smiles
gladden her heart. And her chUdren — henceforth
they would be branded as runaways, and thus exposed
to grievous Uls, to which, thus far, they had been
strangers. No one would trust them now.
Suddenly she started. Wheels approached, and
stopped in front of the jail. Did she know that voice?
Yes, she could not be mistaken.
"I wish you would let me in. I would like to see
them." She heard the jailor in reply, and soon footsteps ap
proached their cell. Vina roused her chUdren. " We'U
git toted back now. Old McKiernan's a comin.' He's
a talkin' out yer."
Soon the key turned in the lock, and the jailor
entered with a light, followed by a stranger, and the
"old master." His cane was in his hand — his face
looked redder than usual, and his eyes hastUy searched
every part of the room. He approached the bed on
which his slaves were stiU lying, and for a moment
looked down on them in silence.
"Ha,| boy, what are you doing here?" said he to
Peter,

THE CAPTURE. 301
No answer.
" Speak ! you rascal, or I'll knock you in the head
with this stick. Don't you know me?"
"Yes, sir."
" Aint I your old master ?"
R#uctantly Peter answered, " Yes, sir."
"Didn't I raise you all?"
"Yes, sir."
" WeU, d — n you, what are you doing here ?"
" Don't know, sir."
"Don't know! I'U make you tell a different tale
from that when I get you home. You, Levin, don't
you think this is a devU of a caper ?"
Levin was silent, and the master turned to his mo
ther. "See here, girl, how came you to leave home?"
No answer.
"Aint it d — d astonishing you all can't answer
when you're spoken to?"
StUl no answer came, and he turned to his com.
panion. "Ah, that huzzy ! she's at the bottom of all
this. If it hadn't been for her, and that rascal Peter,
they never would have left me in the world."
"What Peter is that?" asked the man.
"Why, he is this girl's husband. He got in with a
Jew, and persuaded him to buy him ; and a few months
after that, Peter bought himself. This scrape was in
the bargain at first, I'm certain."
" Where are this Peter and his master now ?"
" I don't know exactly — but if they ever show their
heads in Tuscumbia again, I'll have them hung sky-
high. Peter is at the bottom of this ; but he never had
sense to do it alone — he's had help, I'll swear. Some
d — d abolitionist. Vina harl nhanrl in it. I b°Heve there's

302 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
some of them in FrankHn county, and if I can hunt
them out, they shaU be burnt, or I'll have their heads
— one."He then proceeded to question the family concern
ing their escape; and to shield ConckHn, they- told a
story which they had previously prepared for an*lmer-
gency like this. They declared that Concklin, or as
they called him, Miller, did not bring them away at
first, but that four persons took them, and delivered
them up to him. Who these persons were, they could
not teU; but they described " some sort o' men that they
had never seen." " Yes, yes," said the master, "d — n
them, I've seen four such looking fellows in Tuscumbia."
After a whUe he left them, and went into the next
room, where ConckHn was confined. There they
heard his voice for a long time ; at first in moderate
tones, but when his passion rose, his words could
easily be distinguished. " It's d — d astonishing that
you won't tell who started you in this business.
Would you be such a fool as to be carried back in
irons, and lose your life for the sake of saving other
people?" " It is of no use for you to question me about them,"
replied Concklin. " You have me now, and it is not
Avorth whUe to bring other people into trouble."
"Well, d — n you, how do you feel in them irons?"
" I suppose I feel better than you will at some future
day in consequence of causing them to be put on me."
"How is that?"
"You wUl have plenty of time to find out."
Finding that he could get no satisfactory answer
from the " thief," he returned to the room where his
property was confined. Here he remained about an

THE CAPTURE. 303
hour, alternately cursing and asking questions ; but he
could not make them tell who started them on their
way. At last he left them and went out.
Early in the morning, he returned, and ordered
them t<5 get ready to go home. They rose immediately,
but were scarcely ready when the stage came to the
door. After they were seated in the coach, ConckHn was
brought out in irons, and put in with them. He still
looked brave and cheerful ; but the slaves, alas ! there
was no light in their downcast eyes — no hope in their
disappointed hearts.
When the stage stopped to change horses, they
alighted to take breakfast. They all sat down to
gether, but only the master and his companion* had
appetites for food. Vina only drank a cup of coffee,
and the boys ate very little.
" Why don't you eat, girl?" demanded the master.
" I don't keer 'bout eatin'," she replied.
" Well, if you all had staid at home, you'd been able
to eat."
They were soon re-seated in the stage, and none of
them left it again till after dark, when they reached
EvansvUle. Here they spoke of putting the captives
into jaU for safe keeping ; but it was whispered that if
they did so they might not find them in the morning ; ,
and at last they took them to a private house, where,
after giving them their supper, they locked them up
all together in a room in the second story. The mas
ter of the house, who, they understood was a brother-
in-law of their master's escort, sat all night on the
stairs to watch them.

304 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Concklin had now become alarmed, and during the
night he was much excited. He tried the windows of
the room, and was about to jump from one of them,
when Vina interposed. "Oh!" said she, "don't go
out thar'. You'll be dashed to pieces, sir, jumpin' out
o' that ar high winder. Oh! if you had tuck my
advice, and run off when they first cotch us, you'd 'a'
been safe now, and it would n't 'a' been no worse for
us." This was a gloomy night. None of the prisoners
felt inclined to sleep. Liberty — the precious goal
which they had almost grasped, was now beyond their
reach — forever lost. " Well chUlern, ' ' said the mother,
" you aU 's got to cotch it now. You wont be the best
hands on the place no more, and everything 'at's done
wrong '11 be laid to you. But it can't be hoped — we's
done the best we could, and now the Lord's aU the
friend we got."
Morning dawned at last, and after an early break
fast, Mr. McKiernan came with his attendant, Emison,
to conduct them to the boat.
How the sinews of Levin and Peter ached for a
race ! H their mother and sister had been safe, would
they have walked quietly down to the river, on whose
bosom they were to be borne back to slavery ? No,
no — they would at least have made one desperate effort
to escape. But they could not desert those who were
so dear to them ; and so they meekly followed their old
master, while they knew his footsteps led to the scene
of cruel torture — perhaps even to death.
*Once on board the boat — the " Paul Anderson," the
negroes were deemed safe ; still, whenever the boat
landed they were closely watched. Concklin was kept

THE CAPTURE. 305
confined in- a state-room, where his poor friends had
no chance to speak to him. They lay at night upon
the cabin floor, and the young people slept. Their
mother, too, several times grew drowsy, but the horrid
dreams that came soon frightened sleep away. She
heard every footstep ; and towards morning, they Avere
all aroused by people hurrying to and fro with lights,
and calling to each other in eveTy direction. The
master came to Vina. "Where are the boys?" said
he.. " Yon they lie, 'sir."
" Well, that rascal's gone."
" Is he ?" Such was her only answer ; but her heart
beat quick with the hope that he had by some means,
escaped in safety. The boat was searched in every
part, but no trace of him was found.
Early in the morning, Mr. McKiernan, with his
property, landed at Paducah, to wait for the " Greek
Slave," Avhich Avas expected to pass that day on her
home trip from Louisville.
The mistress of the hotel where they stopped, took
a great interest in the returning fugitives, and begged
Mr. McKiernan to sell her the old woman and her
daughter. He did not, however, seem anxious to dis
pose of them.
"How would you like to Hve with me?" said the
lady herself to Vina.
" I don't know, ma'am ; you mought be hard to
please. I've had one hard missus, and I don't care
'bout changin' for a worse one."
"Well," said the lady, "I give you my word, I
would be kind to you. You may ask any of my serv
ants if I am hard to be suited."

306 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
But the old master listened with impatience to all
her arguments. " I raised this famUy myself," said he,
" and even if there is danger of their running off again,
I may as well hold bad property as anybody else."
Such was his usual feeling whenever any one pro
posed to purchase one of his people. He disliked to
part with them ; not because he loved them — for we
have seen that his heart kneAv no pity for their suffer
ings ; but they were his, and he would rather buy than
seU. At about ten o'clock in the morning, the " Greek
Slave" appeared, and the melancholy company were
soon ascending the Tennessee. The lonely quiet banks
looked gloomy to them now, notwithstanding the trees
were clothed in their freshest green, and wild flowers
of every form and hue were nodding to their lovely
images in the bright water. There was no Spring-time
in their hearts. Darkness, like the shadow of Death,
hung over their spirits, whUe the bright sunshine and
the glad notes of a thousand birds but mocked their
misery.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
PETER PLANS TO REDEEM HIS FAMILY.
As soon as Mr. ConckHn left Philadelphia, Peter re
turned to his mother's house, and there remained, rest
less and anxious, for many weeks. At last his brother
William, who had received a letter from Concklin,
dated Princeton, la., March 24th, wrote to him that
his family had arrived in a Free State. Immediately
he hastened to PhUadelphia, his heart swelling with
the hope of soon embracing them ; but the day after
his arrival, alas ! these glorious visions of approaching
joy suddenly faded away.
" 0, Peter, said his sister Mary, as he entered the
room where she was sitting, "have you heard the
news ?"
He noticed that her voice trembled, and that her
eyes were filled with tears ; and his heart interpreted
but too- faithfully her emotion. StUl he answered
calmly, "No."
" Sit down," said she, " and I will read it to you."
She had the "Ledger" in her hand, and she read
several extracts from Indiana papers, giving an account
of the seizure of four slaves who had escaped from
Bernard McKiernan, of South Florence, Ala., and
also of a white man, calling himself MiUer, who had
them in charge. eon

308 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Peter listened in sUence. "It is just what I ex
pected," said he in a hoarse voice, when she had
finished, "just what I told them aU. Oh! if they had
heard to me !
For a time he seemed discouraged. His thoughts
followed the trembling fugitives on their return, and
under every torture which he had been accustomed to
see inflicted upon runaAvays, he fancied that his dear
wife and children, even then, were groaning. *
A boy belonging to a, pious man, near Tuscumbia—
a class leader in the Methodist Church — was, at the
time Peter came away, wearing a heavy iron collar
upon his neck, and a band of the same metal around
his body. A rod of iron was welded to each of these
upon his back, and extended further above his head
than his hands could reach. Rods of iron Avere also
fastened to the collar on each side, and at the point of
each shoulder they were bent up, and reached higher
than his head. To the highest of these rods a beU
was fastened, which tinkled constantly. In the morn
ing the boy was locked to the plough by a chain
which was fastened to the band around his body, and
thus he was obHged to plough tiU noon. The head
man then unlocked the chain, and led the mule away ;
leaving his feUow-slave to follow to the house. AU
the long afternoon he was forced to plough in the same
manner ; and at night, the head-man locked him in a
cabin alone, and left him to cook his scanty supper
and to get what rest his torturing irons would allow.
For several months he had afready worn these cruel
badges of the runaway — and now the father shuddered,
as in imagination he saw his own beloved sons endur
ing similar punishments.

PETER PLANS TO REDEEM HIS FAMILY. 309
Another man, belonging to Mr. B  , of Tuscum
bia, died not long before Peter left that toAvn, from
wearing an iron collar in hot Aveather. It rubbed the
skin off the poor feUow's neck, but his master swore
he should wear it till he died. Soon was his threat
fulfiUea, for the flesh mortified under the heated iron,
rasd when the sufferer uttered his last groan, the inhu
man instrument was stiU upon his neck.
lje knew also that even the women on McKiernan's
place had learned to wear the irons. Well he remem
bered Mary — a beautiful woman, and a special favorite
with her master, as all the pretty women were. She
had received so much abuse from her mistress that her
life was hateful to her, and at last she resolved to
escape, for a time at least, from her persecutions. Ac
cordingly she fled to the woods. The next Sunday
morning the order was issued that no allowance should
be given out till all the hands had been out to hunt
Mary. Peter was there that day visiting his famUy,
and as Vina was obliged to go, he joined the hunt,
well knowing that such a course would gratify the.
master. They soon found her track, with here and
there traces of corn and onions which had appeased
her hunger. But few of the slaves, however, had any
desire to find her, and those few were easily sent by
the others in a wrong direction. When night came,
therefore, Mary had not been taken. AU day they
had rambled in the woods — fasting — except that some
had now and then seized a roasting ear as they passed
by a field of corn ; they were delighted therefore,
when, as the shades of night approached, they were
suffered to go home, ami to receive their week's allow
ance.

310 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
But notwithstanding the faUure of this day's hunt,
the search for Mary was at divers times repeated, and
after having spent three or four months in the woods.
she was brought in. Then came the punishment for
her heinous crime. First, her master gave her a cruel
beating, and then the overseer inflicted upon her
naked back a like " correction ;" and after that, for a
long time, she was daUy stripped and beaten by her
mistress's orders. This system was continued ^intil
she became so weak that they feared she would be
" ruined," and then the irons were brought in requisi
tion. The collar was welded on her slender neck, and
a heavy band of iron upon her ankle. To this latter,
one end of a heavy log-chain was attached, the- other
end of which was brought up and locked round her
waist. Month after month was the poor woman forced
to Avear these gaUing irons. Peter, himself, had often
seen her coming from the field at night, " lookin' every
minute Hke she would drop down to the ground with
the weight of her shackles. She was raggetty and
dirty too, for she hadn't no spirit left to wash and
mend her clothes."* The image of this tortured wo
man would rise before him now — the clanking of her
heavy chain would rack his ears. No wonder that he
* Vina says, " Mary done took so much whippin' that the flesh
between her shoulders inflames nigh 'bout every year, and the skin
looks like a dry brown crust. Then they has to send for the
doctor, and he takes out a strip o' flesh five or six inches long.
After a while her back heals up again, and she gits well enough to
work. They done quit 'busin' her now, and she works all the time
in the field, 'cept they has a heap o' company, or there's some great
hurry o' sewin' gwine on. Then they ¦brings her in for she's a ele
gant seamster, and understands all sorts o' house set vice."

PETER PLANS TO REDEEM HIS FAMILY. 311
could not rest. No wonder that all labor and priva
tion seemed as nothing if he could yet gain the ran
som of his loved ones.
Peter started immediately for Cincinnati, in the hope
of finding his late master, and obtaining his assistance
in this* his pressing need. But he was disappointed.
Mr. Isaac Friedman was still in Hlinois. His brother
Levi, however, warmly espoused his cause, and would
have gone himself to Tuscumbia, to try what could be
done for the relief of the famUy, had he not been
kindly warned that such a step would be both haz
ardous and 'futile. A friend of his in Franklin
county, wrote him that the citizens of Tuscumbia
were highly incensed against both his brother and
Peter, as in consequence of what the latter had said
to Mrs. McKiernan, concerning Mr. Friedman's partial
promise to buy his family, they regarded them as in
stigators of the escape.*
But this did not discourage the anxious husband
and father. He had brought from PhUadelphia a letter
* That this feeling was not, however, quite universal among the
citizens is evident from an incident which occurred on board the
" Greek Slave," as she lay at Tuscumbia Landing, having on board
the captured family. " Well, Old "Woman," said a gentleman.from
town, who came on board to see them, " are you sorry for running
away ?" " No, Sir, I don't feel sorry ;" replied Vina. " I think
any person else would 'a' done like I have." " Ves, that's so," re
plied he, " I would have done the same thing myself. Peter is a
good fellow too, and your master is an old rascal. Look here, if he
takes a notion to sell you all, I'd like to buy you, for I believe
you're an honest family, and I don't think the less of you for
this." " I can't remember his name," said Vina, as she related
the incident, " but he spoke mons's kind, and he's as fine looking
a man, nigh 'bout, as ever I see."

312 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
of introduction to Levi Coffin, a worthy Friend, resid
ing in Cincinnati. This he delivered, and Mr. Coffin
soon made his case known to several benevolent gen
tlemen in toAvn. One of these, Mr. Samuel Lewis, at
Peter's request, addressed a letter to Mr. L. B. Thorn
ton, of Tuscumbia, requesting him to ascertain from
Mr. McKiernan, whether or not he Avould seU the
famUy, and at what price he valued them, and asking
him to write the result of his inquiries to William
StUl, of PhUadelphia. (Mr. Thornton Avas a young
man much esteemed — a Virginian, who had for some
time taught the boy's school in Tuscumbia, while he
pursued his law studies. Peter had often performed
sHght services for him, and always regarded him as
one of his best friends.)
One day during his stay in Cincinnati, as Peter was
standing upon the sidewalk, striving in his OAvn mind
to devise some means to hasten the release from bond
age of those he loved, a pale lady, seated in a carriage,
beckoned him towards her. He approached the. car
riage, and the lady asked him if he would like em
ployment, and if he could drive. He repHed in the
affirmative, and was soon seated on the box. For
several hours he drove her carriage about the city, and
so kindly did she address him, that at last he told her
all his grief. She Hstened with much interest to the
story, and after expressing her sympathy Avith his sor
rows, she told him that her husband was a friend of the
unfortunate, and that perhaps he could assist him in
his efforts to buy his family. She -accordingly directed
him to her husband's office, and entering, he found
himself in the presence of Hon. Salmon P. Chase.
This good man, after hearing his simple tale, readily

PETER PLANS TO REDEEM HIS FAMILY, 313
offered to do anything in his power to aid him. Peter
then told him that to Mr. John Gist, of Kentucky, a
brother of his former master, Mr. McKiernan was
largely indebted; and that as he was an old servant
of the family, he thought it possible that Mr. Gist
woukTbe able and wilHng to assist him in the purchase
of his family. Before he left the office Mr. Chase wrote
a letter to this gentleman, asking for information Avith
regard to the best plan for getting the family and also
if he could in any way aid the poor man in his efforts
for their purchase.
From this letter Peter never heard, although he
staid in Cincinnati more than three weeks after it was
despatched. Towards the last of June, he returned Avith a heavy
heart to his friends in New Jersey. He had done all
he could, but nowhere could he discern a ray of hope.
Yet he could not be idle ; and as it seemed useless at
that time to attempt any further steps towards the ac
complishment of his one absorbing wish, he settled
himself at service in Burfington, New Jersey.
His mistress, Mrs. Mary A. Buckman, treated him
Avith uniform kindness, and with her aid and that of
her two daughters, he commenced learning to read.
We have before related his resolute attempts to learn
the mysteries of letters during his few visits to the
Sabbath School in Lexington, but that was long —
long years ago, and though he had then mastered the
Avondrous alphabet, and even learned to spell a few
little words, he had never, since that time, been able
to make the least advance in erudition. But now when
through the kindness of these ladies, he became able to
read, though but imperfectly, the precious words of
14

314 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
the New Testament, he felt that his arduous efforts to
be free had not been all in vain.
Sometime in the ensuing August came the following
letter from Mr. McKiernan, to whom Mr. Thornton
had referred the one Avhich had been written to him
from Cincinnati : " South Florence, Ala., 6th August, 1851.
"MR. WILLAM STILL, NO. 31 NORTH FIFTH STREET,
PHILADELPHIA.
" Sir a few days sine mr Lewis Thornton of Tus
cumbia Ala shewed me a letter dated 6 June 51 from
Cincinnati synd samuel LeAvis in behalf of a Negro man
by the name of peter Gist who informed the writer
of the Letter that you were his Brother & wished an
answer to be directed to you as he peter would be in
PhUadelphia. the object of the letter was to purchis
from me 4 Negroes that is peters Wife & 3 chUdren 2
sons & 1 girl the Name of said Negroes are the Avoman
viney the (mother) Eldest son peter 21 or 2 years, old
second son Leven 19 or 20 years 1 Girl about 13 or 14
years old. the Husband and Father of these people
once belonged to a relation of mine by the name of
Gist now Decest & some few years sine he peter
was sold to a man by the Name of Friedman who
removed to Cincinnati ohio & Tuck peter with him of
course peter became free by the voluntary act of the
master some time last march a white man by the
name of MiUer apperd in the nabourhood & abducted
the bove negoes was caute at vincanes Indi with said
negroes & was thare convicted of steling & remanded
back to Ala to Abide the penelty of the laAV & on his
return met his just reward by Getting drownded at the

