armahlovis/BlackWriterOnFreedom · Datasets at Hugging Face

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keelson to cross-trees, and could talk sailor like an “old salt.” I was
well on the way to Havre de Grace before the conductor came into the
negro car to collect tickets and examine the papers of his black
passengers. This was a critical moment in the drama. My whole future
depended upon the decision of this conductor. Agitated though I was
while this ceremony was proceeding, still, externally, at least, I was
apparently calm and self-possessed. He went on with his duty—examining
several colored passengers before reaching me. He was somewhat harsh in
tome and peremptory in manner until he reached me, when, strange
enough, and to my surprise and relief, his whole manner changed. Seeing
that I did not readily produce my free papers, as the other colored
persons in the car had done, he said to me, in friendly contrast with
his bearing toward the others:

“I suppose you have your free papers?”

To which I answered:

“No sir; I never carry my free papers to sea with me.”

“But you have something to show that you are a freeman, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered; “I have a paper with the American Eagle on it,
and that will carry me around the world.”

With this I drew from my deep sailor’s pocket my seaman’s protection,
as before described. The merest glance at the paper satisfied him, and
he took my fare and went on about his business. This moment of time was
one of the most anxious I ever experienced. Had the conductor looked
closely at the paper, he could not have failed to discover that it
called for a very different-looking person from myself, and in that
case it would have been his duty to arrest me on the instant, and send
me back to Baltimore from the first station. When he left me with the
assurance that I was all right, though much relieved, I realized that I
was still in great danger: I was still in Maryland, and subject to
arrest at any moment. I saw on the train several persons who would have
known me in any other clothes, and I feared they might recognize me,
even in my sailor “rig,” and report me to the conductor, who would then
subject me to a closer examination, which I knew well would be fatal to
me.

Though I was not a murderer fleeing from justice, I felt perhaps quite
as miserable as such a criminal. The train was moving at a very high
rate of speed for that epoch of railroad travel, but to my anxious mind
it was moving far too slowly. Minutes were hours, and hours were days
during this part of my flight. After Maryland, I was to pass through
Delaware—another slave State, where slave-catchers generally awaited
their prey, for it was not in the interior of the State, but on its
borders, that these human hounds were most vigilant and active. The
border lines between slavery and freedom were the dangerous ones for
the fugitives. The heart of no fox or deer, with hungry hounds on his
trail in full chase, could have beaten more anxiously or noisily than
did mine from the time I left Baltimore till I reached Philadelphia.
The passage of the Susquehanna River at Havre de Grace was at that time
made by ferry-boat, on board of which I met a young colored man by the
name of Nichols, who came very near betraying me. He was a “hand” on
the boat, but, instead of minding his business, he insisted upon
knowing me, and asking me dangerous questions as to where I was going,
when I was coming back, etc. I got away from my old and inconvenient
acquaintance as soon as I could decently do so, and went to another
part of the boat. Once across the river, I encountered a new danger.
Only a few days before, I had been at work on a revenue cutter, in Mr.
Price’s ship-yard in Baltimore, under the care of Captain McGowan. On
the meeting at this point of the two trains, the one going south
stopped on the track just opposite to the one going north, and it so
happened that this Captain McGowan sat at a window where he could see
me very distinctly, and would certainly have recognized me had he
looked at me but for a second. Fortunately, in the hurry of the moment,
he did not see me; and the trains soon passed each other on their
respective ways. But this was not my only hair-breadth escape. A German
blacksmith whom I knew well was on the train with me, and looked at me
very intently, as if he thought he had seen me somewhere before in his
travels. I really believe he knew me, but had no heart to betray me. At
any rate, he saw me escaping and held his peace.

The last point of imminent danger, and the one I dreaded most, was
Wilmington. Here we left the train and took the steam-boat for
Philadelphia. In making the change here I again apprehended arrest, but
no one disturbed me, and I was soon on the broad and beautiful
Delaware, speeding away to the Quaker City. On reaching Philadelphia in
the afternoon, I inquired of a colored man how I could get on to New
York. He directed me to the William-street depot, and thither I went,
taking the train that night. I reached New York Tuesday morning, having
completed the journey in less than twenty-four hours.

My free life began on the third of September, 1838. On the morning of
the fourth of that month, after an anxious and most perilous but safe
journey, I found myself in the big city of New York, a _free man_—one
more added to the mighty throng which, like the confused waves of the
troubled sea, surged to and fro between the lofty walls of Broadway.
Though dazzled with the wonders which met me on every hand, my thoughts
could not be much withdrawn from my strange situation. For the moment,
the dreams of my youth and the hopes of my manhood were completely
fulfilled. The bonds that had held me to “old master” were broken. No
man now had a right to call me his slave or assert mastery over me. I
was in the rough and tumble of an outdoor world, to take my chance with
the rest of its busy number. I have often been asked how I felt when
first I found myself on free soil. There is scarcely anything in my
experience about which I could not give a more satisfactory answer. A
new world had opened upon me. If life is more than breath and the

keelson to cross-trees, and could talk sailor like an “old salt.” I was

well on the way to Havre de Grace before the conductor came into the

negro car to collect tickets and examine the papers of his black

passengers. This was a critical moment in the drama. My whole future

depended upon the decision of this conductor. Agitated though I was

while this ceremony was proceeding, still, externally, at least, I was

apparently calm and self-possessed. He went on with his duty—examining

several colored passengers before reaching me. He was somewhat harsh in

tome and peremptory in manner until he reached me, when, strange

enough, and to my surprise and relief, his whole manner changed. Seeing

that I did not readily produce my free papers, as the other colored

persons in the car had done, he said to me, in friendly contrast with

his bearing toward the others:

“I suppose you have your free papers?”

To which I answered:

“No sir; I never carry my free papers to sea with me.”

“But you have something to show that you are a freeman, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered; “I have a paper with the American Eagle on it,

and that will carry me around the world.”

With this I drew from my deep sailor’s pocket my seaman’s protection,

as before described. The merest glance at the paper satisfied him, and

he took my fare and went on about his business. This moment of time was

one of the most anxious I ever experienced. Had the conductor looked

closely at the paper, he could not have failed to discover that it

called for a very different-looking person from myself, and in that

case it would have been his duty to arrest me on the instant, and send

me back to Baltimore from the first station. When he left me with the

assurance that I was all right, though much relieved, I realized that I

was still in great danger: I was still in Maryland, and subject to

arrest at any moment. I saw on the train several persons who would have

known me in any other clothes, and I feared they might recognize me,

even in my sailor “rig,” and report me to the conductor, who would then

subject me to a closer examination, which I knew well would be fatal to

me.

Though I was not a murderer fleeing from justice, I felt perhaps quite

as miserable as such a criminal. The train was moving at a very high

rate of speed for that epoch of railroad travel, but to my anxious mind

it was moving far too slowly. Minutes were hours, and hours were days

during this part of my flight. After Maryland, I was to pass through

Delaware—another slave State, where slave-catchers generally awaited

their prey, for it was not in the interior of the State, but on its

borders, that these human hounds were most vigilant and active. The

border lines between slavery and freedom were the dangerous ones for

the fugitives. The heart of no fox or deer, with hungry hounds on his

trail in full chase, could have beaten more anxiously or noisily than

did mine from the time I left Baltimore till I reached Philadelphia.

The passage of the Susquehanna River at Havre de Grace was at that time

made by ferry-boat, on board of which I met a young colored man by the

name of Nichols, who came very near betraying me. He was a “hand” on

the boat, but, instead of minding his business, he insisted upon

knowing me, and asking me dangerous questions as to where I was going,

when I was coming back, etc. I got away from my old and inconvenient

acquaintance as soon as I could decently do so, and went to another

part of the boat. Once across the river, I encountered a new danger.

Only a few days before, I had been at work on a revenue cutter, in Mr.

Price’s ship-yard in Baltimore, under the care of Captain McGowan. On

the meeting at this point of the two trains, the one going south

stopped on the track just opposite to the one going north, and it so

happened that this Captain McGowan sat at a window where he could see

me very distinctly, and would certainly have recognized me had he

looked at me but for a second. Fortunately, in the hurry of the moment,

he did not see me; and the trains soon passed each other on their

respective ways. But this was not my only hair-breadth escape. A German

blacksmith whom I knew well was on the train with me, and looked at me

very intently, as if he thought he had seen me somewhere before in his

travels. I really believe he knew me, but had no heart to betray me. At

any rate, he saw me escaping and held his peace.

The last point of imminent danger, and the one I dreaded most, was

Wilmington. Here we left the train and took the steam-boat for

Philadelphia. In making the change here I again apprehended arrest, but

no one disturbed me, and I was soon on the broad and beautiful

Delaware, speeding away to the Quaker City. On reaching Philadelphia in

the afternoon, I inquired of a colored man how I could get on to New

York. He directed me to the William-street depot, and thither I went,

taking the train that night. I reached New York Tuesday morning, having

completed the journey in less than twenty-four hours.

My free life began on the third of September, 1838. On the morning of

the fourth of that month, after an anxious and most perilous but safe

journey, I found myself in the big city of New York, a _free man_—one

more added to the mighty throng which, like the confused waves of the

troubled sea, surged to and fro between the lofty walls of Broadway.

Though dazzled with the wonders which met me on every hand, my thoughts

could not be much withdrawn from my strange situation. For the moment,

the dreams of my youth and the hopes of my manhood were completely

fulfilled. The bonds that had held me to “old master” were broken. No

man now had a right to call me his slave or assert mastery over me. I

was in the rough and tumble of an outdoor world, to take my chance with

the rest of its busy number. I have often been asked how I felt when

first I found myself on free soil. There is scarcely anything in my

experience about which I could not give a more satisfactory answer. A

new world had opened upon me. If life is more than breath and the