by Tara Conklin
Perhaps Pastor Shaw was asked to leave, perhaps he has moved on. But I fear for him. And are we too at risk of incurring our neighbors’ approbation, given Father’s friendship with the Pastor? Might it damage Father’s business reputation & relations? Father continues on publicly as though nothing has happened. This morning in town he said loudly to Mr. Stanmore that he looks forward to the arrival of our new minister. Though when this will be, no one knows.
I hope that Pastor Shaw will soon send word. A simple note to assure us of his good health would put us all at ease.
Yours,
Dot
May 15, 1848
My dearest sister,
Something has happened but words fail me to explain. My hand is shaking as I write these words, shaking still from what I witnessed in the barn tonight, after our evening meal, after Mother & I read to little Samuel & tucked him to bed. I will try to tell the tale as I witnessed it, leaving nothing out.
To begin: Samuel was sleeping peacefully downstairs, Father was working in the barn outside, Mother had retired to her bed. I remained at the kitchen table, reading the new Godey’s when I heard a scream. I raised my head & heard another. The sound was muffled but it seemed to come from our very barn. I stepped outside & saw the light from Father’s lantern burning in the barn window. I hurried across the yard and, as my feet sank into the soft mud of the garden, I heard yet another scream. I shouted for Father and, receiving no reply, swung open the door to the workshop. What met my eyes shocked me to the very core. There stood our Father with hammer in hand. A recently finished casket rested on splints, the wood still yellow & raw. Its lid lay half askew, the bottom half covered but the top half open to reveal a man inside, a living man. His head & torso rose up from the coffin & his mouth opened & emitted another scream, this one directed at myself, as his eyes met mine, which I have no doubt were wide with horror. Father turned then to see me standing in the doorway. “You fool,” he said to the man in the casket. He spat the words with a tone of disappointment & regret that I never before had heard from him. “Close the door, Dot,” he said to me. “Please, Dot, come in & close the door.”
I did as he told with shaking legs. The man in the casket remained silent but staring at me & truthfully dear Sister, I could not help but stare back at him unabashed. He was a Negro man, his skin black as the night, his hair shorn to his scalp, his torso covered with the most pitiful of rags. His eyes remained on me, suspicious & fearful, as I approached. “Who is this man?” I whispered to Father. He shook his head. “It is best if you return to the house. Forget what you have seen. And do not speak a word of this to your Mother.” I did not answer. How could I forget this scene, forget the terror in this man’s eyes, his arms that, now I stood closer to the casket, were marked with scars & scabbing? And our Father, was he this man’s protector or his tormentor?
“Dorothea,” Father said. “Go inside, go to bed.” His voice soothed in the way that always calms me, when I am upset or missing you or cross with Mother. I do love him, & I looked at him then, at the worry darkening his eyes, his mouth pursed straight, the deep lines across his forehead. How could I disobey him? I returned to the house, climbed the steps & sit now in my nightclothes at the small desk you fashioned so long ago from the crate & stool, pen & ink before me, blotter to the side. I have just heard Father return to the house, the barn now is dark & silent. I know not what has become of that man, but I cannot shake his face from my mind. The line of his jaw, the set of his eyes. His was a face unaccustomed to kindness. What does Father do alone at night, with Mother, Samuel & I asleep, innocent & dreaming?
There is still no word from Pastor Shaw.
Yours,
Dorothea
May 17, 1848
Dearest Kate,
Last night I approached Father. I waited until Mother & Samuel were sleeping contentedly. I did not wish one of them to intrude for I knew not the matters that may be the subject of our discourse. My stomach churned as I approached him, sitting by the fire in his reading chair. (Father still reads his Thoreau daily—I believe he feels closer to you by doing so.) He raised his head & the light of the fire cast shadows upon his face & made him look most fearful. I almost stopped then & bade him good night, but I pushed my feet forward & knelt before him, one hand on his knee just as I used to crouch whilst a child listening to a story. I asked, “Please, Father, tell me.” Immediately he knew what I asked. He answered softly, but his voice was solemn & firm. “Dorothea,” he began, “what I am about to say must stay between you & I alone. This is of grave importance. Our livelihood & safety rests upon your secrecy & discretion.” I agreed of course, and my dear Kate, I need not say that you too must breathe not a word of this to anyone. I have sealed this letter with wax, & will do so from this day forward.