PETER PLANS TO REDEEM HIS FAMILY. 315
mouth of Cumberland River on the ohio in attempting
to make his escape I recoverd & Braught Bapk said
4 negroes or as You would say coulard people under
the BeHef that peter the Husband was acsessery to the
offence thareby putting me to much Expense & Truble
to the amt $1000 which if; he gets them he- or his
Friends must refund these 4 negros here are worth in
the market about 4000 for tha are Extraordenary fine
& likely & but for' the fact of Elopement I would not
take 8000 DoUars for them but as the thing now stands
you can say to Peter & his new discovered Relations
inPhUadelphi I wUl take 5000 for the 4 culerd people
& if this wiH suite him & he can raise the money I wiU
deliver to him or his agent at paduca at mouth of
Tennessee river said negroes but the money must be
Deposited in the Hands of some respectable person at
paduca before I remove the property it wold not be
safefor peter to come to this countery
"write me a fine on recpt of this & let me know
peters views on the above
4 "I am Yours &c
"B. McKiernan"
" NB say to peter to Avrite & let me know his views
amediately as I am determind to act in a way if he
dont take this offer he wUl never have an other ap-
portunity
"B. McKiernan"
This letter was soon circulated among those friend
who had become interested in accomplishing the re-union,
of the family, and so enormous was the price demanded
for the slaves that few persons deemed it possible for
Peter to procure the means to ransom them. But his

316 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
courage did not falter. He could not live in freedom,
surrounded by his friends, and supplied with every
comfort, and yet make no effort to redeem those he
loved far better than life, or even liberty, from the cruel
bondage which they endured. But for a time he hesi
tated as to the means that Avould be safest and most
speedy in effecting his purpose. Give it up, he would
not — that was settled.
He thought of going from place to place to solicit
aid, but then he was unknown, and even the benevo
lent in. heart would hesitate to contribute towards so
large a sum, while they were unacquainted Avith his
previous character. It would be useless to write to
any of his old friends in Tuscumbia for testimonials
concerning the uprightness of bis former life — for there
he was beHeved to have originated the plan of running
off his family, and he knew that notwithstanding all
his years of honest, patient, persevering toil he was
now branded as a negro thief.
After pondering the subject for some weeks, he
bethought him that after all, he might have a friend in
" the North" who had known his character. He re
membered that one of the young ladies, who had
taught in the Seminary at Tuscumbia, returned home
about the time he finished paying for himself; and he
resolved, if possible, to ascertain her residence. He
had heard the teachers, in conversation with each other,
mention New York and Syracuse, and he believed the
latter place had been their home. Yet he had no cer
tain knowledge, for he had cautiously refrained from
asking any questions about the North, lest he should
be suspected of undue curiosity respecting the dwelling
of the Free. He soon communicated to his friends

PETER PLANS TO REDEEM HIS FAMILY. 317
his hope of obtaining some testimonials of good charac
ter from these ladies, if they could be found, and a
letter of inquiry concerning them was immediately
written by Mr. McKim, of Philadelphia, to Rev. S.
J. May, of Syracuse.
This letter was promptly answered, but from some
unknown cause the reply was not received by Peter.
So he quietly continued at his service, performing his
regular duties to the satisfaction of his mistress, though
aU the whUe his mind was racked by alternate hopes
and fears.
Thus passed the winter of 1851-2 ; but in the spring
his anxiety to do something for his family became so
intense that he resolved to go out and try his success
in coUecting funds for their ransom. He acquainted
Mrs. Buckman with this design, but, just after she had
engaged another servant to take his place, an incident
occurred which revived his hope of finding yet a
friend. He heard a gentleman who was visiting at the
house speak of his home in Syracuse, and he took an
opportunity to inquire of him if he had ever known
the ladies of whom he was so anxious to hear. To his
great joy Mr.  knew them both, and informed
"him that although one of them still remained in the
South, the other had returned, was married, and resided
a few miles from Syracuse.
This cheering news Peter communicated to his mis
tress, who, at his request, wrote for him to his friend.
He now determined to remain in BurHngton until he
should receive an answer to this letter, and accordingly,
he entered the service of Judge Boudinot, one of the
principal citizens of that place.
About this time the idea occurred to him, that, per-

318 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
haps, it would be best to buy his Avife and daughter
first, and afterwards to try to raise a sum sufficient to
purchase the two boys. He determined at least to
learn what chance of success he Avould have in case he
should obtain the means to do this ; and for assistance
in making this inquiry, he applied to Dr. Ely, of Med-
ford, N. J., who wrote for him a second letter to Mr.
Thornton of Tuscumbia. To this came in due time
the following answer :
" Tuscumbia, Ala., August 19th, 1852.
" H. N. Ely — Dear Sir — Your letter has remained
unanswered for so long because I have not been able
to have an interviaw with Mr. McKiernan on the sub
ject about which you wrote. I have just seen him.
He says he wUl not separate the family of negroes, and
the lowest price he wUl take under any circumstances
is $5,000 ; and if that is placed in my hands, or with
any responsible persons for him, he will let the ne
groes go.
"I would like Peter to get his wife and family, and
think this amount a high price : but it is the lowest, I
know. Very respectfully,
Lewis B. Thornton."
The letter written by Mrs. Buckman faded to reach
its destination ; and after remaining in Judge Boudi-
not's service for five months, Peter resolved to go him- _
self to Syracuse, and find his friend, "if indeed he had
one in that vicinity. If he accomplished this, he would
then try his success in collecting money. He had
already saved from his Avages since he had been in
Burlington, one hundred dollars, which. he determined
should be the first contribution towards the $5,000.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
"HOW DID HE GET THE MONEY?"
Peter received from bis friends at parting but small
encouragement to hope. The sum required was so
enormous, and the idea of paying gold to him who
had- already robbed them of the earnings of long years
Avas so repugnant to the feelings of the best men, that
it seemed almost useless to attempt to raise the money.
A few days before he star'ted, his brother William said
to him, " You ought not to feel so uneasy — so perfectly
restless because your famUy are slave's. There are
thousands of people as good as they who are in the
same condition. Do you see that woman across the
street ? She is just as good as you are, and she has
a mother and sisters in slavery. You cannot expect
people to give you five thousand dollars to buy your
family, when so many others, equally deserving, are
just as badly off."
" Look here," replied Peter, " I know a heap of men,
as good, and as smart as I am, that are slaves now ;
but — I've bought my liberty, and my family shall be free."
On the eighth of November, 1852, he left Buriing-
ton on his travels, carrying -with him the kindest
wishes of all who knew him, and also the following
[319]

320 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
certificates from those Avhom he had served in that
city. " Burlington, November 6, 1852.
" Peter StiU (a colored man), has Hved in my employ
for some months past, but I have known him for two
years. " It affords me much pleasure in being able to re
commend him, as an honest, sober, industrious and
capable man, perfectly trustworthy and ever wilHng to
make himself generally useful-, either about the house
or stable. I part with him reluctantly ; he leaves me,
to make an effort to redeem his wife and chUdren from
slavery.
41 E. E. Boudinot-."
" The above named Peter StiU, was in my employ
ten months, during which time he fully sustained the
character given him by Mr. Boudinot. It gives me
pleasure to add my name to this recommendation.
"Mary A. Buckman."
" Judge Boudinot is one of our principal citizens,
and I have entire confidence in his recommendation of
Peter StUl. " Cortlandt Van Rensselaer.
" Burlington, N. J., Nov. 6, 1852."
Peter went first to Brooklyn, where he visited his
brother John, who by his advice and sympathy did
much to cheer him on his way. "Now, Peter," said
he, " you can call on me at any time for fifty or a
hundred doUars, and whenever you need clothes, or
anything else that I can furnish you, just let me know.

"HOW DID HE GET THE MONEY?" J 21
And be careful whom you trust. You wUl find plenty
of friends, if it is known you have a little money. Be
careful, and watch well for rogues.
On the sixteenth of November, he reached Syra
cuse, and delivered a letter of introduction and recom
mendation from Mr. McKim, of PhUadelphia, to Rev.
Mr. May. This lover of humanity listened with
great interest to his thrilling story; examined his
papers, which gave ample testimony to the integrity
of his character, as weU as to the truthfulness of his
tale ; and the next day sent him to the residence of
the friend whom he had come to seek — the writer of
this narrative. Here he remained until the nine
teenth, when, with a letter to Mr. May, corroborating
such facts in his statement as had come to her know
ledge, and certifying to his character for truthfulness
and industry whUe a slave, he returned to Syracuse.
He was now thoroughly furnished for his arduous
undertaking; and with letters of introduction from Mr.
May to various co-laborers in the work of benevo
lence, he left Syracuse, and journeyed westward.
His first stop was at Auburn, where a letter from
Mr. May, together with his other papers, and above all,
his modest earnestness of manner, won him a favorable
reception. He visited first the clergymen of the differ
ent churches, to some of whom he brought letters ;
and they commended him to the charity of their
people. Here, in Rev. Mr. Millard's church, on Sun
day evening, he appeared for the first time before the
public. "I was mighty skeered," said he, " when Mr.
Millard took me with him into the pulpit, and told me
I must stand up, myself, and tell my story to the
people. 'Peared Hke I could n't stand, no how ; but I
14*

322 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
said a few words, and Mr. Millard, he helped me out ;
so I got along mighty well."
He remained a week in Auburn, and received Avhile
there fifty dollars. This success encouraged him, and
he went on to Rochester, stopping by the way at
Waterloo, where also he received some assistance.
At Rochester he staid two or three weeks, and was
kindly entertained at the houses of worthy citizens,
and about the middle of December he returned to
Syracuse with two hundred dollars. This, Mr. May
deposited for him in the bank, and giving him letters
to Messrs. WilHam Lloyd Garrison, Theodore Parker,
T. Starr King, and others, in Boston, bade him hasten
thither, in order to be there before the Holidays.
As soon as he had delivered his letters of introduc
tion from Mr. May, in Boston, he sought Andover, for
the purpose of visiting the Author of " Uncle Tom's
Cabin," to whom also he had a letter of recommenda
tion. Mrs. Stowe received him cordially, and after
heading his subscription list in Andover, gave him the
following brief letter, which, he says "helped him
mightily." " Having examined the claims of this unfortunate
man, I am satisfied that his is a case that calls for com
passion and aid.
" Though the sum demanded is so large as to look
hopeless, yet if every man who is so happy as to be
free, and have his own wife and chUdren for his own,
would give even a small amount, the sum might soon
be raised.
"As ye would that men should do for you — do ye
even so for them.
H. B. Stowe."

"HOW did he get THE MONEY?" 323
A contribution was also taken for him at the Free
Church in Andover, and during his stay in that town
he received about forty dollars.
On his return to Boston, he presented the following
letter, which he had brought from Burlington, to Rev.
John P. Robinson. " Burlington, N. J., Oct. 5, 1852.
" Dear Cousin John: — Peter Still, who carries this
note, is one of the most estimable of men. He wishes
to have access to the great hearts of some of the good
people of your city, who have great purses.
" Please get from him his history, and his object,
and direct him what to do. His integrity may be re
lied on. " Affectionately,
"Joseph Parrish."
" The above letter is from Dr. Joseph Parrish, a dis
tinguished physician of New Jersey, and well known
by his profession in Boston.
"John P. Robinson.
" Boston, January 3, 1853."
A day or two later, the foUowing notice appeared in
one of the morning papers, which has been copied in
the papers of almost every New England town which
Peter afterwards visited : " Boston, January 3, 1853.
"The bearer, Peter StiU, was kidnapped in early
childhood, on the borders of Delaware river, in New
Jersey, and carried thence to Kentucky, and subse
quently to Alabama. After being held in slavery

324 the kidnapped and the ransomed.
more than forty years, he succeeded in purchasing his
freedom; and being obliged, consequently, by the
laws of Alabama, to leave that State, he came North to
Philadelphia, where, by a strange coincidence, he be
came acquainted with his brother and famUy, from
which he had been so long severed. He has left a wife
and three children in Alabama, whom he naturaUy
and ardently desires to bring into freedom, and have
with him at the North. For this purpose he now ap
peals to the sympathy of the benevolent for such pecu
niary aid as they may be disposed to give him.
" We, the undersigned, have carefuUy examined his
letters and papers, and have obtained knowledge of
him. From this examination, we are satisfied that his
story is true in aU its particulars ; that he is himself a
worthy and virtuous man, whose extraordinary history
gives him a strong and pecuHar claim upon the public
sympathy and aid.
" Any contributions for the object above named may
be forwarded to any of us.
" S. K. Lothrop,
" Ellis Gray Loring,
" Ephraim Peabody,
" Wm. J. Bowditch,
" J. I. Bowditch,
" John P. Robinson,
"Thos. Starr King."
In Boston and neighboring towns he remained till
the last of March, when, having deposited four hundred
and sixty dollars in the hands of ElHs Gray Loring,
Esq., who kindly acted as his treasurer, he received
numerous letters of recommendation from gentlemen

"how did he get the money?" 325
of distinction here, and went to "Portland, Me. The
foUowing will serve to illustrate the spirit cherished by
these noble sons of New England towards the dark-
hued victim of oppression. Among his papers are
many others which breathe the same tender sympathy
the same warm human love. " Boston, March 28th, 1853.
" I desire to certify that I am acquainted with Mr.
Peter StUl, have examined all his papers, and am
entirely satisfied with the truthfulness of his story and
the worthiness of his claims upon the sympathy and
beneficence of the community. It does not. seem possi
ble that any further commendation of a Christian
brother's appeal to the charity of men should be needed
than the fact that he desires to be the owner of his own
wife and famUy. So far as any words of mine can
help him, I most cordially recommend him to the
favorable consideration of the humane.
"T. S. King."
At Portland Peter's subscription Hst was headed by
Hon. Neal Dow ; and during the eight days he spent
in that city, he received one hundred' doUars. Thence
he proceeded to Brunswick, Bath, Saco, Biddeford ;
Portsmouth, N. H. ; Hampton, Newburyport and Gar-
retson Station ; and on his return to Boston, about the
last of May, he deposited four hundred and ninety
dollars in the hands of Mr. Loring; making in all
nine hundred and fifty dollars which he had received
during the five months he had spent in New England.
He now decided to return to New Jersey and to
visit Philadelphia for the purpose of further conference

326 THE KIDNAPPED and the ransomed.
with his friends. As he passed through New York,
on his way thither, he presented a letter to Thomas
Foulcke of that city, from Dr. Parrish of Burlington,
and though he staid but a short time, a few friends
there presented him seventy-five doUars.
At Burlington' he allowed himself a few days rest.
He had been absent seven months, and had visited
more than twenty different towns. His mind had
been constantly excited — the theme of his discourse
wherever he went, was the liberation of his family.
He had no doubts concerning the result. When asked
Avhat he would do with the money he had gained, if
after all, he faUed to accomplish his object, his reply
Avas, " 'Pears like the Lord wont let me faU." Such
Avas his simple, earnest faith, and to this his actions
corresponded. His dress was neat, but strictly eco
nomical, and though he was not mean, yet every dol
lar he received was precious.
Notwithstanding his success thus far, his friends in
New Jersey and PhUadelphia had no confidence in
his being able to raise the whole sum demanded by the
tyrant ; and Mr. Dillwyn Smith, of Burlington, who
from the first, had taken much interest in his case,
Avrote for him to • his former mistress, Mrs. Hogun, of
Alabama, to solicit her influence with Mr. McKiernan,
in the hope of procuring some abatement of the price.
For two Aveeks Peter waited there for an answer to
this .letter, but none arriving, he grew impatient to
proceed with his great work ; and once more bidding
adieu to his kind friends, who had, during his stay,
presented him forty-five dollars, he left them and went
again to Brooklyn.
There he spent the fourth of July with his brother

"HOW DID HE GET THE MONEY?" 327
John, and then he went to Syracuse, where, in a few
days, he received one hundred and twenty -five dollars.
Thence he went to Peterboro', and spent a night at the.
home of Gerritt Smith. He had frequently heard,
since he had been free, of the great wealth of this dis
tinguished friend of Man, and he had expected to find
him inhabiting a princely dwelling, abounding in all
the luxuries that gold can buy. But to his astonish
ment, his residence was a plain and quiet home, and
his manners and style of Hving entirely free from pcmp
and ostentation. Mr. Smith gave him the following
letter, together with a generous sum for the furtherance
of Ms all-engrossing object.
" I am, and have long been deeply interested in the
case of the bearer, Peter StiU. I hope he may meet
with generous friends wherever he shall go.
"Gerritt Smith.
"Peterboro, July 27, 1853."
Peter now returned to Boston, arriving there the last
of July, and on the third of August, he was in New
Bedford. Here he remained tiU the twelfth, when he
returned to Boston with one hundred and fifteen
doUars, which he deposited in the hands of Mr. Lor
ing. Next he visited Lowell, whence he returned on
the second of September, with one hundred and eighty-
five doUars. This also he placed in the care of his
kind treasurer. SomervUle gave him thirty-six dollars,
Cambridge nineteen, and next he found himself at
Worcester, where soon after his arrival the foUowing
notice appeared in the " Spy."

328 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
" Worcester, September 8, 1853.
" We would take this method of commencing to the
attention of aU Christians and friends of humanity, the
bearer, Peter Still. We heard his story, and examined
his letters of introduction when he first came to Boston,
in December last, and are satisfied of his worthiness to
be encouraged and helped as he needs. He has been
welcomed to many hearts in New England, and he
wUl be to many more. AU ye who can, give .him aid
and comfort.
" J. G. Adams.
" A. Hill.
"Edward E. Halb?"
In Worcester he remained about two weeks, and
then once more returned to Boston with one hundred
and seventy-five doUars.
Next he journeyed southward; visited Plymouth,
Kingston, and Fall River, and in every town found
friends ready and wilHng to aid him in his work.
From Fall River, Rev. Asa Bronson commended him
in the foUowing letter to Providence, to which place
he immediately repaired :
" To the disciples of Christ and the friends of humanity
in Providence, R. I.
" I have carefully examined the various letters and
documents of Peter StiU, and I fully beHeve that he is
entitled to the entire confidence, cordial sympathy, and
generous aid of the Christian pubHc. We have as
sisted him in FaU River and vicinity to the amount of
about $200.

"how did he get THE MONEY?" 329
" Help him if you can. ' He that hath pity on the
poor, lendeth to the Lord.'
" With due respect, "Yours,
"Asa Bronson.
"Fall Biver, October 26th, 1853."
In Providence, Peter remained during the month
of November, and on looking at his book, in which
were registered the gifts he there received, we find that
one hundred and forty separate individuals contributed
to his aid. Besides what he then personally received,
collections were taken up for him in four churches in
the city on the seventh of November. In Worcester,
one hundred and fifty-four individuals contributed,
and when we consider that to most of these persons,
he of course repeated a sketch of his history, we cannot
but wonder that his energies flagged not. We must,
at least, admire his industry.
He received in Providence two hundred and fifty
dollars ; and then after making a short visit at Woburn,
he returned to Boston, having gathered during the ten
weeks he had been absent, six hundred and thirty
dollars. Here he remained, visiting occasionally at
Roxbury, Charlestown, Cambridge, and other neigh
boring towns, until about the middle of January, when,
placing in the hands of his treasurer two hundred
dollars more, which he had gathered since his return
from Providence, he started homeward.
On the twentieth of January, we again find him in
New York. He brought from a kind friend in Salem
the foUowing letter, which he immediately preserrred :

330 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
"Salem, First "Month 12th, 1854."
''My dear friend: I take the liberty of giving the
bearer, Peter Still, a letter to thee. He is the colored
man, whose story I partly related to thee in Boston.
"I think there is that in his story that verifies the
proverb, that 'truth is stranger than .fiction.'
"I do not doubt the truthfulness of Peter, and he
can tell thee his own story, Avhich unfolds a phase in
the history of slavery strongly Ulustrative of its evils,
its oppressions, its injustice, and its opposition to all
that is good, and kind, and Christian.
"I have ventured to teU Peter that I think he wUl
find sympathizing friends in NeAV York, and among
them the kind friend I now address.
" Thy sincere friend,
^ " Stephen A. Chase.
" Robert J. Mdbbat."
This kind friend was right. Peter found sympathiz
ing friends in New York, and before the middle of
February he had received in that city and Brooklyn
$1,146 45.
He then went on to Burlington, and in that city and
its neighborhood, he remained until May. His heart
now beat high with the hope of a speedy reunion with
his loved ones ; and even those among his friends who,
at first had been furthest from uttering words of vain
encouragement, noAV cheered him on. They looked
upon him Avith wonder. All unlettered as he was —
but four years out of slavery — they could hardly credit
his stfrange success, whUe hearing from his own Hps
the story of his travels.

