Antebellum Struggles

by Dickie Erman

  “I’m just joshin’ ya, sir. My name’s Seth, and this here’s Randy” as Seth offered to shake the Doctor’s hand.

  “Nice to meet ya, fellas. My name’s Dr. Wesley. Dr. Jeremiah Wesley” he boastfully introduced himself, quite confident now in his superiority.

  “Doctor, eh? What’s a respectable feller like you doin’ in a flea bag saloon like this?” Randy asked.

  “Oh, I’m actually stayin’ at the Cloverdale, down the street” he bragged. “But every so often I get bored with the snobs that patronize that hotel. From time to time, I like to mingle with, well, regular folk. Like you and Seth, here. It’s like bein’ with my patients. Real people. Real problems. You know what I mean?”

  “Well, hell ya, I know what ya mean. Believe me Doc, there aint’s no more ‘real’ people than me and Seth here” they laughed at themselves.

  “What do you boys do for a living?” the Doctor asked.

  “Brain surgery, mostly” Randy said with his best serious expression. Seth cracked up again.

  The Doctor looked at them both like he’d about had enough of their foolishness.

  “Sorry Doc” Randy apologized. “Me and Seth been havin’ a real tough time lately. We’re just ranch hands. But thars’ no work here. The nigger slaves have all the work. I hate ta admit it, but our last job was workin’ side by side with those blacks, in the cane fields.

  “The white owner paid us a pittance. But hell, he could have paid us five times that amount, but I won’t do that work anymore. It’s slave work. It’s rough. Right, Seth?”

  “That’s right”.

  “Boys, I may have a solution for you. Ever heard of the Fugitive Slave Act?”

  The two looked at each other with blank stares.

  “It says that the government will pay ten dollars to anyone who captures a runaway slave” the Doctor half lied. “But that’s not all. The slave owner will also pay, and much more. I know, because one of my patients is Colonel Trent Winters, owner of a huge cane plantation not far from here” he half lied again.

  The two were no longer interested in their drinks.

  “Would you like me to continue?” Both men nodded enthusiastically.

  “Well, ya see …”

  37

  T HE SHERIFF’S DEPUTY, Harley, was sitting on his office porch, reading a paper, when Randy and Seth approached, hats in hand.

  “Mornin’ Deputy” Seth said. Harley looked up, sizing the two of them, then returned to his paper. “Mornin’” he mumbled, a little irritated by the disruption.

  “Say, we got a question for ya” Seth began. “We knows one of them runaway slaves is right here, right here in N’awlins”. Harley paid them no attention.

  “Well, we want to know, if we find him, does the law require that you help us capture him?”

  Harley slowly lowered his paper, then looked Seth in the eye.

  “You know of a slave. Right here in N’awlins? Well, I’ll be dogged. Ain’t that interestin’?” he said sarcastically.

  “Join the club, boys. There’s probably a hundred or more runaways in this here city”.

  The two looked dumbfounded, not understanding why the Deputy didn’t grasp the importance of their find.

  “Well” Randy joined in. “Is it true? Do you got to help us?”

  “You know where this runaway is?”

  “Well, not exactly” Randy sheepishly replied. The two sensed that Harley felt they were wasting his time.

  “Well, when you do find him … if you find him … then come see me. ‘Til then, I guess we’re all just wastin’ our time”.

  “Deputy” Seth started, sitting down next to him.

  “We’re just two cow pokes tryin’ to make a buck” he said dejectedly. “We’re not tryin’ to waste your time.

  “I guess what I’m askin’ is, if you was us, where’d you look?” not really expecting any help.

  Harley could see they were just dumb ranch hands, down on their luck. Not a very honorable profession, slave capturers. But then everyone has to make a living.

  “Either of you fellas read?” he asked, with some sarcasm.

  “Yea. We can read” Randy replied defensively.

  “Wait here” Harley said, as he stood up and strolled back into the Sheriff’s office. He soon came back, and held out a newspaper.

  “Try readin’ this” he said, pointing to the paper.

