Addressed to James Miller McKim in Philadelphia, the box began a complicated journey. Many times it was loaded and unloaded, moved from wagon to railroad car, to the deck of a steamboat, then to another wagon, another railroad car, a ferry, yet another wagon. The box was handled roughly and the message on the outside was often ignored. Sometimes the box was even carried upside down.
Brown suffered bumps and bruises, but was careful not to utter a sound. Despite the ventilation holes, the air grew stale and stifling. Driven by his quest, Brown kept his goal in mind. He resolved “to conquer or die trying.”
The steamboat leg of the journey proved to be the most difficult. The box was stood on end with Brown upside down. For several hours he endured the painful position. “I felt my eyes swelling as if they would burst from their sockets and the veins on my temples were dreadfully distended with pressure of blood upon my head.”
On the point of passing out, he heard the voices of two workmen outside. One complained about standing too long. He needed a place to sit. Suddenly Brown felt the box tilt. It slammed hard on the deck, right side up again. The wood creaked as the two men sat down and rested their tired legs. “I was relieved from a state of agony which may be more easily imagined than described,” he said.
After twenty-seven hours, the box finally arrived at the office of the Pennsylvania Anti-Slavery Society in Philadelphia. James McKim was there along with several other members of the abolitionist movement. No sound came from inside the box. Was Henry Brown still alive?
McKim rapped on the lid. “All right?” he called.
“All right, sir!” Brown answered.
With saws and hatchets, the hoops were cut, the lid was raised and a wobbly Henry Brown rose up from the box, alive and free. “How do you do, gentlemen?” he said, reaching out his hand.
Brown’s incredible journey in the small box ended in Philadelphia.
News of Henry “Box” Brown’s bold escape captured the imagination of many. He became active in the Anti-Slavery Society, published a book about his adventures and travelled extensively, giving speeches about his experience.
In 2001 a metal replica of the famous box was installed at Canal Walk in downtown Richmond, Virginia, at a place where many slaves were bought and sold before the practice was finally outlawed in 1865.
OVERCOMING THE IMPOSSIBLE
August–October 1931 / Australia
During the first half of the twentieth century, with integration into White society the goal, Australian, Canadian and other governments ordered the widespread removal of aboriginal children from their homes. The children were shipped to state-run institutions and schools, sometimes many kilometres away. There they were stripped of their identities, denied access to their culture and forced to learn new languages and ways. Often they endured punishment and abuse.
Among the thousands plucked from their homes were three mixed-race girls living in Western Australia: Molly Craig, fourteen; her half-sister, Daisy Kadibil, eleven; and their cousin Gracie Fields, eight. Immediately after being shipped to the Moore River Settlement, 1600 kilometres from their home in Jigalong, Molly began to plot their escape.
On their second day the three girls hid in the dormitory and then walked out unnoticed. Carrying little food or clothing, wearing no shoes, they headed for home. To find their way they followed the Rabbit-Proof Fence — designed to stop the spread of rabbits — which ran north to south across Western Australia.
Eager to reach their families, the girls crossed the wilderness, walking up to 32 kilometres a day. At the start, rains washed away their footprints, helping them elude search parties. They approached farmhouses to ask for help, and ate whatever they could forage or catch: bibijali or sweet potato, pried out of the earth; karkula, a type of wild banana, harvested from trees; even rabbits, snared and cooked over an open fire. At night the three slept in rabbit burrows or on the ground, curled among sand dunes and scrub grass. When the younger girls grew tired and their legs became infected by grass cuts, Molly carried them.
A few weeks into their journey, Gracie learned from a woman they met that her mother had moved from Jigalong. Too exhausted to travel farther on foot, she hopped a train. Molly and Daisy continued their journey. After a trek lasting two months, the two girls reached Jigalong.
Protected by their parents, the girls stayed hidden and dodged authorities for a few more weeks until the search for them was finally abandoned, bringing an end to their remarkable ordeal.