"how did he get the money?" 331
Peter was not spoiled by his good fortune, and never
presumed upon the indulgence of his benefactors.
Everywhere his manners were the same — modest and
respectful, yet full of earnest dignity — the result of
virtuous self-respect., " In every place I go," said he,
"I aim to associate with the best people. I never
knowed nothing gained by going into low company."
And he was right. The best men in every place he
visited opened Avide their doors at his coming ; and at
their tables, notwithstanding the prejudice — once weU-
nigh universal — against color, he was a welcome guest.
Early in May, he again departed on his travels ; and
earnestly did he hope that this tour would be the last,
before he should be ready to start in another direction
— to meet those for whose ransom he had become a
wanderer. He went directly to New York, where he received
the foUoAving letter from the senior editor of the
Tribune, which he hastened to deHver in Albany.
" New York, May 10, 1854.
" My Old Friend : Peter Still, who wUl hand you
this, was born free in New Jersey ; kidnapped thence
when six years old, with his brother, two years older,
and sold into slavery ; served forty years in Alabama ;
finally bought himself free, leaving his wife and three
children in the hands of the scoundrels who had
robbed him of forty years' work; and he is now
begging money to buy them out of bondage. His
chivalrous robber only asks him $5000 for his own
wife and chUdren. It is robbery to pay it, but inhu
manity to refuse ; and, as the time -has not yet arrived
for paying such vUlains with lead and steel, rather

332 THE KIDNAPPED and the ransomed.
than gold, I wish you could help him raise a part of
the money among those you know.
" Yours,
"Horace Greeley.
" George Dawson, Esq.,
" Albany Evening Journal Office."
Here, too, Peter found friends. Thurlow Weed,
after contributing generously to his aid, gave him a
letter expressive of his confidence in the integrity of
his character, and, during the few days which he spent
in the Dutch' Capital, he received seventy-five dollars.
Thence he went to Pittsfield, Mass., where he re
ceived one hundred and five doUars, and then, without
loss of time, he journeyed on to Springfield. Here
one hundred doUars was added to his fund, and on the
twenty-second day of June, we find him at New
Haven. Soon after his arrival here, he waited on Rev. Leon
ard Bacon, to whom he brought a letter of introduc
tion. Mr. Bacon examined aU his papers, and imme
diately entered with great zeal into the work of aiding
his endeavors. He gave him the following letter of
recommendation to his townsmen ; and in divers ways,
proved himself one of that noble band who delight in
works of mercy for the mercy's sake.
" The case of this poor man, Peter StiU, is a hard one.
Kidnapped in his youth, and by unlegalized fraud and
violence reduced to slavery, he has borne the yoke for
many years with ' exemplary patience. He'became a
husband, in the sense in which a slave can be a hus
band ; and chUdren — his by the law of nature and of

"how did he get the money?" 333
God, but another man's property by the atrocious laws
of Alabama — were born to him in the house of bond
age. At last he became free by the consent of his
owner. He purchased his freedom by the slow
accumulation of what he could earn Avhen all the ser
vice exacted by an absolute master, from day to day,
had been performed. His Avife and three children at
tempted to escape from slavery, and were re-captured.
Meanwhile, he himself, returning to the region in which
he was born, has found his yet surviving mother and
his numerous brothers and sisters, who are living in
and near Philadelphia. He has also found friends and
benefactors, as he has travelled from place to place, in
the enterprise of coUecting the exorbitant sum which
is demanded for the liberty of his wife and children.
" I have examined his papers and am convinced of
their authenticity, and of his entire honesty and re
liableness. The letter from the legal owner of his wife
and children is especially worth studying.
"Leonard Bacon.
" New Haven, 23d June, 1854."
In New Haven, Peter remained until about the
middle of July ; and we find, by referring to his re
gistry, that he received donations in that city from
more than two hundred and fifty persons. In the list
of his benefactors — Heaven bless them all — we find
" Carpenter's Millinery Help," " Ladies in Shirt Fac
tory," " Workmen in Clock Factory," " Young Ladies of
Miss Button's School," " Lancasterian , School," "Ladies
of the Rubber Factory," and " Pupils of Webster High
School." We also find one contribution set down as — ¦
"Money Lent." Yea, verily, "He that hath pity on the

334 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
poor lendeth to the Lord ; that which he hath given will
he pay him again." In the same long list we see
"Anti-Abolition," and then, "A Slaveholder," and
again, "A Slaveholder patterning after Abolitionists."
After receiving three hundred dollars in New
Haven, our traveller went up to Hartford, and there,
also, he received three hundred dollars. Thence, Avith
a grateful heart, he went to Wethersfield, where he re
mained three days, and collected twenty>-one dollars.
August seventh, we find him at Middletown, Ct., where
in one week, he received one hundred and twenty-six
dollars. While in Middletown he encountered a lady who in
consequence of marrying a Northern man, had been
transplanted there from South Carolina. She assured
Peter that the slaves were far better off than free ne
groes. "Indeed, I know all about it," said she, "for
my mother owns plenty of them, and not one of them
is obliged to work so hard as I do myself. Here the
free negroes are begging around, many of them half-
starved, and some of them stealing and going to prison."
" Yes, ma'am," answered Peter, " they do that, both
white and colored. It is not the colored people alone
that beg and steal ; and I have been told that there are
more white people m the prisons than black ones, any
Hoav." " WeU, that may be, but they are better off in the
South, Avhere they are all taken good care of."
" So- 1 came away and left .her," said Peter, as he
related this incident, " but I couldn't help wishin' I
knowed Avhether she'd like to be a happy, well-fed
slave herself."
The next week he spent in Meriden, where he col-

"HOW DID HE GET THE MONEY?" 335
lected eighty dollars ; and August 22d we find him at
Bridgeport. Here, also, he found many friends;
though at one house where he called, he met a violent
rebuff. The master met him at the door ; and Peter, as
was his custom, modestly proffered his request — pre
senting at the same time his papers. The gentleman
did not wait to examine these, but proceeded in a loud
voice to curse him "mightily." " I know," cried he,
" it's all a d — d lie. There's a parcel always coming
round telling their lies. I don't believe one word you
say. You ought to be arrested. There's a lazy pack
of you that make it a business to go around whining
about having famifies in slavery.' It's time it was
stopped." So saying, he turned his back upon the
the suppliant; and Peter quietly walked doAvn the
steps .and into the street.
On mentioning this incident in town, he learned
that this gentleman himself had property in slaves.
Another slaveholder in the same town he called upon,
who received him kindly, and assured him that, though
• slavery ivas not so bad after all as he imagined, yet he
was not to blame for wishing to get his wife and children.
Notwithstanding these slight ripples on the surface
of the waters, Peter received in Bridgeport one hun
dred and thirty-six dollars ; and on the fifteenth of
September, he had found his way to New London.
Here the friends of humanity contributed one hundred
and fifteen dollars for his aid ; and the good people of
Norwich, whose charity he next besought, gave him
one hundred dollars.
The first of October found him 'at Northampton,
and though he staid not long, yet those in that town
who "had pity on the poor" gave him forty-five dollars.

336 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Once more Peter directed his steps toward Syra
cuse. How different were the emotions that now
sweUed his heart from those which dwelt there when
he first approached that city, may be inferred from the
foUowing extract from a letter written at this time by
a friend, who from the first had watched his progress
with the deepest interest :
"It seemed almost a hopeless undertaking. The
idea of raising five thousand dollars, by the simple
recital, in his own uncultured Avords, of his, strangely
interesting story Avas certainly not probable ; and, but
for the Avonderful Providences that had restored him
to his mother, and for his earnest faith in the success
of his project, it would have seemed like mockery to
encourage him to go on. But that simple faith was
mighty, and he went out. Wherever he met noble
generous natures, there he presented his plea for aid —
and not in vain. Many of America's proudest names
are enrolled among those who delighted to encourage
his 'true heart by kindly words and generous gifts.'
The blessing of the All-Merciful rest upon them 1 He •
who has said, ' Inasmuch as ye have done it untomtbe
least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me,'
will not forget their labor of love.
The $5,000 is ready. It is a great price to pay the
mean man, who has appropriated to himself all their
past years of hard labor. But they are his property —
constitutionally; and he must be Avell paid for all the.
care and watchfulness which he has exercised in their
behalf. How long ! Oh ! how long shall such mockery
exist !
But little more, we trust, remains for our patient
friend to do before he shall have all things arranged

"HOW DID HE GET THE MONEY?" 337
for the exit of those loved ones from the house of
bondage. There are no doubt kind hearts that wUl
still find pleasure in assisting to raise the sum neces
sary to defray their travelling expenses.
"Oh! that the journey were commenced! That
journey which will end in such a joyful embrace of
husband and wife, father and children ; so hopelessly
separated — so rapturously met. Beyond the power of
the master — far from the sound of the overseer's whip ;
free! free ! and all together !¦ Heaven speed the hour
that shall bring them release !
In Syracuse he received letters from Rev. Mr. May
to Rev. G. W. Hosmer, Buffalo, also to Rev. Dr. WUlis,
T. Henning, Esq., and Rev. J. B. Smith, of Toronto,
C. W.
The eleventh of October saAV him in Buffalo, where,
through the kind offices of Rev. Dr. Hosmer, and
Peter's friend, Mrs. Legrand Marvin, who had known
him well during a previous residence of several years
in Alabama, he received eighty dollars. On the thir
teenth, he crossed to Toronto — not for the purpose of
soliciting funds but merely " to see how his brethren
{the fugitives from slavery) prospered," and " to enjoy
the pleasures of treading for once upon/ree soil." Here
he spent the Sabbath, visited two colored churches,
and gratefully received a present of fifteen dollars.
The next Sabbath found him at the little village of
CamiUus, N. Y. Here he had many friends, who had
long been watching his career, and praying for his ul
timate success. He had not previously called on them
for .contributions, but at this time collections were
taken up for him in both the churches. " He can sue-
15

338 the kidnapped and the ransomed.
ceed without pur aid," said Rev. Mr. Bush, of the
Methodist Church, " but we cannot afford to lose this op
portunity." To this sentiment each heart responded.
During the day he received sixty-three dollars; and
heartfelt prayers were offered for his speedy re-union
to those for whose ransom he had so faithfully labored.
He now resolved to return to BurHngton, and thence
to Philadelphia, for the purpose of completing the ar
rangements for the purchase of his family before the
coming of winter. Negotiations had been opened,
some months before, by Mr. HalloweU, a wealthy mer
chant of PhUadelphia, with Mr. John Simpson, of
Florence, Ala., who had agreed, as soon as the requi
site funds should be forwarded to him, to buy the
family for Peter. Accordingly, soon after Peter's re
turn to Philadelphia, his friends in that city having
contributed the balance of the sum necessary to defray
the expenses of their journey, a clerk of the house of
HalloweU & Co. was sent to Florence with the money;
and with instructions to receive the family, and to con
duct them to their future home among the free.

CHAPTER XXXV.
EXPERIENCE OF THE RETURNED
FUGITIVES.
Before noon on Saturday, the fifth of April, 1851,
Vina and her children returned to their deserted cabin.
Through what an age of anxiety and suffering had
they passed during'the three weeks which had elapsed
since they forsook the shelter of its' lowly roof. Then
the hope of liberty had caused their hearts to throb,
and their dark eyes to gleam with an unwonted light ;
now their hearts were hard, and still in their deep
anguish, and a heavy shadow dwelt beneath their
downcast, eyelids.
The best of the furniture and clothing which they
had left, had all been stolen and conveyed away dur
ing their absence, but this they heeded not in their
despair. True, many hours of tedious toil, by night,
had been required to purchase these few comforts, but
now that liberty had been rudely snatched from their
eager grasp, they had no tears to shed for minor losses.
At noon, the people came in from the field. Most
of them looked wistfully upon the captured fugitives,
and when they said "Howd'y'," their voices had a
mournful tone. Others, however, were glad they had
been brought back, "bekase," they said, " dey's nuthin1
[339]

340 THE KIDNAPPED and the ransomed.
but niggers, no how, and dey's aUers so mighty good,
and never gits de cowhide; now dey'U des find out
how good it feels to git a cuttin' up."
After dinner, the family were sent out with the
other hands to plant cotton. Ah ! their labor just then
was greatly needed,- and for that reason, probably, the
day of vengeance was postponed. They knew it was
not forgotten; for dark hints were often uttered in
their hearing, and threatening looks were cast upon
the runaways.
In gloomy sUence they pursued their regular labors,
tiU Wednesday morning, when Mr. McKiernan, at
tended by Smith, the overseer, entered the field. Vina
knew their errand, and her indignation rose — but she
was helpless. She saw them approaching the spot
where young Peter was at work, and heard, them order
him to strip. Poor feUow ! he was wholly in their
power, and he obeyed.
There stood the mother and counted the two hun
dred heavy lashes that fell upon the naked back of her
first-born son. He bore his torture bravely. Not one
cry for mercy did he utter ; not one imploring look
did he vouchsafe the fiends, who sought to bend his
spirit; and not tiU they had finished, did he speak -
" This is the last time," said he then to the overseer,
" that you shall ever strike me. I never will be whip
ped again by any man."
"Hush your mouth, you d — d rascal," cried his
master, "or I'll have as much more put on you."
They left the young man, and came to his mother.
Smith attempted to tie her. "No, sir," said she, "I
don't belong to you, and1 you aint gwine to whip me.
Yer's my mass'r — I belong to him, and he may kill

EXPERIENCE OF THE FUGITIVES. 341
me if he Avant to ; but I'm not gwine let you tie me
nor whip me. You don't like mej> and I never did like
you no how. H my mass'r wants me beat, he must do
it hisself." Mr. McKiernan was sitting on his horse, but at this
he dismounted, and bade the overseer give him his
whip. Smith complied, and the chivalrous master
ordered her to take off her coat. He then tied her
hands, and gave her less than a hundred blows, a
sfight punishment for a runaway. He did it very
gently too, for the skin, though sorely bruised, was not
cut by the cowhide.
This done, the two worthies repaired to the black
smith's shop, where Levin Avas at work ; and then his
manly form was bared, whUe the fierce lash of the
overseer whizzed through the air as though it loved
the sport*
Catharine escaped the cowhide. Her master ques
tioned her minutely concerning her knowledge of the
plan of the escape, but she appeared so ignorant that
he told the overseer it was not worth whUe to whip
her. " It's that devilish Peter that's been at the bottom
of aU this," said he, " and I believe the Jew has done
the work. There's Catherine, • she didn't understand
any of their plans ; but her mother — d — n her, she's
* Neither the stocks nor the runaway's heavy irons were called
into requisition, why, we know not, unless their very success in
once reaching the Free States warned their master against provok
ing another attempt at flight. The influence of this overseer was
also opposed to such exhibitions of barbarity. " Smith," Vina
says, " was mons's hard to chillun, and them women whar was
afeard of him, but to the rest o' the hands, he was as good as any
o' the overseers."

842 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
got sense enough. It would be just like her to try it
again, but she'll never go and leave her daughter.
She's always doted on her girl, and I'U be d — d if I
blame her, for Catharine is a devUish likely wench. So
it's best to keep one of them on the island, I reckon
the old woman. She wouldn't be long starting off
again d — n her, if she took it into her head. She was
always bound to have her own way, though to teU the
truth, she's as clever a woman as ever I owned."
The next Sunday, Vina received the order to pre
pare to go to the island. It did not seem to move her.
"I don't keer whar they sends me," said she, "any
place is better 'n this yer.'' So Avith desperate prompt
ness she packed up the few articles necessary to furnish
the cabin which she was to inhabit there, and that very
day she departed.
"I liked stayin' on the island a heap the best," she
says, " out o' sight mostly of both mass'r and Missus.
Me and them had fell out, and I didn't never want to
make friends with 'em no more. I didn't keer about
bein' called in every time any person was took sick,
and I just determined that if they ever sent for me
agin, I wouldn't go without they driv me Hke a dog."
Of all the beating hearts on the plantation, none
thrUled with such a commingling of delight and grief
at the return of Vina and her famUy, as did that of a
maiden named Susanna.
She Avas a bright mulatto, the daughter of "Aunt
Patsey," who for the last few years, had taken charge
of the young children. Susanna was a quiet well-
behaved girl, that had been raised on the place, and
ever since they were children, young Peter and herself
had loved each other. But when his father went away,

EXPERIENCE OF THE FUGITIVES. 343
and left to his family the assurance that if he lived
they should be free. Peter determined to obey his
counsel; and so the union of the devoted pair was
postponed for an indefinite period.
Now that their great effort to achieve their Hberty
had faUed, the young man's heart would whisper that
perhaps his father would consider his request no longer
binding. Yet he kept these "thoughts hid deep in his
own breast, for he saw that in his mother's heart, all
hope of freedom was not yet extinct.
But the master's watchful eye had long noticed their
attachment, and, imagining that if Peter had a wife he
would be less likely to run off again, he determined
that now they should be married. No favorable oppor
tunity however occurred for him to urge the matter,
until the crop was laid by in August ; when, according
to his annual custom, he gave his slaves a barbacue.
Then he determined that the marriage should take
place. The long trench was duly prepared with its bed of
glowing coals, over which Avere roasting numerous pigs
and chickens, with the flesh of sheep and oxen in
abundance. Peter was aiding in the preparation of the
feast, when he was summoned into the presence of his
master. " How would you like to marrySusanna, boy ?"
"I don't care about marryin' any body now, Sir."
"But Susanna says she loves you, and you ought U
have her."
"No, Sir, I don't care about marryin' without my
people's willin'."
"It's no matter about your mother, boy, I give you

344 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
leave, and you needn't ask her anything about it. Go
and dress yourself."
"I've got nothin' to dress in."
"WeU, go and put on clean clothes, any how, and
then come back to me."
Peter went to his mother's cabin. For a time he
hesitated, but his master's command was absolute, and
he had bid him hasten. His long-years' love for
Susanna was not sUent, but that voice he knew how
to quell at duty's bidding. His mother, he could not
bear to vex her.
Half undecided what course would be the wisest, he
dressed mechanically in clean working-clothes. (He
had a suit of Sunday clothes Avhich he had bought
himself, but these he would not wear to please his
master) His toilette completed, he sat down again to
think. He could not long defer his decision, for his
master would be as angry at his delay, as if he should
refuse obedience to his orders; so at last, scarcely know
ing whether he was doing right or wrong, he left the
cabin, and approached the spot where he had left
McKiernan. Susanna, having previously received an order from
her master to dress and come to him, was already
there. One of their fellow-slaves, a preacher, named WiHiam
Handy was now called to marry them; and in a few
minutes they were marching around the field at the
head of a troop of their young companions, who with
gay songs and merry laughter were celebrating the
marriage of their friends.
Vina soon heard what had occurred ; but she was
one of the cooks, and she continued quietly to baste

EXPERIENCE OF THE FUGITIVES. 345
the meat, though 'every moment her wrath was rising
higher. Levin stood by her side, and he, too, was
indignant. Soon the master approached. " Why don't
you march with the others?" said he to Vina.
" I aint a soldier," repHed she, " and I don't know
nuthin' about marchin'."
" Why, what is the matter with you ?"
" Nuthin' more'n common ; and things that's com
mon yer is shockin' to strangers."
" What's that ? Say that again."
She repeated her words. " There's not a plantation
in a milfion o' miles whar thar's such works as thar is
yax." "Better mind how you talk, girl, or I'U give you a
slap." " I don't keer what you do. I would n't keer if
you kUled him and me too. You've done made a
heap o' matches, and none of 'em never prospered, no
how." " Oh, I was so mad !" she says, " every time I looked
down, 'peared like I could see sparks o' fire a. comin'
out o' my eyes. Then he went to the house and told
the missus I was powerful mad. She 'lowed he ought
to be ashamed o' himself, kase she said he'd done me
mean, and she did n't blame me if I was mad. Well,
he said, when they wanted to marry, nobody should n't
hinder 'em. He'd marry 'em hisself-when he liked."
The young people lived in the cabin with Aunt
Patsey, and for some time the current of their lives
flowed calmly on. After about a year, a little boy
was folded to .Susanna's breast — a fine, " peart," healthy
child. She named him Edmund ; and he soon became
very dear to the hearts of all his kindred. But Vina,
15*

346 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
now that the tide which had whelmed her in des
pair had fallen, Hved in hourly expectation of a sum
mons to her husband ; and she was sad at the advent
of this Httle one. She, too, loved the baby dearly ;
but she knew it formed another tie to bind the young
father fast to slave-land.
When little Edmund was a few months old, he was
seized with whooping-cough, and then he needed his
mother's care. But she was forced to go each morn
ing to the field; and though Aunt Patsey was not heed
less of her little grandchUd, yet she had so many chil
dren to look after that she could not always watch him.
So he took cold, and then his cough became worse;
and week after week, he continued to grow weaker, tiU
it was plain that he could Hve but Httle longer.
Oh ! how his mother longed to stay in and nurse
him for the last few days ! But in vain she begged
this privilege of the overseer — and when, in her sor
row, she sought her mistress, who had seen four of
her own little ones laid in the grave, the lady sharply
bade her " Go out to work." " It's no use," said she,
" for you to stay in — you don't know how to take care
of chUdren — if you did, your baby never would have
been so bad."
A week later, a messenger was sent to the field to
bid Peter and his wife come and see the last of their child;
and, first obtaining permission of the overseer, they
hastened to the cabin. The baby did not know them
now — and though the young mother fondly kissed his
Hps, and breathed his name in tenderest accents, she
could awake no answering smile. A fierce convulsion
shook his Httle frame — it passed — the chUd was dead.