  “I don’t know if this can help or not. But this here newspaper is printed by abolitionists, right here in town. They stick up for slaves, and write articles tryin’ to convince people that slavery’s bad and otta’ be abolished.

  “Now, they ain’t gonna say that they help slaves to escape, but that’s what they do. That’s what I believe they do.

  “Personally, I don’t like slaves. Never have. What this newspaper does ain’t illegal. We got freedom of the press, yes sir, and that includes N’awlins. But I know that they help niggers escape, and that is illegal. Maybe you can find somethin’ in that paper that could help you.

  “If it does, come see me. And yes, the law does say I gotta help you. If you find one”.

  Their spirits lifted considerably. Between the two of them, they figured they could read at least most of the words in the paper. They were almost giddy, detectives working out a mystery plot.

  “Much obliged, Deputy” they said as they walked away, eager to begin their new adventure.

  * * *

  “UNNER … Unner …”

  “Under’, you idiot. The word’s ‘under’. ‘Underground’” Seth barked, as he chastised Randy for his ignorance.

  “Can’t you read?”

  “Well, hell. Sure’s I can read. But this here word stumped me. Since when did you all of a sudden become a professor, huh?”

  “Calm down” Seth said. “Ain’t no sense workin’ agin’ each other”. Their heads were bowed, staring at the Herald Beacon newspaper the Deputy had given them.

  About halfway through, Seth observed: “This is stupid. This paper’s not gonna’ give us where a runaway ‘station’ is at, or give the name of any ‘conductor’. This here’s a waste of time”.

  “Wait a minute” Randy countered. It is all right here.

  “These people is the ‘conductors’. They’re the ones that helps the slaves. They’re the ones who know where the ‘stations’ are at. It’s gotta be. Hell. It’s right here in front of us”.

  Seth just stared at Randy, clueless.

  “Look. Tonight, we go to their office. You know, snoop around a little. Now, I don’t expect we’re gonna find a bunch of them dancin’ round the floor singin’ gospel hymns.

  “But we might find somethin’, some clue, that’ll lead us to one of them. Then, bang!” he clapped his hands together.

  “Hmm” Seth muttered, way less enthusiastic. “I just don’t see it. What do you expect to find, exactly?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. And I won’t know, until we try. Let’s just meet at the Mad Dog at sunset, and then we’ll mosey on over for a look-see. You with me?”

  “Sure, sure” Seth answered, thinking the worst thing that would happen is a couple of beers at the saloon.

  * * *

  TABARI was quite comfortable, his eyes now fully adjusted to the darkness of the room as he sat cross-legged on the floor. He’d only eaten half of what Melba brought him, yet his belly was full. Fried chicken, sweet potatoes, even a slice of apricot pie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a meal. Probably from his mother’s cooking, so long ago at his village.

  Leaning his back against the wall, he brought his sleeve to his nostrils, and sniffed in the fresh scent of clean clothes. For a moment, he felt free. Freedom would feel like this. No hunger, no thirst, no more foul smelling odors from his body and clothes.

  He remembered well what Tom and Melba had told him: Make no movement, make no noise. He lay down on the floor, covered himself with a blanket, and rested his head on the soft pillow Melba brought him. Soon, he was lightl
y sleeping.

  “Keep quiet, ya fool!” Randy whispered to Seth as they approached the front door of the newspaper’s office. Their weight made the wooden boards of the porch creak with each step.

  “You don’t even know if anyone’s in thar’” Seth shot back, a little too loud for Randy’s liking.

  “Well then. Why don’t you just yell out and announce our arrival, so everyones can hear?” he sarcastically whispered back. “Idiot” he thought.

  Tabari’s eyes instantly opened. He stared at the front door, then the window. Tom and Melba had pinned the drapes shut. The pattern of the print prevented one from seeing in or out, but the thin material could still reveal one’s silhouette. He watched as the two men approached the door, then wiggled the knob.

  “It’s locked” announced Seth.

  “Duh, ya think? What’d ya expect? They’d just leave the front door wide open and invite us in? Moron”.

  “Well, then what are we doin’ here?” Seth asked in frustration, no longer whispering.