And so: Father told me then of the Negro man in the barn, that he was a runaway escaped from the Monroes some 30 miles to the south of us. Do you remember Miss Janet Monroe whose lovely blond hair you so admired? It was on her father’s farm that the Negro had met the cruelest of treatment until finally his suffering was so great that he chose the uncertainty & risk of escape. Father acts, & has acted for many months now, in the service of the Underground Railroad. Surely you have heard of such a thing, Kate? I had heard whispers of it, though in truth I had always believed it to be a story told by the abolitionists to lend some hint of success to their efforts. How wrong I was. The Railroad is real, it operates here in Charlotte County, Augusta, Franklin, & Bournemouth Counties too, stretching northward to Philadelphia, New York, & far Canada. It is like a flower with roots stretching beneath the surface of the earth, pushing its blooms up into the crisp northern air. Pastor Shaw too acted as a conductor on the Railroad, & it is Father’s grave worry that he was discovered, & this prompted his hasty departure from Lynnhurst.
It is late now, Kate. I will write more tomorrow, I promise you. You might already guess at the method employed by Father to assist the escape of the runaways. It is quite ingenious & has so far proven universally successful. I will attempt to give you full particulars in my next letter.
Your faithful & adoring sister,
Dot
May 18, 1848
Darling Kate,
I sit tonight again with pen in hand & candle flickering to continue my tale. All day I have brooded on the stories Father told me, of the 34 Negro slaves he has assisted to date, all escaped from horrors that I can scarcely imagine, sent northwards towards freedom & kindness. I have wondered at the lives they are now living, the joys they may now experience. Father says there are hundreds of others, if not thousands, acting as conductors along these routes. Most are free blacks living north of the Ohio, themselves having escaped but who now venture back to lead others northwards. They are assisted by station houses such as ours, places of safety where the fugitives might find food, clothing, a kind word and assistance to pass further along the road. Father knows no names, only codes & a few addresses of others like-minded, most small farmers like himself.
It is quite amazing, Kate, the method that Father employs. The reason he stood before that man with a hammer, the reason the man seemed to rise like some apparition from the finished casket, is that Father hides the runaways inside the casket shipments he sends to northern buyers. The journey is three days, first by wagon & then by train, & there is a man who meets them at the station in Philadelphia & brings the delivery to a place of safety where the caskets are unloaded & the Negroes returned to the world. It is a daring ruse. And yet who would suspect Father, he who already has been sending wares to northern buyers for years? Mr. Taylor still ships dried beans inside the caskets, but Father now fills an extra one or two with the escaped runaways & the weight is scarcely distinguishable.
Father says that not one of his escapees has been intercepted, as far as is known. He assisted even the fugitive escaped from Widow Price! And to think of those search parties passing by our door, & Father knowing all the while that the Negro in question had already gon
e, safe within the confines of his casket. And how do they survive those 3 days’ passage? I can hear your reasoned voice inquire. Father gives them a bit of oatcake, but no more, & he drills small holes along the casket sides to ensure proper ventilation. Can you imagine it, Kate, a hammer nailing a wooden top across your face, insufficient space even to turn from back to side? Darkness, stale air, no water, only the barest of provisions to keep your hunger at bay. This the fugitives endure for a chance at freedom.
I wonder now about our neighbors, the Birches & Stanmores especially, as to what transpires in their houses & barns, out in their fields & meadows where the slaves crouch dawn to nightfall. I have always shied away from political talk—I suppose my interests have lain elsewhere, in childish things. But now I feel the first stirring of political belief within me. I know not where it will lead but it is a bit like waking from a dream, or seeing the world through spectacles for the first time. Everything is sharper, but unfamiliar. I am alert to the details & complexities of this new world.