EXPERIENCE OF THE FUGITIVES. 347
Fond mother, Avho hast watched thy little one by
day and night, until the angels bore him from thy
arms, rememberest thou the anguish of that hour?
What torture would have rent thy heart if thou hadst
seen him wasting — dying, and all for lack of care —
while thou wast forced to toil for the gain of a remorse
less tyrant ! God pity the mother who is doomed to
live — a slave !
" Ah, weU," said the mistress, when they told her
that Susanna's child was dead — " it wiU be better off;
My life is nearly worried out of me by sick chUdren,
and I am sure I wouldn't care if they were all dead.
It is just as well for Susanna, for it never would have
done her any good if it had Hved."
Early in the spring of 1854, another son was born
unto them, and this they called Peter. Vina had now
come down from the Island, and had resumed the
office of general nurse, which she had fiUed for many
years ; and when Httle Peter was five weeks old, the
master asked her if she thought Susanna was well
enough to go out.
" No, Sir," repHed she, " she aint over and above
strong, no how, and she oughtent to go out when the
weather's so bad."
" WeU, if you think so, I will give her another
week." But the overseer was " pushed," and before three
days, Susanna was sent out to the field. A heavy rain
came on soon after, which was followed by a chiHing
wind. " Please, Sir," said the young mother, " may I go to
the house? I'm mighty cold, and my side aches
powerful."

348 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
" No, no ; you used to be smart enough, but now
you're always complaining, and getting to be no ac
count. Go 'long to your work."
A- week longer she labored, but by that time she
became so very Ul that they could force her to go out
no more. The doctor was caUed, but he could do but
little to relieve her.
Month after month she lay in the cabin a patient
sufferer, and watched with a mother's interest the
growth of her Httle Peter. Poor baby, he was weak
and sickly, and she often wished that she might take
him with her to that better land, where there is neither
toil, nor pain, nor sorrow.
" Don't stay long," said Susanna, as she saw Peter
going out of the cabin one Sunday morning in August,
" it's lonesome when you're gone."
He returned and sat down by her side. AU day
she talked sweetly to him of that blest home to which
she was hastening; for " Susanna was a religious girl,"
and her long, lonely days of sickness she had spent in
thinking of the happy land above. " I'm gwine away
from you now, Peter," said she, "but I shaU leave our
little baby with you. You'll take good care of him
for my sake — won't you? 0 Peter, you'll be lone
some when I'm gone, but you must think I'm happy ;
and it wont be long before you'U come too."
Her eyes grew very bright as she thus strove to
comfort her sorrowing young husband ; but when the
sun went down her eyeHds closed — she had gone home.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
"THEY TAKE GOOD CARE OF THEIR
PROPERTY."
For more than two years after her return from " dat
dar jaunt to de Norfi" Vina remained upon the island.
Sometimes both of her sons were with her there ; but
Catharine was kept constantly upon the home place.
"Well, girl," said her master, some months after
her return, " do you remember the road you travelled
when that rascal carried you all off?"
" Yes, Sir," replied Vina, " I remember every inch
I went ; and I could go over it again with my eyes
shot." The boys also were questioned concerning their
knowledge of the route, and they gave similar answers ;
" though to teU the truth," says Vina, " I should n't
know no more about it Avhen I got off o' the river,
than if I was blind."
Their prompt assertions that they knew " every inch
of the road," did not diminish their master's fear that
they might repeat the attempt to escape, and he deter
mined to take every possible means to prevent another
trial. But he could not control his own base passions ;
and though Vina never smiled, and seldom spoke
cheerfully in his presence, his evU nature impelled him

350 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
to make one more effort to accomplish the base pur- "
pose in which, years before, she had so signaUy foiled
him. Her gloom, the consequence of disappointed
hope and stern resolve to make another effort to escape
his hated rule, he construed into the effect of shame at
her disgrace ; and now, if ever, he deemed he might
succeed in depriving her of her honor.
It was winter. She Avas upon the island engaged in
picking up trash and burning it to prepare the land for
plowing. The master came, and sat down by the fire. She
took no notice of his approach, but continued picking
up the rubbish, and adding it to the heap.
"Vina! 0, Vina!"
She did not answer — there was something in his
tone that made her angry.
"Girl! 0, Girl! Come here!"
She turned her head towards him, but continued her
work. " Here — this fire don't burn much."
" No, sir — its just kindled — it 'U burn to-reck'ly."
"WeU, you bring some more trash to crowd in
here:" She brought him a handful of sticks.
" Look here, Vina," said he in his most insinuating
tone, "I intend to stay here on the island to-night —
won't you come to my house, and stay with me ?"
" What you mean, sir, by askin' me such a thing as
that ? You mought as well sing a psalm to a dead cow
as to ncime such a thing as that to me. I hav n't forgot
how you've used me and my chUlern just bekase I
done what any person else would do. I did n't do no
Avrong, and I ain't ashamed o' goin' off; but you ought

CAREFUL OF THEIR PROPERTY. 351
to be ashamed, sir, to talk fo me this way — after my
knowin' aU about you that I do."
"WeU, now look here," urged the gracious master,
"I've forgiven all that — it's aU dead and buried."
" No, sir, it ain't buried so but what I can scratch it
up, and it never will be forgot — not by me."
" WeU, won't you come to my house ? If you will,
I'U do aU I can for you ; and you never shall want for
anything." " No, sir, I never wUl come to your house. Thar's
a little old hut yon', that you buUt for me, whar don't*
keep the rain out nights ; I cun stay thar like I has
done. You think I done forgot seein' poor Lydia,
only a few months ago, bucked down afore that very
door o' yourn, and all the five hundred blows the poor
thing tuck just for you ?"
"Well, I didn't do that."
" No, sir, but your son did ; and your wife sent him
the note tellin' him to whip her tUl he just left the
breath o' life in her, and Aunt Lucy heard him a
readin' the note. Thar in the mornin', when thar's a
white fross on the ground, she was stripped by your
son — a right young man, not of age yet, and beat with
whips and an oak paddle as thick as my hand tiU the
breath was a'most gone out of her body. That too,
after you'd whipped her yourself for kUlin' her child.
She wouldn't a killed it only 'twas yourn, and she
knowed what she'd suffer about it if it was seen.*
You mighty good — it's all honey tiU you gits girls into
trouble, and then you walks off — and leaves 'em to
*The whole history of the affair here referred to is in the posses
sion of the writer, but it is too horrid for publication.

352 THE KIDNAPPED AND 'THE RANSOMED.
b'ar all the 'buse they gits. And it 's good enough for
'em if they'U be fooled by you when they knows you
so well. Now, wouldn't it be mighty strange if I
did n't hate you, knowin' so much about your ways as
I does. I tell you, sir, I never did Hke you, and I
never shaU."
"The devil! Don't you stand there, and tell me
you don't like me."
"Well, sir, it ain't no hurt to tell the truth ; and that
is so — I don't Hke you, and I don't want to hear no
more such talk as you talked to me to-day."
" WeU, you think of it," said he, returning to his
softest tone — " and you'd better do as I want you to."
" It 's no use talkin' — I '11 never put myself in your
power whUe I live."
" What's that girl's name of yours?"
"What girl?"
" Why, your daughter, there."
" You knows her name, sir, just as weU as I does.
You done knowed her from the day she's born. Her
name Catharine — why, what you gwine say 'bout
her?" " I say she's a devilish likely girl, and I  "
" Now, mass'r I wants to teU you — if you ever comes
a foolin' round her, you'U be sorry. You know I
never said I'd do a thing, but I done it, or least ways,
tried ; and if my girl ever consents to yOur mean ways,
I'll kill her or you — one. I ruther die a peaceable
death 'an to be hung, but just as sure as you meddles
with my daughter, I'U do what I say. " I ain't gwine to
see her like the other girls yer, whar you been the
means o' gettin' aU cut to pieces."
The master walked away. He had listened to such

CAREFUL OF THEIR PROPERTY. 353
a lecture as he seldom received ; and from that time he
ceased to torment the resolute woman that dared to
speak the truth even to his face. Vina Avas very im
pudent. He might have killed her on the spot ; but
she knew he Avould not strike her. Her just and fear
less words, slave though she was, shielded herself and
the daughter that she loved from further' insults.
Notwithstanding that during their absence their
cabin had been robbed of nearly aU its comforts, yet
on their return from their unfortunate journey North
ward, Vina and her family resumed their former in
dustrious habits. The boys cultivated their patches
as had been their custom, and saved every penny
which they gained, in order to fulfil their father's in
junction—to provide every thing needful for their
mother's comfort. Meantime, Vina and Catharine
labored faithfully both nights and Sundays, and the
weU-mended garments and Avarm stockings that the
brothers wore testified to the skill with which their
fingers wrought.
During the summer of 1853 the patches yielded
well, and the people had all their little crops secured
before Christmas. They were obliged to sell them to
their master, as had ever been his rule; and when
they were all ready, the overseer weighed, the corn
and cotton they had raised, and promised them to see
that all was right. The master affected to rejoice in
their success ; and told them to come to him the first
day of Christmas, and he would pay them.
Accordingly, when Christmas came they all, accom
panied _by the overseer, went to the house to receive
their money.
"Well, weU," said the master, "I havn't got the

354 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
money now ; but I'll tell you what I'll do. Every one
of you, big and little, that Avants to go to town, may
go to-morrow,— and I'll go too, and pay you all in
town. I've got the promise of some money that is
due me there to-morrow."
" Aha !" said Vina, as they came away, " I know
how it wUl be — you aU won't git no money to-morrow.
He aint gwine pay no money, and I wont go."
But her companions could not believe that their
master would thus deceive them ; and the next morn
ing the whole plantation force climbed into the huge
wagons and took the road to Tuscumbia.
To one unused to Christmas sights in slave-land a
more grotesque spectacle than was presented by these
loaded wagons could scarcely be imagined. There
were old women with red and yeUow turbans — stiff-
starched and taU — and a score of boys and girls — some
with bare heads, and others glorying in comical old
rimless hats and bonnets, in styles unknown to Paris
milHners. Then there were sage uncles and prim young girls
who were anxious to show off their best behavior
" gwine to town" — and these sat up stately and stiff;
while thole less dignified, with, laugh, and song, and
frolic, and grimace, reminded them that " Christmas
time" would hot last all the year.
The master met them as he had promised at the
Store of Mr. N — , and there, instead of paying them
the money, he selected a lot of poor damaged calico,
and called the women to choose each of them a dress.
They looked at each other in consternation. Here
was the fruit of all their toU ! Nights and hoHdays
they had spent for this — a few yards of mean thin

CAREFUL OF THEIR PROPERTY. 355
cafico, that Avould not pay for making up. Their eyes
roUed angrUy and their Hps pouted the displeasure
which they dared not speak ; and so the calico was
measured off, though in their hearts they scorned the
mean-spirited wretch Avho could thus stoop to cheat
them. One or two, however, rebelled. Catharine went
quietly and selected something for herself. "Ugh!"
Baid her master, "that's too dear."
" Well," said she, "if I can't have that, I don't want
none at aU."
He finally yielded and allowed her to take what
she had chosen. But when Amanda, a middle-aged
woman, followed her example, and sought such goods
" as would make comfortable clothes for her chUdren,
he swore she should take such as the others had, or
none at aU.
"No, sir," said she, "I wouldn't walk out de store
with such stuff as dat dar. I done worked hard all
dis year to make a crap, and I don't want to be cheated
now. I got a house fuU of chUlern, and dey's aU
mighty nigh naked, and I want something decent to
make clothes for 'em."
" Hush your mouth ! you huzzy I" cried her master,
'-you shall take what I give you."
" Well, sir, if you dont git mc what I want, I'U git
it 'fore de year's out. H I can't git full pay for my
crap one way, I wUl another."
He raised his. hand to strike her.
" I don't keer if you does whip me. I'm gwine to
have my rights if I cun git 'em."
This peculiar shopping ended, the whole company
returned home in Ul humor. " I told you so," said

356 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
Vina, " I knowed he wasn't gwine to pay you aU for
yer craps. He didn't have no money promised him
in town, no how. That's the reason I wouldn't go.
I wasn't gwine to foUer him off to town for money,
when I knowed he wasn't gwine to give it."
Vina had not been many months on the island before
her mistress began to wish for her presence on the
home place. She was an excellent nurse in sickness,
and for many years she had been caUed in to wait
upon any of the Avhite famUy that chanced to be ill ;
and so faithful and competent was she, that when
Vina was in the sick-room the mother felt no uneasi
ness. Among the slaves her field was wider, for there,
unless in extraordinary cases, she Avas both doctor and
nurse. At last Mrs. McKiernan told her husband that they
must get Vina back, or they never should raise any
more chUdren. " The trouble with them commenced,"
said she, "when Vina and her famUy first ran off,
and since that time there has been nothing but bad
luck with both the women and chUdren. There's
Delphia might have been aHve now if it hadn't been
for those fools of doctors."
" Well, Vina," said the master, when she had been
more than two years on the island, "how would you
like to go back to the low place ?"
" I don't keer 'bout gwine back, sir."
' ' But your mistress says she would Hke to have you
back. Several of the women wUl be sick soon, and
she wants you there."
" I don't want nuthin' to do with 'em, sir ; you done
sent me off yer out o' spite, and now the sick ones may

CAREFUL OF THEIR PROPERTY. 357
take care o their selves. I ain't gwine to be runnin'
after 'cm."
"WeU, if you don't go now, you may not get a
chance when you do want to go."
" I don't keer nuthin' 'bout it, sir ; I don't want to
go thar, never."
After a few weeks, however, she packed up the few
cooking utensUs which she had there with two or three
other articles of furniture, and went home to the cabin
which Peter had buUt for her so many years before.
Still she was dark and gloomy — her heart had lost its
light ; and though she did not quite despair, yet her
chance of meeting her beloved husband seemed to
lessen day by day. But now there was much sickness
on the place ; and in sympathy with the suffering of
her sisters, she found transient forgetfulness of her own
griefs. Delphia, to whom reference was made by Mrs. Mc
Kiernan, died a few days after Vina ran off; and her
story, though it reveals a course of cruelty too base
even for savages, shows but another phase of slavery.
' Smith, the overseer, at that time, was. severe, as has
before been stated, only towards chUdren, or those
women who were afraid of him. " He knowed," says
Vina, " the people mostly would fight him if he tried
to beat 'em, and so he managed to do without much
beatin'. But them whar's feared of him fared mons's
hard — 'pears Hke he never knows when to stop, if he
gits mad at one o' them kind."
Smith had a great deal of company on Sundays ;
and as the overseers are furnished by their employers
with corn and bacon for their famUies, as weU as flour,

358 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
coffee, and sugar, so many guests were quite expensive
to Mr. McKiernan.
One Sunday afternoon, he walked down to the quar;
ter, and saw two horses hitched at the overseer's gate.
" Whose horses are these ?" asked he of a group of
women that stood near.
Delphia chanced to reply.
" Smith has a heap of company, don't he ?" said the
- master. "Yes, sir," said Delphia, " last Sunday thar was six
horses hitched to his fence, and every one of 'em was
carried off, and fed."
Some evil-minded tale-bearer took the first oppor
tunity to report this conversation to the overseer ; and
he was enraged.
A few days after, the master plainly expressed his
opinion to Mr. Smith respecting the number of his
guests, adding that he knew it was so, for he saw them
there himself.
" You did not see them," said Smith, " you were not
in sight when they were here. Some nigger has told
you ; and it is no other than that lying, tattHng wench,
Delphia." From that hour he vowed vengeance on the poor
woman ; swearing at the same time there were other
ways to kill a cow besides shooting her or knocking
her in the head.
Thereafter, he never gave Delphia a moment's rest.
She was one of the plow women ; and though she was
not in a condition to bear extreme fatigue, he com
pelled her day after day to plow with her mule in a
trot. She dared not stop, for his eye was ever on her;

* CAREFUL OF THEIR PROPERTY. 359
and when the other women told her she was killing
herself, she only repHed, " You know how Smith hates
me, and he will beat me to death if I don't mind him."
Thus week after Aveek, she ran all day in the plow,
till at last she was forced to stop, and she went, with
her mule, to the quarter. Smith was at his house, and
he saw her coming.
"What are you there for ;" cried he.
" I'm sick, sir, I can't work."
" No, you're not sick. You need n't put out your
mule — tie him there ; and in just two hours you shaU
go out again. I'll give you that long to rest."
She went into her cabin, and in less than tAVO hours
the doctor was sent for. Before night, poor Delphia
lay stiU and cold in death, with her dead baby by her
side. As two of her fellow-slaves Avere digging her grave
the overseer came up. He jumped down into the nar
row house they were hollowing for his victim —
" There," said he with an oath, " this is the place where
all liars and tattlers ought to go."
But that not the overseers alone were spiteful and
even murderous in their barbarity, may be inferred
from the foUowing incident, which occurred soon after
Vina went home from the island.
A woman, named Leah, was taken sick in the field,
and her master being near, she went to him for permis
sion to go to the house.
"What the devU do you want to go to the house
for?" "I'm sick, sir."
"Sick, d— n you! go to work; and if I hear any
more of your complaining, I'll give you something to

360 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.-
complain about." So saying, he gave her a few cuts
with his cowhide, in token of what she might expect
if she repeated her request, and she went back.
But she grew Avorse ; and not daring to leave the
field without permission, she went again to her master.
"It's a deviHsh lie. You are not sick; if you are,
I can cure you." With these words he flew at her,
and beat her cruelly; after which, with kicks and
curses, he sent her back to her work.
It was impossible for her to remain much longer.
She started to leave the field, and Vina, who had been
a witness of the scene, followed her to her cabin. We
give what followed in her own words.
" In about a half hour, her child was born, and such
a sight as that chUd was would make any person cry
that has any heart at all. * * * * *
#* * * * * * * # *
The overseer's wife was thar, and she Avas shocked
mightily. She called her husband, and he come and
looked at it; and two gentlemen, whar was thar a
visitin' him, they see it too ; and they aU 'loAved 'they
never see nuthin' like it in all their lives.
" WeU, I staid, and done all I could for Leah, and
dressed the baby — for it was livin' after aU, and when
I got all done, I went up to the house to tell Missus.
Mass'r was a sittin' by, but I never stopped for him —
I told her the whole story, and all about the beatin'
too. She hated it mightily, partic'lar Avhen I told her
'bout the overseer and them other two white men seein'
it. ' That's just Hke you,' says she to Mass'r, ' you're
always bringing some disgrace on this plantation. The
report of this wUl go aU over the country.'
• " ' Why, I did'nt know she Avas sick,' says he.

CAREFUL OF THEIR PROPERTY. 361
" ' Yes, you did know it, she told you she was sick,
and if she had not, you might have knoAvn better than
to beat her so, and she in such a state. You did it on
purpose to disgrace yourself, and the plantation, it is
just Hke you. I'U order my carriage, and go away
till the talk about this is )ver. . It is just the way you
always do — -just like you.'
" That's all the comfort Leah got from Missus. She
was mighty sorry to have folks know such works was
a gwine on, but she didn't never do much for them
whar was a sufferin'. If she could keep cl'ar o' the
disgrace, that thar was aU she cared for.
"Leah's baby Hved a week, and I reckon it was a
good thing it died, for 'peared Hke it suffered a heap
all the time. Oh ! it aint no wonder so many o' their
chillun dies, its more wonder that any of 'em lives
Avhen the women has to b'ar so much."