  “Shhh!” Randy mover closer to the window and peered inside, trying to make out the interior layout. But the drapes prevented any clear view, and certainly not of Tabari, crouched in the corner, beginning to sweat profusely. He could hear their voices when they spoke above a whisper.

  “This is a waste of time” Seth complained. “They ain’t hidin’ no nigger in thar’. You heard the Deputy. Hidin’ runaways is illegal. Somebody would surely see one enter or leave. Come on. I’m thirsty. You can buy me a beer”.

  Tabari breathed a heavy sigh of relief as he heard the two walk away. No wonder Mr. Tom told him he can’t stay in one place too long. It was only his first night, and captors were already looking for him.

  He didn’t sleep a wink.

  38

  M y Dearest Collette,

  “It’s about 2 am and I just cannot sleep. I think about you all the days & nights & the simply marvelous time we spent together. I should fill you in. J. returned from Baton Rouge two days ago, having completed his legislative business. I must admit, it’s nice to have him home. I feel much safer with a man in the house.

  “Sadly, our situation remains the same. I’m hesitant to share too many intimate details, but know you’ll keep them private, to yourself. I knew J. would be tired from his arduous travels, so I left him alone so he could relax and refresh himself. But last night, I just couldn’t stand it. Perhaps foolishly, I initiated the intimacy I’ve craved for so long. Alas. Nothing. No response, other than harmless affection. I’m so sorry to burden you with this, but I just had to write you & get it off my chest. You are my dearest & most trusted friend …”

  39

  T HE FULL MOON MADE Tom’s ride easy. He slowed his horse to a walk as he approached the Jefferson’s farm.

  Frank Jefferson was nearing his 80s. His wife, Freda, was considerably younger, but in ill health. Farming was hard work, and her once pretty face and figure had taken their toll from years of laboring in the hot sun.

  They’d never owned any slave, instead hiring both whites and blacks to toil their land and grow enough crops to eke out a modest living.

  They’d known Greta Fitzgerald for many years before she passed. In fact, it was Miss Greta that helped fuel their passion against slavery, and introduced them to the inner workings of the Underground Railroad.

  In the years before Greta’s death, Frank and Freda had helped six slaves escape as far away as Canada. These were ‘confirmed’ escapes, where the slaves wrote letters back, acknowledging their safe arrival and lifetime gratitude to the Jeffersons.

  Frank and Freda cherished each letter, a kind of memento honoring their devotion and sacrifice to the cause of freedom. They were kept in sealed glass jars, and buried inside their barn, lest any lawman discovered them and charged them with aiding and abetting a runaway slave.

  The last one arrived a week ago. Written on behalf of a slave named Helen, who’d expressed her undying gratitude to Frank and Freda, informing them that she’d finally arrived safely in Massachusetts. Freda had read and re-read it, lovingly tucking it under her pillow.

  “Evenin’ Frank. Evenin’ Freda”, Tom greeted them as they sat on their front porch chairs, enjoying the moonlit evening.

  “Well Tom, it’s certainly been awhile. Please, come sit. Frank just made a couple a mint juleps. Mighty good. Will you join us?” she implored.

  “Miss Freda, don’t mind if I do” he answered, not remembering the last time he tasted one of those delicious thirst quenchers.

  They chatted about their children, the crops, the weather. Frank and Freda knew Tom hadn’t come to merely chit-chat.

  Frank took another sip of his julep. “Tom, how are you and the paper comin’ along? How’s Melba?”

  “Melba’s fine” he answered, knowing that Frank and Freda knew the real purpose of his business here.

  “Readership is actually on the rise” he lied, knowing the two understood.

  “I know how unpopular the Herald Beacon is to some folks” Freda consoled him. “But it won’t last forever. There’s enough good Christian folks out there, right here, in N’awlins, that know the evils of slavery, first hand. In time, the world will know”.

  “In time” Tom thought. “Tabari doesn’t have time”.

  Frank sensed the deep concern in Tom’s face. “You’ve got a problem, Tom?”

  He paused, then answered.