Your most loving & affectionate sister,
Dot
May 27, 1848
Dear Kate,
Pastor Shaw’s body has been found dead, his eyes gouged out. He lay in the woods near Juniper peak, found by Hiram Birch who had gone hunting squirrels. Surely none of our neighbors could be capable of such a vicious, blasphemous act? To kill a man of God? The talk is that Pastor Shaw was once a Quaker & Negro lover & that he had no place in Charlotte County & it was God Himself who smote him down. This I heard Liza Broadmoor whisper in town yesterday at Taylor’s. A whole gaggle of girls surrounded her. I could not bear to stay long within their company & ran to find Mother again at the counter. I did not tell her what I had heard.
Sheriff Roy spoke harshly of the act, & told the congregation that he would use all methods to ascertain what befell the Pastor. But in truth he seems little inclined to search out the truth. Father saw him yesterday exiting the tavern quite merrily, and not yet even 3 o’clock.
This cruel event makes me fear even more for Father’s work & for our family’s safety. Were Father to be discovered, what would become of us?
Yours as always,
Dorothea
June 12, 1848
Dearest Kate,
Mrs. Broadmoor is unwell, & yesterday Mother & I brought her some cooked dinner & a jar of strawberries. Justin and the horrid Eliza were out, I am thankful to report. A house slave showed us in, a young man, the poor fellow was shackled about the ankles, he could scarcely walk. Mrs. Broadmoor saw our distaste, and explained that the boy Louis had attempted escape once and would henceforth be shackled and work in the house so that she might watch closely over him. Only when she was satisfied that all thoughts of escape were driven from his mind would she remove the chains—be it one week or ten years, she said, made no difference to her. Mother & I set about attending to Mrs. Broadmoor but my mind would not remain on the tasks at hand—again & again it strayed to the particulars of the life that boy must lead. What if it were I in such a position? To go about in iron shackles? And my studies, what would become of those? If I were not permitted to learn even the most basic of lessons, even to read, Kate, can you imagine how intolerable daily life would become? I longed to tell him that the means of escape were before his very eyes, that there exist good & honorable people in Charlotte County who might lead him to safety. But of course I held my tongue.
I bent my head to Mrs. Broadmoor & fed her soup as Louis moved about the room, sweeping and so forth. It was this sound that finally proved intolerable to me, the scratch scratch of the broom & deep, ugly clatter of his chains. I felt as though the walls moved towards me, that the room became smaller & the sound louder in that confined space. I leapt up just as Mrs. Broadmoor swallowed the last of the soup & I hastened from the room. Mother looked at me most strangely but she did not follow. I stood outside for a good while, gulping in deep breaths of air & walking along the riverbank until my heart calmed. Mother found me there, she had bid our good-byes to Mrs. Broadmoor alone & she said not a word of my fit as we walked the road towards home.
I am troubled greatly by what I see every day & feel a true abolitionist, yes Kate, is rising within me. Father is reluctant to involve me in his activities, but my heart & mind are increasingly committed. He thinks I am still a child & my fervor is a child’s passion for something she cannot understand, but he misjudges me. I only seek to assist him, to further this most worthy of goals.
Your loving sister,
Dot
June 22, 1848
Dearest Kate,
Today brought the first sermon of our new Pastor Preston Hoady. He preached on the Will of God & the Order of All Things & it required no great effort to hear in his words a reproof to that last oration delivered by Pastor Shaw. His voice is strong & fiery & his person upon the pulpit inspires the congregation. When I stole a look round at those assembled, I saw faces transfixed. Scarcely a person moved or sneezed, no babies cried, but all directed their full attention to Pastor Hoady’s swaying form. Even Samuel sat slack-jawed & quiet, his heels miraculously ceased their knocking on the back bench for the duration of the sermon. I believe I alone was not so moved. True, there is something in the Pastor’s manner that invites inspection & I listened most attentively to the words he spoke. I am troubled now as I write this, recalling the nodding heads & Hallelujahs of our neighbors as his sermon rained down. He seems to offer himself up as a sort of antidote to Pastor Shaw, that we all are infected & now must be healed.