17.
VAULTING TO FREEDOM
Lulled by the predictable routine, the German guards never suspected that an escape was underway.
During World War II, escape was a priority at Stalag Luft III, a German prisoner-of-war camp in Poland. Most of the POWs were Allied airmen who had been shot down and captured. To tunnel out of the camp, to escape and return home to fly into battle once more — this was the duty and the dream of many prisoners, including Eric Williams and Richard Codner, two British airmen.
Unfortunately there was no easy way out of Stalag Luft III. The remote camp was a fortress, guarded by sentries in high wooden towers and surrounded by double 4-metre-high fences. The soil around the camp was loose and unstable and more sand than clay. Escape tunnels dug from the prisoner barracks at the centre of camp, 46 metres from the outer fences, often collapsed. To further complicate things, while the topsoil was dark grey, the subsoil was bright yellow — a colour easily detected. Several tunnel diggers had been caught when traces of yellow soil had been found on their shoes and clothes.
Those caught trying to escape faced harsh penalties. Sometimes the entire camp would be punished. To boost the chances of success and to minimize risk, the POWs established a secret escape committee. The committee studied escape plans, approved only those that seemed likely to succeed and gave their full support to those that passed inspection.
Eric Williams and Richard Codner analyzed the earlier unsuccessful attempts. Other tunnels had failed, they figured, because they started at the barracks, too far from the barbed wire fences. Furthermore, the tunnels had been dug mostly at night when guards were on alert for escapes and when seismograph microphones planted in the ground were active. A shovel chewing through the dirt, a foot running along the ground — the slightest vibration brought out guards and snarling attack dogs.
Why not start the tunnel closer to the fences? Williams and Codner suggested. Dig by day when the guards least expected it. Do it in the open, right under the guards’ noses, but use a clever disguise to conceal the diggers.
The idea seemed too wild and extreme to work. But then there was a chance, too, a sliver of hope that it might succeed. The escape committee approved the plan and vowed to help the two men achieve their freedom.
To start, Eric Williams and Richard Codner oversaw the construction of a wooden vaulting horse, the kind used by gymnasts to spring into the air. For building materials, the two men removed wooden rafters from an abandoned bathhouse inside the camp. The rafters became the vaulting horse’s framework. To make the horse sturdy but also hollow and lightweight, they covered the frame with plywood rescued from Red Cross cartons. Two long shafts inserted through the horse became handles for four men to carry it. When completed, the horse stood 1.4 metres high and had a base 1.6 metres by 1 metre.
With the approval of the German guards, the POWs started an exercise routine. Each afternoon they carried the empty vaulting horse to an open field between the barracks and the barbed wire fences. It was placed on the ground — in exactly the same spot each time — between two pits, the jumping and landing places for the vaulters. While the guards watched, prisoners lined up and carried out a drill … running … vaulting over the horse … landing with a thud. Sometimes one of the vaulters purposely stumbled, knocking the horse over to show the guards that it was empty. Lulled by the predictable routine, the guards relaxed. On the afternoon of July 8, 1943, when the vaulting horse was carried out again, it was just another day for them — nothing to worry
about, just POWs exercising as usual.
That day Codner was inside, bracing himself against the framework of the horse as it was carried. In his arms, he balanced a box containing a few digging supplies. The horse was placed on the ground in the usual spot. The shafts were withdrawn. Fresh air wafted through the holes at either end. As the prisoners vaulted, Codner began digging a tunnel while hiding beneath the vaulting horse. Two hours later, when the exercise period was over, he hid inside the vaulting horse again as it was carried to the barracks.
After that Williams and Codner took turns, or sometimes went together. Their tools were simple: trowels, wooden bowls, crude spades fashioned from tin cans. Working in stifling heat, they dug and scraped. They shovelled the dirt into small bags made from pant legs sewn together by the escape committee. When the vaulting horse was carried back to the barracks, the bags of dirt went with it.