  “Yea” looking directly at the two of them. “It’s a runaway. Name’s Tabari” he said, realizing how curious that he was nearly whispering, when there was no one around for miles.

  “He kinda popped out of nowhere. Melba found him hiding under the newspaper office this morning. Dirty, scared and … unprepared. He has no idea what to do, where to go … well … you know”.

  Freda and Frank smiled at each other, knowingly. “Of course we do” they both said softly, almost simultaneously.

  Frank was anxious to help. “You’ve been at this, well, not as long as Freda and me, but you’ve done this before. Have you got a plan?”

  “Well, no. That’s why I’m here. I know the risk everyone takes, believe me. Melba and me are constantly under death threats for the newspaper. Even caught a drunken bastard fixin’ to pour a can of whale oil on our front door, and light it on fire.

  “I stopped him after a brief scuffle, and dragged his ass to the sheriff. When the deputy learned it was the Herald Beacon that the drunk was about to torch, he just laughed. Asked me if there was an actual fire. You believe that? He said if there wasn’t an actual fire, he couldn’t arrest anyone!”

  “Deputy Harley” Frank stated.

  “Yea. You know him?”

  Frank and Melba smirked at each other. “We’ve had more than one visit from ol’ Harley” Melba said. The last one was about a year ago. He rode out here with two or three slave captors. Accused us of hiding a runaway, and threatened to arrest both of us if we didn’t cooperate and turn over the ‘alleged’ slave.

  “They just barged into the house, overturned furniture, our bed, whatever they felt like. They searched the barn, the corrals. Harley said he had half a mind to burn our place down, just to teach ‘nigger lovers’ a lesson” she whispered the last few words.

  Tom just stared down and shook his head. “My Lord”.

  “How can we help?” Frank calmly asked.

  Now Tom was undecided. How’s he going to ask an old man and his sickly wife to risk their farm, maybe their very lives, to help save a runaway slave?

  Tom and Melba. Frank and Freda. They were all ‘conductors’ of the Underground Railroad. But there wasn’t a written plan, a strict set of instructions. There was no meaningful communication beforehand, no structured backup chart when something went wrong, which it generally did.

  The starting point was to provide enough food, water, and sometimes clothing, to help a slave move from point A to point B. That was the first ‘conductors’ job.

  The second conductor did the same, only the next destina
tion, or ‘station’, was point C, and so on, until the slave reached freedom.

  Freedom could mean as far as Illinois, Indiana or Ohio. Or farther. All the way to Canada. Or maybe somewhere in between, always depending on the unique circumstances which changed from week to week, sometimes moment to moment.

  It was rare if ‘conductor A’ knew who ‘conductor E’ would be. Times, distances, illnesses, any number of factors could change their identities and participation.

  But always, step one to freedom meant moving from point A to point B. Tom and Melba were point A.

  “I don’t know who you might have to help take Tabari farther north. But he can’t stay where he’s at. I can just feel it. He needs to go. Now!” There was urgency in his voice.

  Frank and Freda, frightened as they rightfully were, just couldn’t say ‘no’. They looked at each other, nervously. They’d done more than their fair share for the cause, and neither would resent the other if they chose to decline Tom’s request. But they couldn’t.

  “Tom, bring him here tomorrow, a couple hours after dark. I can get him to the next ‘station’” he said, looking to Freda for her acknowledgement that this was doable.

  She nodded.

  “I don’t know what to say” Tom replied honestly. I don’t …”

  “Enough” Freda said. “We all know what risks are involved. We don’t do it for you, Tom. We do it for …”

  “Tabari. His name’s Tabari”.

  “We do it for Tabari” Frank finished his sentence.

  Feeling merry from the effects of her julep, Freda told Tom she had something she wanted to show him.

  Frank smiled lovingly, knowing what she was up to.

  Moments later, she returned with the letter from Helen. “Read it” she said.

  After finishing, Tom was nearly in tears.

  “One year. She travelled from here to Boston. It took one year” he said. “Look what you did. Look what both of you did for this woman” he genuinely gushed, all three now smiling with watery eyes.

  He reached to hand her back the letter.

  “No Tom” as she gently clasped both hands around his.