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE RE-UNION.
Towards the close of the year 1854, their being no
immediate need of Vina's presence on the "low place,"
she_went back to the island. Susanna had died during
the summer, and now the boys were both with their
mother, leaving Catharine sole tenant of the old home
cabin. " The island," although it was five mUes above the
home plantation, was not a lonely place. There were
good neighbors on the river bank opposite, and with
some of these, the slaves who were kept here, formed
lasting friendships ; even Vina, though she had been
so morose and sad during these last years, had not been
unmindful of the sympathy of her own people.
On Sunday morning, December seventeenth, as she
Avas sitting alone in her cabin, a woman belonging to
Mr. Hawkins, who owned a plantation on the North
bank of the river, came over to pay her a visit.
" What do you think, Vina ?" said she, as soon as
she was sure there were no listeners, "I heard a great
secret in town last night."
" Oh, I don't know Avhat I thinks till I yers what
it's about," replied Vina.
" Well, Peter's sent for you all ! and dar's a man in

THE RE- UNION. 363
town whar's come from some place 'way off to de Norf
dar, to tote you all off."
"How does you know?" asked Vina, her eyes dilated,
and her whole frame trembHng with excitement.
" Why, I's to town last night to Mr. Simpson's store,
and I yer Mr. Simpson say so hisself. Dey all's a
makin' out de papers, and dey'U send for you 'fore
many days."
The visitor soon departed, and Vina sat down to
think, but her brain whirled, and she was glad when
her sons came in, that she might share with them the
great joy that was swelling in her heart. She did not
for one moment doubt' the truth of the report, for it
was what she had expected. O poor faithful loving
heart ! thou hast borne grief with patience, wait but a
little longer, and thy joy shall overfloAv.
The mother and her sons now held a consultation
on the most judicious course for them to take; and
they determined to say nothing on the subject until
they should hear more. Catharine they could not see
¦before the next Sunday. Oh, how they wished that
she could share this joy.
On Monday morning, they went to work, as usual.
The bright glad hope with which their hearts were
warm shone not in their dark faces, they had schooled
their features to wear ever the same calm look. Full
weU they knew that any change of countenance might
be construed into a token of some hidden hope. Slaves
must not seem to hope for aught save Christmas Holi
days, though they may laugh, and dance, and sing,
so they evince no thought beyond the present.
Soon after midnight the next Wednesday, the island
people were aU caUed up. They were to kill hogs that

364 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
day, and every one upon the place Avas obliged to be
in motion.
Great fires were buUt here and there for scalding the
fated animals, and sharp knives, gleaming in their
strange Hght, seemed impatient to begin the sport.
Soon aU was noise and bustle. The merry butchers
talked and laughed, their victims squealed, and grave
old women scolded at the trifling of the youngsters ; for
though the day's work was no trifle, it was a change
in their monotonous life, and fun and frolic reigned.
About ten o'clock in the morning, Vina, who amid
all the confusion, was Avatching for a messenger, saw
her master coming up the hill from the river. He
walked towards the cabins, and soon called — "Vina!
0 Vina!"
She strove to quell the tumultuous throbbings of her
heart, and she succeeded in subduing aU appearance
of emotion — so that when she reached the spot where
the master stood, her face was calm, and her voice was
clear as usual.
"WeU, Vina," said he, "how would you like to
see Peter ?"
" Mons's well, Sir," repHed she.
" Do you know Avhere he is ?"
" I reckon, sir, he's in Cincinnati."
" No — he lives in PhUadelphia, and he's bought
you all."
"Bought us?"
" Yes, he's bought you ; — how would you Hke to go
to him?"
" Why, if it's true, sir, I'd like to go mighty well."
" If it's true ? — don't you believe it ?"
" I don't know, sir, whether I beHeves it or not"

THE RE-UNION. 365
"Well, don't you suppose I can sell you if I
choose ? — Don't you belong to me ?"
" Yes, sir, I know you can."
" Well, if you want to go, make haste and get your
selves ready ; for I've got to carry you all over to
Florence to-night. There's a man there, who has come
for you — he can tell you all about Peter. You ought
to have been there before noAV, but you are all so
devilish hard to hear that I had to hallo there for
a boat, 'tiU I'm right hoarse."
" We didn't hear you, Sir — the hogs kept such a
fuss." " I know — -I know — but you all must hurry your
selves noAV."
He then went to the boys, and told the news to
them ; but they, too, made strange of it, and seemed
to doubt his words.
" Well," said he, " you all act like you don't
believe me — now, I'm no ways anxious to sell you,
and if you don't Avant to go, you can stay. But if
you do want to go, you must get ready devilish quick,
for I must have you in Florence to-night ; and we
must cross the river before dark."
The mother and her sons entered their cabin, and
hastily gathering up such of their things as they could
carry easiest, they hastened to the river. Among
their fellow-slaves were many whom they counted
friends, but even to these they had no time to say
" Good bye." Crossing to the main land in a canoe,
they sprang into the wagon Avhich waited for them
there, and drove toward home, the master riding by
. their side.
As soon as they arrived at the quarter, he called the

366 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
overseer. " See here, Smith, get on your horse, and
go quick and tell Catharine to come here. Ride fast ;
for I'm in a devil of a hurry."
Away went the overseer to the clearing, where he
found Catharine busy chopping down a tree. . " Here,
Girl," cried he, "give me your axe — go quick to the
house — you're sold, and your master sent me for you
in a hurry."
Half bewUdered, yet guessing the truth, Catharine
walked as fast as possible towards the quarter. Her
mother's figure was the first that met her eye. Then
her pulse beat quicker — she bounded towards her.
"Mother, what is it?"
"Why, yer father's sent for us, chUe — leastways
Mass'r says so."
" Has he done bought us ?"
" Yes ; so your Mass'r says."
,¦ , "I don't want no more !" cried the girl, as with
eager hands she assisted* her mother in their hasty
preparations. The master remscined in sight, and every minute
shouted to them to hurry, or they could not cross the
river ; thus confusing them so that they could think
of nothing. Vina wished to see her mistress, who
owed her about three dollars for chickens, and had
promised her the money on Christmas. Vina knew
that she would not refuse to pay her now, but Mr.
McKiernan would not let her go. "Never mind,"
said he, " I'll pay you when we get to town."
" Wouldn't you like to take your Httle grandchild
with you ?" asked the master.
" Yes, sir," said Vina, " if I could — how much you
ask for him?"

THE RE-UNION. 367
"Oh, a trifle!" replied he, "I'd seU him to you
for a trifle — perhaps a hundred dollars."
"Well, Sir, here's aU my things; they cost a heap
o' money, and, if I had time, I could sell 'em all."
"I'll pay you for them when we get to town: but
come — hurry yourself."
Vina understood the value of his promise to pay
her for the goods she left behind ; but she was help
less. She threw a change of clothes for each of them
into her trunk — she had no time to select the best —
and tying up her feather bed which Peter had bought
for her-nine years before, she said " Good bye" to a
few mothers, who chanced just then to come in
from the field to nurse their babies, and left her
cabin — to return no more.
Notwithstanding all their haste, they were not in
time to cross the river before dark ; and so they
staid at Mr. Wm. Jackson's till morning, when they
went into town. ^
They stopped at Mr. Simpson's store, where the
papers were to be signed; and here they saw the
young gentleman who had been sent for them.
It was a cold raw, day, and the slaves were shivering
in their plantation clothes. " I wish, Sir," said Vina
to her master, as they stood in the chUHng wind,
"you'd give me money enough to buy me a thick.
shawl." "Why, Girl," said he, "I could n't do it. I came
from home in such a hurry, that I did n't have time to
get any small change^-I have nothing with me less
than a ten-dollar bUl."
"Seems to me," said his son-in-law, who stood by,
" these niggers are poorly dressed to be for sale ; you

368 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
might get her the shawl now, and pay for it some
other time," >
" Oh !" said Mr. McKiernan, " they've got better
clothes, but they won't put them on."
Vina thought of his promise to pay her for the
chickens, and also for the goods she left behind ; but
she determined not to ask him again, herself. So
Avhen she saw a crowd of gentlemen standing around,
she sent Peter to tell him that she wanted the money
for the chickens.
" Why, Boy," said he, feefihg in his pocket, " I have
no money smaUer than ten doUars."
Vina was listening. "Yes," cried she, when she
heard his answer, " so I thought when you would n't
let me stop to see Missus. I knowed you was n't
gwine pay me in town."
" McKiernan, d — n it," said one that stood by " why
don't you give your servants something ? You ought
to give them a present for the good they've done
you." He muttered something to himself, but made no
answer. After awhile Peter went to him again, and asked
him how much he would take for his baby. Poor Susan
na's dying words rang in his ears, and it seemed as if
he could not go and leave her chUd, that she had so
solemnly committed to his charge.
"The baby, eh? Oh, you may have it for two
hundred doUars."
The young father's hopes were dashed. He could
not raise so large a sum as he had learned that the
funds sent by his father were barely sufficient to defray
the travelHng expenses of the family.

THE RE- UNION. 369
"I say, McKiernan," said a gentleman in the crowd,
who pitied the distress of the slave-father, "I think
you ought to give that old woman her grandchild—
I heard you say. she has always been a good serv
ant — that you never struck her a lick, and that she
never deserved one — and that her famUy have always
behaved themselves well. Give them the little one for
good measure."
"Oh, I'll sell .the chUd cheap to them."
"Ha! sell it! They've no money to buy it. Give
it to them— that would he no more than fair."
Said another, " Where in the world did Peter get
the money to buy his family?"
" Oh," replied McKiernan, "he's got rich relations;
his friends are all wealthy. I saw one of his brothers
last year in PhUadelphia— WUliam StUl is his name.
He is rich, and a devilish likely fellow too. He keeps
the Anti-Slavery Office. I was in there twice, myself,
and I saw him write a hand that I could n't beat, nor
you either."
" What office, did you say ?"
" The Anti-Slavery Office. Ha ! ha ! I was as good
an Abolitionist as any of them while I was there. I
teU you — that WUliam StUl is a fine feUow. Another
of the brothers has a store, and Peter I beHeve owns
half of it."
The business was at last concluded, and soon after
the stage drove up that was to convey them to East-
port. There they were to take 'the boat which could
come up no higher on account of the low state of the
water in the river.
" When we got in the stage," says Vina, " I felt free.
'Peared like I didn't weigh no more'n a feather."
16*

370 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
" Aha !" said Catharine, looking down with ineffable
contempt upon her soUed and tattered garb, " reckon
when I git whar father is, I'll drap off these old duds."
" Why ?" said her mother, I don't reckon he's got
any new clothes for you."
" But didn't Mass'r say he got a. store ?"
"Pshaw! chUd, don't believe all he says."
" I believe that, for he never would have said such
a thing, if it wasn't so."
The young gentleman who had them in charge was
closely questioned by the Captain of the boat, and by
sundry other officious persons at Waterloo — a Httle
vUlage on the north side of the river, nearly opposite
Eastport. He was, however, aUowed to go on board
with them, and.they were glad, for soon they had their
supper — the first food they had tasted since dayHght
in the morning.
All went smoothly tUl they reached Paducah. Here
they were obliged to change boats, and again was their
young guardian subjected to a series of impertinent
questioning, as to what he was going to do with the
negroes, &c. He at length succeeded in transferring
his charge to a LouisvUle boat ; but the captain of this
was exceedingly uneasy about the slaves — he having
seen them when Mr. McKiernan was conveying them
back to slavery — nearly four years before. This young
man was evidently from the North ; indeed he did not
.scruple to confess it ; and if he should be running these
niggers off, and if his boat should bear him on in the
commission of such treason against the Constitution and
the Union, alas ! what ruin would ensue. Yet he had
straight papers, and did not act in the least like an
Abolitionist so after much deHberation, he concluded

THE RE-UNION. 37l
to let them come on board ; but at the same time he
resolved to watch them well, lest the fellow should
play some Yankee trick.
They arrived at LouisvUle in safety, and lost no
time in seeking a boat for Cincinnati. But lo! the
valorous captain of the packet they had just left was
there before them, and his sage warning procured from
the commander of the Cincinnati boat a stout refusal
to take them on. Their young guardian was now
sorely perplexed ; but fortunately he recollected that
he had an acquaintance in Louisville, who was a mer
chant of some note. To this gentleman? he hastened
in his extremity, and by his influence with the cau
tious captain, he at length secured a passage for him
self and the four ransomed slaves to Cincinnati.
The nearer they approached the end of their long
journey, the more restless and impatient grew the
mother. She had learned to bear suspense and sor
row. She had waited and been patient ; but this rapid
and sure approach towards the fulfilment of her hopes
was strange and new. She could not eat nor sleep for
very joy. The attention of her children, however, was
more easily diverted by surrounding objects, and as
the boys found occasional employment on the boat,
the hours to them were far from wearisome.
They aU suffered exceedingly from cold. Their
clothes were thin and old ; but what cared he who
clutched in his hard grasp the avails of all their years
of toil, beside the five thousand dollars for their ran
som?— what cared he if they should perish by the
way? He held the gold.
It was the morning of the Sabbath — the last day of

372 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE. RANSOMED.
the year 1854. Peter rose very early, and walked
down to the wharf. He had been in Cincinnati for a
week, waiting to greet his loved ones — how long the
hours had seemed while his heart trembled between
hope and fear. One hour he felt sure that he should
soon clasp in his fond arms the precious forms of wife
and chUdren — the next, a hundred fears arose that all
his hopes, even now, were doomed to disappointment.
He had not heard from them since from the papers he
had learned of their return to slavery, perhaps — Oh !
how the thought now shook the fabric of his hopes —
perhaps to torture and to death. Four summers had
passed since then — four seasons where fearful sickness
is wont to make its annual visits to the dark, unhealthy
quarters of the slave.
But on this holy Sabbath morning, these fears no
longer vexed him; for but a few hours had passed
since the telegraph had brought him tidings of the safe
approach of those for whom he waited.
He stepped on board the "Northerner," and the
first man he met was the agent of Mr. HalloweU. ¦ A
moment more, and wife and daughter — both were
clasped to his true heart, while on each side his manly
sons, with grateful reverence, gazed upon their father's
face. In that embrace no toil or sorrow was remembered ;
their swelling hearts had only room for love and grati
tude, and praise to Him who had not betrayed their
trust. At the home of Levi Coffin the ransomed family
were welcome ; and as that good man himself received
them there, his kind heart thrilled with a deHcious joy,
in which the angels sympathized.

THE RE-UNION. 373
Rest ye, poor hunted ones. No more shall " Chris
tian wolves" prowl along your pathway, for the golden
hand of charity hath taken from their cruel fangs the
power to do you harm. Aye, ye are free ! How
changed from the poor trembling fugitives that so
lately feared the echo of your own unequal footsteps.
Rejoice ! for gold hath power when justice fails. Be
glad! for mercy fives, though on the fairest portion of
our country's Avide domain her hands are chained — her
tongue is silent.
The news of this glad re-union spread rapidly among
the citizens of Cincinnati, and on two successive even
ing, pubHc meetings were held for the benefit of the
shivering strangers. Gifts of warm clothing, and of
money to defray the expenses of their journey onward,
were gladly offered by those who love to " clothe the
naked," and Avho rejoice in the " setting at Hberty of
those who were bound." Many worthy persons also
proposed to entertain the family at their houses, but
being already settled at Mr. Coffin's, they deemed it
wisest to remain there during their stay in town.
On the third of January they left for Pittsburg.
There, also, they were received with joy ; for Peter's
story had found interested listeners in that city, as 'he
had passed to and fro between Cincinnati and Phila
delphia. While they remained at Pittsburg, a meeting was
held for them in the Bethel Church, at which the
whole family appeared in the clothes they wore from
the plantation. The grateful joy of the father, which
beamed so brightly from his smUing face, and the
shrinking modesty of those who had been redeemed
from bondage through his patient efforts, wiU be long

374 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.
remembered by those kind friends who there offered
them the greetings of the free.
On the tenth, the traveUers reached PhUadelphia,
but here they made no stop. Poor Vina was, by this
time, quite worn out by excitement and fatigue, and
aU the famUy were suffering from colds contracted on
the river. So they hastened on to BurHngton, where
Peter had previously made provision for their recep
tion in the famUy of a colored friend.
Often, during Peter's weary wanderings here and
there, whUe collecting money for the ransom of his
family, was the momentous question asked, " What will
they do when they are free ?" To answer this import
ant inquiry is aU that noAV remains.
The first few days were spent by the re-united
family in resting from the tedious journey, and in ren
dering themselves presentable to the new relatives and
friends that longed to greet them. Then came the
delightful visit to Peter's aged mother. She had heard
of their arrival in Cincinnati, and had been, for some
days, expecting them at her home.
We need not picture the glad meeting of the vene
rable woman with the wife and children of her long-
lost son. The sight of their happy faces filled her
heart with holy gratitude ; for in each form so lately
released from slavery's hated chains, she saw a Hving
witness of her Great Father's love. Year after year
her heart had sorrowed for her sons ; and now, Hke
Israel to Joseph, she could say, "I had not thought to
see thy €ace, and lo, God hath showed me also thy
seed." But even in that glad circle beat one sorrowing

THE RE-UNION. 375
heart. Young Peter turned sadly from the joyful
greetings of his neAv-found kindred, for the sound of a
httle voice rang in his ears. "I am not there, my father ! ' '
was the wailing cry — and the last parting gift of his
dying wife seemed stretching forth its little hands to
claim a place among the free. Poor baby ! God for
bid that thou shouldest live — a slave ! Let us- trust
that in His good Providence this Httle one may yet be
brought to share the blessings of that Hberty which,
without his presence his young father can never half
enjoy. Early in February, Catharine went to reside with
her uncle, WUliam StUl, in PhUadelphia, for the pur
pose of attending school, and also of receiving instruc
tion from her aunt in the practical duties of a free
woman. Young Peter has obtained an advantageous situation
in the service of Mr. Richard Ely, at New Hope, Bucks
county, Pa. ; and Levin is perfecting his knowledge of
the blacksmith's trade in Beverly, N. J.
The father and . mother, during the summer (1855),
have been at service in a large boarding-house in Bur
lington ; and though they are not yet entirely settled,
the arrangements are nearly completed by which, for
the first time in their lives, they may enjoy the com
forts of their own home.
We must not Omit to mention a novel marriage that
has occurred in the famUy since their emancipation.
The previous relation of the parties, as well as the
motives which impelled them, may be gathered from
the subjoined Certificate.
"This is to certify that Mr. Peter Still and Lavinia,

376 THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED. ,
his wife, having solemnly testified to their lawful
union in wedlock, which took place twenty-nine years
ago, the twenty-fifth of last June, whUe in the bonds
of Southern Slavery, in the State of Alabama, having
noAV obtained their freedom, and having no certificate
of said union, being desirous of again solemnizing their
union in the sacred nuptial ties, were solemnly re
united in the bonds of marriage, on the eleventh day
of March, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight
hundred and fifty-five, by me, a duly authorized Min
ister of the Gospel.
"Washington Barnhurst. •
" Burlington, Burlington Co., N. J."
Our task is done. We have sought truthfully to
portray the various phases of slave-life which are illus
trated in the history of the subjects of these "Recollec
tions." The facts are from the lips of Peter and his
wife ; and are in aU cases given substantiaUy as nar
rated by them to the writer. If their record shall in
any wise subserve the cause of Justice and Humanity ;
if the perusal of these pages shall increase the reader's
hatred of slavery, or win one manly voice or vote for
Freedom, our labor is not lost.

APPENDIX.