A third man — Oliver Philpot, a Canadian pilot — worked mostly behind the scenes. In exchange for his help, Williams and Codner promised Philpot a chance at freedom, too. Philpot organized the vaulters, made sure materials were ready and transferred the sacks of sand. Other POWs hid the sacks in their pants. As they roamed the camp, they released little bits of sand, burying some under the barracks and digging some into the garden.
To prevent collapse, the shaft entrance was reinforced with bricks and bed boards smuggled out of the barracks. A wooden trap door set half a metre below the surface and covered with grey topsoil hid the opening and muffled hollow sounds the German guards might hear if they walked over it.
They were still 18 metres from the fence.
To light their way, Williams and Codner used candles. With little circulation in the cramped space, the air grew stale and unbearably warm. Often they stripped down to their waists or even worked naked, not only to combat the heat, but also to prevent the yellow sand from sticking to their clothes and giving them away.
There were close calls. Once, while Codner was tunnelling, part of the roof gave way. A hole appeared in the ground above. To hide the spot, a quick-thinking prisoner leaped over the vaulting horse, pretended to trip and landed over the opening. He faked a twisted leg and moaned in agony, stalling the exercise routine and buying Codner time to repair the damage.
In eight weeks the men dug about 12 metres. They were still 18 metres from the fence. It seemed an impossible target given the slow pace and the sweltering conditions. As the tunnel grew longer, sand had to be lugged a greater distance — a back-breaking chore in the musty, cramped space.
Then Williams became ill. For almost a week he was confined to the camp hospital, slowing down progress. He made good use of his time in bed, though. He chatted to other patients and pumped them for news about the war, the routes open and those blocked — information that might be of help when the men finally escaped.
While Williams, Codner and Philpot toiled in the tunnel, the escape committee also kept busy. The men would need civilian clothes once they left the camp. Tailors stitched clothing for the men from bedsheets, curtains, blankets, old uniforms and underwear — whatever was on hand. They also needed cover stories, new identities, passports, travel permits and other documents to get across occupied Europe. To create false papers, POWs skilled at forgery worked in secret, knowing that their talents spelled the difference between success and failure.
On October 29, 1943, nearly four months after the digging had started, the tunnel was almost finished. That afternoon when the vaulters carried the horse to its familiar spot, Williams and Codner were inside, their backs pressed against the ends of the horse, their feet propped on either side of the frame.
The vaulting box made for an ingenious distraction from the work happening underground.
When the exercise period was over, prisoners carried back the horse. This time only Williams was inside. Codner stayed in the tunnel to dig the final section. With little air circulation at the end of the tunnel it was hard to breathe. Using a length of metal pipe, he rammed small holes into the tunnel roof, drawing in badly needed oxygen. By candlelight, he chipped at the dirt, centimetres closer to freedom with every scoop.
In the camp, Williams and Philpot gathered food, documents, money, clothing and travel papers that the escape committee had prepared. Around 4:00 p.m. the vaulters carried the horse out again. Kit bags containing supplies dangled from hooks inside, and this time three men were aboard: Williams, Philpot and a third prisoner. Philpot and Williams joined Codner in the tunnel. The other prisoner covered the tunnel entrance and then rode back when the vaulting horse was returned to the barracks.
At the far end of the tunnel, the three POWs changed into civilian clothes and distributed the supplies. They reviewed their cover stories, the escape routes they would follow and the things they would need to do or say along the way.
At 6:00 p.m., right on schedule, Williams and Codner broke through the remaining dirt. They climbed out of the tunnel just outside the prison fence. Philpot followed. Lively music and singing drifted from the barracks — a diversion planned by the escape committee to distract the German guards. They didn’t notice the three men as they slipped into the thick woods outside the camp.
Soon after, the three men split up. Philpot, who was fluent in French and preferred to travel alone, headed toward neutral, war-free Sweden disguised as a French labourer. Williams and Codner, also disguised as French labourers, travelled together.