Father continues to reject my offers of assistance. I fear now that he sees how increased are the dangers, as Pastor Hoady stokes our neighbors’ sense of outrage & righteousness. I have heard stories of abolitionists run out of towns even north of the Ohio, of men tarred & feathered, whipped, hanged. Father must feel sharply the weight of responsibility in the double life he leads.
Yours,
Dorothea
June 28, 1848
Dearest Kate,
At long last Father has allowed me to join him. Last night, I had already retired to bed but lay awake, as I so often do now, contemplating the days ahead & what they may hold. I heard muffled sounds, the front door closing softly, low voices, the screech of the barn door & an indignant moo from poor disturbed Molly. I pulled on my coat & boots & ran outside. All was still, the sky clouded & starless, the owls silent. A light blazed in Father’s workshop window & I pulled open the door slowly, expecting to hear Father express anger at my disobedience. But he turned his head towards me with a look of calm acceptance. What a figure I must have made—hair askew, coat buttons open to the wind, boots muddied. “Dot,” he said, “come in & close the door.”
I stepped inside & noticed only then the poor figure who had come for his assistance, a man sitting amidst the sawdust & shavings of the workshop floor, his head resting back against the wall & his eyes closed as though his exhaustion was too great even to meet the light from my lamp. “Fetch a blanket from the house,” Father said. “He will need better covering than what he’s got now.” I cannot tell you Kate how happy those words made me! He uttered them in barely a whisper but it shouted out to me all that I had hoped for.
I hurried to do as Father asked & truthfully Kate the remainder of the night passed as though I walked in a dream. We worked with few words, my eyes straining in the low light. We arranged the fugitive, a Mr. Alfred Joiner, who spoke few words to us but I came to understand had fled the Gilkeson place. He wore homespun pants, no shirt whatsoever, neither any shoes, and his feet were swollen near to bursting. Father sent me to a space behind the barn where most cleverly concealed within the stacked wood was a box and within it all manner of clean clothing, blankets, and such. I collected appropriate attire for Mr. Joiner which he accepted with a glimmer of a smile. He had a wry manner, neither frightened nor brave but seemingly accepting of all that might come to pass, in a way that I suppose was indeed bravery of a type, or wisdom at the least. “The world will do as it pleases,” he said to
me. “I ride along best I can.”
Just as dawn light grayed the workshop window, Father fitted the coffin cover atop the man, who lay with eyes closed. We had given him oatcake, & burlap sacks to cover & cushion his person. The instructions to Mr. Joiner were simple: make not a sound throughout the journey & collection will occur at the Philadelphia station, from whence you will be transported to a safe house & from there given advice as to travels further north or other assistance as needs be. He clasped Father’s hand as we lowered him into the casket.
Kate, I sit now at my desk, dressed still in my nightclothes, & write this in a sort of delirium. The man lies within the barn, his casket alongside the others awaiting collection & transport by the coach, due to arrive in a few hours’ time. Father has retired to his bed & I cannot say whether he is pleased or cross at my participation in tonight’s activities. He said scarcely a word to me beyond the orders he gave, items to fetch. I can only trust & hope that he is happy in the knowledge that his daughter is so very happy & that we have together secured the freedom of Mr. Joiner. May the world henceforth treat him well.
Yours,
Dorothea
July 2, 1848
Dear Kate,
Jack Harper’s mother has passed on. Jack came today to the house & asked Father to ready a coffin & retrieve her body for laying out. It was mid-morning & Samuel & I were still engaged in lessons with Mother. She sent Samuel out to fetch Father from his workshop & bade Jack come indoors to wait, but he refused. He waited hat in hand outside the door although the day already tended to hot. I brought him a glass of the lemonade Mother makes to such perfection & he thanked me warmly enough but his eyes barely met mine & he did not engage in conversation. I wanted to ask after his brother Caleb. Do you recall Caleb Harper, who went up to Philadelphia some years back? It was quite a shock to his parents when the eldest left the farm & there was some bitterness in the departure, as I recall. I heard talk that he is studying modern medicine at the college there, but that is all that is known of him.