SETH CONCKLIN
Was born February 3, 1802, at Sandy HU1, N.Y.
Previously to her marriage his mother had been a
teacher in the schools of Vermont. His father was a
mechanic, who was accustomed to go South in search
of employment. He died in Georgia, leaving his
widow with five chUdren, of whom Seth, then about
fifteen years, of age, was the oldest. He was not
whoUy without 'property, but what little he had, he
left in charge of a man, who defrauded the famUy of
every cent of it and fled to Canada. They' became de
pendent upon the boy Seth, who took up the business
of a pedlar, and so procured a livelihood for his mother
and sisters. It is remembered how careful he was to
save every penny for them, how he went upon long
journeys, being absent for weeks at a time, how anx
iously his return was watched for, how highly he was
thought of, not only by the little ones of his own
household, but also by %he chUdren of the neighbors ;
how the chUdren, when they descried the weary young
pedlar returning after a long tramp, ran to meet him
and quarrelled for his hand and hung upon his coat.
After a whUe, Mrs. Cpncklin was induced by some
B77]

378 APPENDIX.
relatives to go to Canada. There was a more promis
ing prospect for her in that country. Seth procured a
situation in a lumber yard, where his employer esteem
ed him so highly, that in order to keep the lad con
tented, he took into his family a Httle sister of Seth's,
Eveline. The lumber man, Mr. W  , treated him
with uniform confidence. This man was subject to
violent fits of intemperance, when he would fasten up
his house and keep his wife and chUdren in the utmost
terror by his wUd and frenzied proceedings. At such
times Seth was the only person who had any influence
over him. Again and again he seized his gun and
threatened to shoot Seth, whom he charged with col
luding with .the famUy against him. But the lad, as
his sister weU remembers, stood calm and unmoved by
the threats of the madman. So fearful was Mr. W 
in his sane moments, of being forsaken' by Seth, Avho,
he knew, wished to join his mother, who had sent for
him, in Canada, that he caused the Httle Eveline, Seth's
sister, to be locked up in a chamber up stairs, so that
her brother could communicate with her only by
climbing a tree which stood near her window. He
seized an opportunity when his master was unable to
rise from his bed, to take his Httle sister away. He
did not go without bidding fareweU to Mr. W  ,
who paid him his wages and shed tears at parting with
the youth. "I shaU go to utter ruin now that Seth
has left me !" the master exclaimed.
The boy and girl set out on <foot for Canada. They
met with much kindness. Sometimes a kind woman, a
mother, would take them in, give them food and shel
ter, wash the little girl and comb her hair. From
others they received harsh words, and thus they

SETH CONCKLIN. 379
trudged on.- They were observed and spoken of as
"the children." For though Seth was some seventeen
years of age, his appearance was very boyish. The.
country was then new and wUd, and log houses were
the principal habitations to be seen. In one place in
the neighborhood of Watertown, a good woman liv
ing in a neat frame house, surrounded by a large farm,
a Mrs. Coles, treated the young travellers Avith especial
kindness, took a fancy to the little Eveline, wished to
retain and adopt her, as her own chUdren were all
grown up and married ; and made Seth promise that
if he returned to the States, he would bring Eveline to
her, and let her have the child. At this stage of the
journey, the Httle girl fell sick and was worn down by
fatigue, and grew fretful and cried a good deal, but
Seth was anxious to reach Sackett's Harbor ; and he
coaxed and threatened her. She remembers how they
used to sit down by the road-side to rest, and how her
brother used to cry, and she thought it was because
his pack was so heavy, and she wanted him to let her
take it, although it was beyond her strength.
At last they reached Sackett's Harbor one afternoon.
Seth found that the steamboat fare was higher than he
could pay. He took his sister to a public house, bade
her go to bed and sleep till he called her the next
morning. The weary chfid slept till ten o'clock the
next morning, and upon waking and not finding Seth,
grew frightened and thought he had left her ; but he
soon came. He had engaged a man with a small sail
boat (a smuggler), to take them across the Lake to
Gravel Point, which they hoped to reach that same
evening. It was September. The weather, was cold,

380 APPENDIX.*
with flurries of snow. They had been' out on the
Lake hardly an hour when a rain-storm arose, and the
waves grew angry and dashed into the boat, so that it
required constant baUing, and there was nothing to
bad with but a leaky old coffee pot, and that was soon
lost overboard. The Httle girl was very much fright
ened. She screamed and took off one of her shoes to
bad out the water. The boat. made Httle or no head
way till ' dark. They were all drenched to the skin,
the water going over them all the time. Seth's sister
remembers their getting round a dangerous point called
Pillar Point. The opposite shore, which they were ap
proaching was apparently uninhabited. But, although
the others could not see it, the little girl descried a
small log hut in the distance. They gained the land
at last, and the man and boy set themselves immedi
ately to gather sticks and wood to make a fire to warm
and dry themselves, and keep off any wild beasts.
Eveline, however, entreated them so earnestly to go in
the direction in which she insisted she had seen the log
hut, that at last they yielded. After walking some
distance, it appeared in sight, and they found that she
had not been mistaken. At the hut they found a
young married couple, squatters, who had been settled
there only a few, months, and who received them with
a hospitable welcome. The woman said she had seen
their boat whUe it was daylight, and had watched it for
some time. This couple had their chief dependence
for food upon game. The only eatable they had in the
house was some wheat flour. The woman made bread
for them and for their supply on the morroAV. She
divided her bedclothes with them. The hut was so

seth concklin. 381
low that a man could hardly stand erect in it. There
was no chimney ; a fire Avas made at one end, and the
smoke found its way out .through the roof.
The next day they started by the lake for Gravel
Point, and arrived at sunset. The weather had cleared.
As they were approaching land, they saw a two-horsed
wagon just starting for Kingston, some four or five
miles distant. Seth was so anxious to secure a seat in .
the wagon for his sister, that when they got into shal
low water, he bade her take off her shoes and stock
ings. They both jumped into the water and ran to
overtake the wagon. There were a number of men
with it, but they refused to let her ride, as, they said,
the road was new and very bad, scarcely a road— they
were carrying rails to prop and lift the wagon — they
doubted whether they should be able to "go through.
They took no notice of Seth and his sister. The mud
was so deep — Seth sinking into it over his boots — that
he took the Httle girl in his arms, who with his bag
gage made a heavy burthen. She begged to be put
down. At last she was allowed to walk, and tried to
jump from log to log, but she fell again and again into
the mud and was completely covered with it. It be
gan to grow dark. They got to Kingston, however,
before tire wagon. At the ferry a fat, good-natured
old woman insisted upon taking off the child's clothes,
giving her a good washing, and wrapping her up in a
buffalo skin.
The young travellers reached Kingston at two
o'clock in the morning ; and with the assistance of a
watchman, found the dwelling of a Mr. Roleau, with
whom their mother lodged. She received her two
children with great emotion, laughing and vreeping

382 APPENDIX.
hysterically. She had been sick, but was on the re
covery. During her Ulness her business, keeping a
small shop, had gone to ruin, and she was earning
bread for her chUdren Avith her needle.
EveHne was ill for three months, from the cold and
fatigue of the journey. Seth took to peddling, again,
through the approaching winter and the following sum
mer. But the winter after that, the second in Canada,
he became discouraged.' One day he brought back
such a pittance that he threw down his pack, and said
he would never take it up again. He knew not what
to do. OccasionaUy he found some transient employ
ment. He searched the neAvspapers difigently to seize
upon what mighty offer. One day, in looking over a
newspaper, he found something about a haunted house.
"Here's a ghost story!" he said to his mother and
brothers and sisters, " come, let me read it to you"
It turned out to be an advertisement of a house in
Sackett's Harbor, which had the reputation of being
haunted, and in which the owner was wilHng that any
one should Hve, rent free, until the place should get a
better name. Seth exclaimed : " I 'U go take that
house, and we shall have nothing to pay." He started
instantly for Sackett's Harbor, with the consent of his
mother (they had no fear of ghosts), and returned in
three days, having found and engaged the house in the
suburbs of the place ; large and cornmodious, originally
built for an hotel.
While the famUy were preparing to leave Kingston,
a robbery Avas committed on the money-drawer of the
shop, adjoining the house where the Concklins lived.
Seth was arrested and put in jaU on suspicion of being
the thief. The sole ground of the charge, thus brought

SETH CONCKLIN. 383
against him by the shopkeeper, Avas that Seth being
¦well acquainted Avith his two sons, had often been in
the shop and knew where the money was kept. The
family felt keenly the shame of such a charge ; and
some of their best friends grew cool. Seth, however,
fearless in the consciousness of his integrity, was con
vinced that he would be acquitted, and begged his
mother not to be detained by his trial, which was not
to take place for some weeks ; but to go immediately
to their new residence in Sackett's Harbor. Accord
ingly she started ; it was the spring of the year ; the
snow was all gone. But just as she had got on board
the vessel with aU her baggage, and with her five chU
dren, a man came running to inform her that Seth was
to have a hearing;, and she must return. There was
nothing to be done but to let the chUdren (the oldest
of whom was a girl of about twelve years of age), go
alone with the baggage. The mother gave this chUd
some money and every .possible direction, and the
strictest charges to make no fire and Hght no candle in
the house till she came. They Avere to Hve on bread
and milk. One of the children, a Httle boy, was sick,
and had to be carried in the arms of his little sisters all
the way. The party of little ones reached Sackett's
Harbor in safety, attracting much curiosity and kind
ness on board the boat. The haunted house belonged
to a Mr. Comstock, but a person by the name of
Parker had care of it. Lydia left the other children
hi the boat and went to look after the house. In about
a couple of hours she returned with the key, and a
man and cart to take their baggage. As they were on
the way to their new tenement, an old man met them
who proved to be a quack doctor, who, struck by the

384 APPENDIX.
youth and unprotected condition of the little group,
oarrying with them a sick child, stopped and questioned
them, took the sick one in his arms, and went with
them to the house. It soon became dark. The chil
dren had no supper. The old doctor said they must
have a light: But the chUdren would not listen to it.
It would be against the express commands of their
mother, who feared probably that they might catch the
house or themselves on fire. The doctor expostulated,
but to no purpose. • Mother had forbidden it. He was,
it seems, an oddity. His speeches set the children a
laughing. He suspected, he said, that the house really
was haunted, and.--th.at these little things were the
ghosts — they vrere so afraid of . light. He guessed
they had an invisible mother.
Three times a day for ten days, till the mother joined
her chUdren (Seth having been fully acquitted), the
good man visited them, bringing them soup, etc., and
nursing the sick chUd. As soon as their mother ar
rived, she unpacked her trunks and furniture, and
made the place a good deal more comfortable. As she
was seated at her first meal with the children, in came
the doctor, and stood staring at the party without say
ing a word. " I was wondering," he said at last to
Mrs. Concklin, "whether you were a ghost or a real
woman." The mother brought to her chUdren the cheering in
telligence that Seth would be with them in three
weeks. Eveline, then about eleven years of age, Avith
her Httle brother George, kept watch on the shore of
the Lake, as the time drew nigh for the coming of
Seth. At last they recognized his figure, before they
could see his features, on board of a vessel that was

SETH CONCKLIN. 385
approaching, and on which he worked his passage.
At this period the family Avas tolerably comfortable
and happy. Seth got work. They lived in "the
haunted house " ono year. Then, as the owner con
sidered the good character of the place established, he
required them to pay rent. It was too high for their
means, and they removed.
Seth, recoUecting his promise to Mrs. Coles, the good
woman who had been so kind to him and taken such
a liking for the little Eveline when they stopt at her
house on their way to Canada, advised his mother to
send Eveline to that lady.. She acceded, and the chUd
was sent by the stage, and received by Mrs. Coles with
the most cordial of welcomes, and adopted as her own,
and taught many things. The child Avas happy here
and the next winter, Mr. Coles, a worthy and elderly
man, took her in a sleigh to see her mother. "Upon
her visit home, Eveline found Seth a soldier. Her
mother was declining, and Seth, having the offer of a
place as a substitute, enlisted for one year, nine months,
nineteen days in Company B. By cooking for the com
pany, Seth greatly increased his income, and was better
able to assist his mother. As. he was not allowed to
leave the garrison, Mr. Coles took Eveline to see Seth
and she recollects how the old man who was a methodist
gave Seth his blessing for being such a good son and
brother. The next faU, of the eight hundred men in garrison
at Sackett's Harbor, four hundred were drafted to go
to St. Mary's (understood to be a thousand miles off,)
and Seth being young and unmarried, among the num
ber. He endeavored to be excused but without success.
17

386 APPENDIX.
The hope was cherished that he might be induced to
re-enlist when his time was out. His mother parted
with him with a heavy heart. She told the chUdren
she should never see him again.
With the help of her eldest daughter, the mother
Avas enabled to do something for the support of her
children, making sun-bonnets. Seth sent them nearly
all his wages, and kept them so well suppHed with
money that when his mother shortly after feU sick, and
after an illness of eight Aveeks, died, there was money
enough in the house for all the frugal wants of its in
mates, and for the expenses incurred by her sickness
and burial. In this her last Ulness, she talked only of
her absent son, and her dying injunction to her little
ones was to obey Seth in aU things.
Upon the decease of Mrs. Concklin, the unprotected
state of the orphans was published in the newspapers,
so that their kindred might come and take charge of
them. Seth saw the papers. They gave him the first
news of the death of his mother. He succeeded in ob
taining a discharge. His mother died in April, but he
was not able to reach home tUl August. He found the
children in the care of an aunt. His interest had been
awakened in the Shakers, and he conceived the idea of
putting his brothers and sisters in the charge of a
Shaker community.
With this intention he visited the WatervHet Shaker
settlement not far from Albany, and was so much
pleased with it, that he took the little ones, now every
where known as " Seth's famUy," and enrolled them
and himself as members of that community. The Coles,
having had a daughter with five chUdren come home

SETH CONCKLIN. 387
to Hve with them, gave up Eveline who joined the
Shakers also. Seth remained with the Shakers three
years, the chUdren for a longer period.
Upon leaving the Shakers, Seth went from place to
place, finding employment now here, now there'. He
followed the business of a mUler for some time in
" Syracuse and in Rochester and other places, never, in
all his wanderings, losing sight of "his family," keep
ing always in correspondence with them. Everywhere
he was accounted a singular man, eccentric, sUent, "in
the way of bargain, cavUHng for the ninth part of a
hair," and yet generous as the day. Whenever any
attempt was made to cheat him, he instantly appealed
to the law, and, it is said, he never lost his suit. At
the same time he would turn his pockets inside out to
refieve the destitute. On one occasion his attention
was arrested by a poor Irishwoman with a number of
children, who told him how they had been turned into
the street for rent, her husband being in jaU on the
same account. He asked the amount, and, upon learn
ing it, gave her what she wanted, but it was nearly all
that he had. The woman immediately fell at his feet
in the street and clasped his knees, and poured out,
with Irish volubility, such a torrent of blessings and
thanks that quite a crowd coUected. Seth, much an
noyed, turned to get rid of her, and at last finding he
could not sUence her, he shook her off, exclaiming in
a way that was characteristic of him : " Get away, you
d-d fool I"
From time to time, he visited his old friends the
Shakers. (His youngest sister remains with them to
this day.) Although, according to their rules, mem
bers who quit them, lose their membership, yet excep-

388 APPENDIX.
tions occur. And Seth, in consideration of his Avorth
and eccentricity, was allowed again and again to return
into full communion with the Society of. Watervfiet.
It impressed him very strongly in favor of the Shakers
that they did not recognize the distinction of color.
It was after "his family" was settled among that
people, at the very beginning of the abofition move
ment, that Seth ConckHn began to take an interest in
that odious cause. And it may be doubted whether it
has ever yet had a more devoted adherent. He re
cognized it as the only hope of the Slave. He saw
clearly, and from an early period through the Colon
ization scheme, how it concedes to the inhuman pre
judices of the country. He abhorred it as heartily as
Mr. Garrison himself does.
In a letter, dated July 20, 1830, written from Syracuse
to his sister Eveline, he says, "Lest you might be
deceived by that wicked spirit of the American Colon
ization Society, I take the Hberty to inform you that
the American AboHtion Society is the only thorough
good spirit which maintains the rights and privUeges
of colored people. Be not deceived by the Coloniza
tion Society,
" They are as cunning as the devU can invent.
" They rivet the chains of Slavery.
" They put beneath them all mercy.
" They deceive many honest white people by saying
that they are friendly to the black population, and
raise funds to send from this land of freedom and reli
gious Hberty aU free persons of color whom they can
influence. Be not deceived by that dreadful demon
spirit." AU that he earned, beyond the means of his own

SETH CONCKLIN. 389
frugal subsistence, was given to the abolition cause.
I find receipts of sums of five dollars and ten dollars
from Seth Concklin, acknowledged in "the Emanci
pator." Sometimes he gave fifty dollars at a time, and
once one hundred dollars. Once in Syracuse, and
again in Rochester he was mobbed for taking the part
of black men against white rowdies, and had to run for
his fife, and absent himself for days till their infuriated
passions had cooled. At Rochester he dashed like
lightning through the crowd and levelled the ring
leader who had got a rope round a poor colored man
and was otherwise maltreating him, thus diverting the
wrath of the mob to himself. That more than one
,such case of the persecution of the colored people
should have occurred years ago in Western New York,
will seem improbable to no one who recollects, as many
not very old persons may remember, what a time-
honored custom it was, not very long since, in the
enlightened city of Boston to drive all " the niggers"
off the common on a certain State-Election holiday
that occurred in the spring of the year.
On one occasion, early in the history of the Abolition
movement, the people of Syracuse were outraged by
the sudden and mysterious appearance among them of
some Anti-Slavery tracts : no one knew whence they
came. The place was thrown into as great an alarm
as if combustibles and lighted lucifers had been found
under every door. A public meeting was held to de
vise " summary proceedings." It was suspected that
some emissary of Satan had alighted in the town.
"With the leaders of the meeting Seth Concklin was on
terms of familiar acquaintance. He attended on the
occasion ; but retired before the meeting was brought

390 APPENDIX.
to a close. Upon returning to their homes, the officers
of the meeting, and aU who had taken any conspicuous
part in it, found the accursed tracts had been thrown
into their doors, while they had been so patrioticaUy
engaged in seeing to the safety of the community.
Wrath mounted to the highest pitch against the incen
diary, who, it was rumored, was a stranger putting up
at the'Syracuse House. Judge Lynch was invoked.
Tar and feathers were got in readiness. No suspicious
stranger was to be found ; but it was ascertained that
the offender was an acquaintance of theirs, Seth him
self, who very wisely took care to retire from the
scene. In a few days the excitement died away.
Considering that the offence had been committed by
no impudent stranger, but by one of their own neigh
bors, and by no other than so odd and honest a fellow
as Seth Concklin, the people recovered their compo
sure so completely, that when he. shortly returned
among them, they shook hands with him over his
escape. The subject of this brief memoir appears to have
been a man who had " swaUowed formulas." He was
a law to himself. He took and kept his own counsel.
On one occasion, a colored man, professing to be an
agent for the Wilberforce Colony in Canada West,
visited Western NeAv York, coUecting moneys from the
charitable. He every where showed a book, impos
ingly bound in red morocco, in which the names of
those who contributed to his object were recorded;
among them were the names of men well known and
eminent. This book served as his passport and recom
mendation, and secured his success in the towns which
he visited. Our friend Seth, having some suspicion of

SETH CONCKLIN. 391
this man's honesty when he came to Syracuse, Avatched
him closely, and became convinced that he was an
impostor. Resolved that the community should be
duped no longer, Seth disguised himself and foUowed
the feUow, and overtook him in the neighborhood of
Seneca Falls, and there, without being recognized, of
fered him a subscription, and when the red book Avas
handed to Seth to put doAvn his name, he took posses
sion of it, and refused to return it to the owner. The
man complained Of him before a magistrate ; Concklin
Avas held to baU for his appearance at the next General
Sessions to answer to the charge of abducting this
book, the property of another. . His friends in Syra
cuse came promptly to his aid, and abundant testimony
was furnished to his character for integrity and
general correctness. The prosecutor, however, never
appeared against him ; and Concklin was considered
as being right in his estimation of the man, and as
having done the community a service, although he
adopted a perUous and Ulegal way of arresting the
depredations of an impostor.
Not long after this transaction, Concklin spent some
time in the West, visiting St. Louis, and residing
awhile at Springfield, (HI.). His chief business then
and there, a business which took precedence in his re
gard of all other matters, was aiding the transit of
passengers on the Under-Ground Railroad. He acted,
however, very Httle in concert with others. In a time
of uniformity and conformity, when the tendency and
fashion everywhere is to ride in troops, Seth Concklin
Avas a man by himself. He went on his own hook.
His fearless speech brought him into frequent perU.
On one occasion, he was condemning the "Patriarchal