Dodging sniffer dogs and the German secret police, they hopped trains and ships until they reached the Swedish city of Göteborg. To their surprise, Philpot was already there, having beaten them by a full week. After contacting the British consul, the three flew back to England.
Heroes with stories to tell, Eric Williams wrote The Wooden Horse, a novel based on the escape, while Oliver Philpot wrote Stolen Journey, an account of his wartime adventures. For Richard Codner, the experience was a highlight, more exciting than dangerous. “I enjoyed myself when we were escaping,” he once said. “There was something about it. We were really living then … I liked being hunted … the feeling that every minute was important, that everything you did would sway the balance.”
18.
CHISELLING OFF “THE ROCK”
One night four prisoners held at Alcatraz made a bid for freedom.
On a clear day, from the rocky island of Alcatraz where America’s most famous prison stands, you can see the city of San Francisco. San Francisco Bay separates the prison from the city, and although the two are only 2.5 kilometres apart, danger lurks in the choppy waters between. Tides rule the bay, deep currents run strong and no less than eleven species of shark prowl the region. The water is bone-numbingly cold and frequent storms lash the coast.
From 1934 to 1961, in Alcatraz’s first twenty-seven years as a federal prison, twenty-nine men tried to escape in twelve separate attempts. All failed. Some were caught long before reaching the water. Others made it off the island, only to be recaptured soon after. Two vanished — presumed drowned, their bodies swept out to sea.
With that kind of record, Alcatraz was thought to be escape-proof. Once on The Rock, there was no way for a prisoner to get off — at least not alive or until his sentence had been served.
The watchtowers at Alcatraz were just one of the ways to keep prisoners from escaping.
Despite the unlikelihood of escape, four prisoners at Alcatraz dreamed and schemed, anxious to shorten their stay. While those who break the law deserve justice, not admiration, these criminals are legendary for their carefully plotted plan.
The ringleader was Frank Morris, a career criminal with a long list of offences ranging from drug possession to armed robbery. The others — Allen West and brothers Clarence and John Anglin — were also ambitious criminals, sent to Alcatraz for robbing banks and hijacking cars.
In Alcatraz, the four men found one another in Cell Block B. They were confined to four separate cells. Morris and West were beside each other; the Anglin brothers in adjoining cells farther down the corridor.
Cramped and windowless, the cells were just 1.5 metres by 2.7 metres, with a toilet and small sink on the far wall opposite the door, and a simple cot on another.
Outside, 3-metre-high walls topped with a fence and barbed wire ringed the prison. The walls were watched around the clock by armed guards. At night searchlights raked the courtyard. Inside, guards patrolled the corridors, peering into cells, counting heads and calling names, expecting prisoners to respond and prove they were still there.
A chance discovery gave the men an idea.
For a long while, the four prisoners plotted and planned. Escape seemed impossible. Then in September 1961 a chance discovery gave them an idea.
An unguarded utility corridor ran behind the solid wall of each cell. It was narrow — just 0.9 metres wide — and crammed with electrical cables, plumbing pipes and ventilation shafts that ran to the roof. The men noticed that the concrete around the air vents in the far wall of their cells had deteriorated. It crumbled easily, flaking off in small chunks with just a bit of scraping. And so an idea was born — freedom lay just behind the vent, down the utility corridor and up to the roof, if only they could break through.
Each evening after returning from work details, the four men chiselled at the concrete. They worked in pairs from adjoining cells, one being the lookout while the other attacked the concrete. To drown out the sound, they dug mostly during music hour when the squawk of accordions flooded the prison.
Their tools were simple — metal spoons stolen from the kitchen, drill bits from the workshop and equipment around the prison that no one would miss. When the prison’s vacuum system broke down, Allen West dismantled it, removed the electric motor and made a drill to speed up the chiselling.
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