392 APPENDIX.
Institution," in such strong terms, that one of his
hearers struck him a heavy blow with his fist ; for
which outrage Seth caused him to be arraigned before
the Church to which the offender belonged, and com-
peUed him to make confession of his fault. Although
thus fearless, our friend was very cautious in com
municating with the slaves. He gave them no hope
of his assistance, untU he found that they were re
solved upon obtaining their freedom : then he gave
them aU possible information as to' time of starting,
and the places to which they should go, adding a smaU
pecuniary gift, and bidding them never to be taken
alive. WhUe he thus felt for others, it was equally charac
teristic of him that he was resolved to see for himself.
He has been knoAvn to go miles to ascertain the actual
state of the case in any important matter. In 1838-39,
the western part of NeAV York was in a state of great
excitement, caused by what was dignified at the time
by the name of the "Patriot War," a border ^out
break. ConckHn, true to his character, determined
to go and see what it aU amounted to. He knew that
Canada was the refuge of the fugitive slave, and he
was anxious that that refuge should be preserved for
the oppressed. Leaving his business, he went straight
to the frontier, crossed over to Navy Island, where the
head-quarters of the Patriots then were, and enlisted
Avith them, under the command of the so-called Gen.
Van Ranssalaer. His purpose was to discover the de
signs and strength of the Patriots, and make them
known to the Canadian authorities. After looking
about him and satisfying himself as to the character
and objects of the Patriot army, he desired to be dis-

SETH CONCKLIN. 393
missed from the service. But this was not permitted.
His taciturn manners, his evident disinclination to
associate famUiarly with the people among whom he
found himself, caused him to be suspected as a spy,
and closely watched. Finding his situation more and
more uncomfortable, he determined to escape from the
island at all hazards. He waited one day till nearly
dark, and, when the sentinel's back was turned
towards him, he unfastened a skiff at the landing, and
with no other oar than a piece of board, watched his
chance and pushed off. He knew that if he should
lose his paddle, he must be carried down the Niagara
river and over the FaUs, an appalling contingency.
Scarcely had he started when he was seen and fired
upon. The ball struck his paddle, nearly knocking it
from his grasp. He succeeded, however, in reaching
the American shore, at Schlosser, in safety. At this
point a guard had been stationed by the Patriots, and
he was forbidden to land. Compelled to acknowledge
himself a' deserter from Navy Island, he was seized
and very roughly handled, and sent back to the
island .* There, by order of Van Ranssalaer, he was
confined and closely guarded in a log-house, which
was so situated as to be exposed to the guns on the
Canada side. He could save himself from being hit
only by lying prostrate on the ground, as the sentinel
* Another account says, that Concklin was taken by the
American troops under Col. "Worth, stationed, professedly to guard
the neutrality of the United States, on Grand Island, which lies Se
near to Navy Island, that the " Patriots" called to the American
forces and informed them that Concklin was a deserter ; and he
was sent back, the United States' officer stipulating only that he
should not be hurt. 17*

394 APPENDIX.
who stood guard over him threatened to shoot him
Avhen he sought the protection of the breastwork, to
which the sentinel himself had recourse. Several shots
passed over him, within two or three feet of him,
through the upper part of his prison. The Patriots
said they intended the British should kUl their own
spy- On the evacuatiorf" of the Island by the Patriots,
which took place about a week after Concklin was
put in confinement, he was left behind — the only man
in the place. It was the month of January. His suf
ferings from cold and hunger were severe. He was
the last twenty-four hours without food. He tied his
handkerchief to a pole, and took his station opposite
the Canadian side. The signal was observed; and
very soon a boat came off and took him in, and con
veyed him to Canada. There he was subjected to a
very close examination by a board of officers. In
answer to their inquiries, he gave them a minute ac
count of all that had occurred from his leaving Syra
cuse up to the hour of his examination. His state
ment was committed to writing by several different
persons. The examination was repeated two or three
times. He was weU treated, and kindly provided for
during the few days he remained on the Canada side.
When the investigation was ended, and he was about
to return to the States, it was proposed to him that he
should swear to the truth of what he had stated. To
this proposal he readUy acceded. His affidavit was
. published in the papers at the time. When he arrived
in Buffalo, he published a statement of his treatment
by the UTiited States officers ou Grand Island in one
of the leading journals of that city. And he also

SETH CONCKLIN. 395
made complaint at the War Department in Washing
ton, forwarding to the Secretary a copy of his publica
tion in the Buffalo paper. The Secretary of War di
rected the District Attorney of the Northern District
of New York to look into the case. That officer,
living at a distance, caused some inquiries to be made
in Syracuse in regard to the veracity of the complain
ant; and honorable testimonials to his uprightness
were presented. The case, however, was never fol
lowed up. Concklin Avas, for a time, quite a Hon at
Buffalo, on account of his prominence in those border
difficulties. Not many months after the affair at Navy Island,
Conckfin's interest was awakened in the events which
were transpiring on our Southern border. He wanted
to know what the United States Government was
doing in Florida among the Indians there. The news
papers had much to say of our arms in that quarter.
Without consulting with any one, he resolved to visit
that part of the country. As the best Avay of getting
there, and learning what he wanted to know, he en
listed in the United States service. The first intima
tion of his whereabouts, which his friends in Syracuse
received, was in the shape of a letter directed to one
of them, which we here transcribe :
" Talahasse, Middle Florida, May 9, 1840.
"Joseph Savage: My object in writing to you is
that it may be knovvn in Syracuse where I am ; and I
request that you write to me. I have heard nothing
from Syracuse in a year. Direct your letter to Tala
hasse, Middle Florida. Should you receive this, and

396 APPENDIX.
the postage not be paid, let me know it. I am now
fifty miles from the post-office.
"Last faU I came from Pittsburgh, by way 6¥ New
Orleans and the Gulf, to St. Marks, and eighty mUes
east of St. Marks, on the 6th of January, and entered
on the campaign with the 1st and 6th Regiments,
United States Infantry, a few dragoons and several
companies of volunteers, on their way through aU the
hammocks in Middle Florida to the Suwannie river,
hunting Indians. Near the end of January our forces
met on the Suwannie river, below Old Towu (for
merly an Indian Village destroyed by Jackson), oppo
site Fort Fanning, East Florida, having driven before
us a few Indians, discovered in the Old Town ham
mocks. AU the companies (now the 1st February)
were directed back on their trails, scouting through to
keep down the Indians. There does not seem to be
any very formidable force of Indians in Florida ; and I
believe that a part of the murders charged on the
Indians are committed by the white settlers, and many
of the public (official ?) reports of the whites and the
Indians being killed or taken are untrue.
" Nearly all the white- male settlers in Middle Flo
rida, over twelve years of age, receive from Govern
ment twenty -two doUars per month and rations. There
is now a report that a man found in a hammock five
Indians in the act of torturing, by fire, his son. He
killed four of them, and the fifth ran away. Should
this be published, you must believe it without proof.
I believe these reports are only pretences to keep up
this shameful war.
" March 21st, I left a post near Old Town Hammock
alone, unarmed, and traveUed one hundred mUes

SETH CONCKLIN. 397
through the plains and hammocks without seeing a
human being in five days. This circumstance alone
Avould"convince uninterested people that there are not
many Indians.
" But I have further proof that no great danger is
apprehended from the Indians, from the fact that a
company of United States Infantry near Old Town
Hammock, one of the most interior towns in Middle
Florida, frequently send out -scouting parties through
the hammocks without loaded guns and without am
munition, though they carry their guns with them, but
as a mere matter of form. I do not know that the
blood-hounds find any Indians ; though it appears that
in East Florida the dogs, the Spaniards, and our sol
diers have captured one old Indian.
"Seth Concklin."
In another letter of the same date, addressed to a
brother-in-law in Philadelphia, he repeats the same
particulars, and gives, in addition, some brief and
striking instances of his observation. " I have seen,"
he writes, "some of the slaves on the north border of
Middle Florida. They are much more intelligent than
their owners, probably from their being from farther
north." The foUowing winter, Concklin appeared again un
expectedly in Syracuse. From that time till he went
upon the chivalrous enterprise which cost him his life,
he is beHeved to "have resided principally in Troy,
occasionally visiting "his family" and his sister Eve-
fine married, and resident in Philadelphia. More than
once he made the journey from Syracuse to PhUa
delphia, aU the way on foot. He appears to have

398 • APPENDIX.
commanded the confidence of all who knew him. He
was a man of an " incorrigible and losing honesty,"
abhorring deceptions and injustice, and making' every
injured man's cause his own. Altogether he was a
man of heroic character. His life was a romance —
an heroic poem.
A gentleman of Syracuse, with whom Concklin
lived two years, states, that on one occasion he sent
Seth fifty miles from home for a horse. He was pro
vided Avith money to defray his expenses to and fro
by boat or stage. His employer was greatly surprised
to see him returning leading the horse, instead of
riding him. The saddle and a bag of oats were on the
horse's back. He. returned nearly all the money which
had been given him for the expenses of the journey.
It appeared that he had walked to the place where the
horse was to be obtained in one day, on returning he
took two days, as being encumbered with a horse, he
could not walk so fast as without one.
It is unnecessary to repeat here the story of the hu
mane and daring enterprise in which he lost his life.
Various accounts of it went the rounds of the news
papers at the time. We give the foUowing from a
Pittsburgh (Pa.) journal, bearing date, Thursday morn
ing, May 29, 1851 :
" A Singular Enterprise. — During the last trip
of the steamer Paul Anderson, Captain Gray, she took
on board, at Evansville, Indiana, a United States
Marshal, having in. custody an intelligent white man,
named J. H. Miller, and a family of four slaves —
mother, daughter, and two sons. Captain Gray sub
sequently learned from Mrs. MUler that he had been

SETH concklin. 399
employed by some persons in -Cincinnati to go to
Florence, Alabama, and bring away this family of
slaves — the woman's husband being in a free State.
For this purpose, with a six-oared barge, procured at
Cincinnati, MUler had gone down the Ohio and up the
Tennessee River, to Florence, there .laid in wait till an
opportunity occurred, and privily taken away the
family of slaves. The barge was rowed down the
Tennessee, and up the Ohio, to the Wabash, and up
that river tiU within thirty miles of Vincennes, where
the party was overtaken and captured by the Marshal.
The unfortunate MUler was then chained, to be taken
back to Florence for trial and sure condemnation, by
Alabama slave laws. The Paul Anderson having
landed at Smithland, mouth of Cumberland River, Mr.
MUler made an attempt to escape from her to the
steamer Mohican, lying alongside, but, encumbered by
his manacles and clothing, was drowned. The body
was recovered and buried about a week afterwards.
The slaves went back to bondage. The barge was
rowed down the Tennessee 273 mUes, up the Ohio 100
miles, and up the Wabash 50 mUes, before the party
were overtaken. Mr. MUler, we learn, had a sister
and other relatives in or near PhUadelphia. He was
a mUl-wright by occupation, and owned property in
the neighborhood of Vincennes."
I So far the public press. As these accounts are very
imperfect, a person was found who offered to go to
Indiana and make such inquiries as might reHeve, in
some measure, the painful anxiety of- Mr. Concklin's
relatives and friends, and to obtain his remains, or, at
least, if practicable, cause them to be disinterred and

400 APPENDIX.
examined. We subjoin a copy of the written state
ment made by this agent of Mr. Conckfin's friends.
Statement.
Mr. Chandler (I think), at EvansvUle, in answer to
a question as to his knowledge of MiUer and the ab-
duoted negroes, said, I could obtain information of
John S. Gavitt, the former Marshal of EvansvUle.
He (?) himself believed and told the parties at the
time, that the proceedings by which MUler was taken
out of the State were Ulegal, and if such things were'
to be tolerated, no white man was safe.
I next caUed upon John S. Gavitt, who treated me
very respectfully, and seemed not only wUfing but
anxious to impart every information. He told me
that he had MUler and the negroes in custody, and
that he delivered them on board the steamboat, in care
of Mr. John Emison, of EvansvUle, to be delivered to
the authorities in Florence, Alabama. I asked him by
what authority they were taken. He said he had the
writs in his possession, made out by Martin Robinson,
Esq., of Vincennes. I asked to see them. He showed
them to me. I asked for the privilege of copying
them. This he would not permit, for the reason, he
said, that he beHeved, "We've all been guUty of
illegal proceedings, and if it's brought out, I don't want
to give our enemies any advantage." He said, it was
no more he than others. " I believe," said he, " we've
all done wrong." The writ for the apprehension of
MUler was based upon an affidavit by the aforesaid
John S. Gavitt, before Squire Robinson, in which he
swears that MUler abducted from B. McKiernan, of
Florence, Ala., the four negroes. And the writ or-

seth Concklin. 401
dered the said Gavitt to take the said Miller and safely
deliver him to the Sheriff in said Florence, to be dealt
with according to law. The authority quoted, I think
was, Sec. 1, No. 62 of the Statutes of Indiana. (I
wrote from memory, not being permitted to copy.)
The other writ for returning the negroes was made, I
think, upon the affidavit of James M. Emison, the man
Avho first took them up on suspicion. The said James
M. Emison is not an officer.
I asked Gavitt how he could know the circum
stances stated in the writ well enough to make such
an oath ? He then stated substantially as folloAvs :
That on or about the 28th of March last, he received
a dispatch from Vincennes, stating that four negroes
had been taken up on suspicion, with the man Miller.
He in turn telegraphed South, and soon got returns
describing the negroes and MUler. He started at once
for Vincennes, and drove the whole distance (55 mUes)
in six hours. He says he made the oath because he
was convinced from the description by telegraph, and
from conversations Avith the boy Levin, that they were
the same. There seemed to be an indistinctness and
confusion in Gavitt's statements, and though I con
versed with him two hours, and he freely answered
aU questions, I did not fuUy rely on him. For in
stance, he would state at one time that he believed
Miller perfectly honest and conscientious in his course ;
yet, at another time said, that Miller owned to him that
he was to get $1,000 for the job. He says, his main
effort, whUe Miller was in his charge, was to get him
to turn State's evidence, and upon that condition agreed
to let him go. This MiUer positively refused to do,
thongh he confessed that there were four others con-

402 APPENDIX.
concerned with him. He said Miller offered him
$1,000 if he would let him go. The reward of-
ered for Miller, he said, was $600, and $400 for
the negroes. The story that Miller told him was,
that the negroes were his — his brother in Hender
son (Kentucky) having emancipated them after they
should have worked upon his farm near Spring
field (HHnois) a certain length of time. He says
Miller had shaved his whiskers, and cut off his hair
after he was first discovered by James M. Emison.
When he was about putting him on the boat, Miller
called him aside and told him he would give the names
of his accomplices if he would let him go. He told
him it was too late then, upon which MiUer became a
perfect picture of despair, and walking suddenly to the
side of the boat, he thought, with a determination to
throw himself overboard, but was caught by John
Emison. Understanding that while Miller was in
custody of Gavitt, he was kept at the house of Mr.
Sherwood (a relative), the present Marshal of Evans
vUle, and that he had conversation with Gavitt's
mother, I requested to have her called in. She said
she felt very sorry for him, and tried very hard to get
him to turn State's evidence ; but he said, nobody was
to be blamed in the affair but himself, and that he was
not at aU sorry for what he had done ; he had done
his duty — a Christian duty — and felt a clear conscience.
Gavitt said that McKiernan told him that MUler should
be hung if it cost him $1,500.
Further evidence was procured from the office of
the EvansvUle Journal.
From EvansvUle to Princeton, and thence to Vin-

SETH CONCKLIN. 403
cennes, I Avent in company with Col. Clark and son,
of the latter place. He (the Col.) gave a statement of
the affair, which made it take quite another direction
from Gavitt's story. He placed Gavitt in no very en
viable light. He said that there was a jar between
him (Gavitt) and the Emisons about the spoils. Of
course the sending back of the "d — d Abofitionist" to
Alabama, was all right with bim (the Colonel).
Having been directed by Gavitt to caU on Mr. John
Emison, in Vincennes, I did so. He was pointed out
to me in the street as the stage agent, or, perhaps,
proprietor. I called him aside, and told him that,
having some business in Vincennes, I had been re
quested by a friend of MUler's friends to make inquiry
concerning him ; upon which the said John Emison
broke forth in a strain like the following : " Now', my
friend, you'd better be pretty d — d careful how you
come into this place and make inquiry about such
men as MUler." " You've waked up the wrong pas
sengers." "And you might, get yourself into the
Wabash river." "If you'U take my advice as a
friend, you'd better leave town on pretty d — d short
notice." "We don't allow any G — d d— d Aboli
tionist going about this town," &c, &c, with many
other extras too numerous to mention. I told him
my object in making inquiry of him was a specific one
— solely to gratify, or rather to satisfy, MUler's friends,
and if such a course was likely to produce a disturb
ance in the place, I was very sorry. But out of
respect to those who entrusted the inquiries to me, I
felt bound to learn what I could. -Emison partially
apologised for his haste, and said he was mad. at the
d — d Abolitionists on the Paul Anderson, who threat-

404 APPENDIX.
ened to throw him overboard. (See EvansvUle Journal,
p. 27.) He said he felt for Miller, as deeply as any
body could — that he was courageous, and that anybody
that was bold enough to jump overboard deserved to
get away. " But," said he, " he's dead and buried —
he's gone to  with his manacles on, so you'll
know him when he comes up in the resurrection."
He said he would let me have a letter, which he had
received from the young Mr. McKiernan, containing
further evidence of MiUer's death, in addition to the
letter from Hodge.
Mr. Chandler, of whom I first spoke, told me that
he was informed by Gavitt that the lawyer, who had
taken a fee from MUler of some $50, or $80 (as some
said) — when MUler was brought into court, said law
yer refused to undertake his case — having received a
fee of $25, from the other party. I asked Gavitt about
this : he said it was true, for he had paid him the $25
himself, though he could not teU me what the man's
name was.
William T. Scott, sheriff and jailor of Knox Co.,
told me the slaves were brought to the jaU in the
morning (Friday, I think), and the request made by
James Emison, that they should be put in : he admit
ted them, though he told me he knew he had no busi
ness to do so. Said Emison & Co. told him they had
taken the negroes the previous morning about day
light, as they were crossing a bridge. MiUer soon
came up, and claimed them as his — they had been
liberated by his brother, in Henderson, Ky., and were
to serve for him a certain time near Springfield.
They took the negroes and bound them, and upon
MiUer's threatening them with law, they took him

SETH CONCKLIN. 405
also, and bound him and put him in the wagon
with the rest. After riding five or six mUes, and
listening to the logical reasoning of Miller, they began
to be alarmed, lest they might be doing something
wrong in thus binding a white man, without due pro
cess of law, so they untied him and* let him go. He,
however, still continued to folloAV the wagon, and, it
being still dark, before they were aware, Miller was
in the wagon untying the negroes. When they dis
covered this, they threatened to shoot him if he should
again attempt it. Miller stUl followed the wagon to
Vincennes, where the slaves were committed to jail as
above. A telegraphic dispatch was sent to Gavitt
aforesaid, at EvansvUle, and by him senfSouth, from
whence he obtained an answer as before stated.
Gavitt went to Vincennes, with evidence sufficient to
warrant their being sent back; but would not give
the evidence, or make any move in the premises, till
Emison & Co. had agreed to give him one half of the
reward. • This agreed, the oath was made, and MUler
arrested, under a law of the State, for detaining fugi
tives from their lawful owners. Previous to this, and
I think on the same day, MiUer had taken out a habeas
corpus, under which the slaves were said to be de
livered; but Judge Bishop, associate judge for the
circuit, remanded them to jail till the next day at 12
o'clock — of course without any claim to law, but (with)
merely a suspicion that by that time evidence might
be obtained that they did not belong to themselves.
When Gavitt arrived, and MiUer was taken as afore
said, his lawyer, AUen, appeared in his behalf, and the
proceedings against him were quashed. After this,
Miller was remanded back to jaU, though AUen says

406 APPENDIX. .
it was done by his (Miller's) own request, that he
feared the mob, &c. WhUe MiUer was thus in jaU,
the owner arrived, and found his work aU made ready
to his hand. True, a Httle more swearing was needed
to prove MiUer the abductor of the negroes, but it was
readUy furnishedi'by Marshal Gavitt. Scott says that
a young man now in jail, and with whom Miller talked
freely, says, he (Miller) had a quantity of gold coin
qufited into the collar of his coat. Scott thinks it was
not so, as he himself searched him. Scott says, 'MUler
told him that he had only One thing to regret in the
transaction, and that was that he had not pursued his
own course, and refused to listen to the advice of
others. He says the negroes were weU trained, and
all told the same story with MUler until the master
came, when they owned him — at least all of them but
Peter. Upon MUler's second sham trial, he owned all
the facts in the case, and pleaded justification. He
was asked why he undertook the work without being
armed : he said, if he had carried weapons he should
have probably felt a strong incfination to use them, and
in that case would certainly have been overcome ; con
sequently, he had not aUowed himself even a penknife.
I went to see C. M. Allen, Esq., to inquire about the
two fees, and other matters. I told him that in justice
to himself, some explanation should be given. He
stated in substance as follows : " That on the morning
of the day on which the negroes were brought into
town, Miller came to his house very early — before he
was up — he told the same story that he did to the cap
tors about the slaves of his brother, at Henderson, &c. ;
and wished Allen to take out a habeas corpits to liber
ate the slaves. He told MUler that it was a trouble-

SETH CONCKLIN. 407
some case, and if he undertook it he should charge
him a heavy fee. Miller asked, how much ? The re
ply was, one hundred dollars. Miller promptly said,
' I won't give it.' As Mr. Miller was about to leave
him, he called him back and told him it was a hard
case to be placed in such a situation, «and with but little
means. He showed dhjs purse and counted his money
before him. There was forty dollars, or perhaps a
little over, in gold, sUver and bUls. MUler told him
if he would undertake his case he would give him
fifteen dollars. There followed a parley about the fee,
and Mr. AUen did not tell me how much he received ;
but he said he told Miller, if he had not told him the
truth, that he should abandon his case at any time,
whenever that should appear. So when MiUer was
brought into court, after the arrival of McKiernan, he
refused to act for him, because the evidence seemed so
strong that MUler had misrepresented the thing to him.
Allen, it appears, acted for Miller, in taking out the
habeas corpus for the negroes, and also in Miller's trial
on the indictment, for breaking the law of Indiana ;
both of which resulted in MUler's favor. Upon quash
ing the proceedings in the last named case, Allen made
a request of the judge that MUler should be remanded
back to jaU, upon his own request ; that he probably
had his own reasons for such request. The judge told
him that he did not know that he had any right to do
so — if he would show him' law for it,' he would do so.
Allen replied that he did not know that he could — it
was only MUler's request. The judge complied. Al
len gave it as a reason that he feared the violence of
the mob, as the whole place was in a high state of ex
citement. WhUe thus in jail, Gavitt came with his

408 APPENDIX.
telegraphic evidence and made the necessary oath to have
Miller apprehended, and remanded to Alabama, as a
fugitive from justice.
Gavitt (who, it seems, had been into the jaU, and
tried to extort a confession from the negroes), told me
that he stated to 4he court ('Squire Robinson), that he
was aware that the testimony $>$. colored persons was
not admitted by law on such occasions, but wished to
know if the court would do him the favor to listen to
the statement of the boy Levin ? He ('Squire R.) said
he would. The boy then owned in answer to questions
put to him, that he was the slave of ' Master Kiernan,'
and that he had come with MUler from South Florence,
Ala. I asked Gavitt which he thought had the most
weight with the court, his affidavit or the negro's state
ment ? His reply was : ' The nigger's story was what
done it' I went to see 'Squire Robinson, and asked
him to let me see the law by which Miller was remand
ed. He said there was a law shown him at the time,
but he could not now tell what or where it was, as he
kept no minute of the proceedings.
A great many other Httle incidents were narrated
during the four days that I was in EvansviUe, Prince
ton, and Vincennes, that might be eHcited by ques
tions ; but I have given the most important, or at least
that which I considered so. From the feeHng mani
fested, I saw it would not be safe for me to go to
Smithland to disinter the body, so I wrote to Mr.
Hodge for the verdict of the Coroner's jury, and any
other particulars as to identity which he might be able
to give. Have not yet received an answer.
(Signed), E. Jacobs.
Cincinnati, June 11, 1851.

SETH CONCKLIN. 409
From these statements there can be no doubt that
the body taken from the Ohio river, near Smithland.
in irons, and buried in irons, was the body of Seth
ConckHn. But of the manner of his death, there is no
direct evidence. Of all the conjectures that may be
formed, the least/pWbable is, that he was drowned in
an attempt to escape. Daring as he was, he was never
theless a man of too much sagacity to have dreamed
of escaping by the water, cumbered as he was with
manacles. The most probable state of. the case was
that, seeing how utterly hopeless the prospect was for
him, if he once entered the Southern country, he tore
himself from the savage clutch of cruel men, and
threw himself upon the mercy of God. The suspicion
of foul play which is involuntarily awakened, is put at
rest by the consideration that his captors had no
temptation to murder him. They knew perfectly well
their own Slave laws, and must have been only too
eager to carry him back afive and make an example
of him, to the terror of their slaves and of aU who
should think of helping them to escape.
Although he was buried as he was found, in chains,
and was branded with the name of "negro thief," and
his captors exulted in their blood-stained rewards, yet
in the sight of Truth and of Heaven, he is joined to
the noble and heroic company of the martyrs, the
martyrs of Freedom and Humanity.

ARCHY MOORE,
QR, MEMOIRS OF A FUGITIVE.
BY RICHARD HILDRETH.
WITH A NEW HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION,
Written for this edition by the distinguished author, and unfolding the
origin, history and characteristics of this remarkable work.
One vol., 430 pp. 12mo., 8 Illustrations, Price $1 25.
Have you yourself read Akcht Moore ? If you have, why don't
you bestow upon it hearty, fervent, overwhelming praise ? Why,
my dear friend, it is a wonderful book 1 People of the dullest minds
and wildest sympathies, are thrilled by it, as if their benumbed fin
gers had touched an electric chain. Independent of the sound, con
sistent principles of freedom which beam on every page, there is a
remarkable degree of intellectual vigor and dramatic talent exhibited
in the power of language, the choice of circumstances, the combination
of events, and the shading of character. Every sentence shows inti
mate knowledge of the local peculiarities of the south, both in the
respect of nature and society. — Lydia Maria Child.
This book, which is very well written, is full of continuous interest, and the adven
tures, though many of them are startling and exciting, do not run out of the range of
probability. It has been translated into French, German and Italian. — N. Y. Times.
Mr. Hiiureth describes southern scones with all the graphic force of an artist, and all the
minntuB of the more ordinary visiter. What he draws with his pen, he fairly brings before
the eye of the reader ; the consequence is, that nothing is left to perfect the latter's ae-
'qaaintance with scenes from which lie is far removed, but an actual visit to them. The
aim of the writer, in sending this work before the public, is suggested by its title. It is
an illustration of southern slavery in all its phases and bearings; and apparently a stronger
condemnation of the system we never read, than in Mr. Hildreth's. pages. Selecting the
narrative form for the medium of the homily he seeks to read, the factshe gives, and the
conclusions he arrives at, come to us in threefold force, from their unexpectedness, and
their apparently natural sequence. Archy Moore is destined to have an extensive circu
lation. — Dispatch.
This work was published many years ago, under a different title, and was the first Is
sue of the Uncle Tom school of literature. At that time it wont begging in vain through
New York and Boston for a publisher, and finally the author got it printed himself by
the city printer of Boston, who put his name to it as publisher. It was afterward printed
In England and France, and translated into the principal languages of Europe. It is now
revised, enlarged, republished, and the authorship avowed. It is an ably written and in
teresting work. — V. S. Journal.
Fiction neveiL performs a nobler office thaiuffheiL-she acts as the handmaid-of-truthr
It is in this capacityffiaTEeT-assTstancelias been invokca_D7"tlie~auUi<>r of the work bo-
fore ns, and so well is the task accomplished, that we can scarcely persuade ourselves, as
we turn over the deeply interesting pages, that we are perusing a narrative of fictitious
wrongs and sufferings. Let not the' reader suppose, from what we have said, that this
Is a mere novel. Theincidents which diversify this narrative, may have had no real ex
istence in the exact connection and relation in which they are linked together in the sto
ry, and the characters may have no prototypes in all their individual features ; but we
have too much reason to know that such incidents and such characters are too abundantly
supplied at the south to require that the novelist should draw very largely on his invention.
The story is written in the style of an autobiography, and with such an air of verisimil
itude, that the reader cannot avoid the impression that the task of fiction has been morely
to arrange the materials supplied by truth.— Plamdealer. .
MILLER, ORTON & MULLIGAN, Publisher*
36 Park Eow, New York, and 107 Genesee-at., Auburm.

A Gireat Anti-Slavery Boiuance.
"OUR WOBLD,"
OR,
Annette5the Slaveholder's Daughtei
One Illustrated 12mo. Volume, 603 Pages. Price $1.25.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS-BRIEF EXTRACTS.
John Wesley said the best tunes had long been in the service of tbe devil. He thought it wuU!
m reclaim them for better purposes. The same is true of novels and romances— they have
heretofore been almost exclusively devoted cither to vice, or to very questionable amusement
3ufc the tide is turning, Fiction is beginning to serve the cause of virtue and humanity. Mil
i-eb, Oeton & Mulligan have just brought out a new anti-slavery story, entitled "Ocp
World," which bids, fair to equal anything that has gone before it It argues well for anti
slavery, when the first publishing houses in the nation— yes, in all nations — find it for their in
tcrest to publish such works as ** Uncle Tom's Cabin " and " Ouk World." — -Northern Chris
tian Advocate.
Its style is engaging, its logic weighty, and its deductions natural. It does not content itso.lt
with abusing an evil from a distance, but grapples and wrestles with it, right manfully. "Our World
will excite, first, attention, then admiration throughout the country, and take its place at the head
of all recently published bocks. — Buffalo Morning Express.
It is a work not to be read and thrown aside, but a work to be read and pondered over. Thp
•.ovel is a perfect melodrama for startling situations and effects, and we have never read a ficti
cious story which so completely engrossed one's attention from commencement to close. — Bos
ton Eventing Gazette.
It is enough to say, that the book will make a stir in the world. It is another battering ram
thundering against the wall of oppression, and is destined to make an impression second only to
•* Uncle Toin*s Cabin." — Western Literary Messenger.
It is written with great power, and evinces a thorough knowledge of the subject treated.-
Baffalo Democracy,
It is the production of one who gleans his facts not from the narratives of others, bnt from per
¦sonal observation and experience. The author's birth and education were in New England, bu
tie has long resided in the South, and become intimately familiar with its people and its institu
dons, and can, therefore, speak accurately and dispassionately of " things as they are." — Chicagt
Literary Budget
We have no hesitation in pronouncing it one of the most remarkable and powerful origina
works ever published in America. — Philadelphia Daily Jfenrs.
This work stirs tho soul like a trumpet; or, like the sounds from the lnme of captivity, awa
Kens untold sensations in our heart of hearts, especially if we love freedom. — Albany Spec
tator. Nothing on thisBnbject, Bince the days of " Uncle Tom's Cabin," has at all equaled It, and I*
promises to have a sale almost rivaling that most popular work. — Hillsdale Gazette.
This book will have an immense sale. Coming- at the time it does, when the slave power [.« ,
rapidly encroaching on free soil, everything which shows the blackness of the stain upon our na !
ion's flag, will be welcomed. This tale shows the deep and damning sin of slavery in its trur '
4gh t, but at the same time gives all the good which can possibly accrue from the " peculiar in '
stitution." , The author has taken a noble stand in the cause of freedom, and whilo sincere, if :
tolerant, and while just, is charitable. Every friend of Freedom will read the work.— Pough
keepsie Eagle.
Such a thrilling, truthful tale, so full of interest and of manly thought, we have not read sine
our eyes saw the.T&iis of " Uncle Tom's Cabin.*V— Weekly Visitor,
This book is a picture so true to reality, that it must make its way into the family circle. Tho
pen of the author, under the inspiration of the patriotic fires of Liberty, has diffused the con
vlncing spirit of /act throughout the text, in cubic magnitude.— Daily Advertiser.
The work, throughout, is one of great power and intense Interest. It paints in vivid and
truthful colors the long train of evils,, moral, social, and political, which the monster, slavery
entails upon the white population of the south, no less than the wrongs Indicted upon the
slaves. The author docs not write from hearsay; he has spent much time in an omcial capacity
at South, and his position afforded him facilities for observing tho workings of the moo
itroufl Institution \p **U its difibront .phases. — Christian Freeman.

The Great Plea for Freedom !

M BONDAGE AID MY FREEDOM,
BY.PREDERICK DOUGLASS.
Part I.— Life as a Slave. Part II.— Life as a Freeman.
yrrtK ax ustedduction, by dr. jakes H'Ctjne smith.
With Steel Portrait and other Illustrations, 464 pp. 12mo. Price $1 25.
x This book is remarkable not only for the touching interest and force
&f the story, but also for its fairness and candor. Hundreds of the firs*
critics in this country and in Europe, have given it the fullest and warn
est commendations.
"We have only room for the following Notices:
The mere fact that a member of an outcast and enslaved race should accomplish bin
freedom, and educate himself up to an equality of intellectual and moral vigor with the
leaders of the race by which he was held in bondage, Is in Itself so remarkable, that the
story of the change cannot be otherwise than exciting. For ourselves, we confess to have
read It with the unbroken attention with which we absorbed Uncle Tom's Cabin. It has
the advantage of the latter hook, in that it is no fiction. In the details of the early life
of the author upon the plantation, of his youthful thoughts on life and destiny, and of
the means by which he gradually worked his way to freedom, there is much that is pro
foundly touching. Our English literature has recorded many an example of genius strug
gling against adversity; yet none of these are so impressive as the case of the solitary
slave, in a remote district, surrounded by none but enemies, conceiving the project of hia
escape, teaching himself to read and write to facilitate it, accomplishing it at last, and
subsequently raising himself to a leadership in a great movement in behalf of his
brethren. — Putnam's Monthly Maga&ine.
I confessnever to have read a novel more thrillingly fascinating. I envy not the man
or womah, North or South, who can read with a dry eye the touching account of his
ehild-life; of the gradual dawning of the terrible truth that he was a slave; the haunting
specter that dogged his childish footsteps by day and troubled his dreams by night; and
his first heart-breaking initiation into his thralldoui. Then, too, the pathetic picture of
his slave-mother's stolen night visits, touched otf with an artistic skill and power which
Nature alone could teach. Then his unaided and doubtful struggle with the cowardly,
ruffianly negro breaker, Covey, prolonged hour after hour, at fearful odds against the
slave; his victory at last ; the sly touch of humor with which he details the denoue
ment, and the instantaneous change which that victory over the God-forsaken wretch
effected in his whole being, transforming him at once from a slave to a Man, who had
struck the first desperate blow for Freedom I In any other country, under any other
circumstances, such a sublime ami-unaided defence of tyranny would have won tho
world's applause; and why not for Fred. Douglass? — God's noblest work — a Man, though
carved in bronze. — Fanny Fern.
Here is a man not yet forty years of age, who was a born thrall ; who felt the iron eat
into his soul; who records only what he personally experienced; who gives dates and
places; who names circumstances and persons; whose body yet bears the marks of tho
cruel lash; who remained twenty-one years in bondage; who escapea from that bitter
slavery; wtaoj" a self-taught man, has exhibited true eloquence of speech and pen, ut
home and in Europe, in advocacy of his race's claim to freedom; who has conducted a
newspaper in this State for several years with success; whose exemption from being
claimed as a fugitive is owing solely to the fact that, long after his escape, his friends pur
chased his freedom from his quondam "master:" and who, living, acting, speaking
among us, possesses more vital interest for men who think than would the heroes of
twenty negro romaR&*s, even though «ach of them was as highly wrought as that written
by Mrs. Stowe, My Bondage, so forcible in its evident truth,'is one of the most inter
esting, exciting, and thought-awakening books in our language. In every way It is re
markable—not only in what it relates, but in the manner of the relation. In truth, the
literary merit of the book is very great As a mere literary production, it would be
creditable to the first English writer of the day.— tfeio York Ttmes.
MILLER, ORTON & MULLIGAN, Publisher*,
25 Park Row, Krw V^h, and 107 Geneace-st, Avbum.

TWELVE TEARS A SLAVE
ITie Narrative of Solomon Northup, a citizen of New York,
Kidnapped 1A. "Washington City, in 1841, and Rescued in 1853,
from a Cottpn Plantat;on*near Red, Riv.er, Louisiana.
7 Illustrations, §36 pp. 12mo. Price $1,00

VOICE OF THE PRESS.
The narrative will be read with interest by every one who can sympathize with a hs*
an being struggling for freedom. — Buff: Cow.
The volume cannot fail to gain>a wide circulation. No one can contemplate the scenes
which are here so_naturally set forth, without a new conviction of the hideousness of the
institution from which the subject of the narratiye has happily escaped. — 2f. Y. Tkibwne,
We think the story as affeotirig as any tale of- sorrow could be. — Jv, Y. Evangelist
It proves conclusively that Uncle Tom's Cabin is a truthful history of American Slavery,
though drawn under the veil of fiction. — Otsego Rep.
Next to Uncle Tom's Cabin, the extraordinary narrative of Solomon Northujx Is the
most remarkable book that was' ever issued from the American press. — Detroit Trib.
This is a simple, earnest, moving narrative of the events,vicissitndes, cruelties and
kindnesses of a bondage of 12 years. If therenre those who can peruse it uqraoyed, wo
pity them. That it will create as great a sensation, and be regarded equally as interesting
as "Uncle Tom's Cabin," is not a question for argument — Buffalo Express.
This is one of the most exciting narratives, full of thrilling incidents artlessly told, with
allthe marks of truth. There are no depicted scenes in " Uncle Tom " more tragic, horri
ble, and pathetic,than the incidents .compassed in the twelve years of this man's life in
slavery. — Cincinnati Jov/r. ¦
II s who with an unbiassed mind sits down to the perusal of this book, will arise per
fectly satisfied that American slavery is a bell of torments yet untold, and feel like devo
ting the energies of his life to its extirpation from the face of God's beautiful earth. —
Evening Chron.
The story is one of thrilling interest as a mere personal history. He is but a little darker
than many who pass for white, and quite as intelligent as most white men. — 2T. C. Adv.
The book is one of most absorbing interest. — Pittsburgh Dispatch.
It. is written in a racy, agreeable style, and narrates with admirable conciseness, yet
animation the story of tho sufferings, woes and persecutions of the hero. It is no less
remarkable for candor and unity of purpose than for literary ability. — Oneida Her.
It is one of the most effective books against slavery that was ever written. "Arcby
Mooro" and" .Uncle TonrV are discredited by many as "romances;" but how the apolo
gists for, the institution can dispose of Northup we are curious to see. — Syracuse Jour,
It is well told and bears internal evidence of being a clear statement of facts. There is
no attempt at display, but the events are so graphically portrayed, that the interest in the
perusal is deep and unabated to the last Some of the scenes have a fearful and exciting
power in their delineation. — Cayuga Chief.
It is a strange history, its truth is far stranger than fiction. Think of it! For thirty
years a man, with all a man's hopes, fears and aspirations — with a wife and children to call
him by tho endearing names of husband and father — with a home, bumble it may be,
but still a home, beneath the shelter of whose roof none had aright to molest or make him
afraid — then for^welvo years a thing, a chattel personal, classed with mules and horses
und treated witliless consideration than they; torn from his home and family, and.thefrce
labor by which he earned their bread, and driven to unremitting, unrequited toil in a cotton
field, under a burning southern sun, by the lash of an inhuman master. Oh I it is horri
ble. It chills the blood to think that such things are.— Fred. Douglas^ Paper.
It comes bef<Trt us with highly respectable vouchers, and is a.plain and simple statement
Df what happened to the author while in bondage to southern masters. It is a well-told
story, full of interest, and may be said to be the reality of "life among tho lowly." — Buff.
Com. Adv.
Let it be read by all those good easy souls, who think slavery is, on the wholo a good
thing. Let it be read by all who think that .although slavery is politically and economi
cally a bad thing, it is not very bad for tho Slaves. Let it bo read by all those M. C's and
supporters who are always ready to give their votes, in aid of slavery and the slave trado
with all tho kidnapping inseparable from it Let it be read, too, by oiir southern friends,
who pity 'with so much' christian sensibility, the wretched condition of the free negroes at
the north,- and rejoice at tho enviable condition of their own slaves. — 2T, Y. Did,
Published by MILLER, ORTON & MULLIGAN,
No. 25 Park Row, New York, and 107 Genesee-st, Auburn

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