<emph>Reminiscences of Levi Coffin, the Reputed President of the Underground Railroad; Being a Brief History of the Labors of a Lifetime in Behalf of the Slave, with the Stories of Numerous Fugitives, Who Gained Their Freedom Through His Instrumentality, and Many Other Incidents:</emph> Electronic Edition.

]> <emph>Reminiscences of Levi Coffin, the Reputed President of the Underground Railroad; Being a Brief History of the Labors of a Lifetime in Behalf of the Slave, with the Stories of Numerous Fugitives, Who Gained Their Freedom Through His Instrumentality, and Many Other Incidents:</emph> Electronic Edition. Coffin, Levi, 1798-1877 Funding from the Institute for Museum and Library Services supported the electronic publication of this title. Text transcribed by Apex Data Services, Inc. Images scanned by Tampathia Evans Text encoded by Apex Data Services, Inc., Melissa G. Meeks and Natalia Smith First edition, 2001 ca. 1.2 MB Academic Affairs Library, UNC-CH University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2001.

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Reminiscences of Levi Coffin, the Reputed President of the Underground Railroad; Being a Brief History of the Labors of a Lifetime in Behalf of the Slave, with the Stories of Numerous Fugitives, Who Gained Their Freedom Through His Instrumentality, and Many Other Incidents Reminiscences of Levi Coffin <author>Levi Coffin </author> </titleStmt> <editionStmt> <edition>SECOND EDITION—WITH APPENDIX.</edition> </editionStmt> <extent>viii, 3-732 p., ill.</extent> <publicationStmt> <pubPlace>CINCINNATI:</pubPlace> <publisher>ROBERT CLARKE & CO.</publisher> <date>1880.</date> <authority/> </publicationStmt> <notesStmt> <note anchored="yes">Call number C326.4 C67r c. 2 (North Carolina Collection, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)</note> </notesStmt> </biblFull> </sourceDesc> </fileDesc> <encodingDesc> <projectDesc> The electronic edition is a part of the UNC-CH digitization project, <hi rend="italics">Documenting the American South.</hi> </projectDesc> <editorialDecl> The text has been entered using double-keying and verified against the original. The text has been encoded using the recommendations for Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Original grammar, punctuation, and spelling have been preserved. Encountered typographical errors have been preserved, and appear in red type. All footnotes are inserted at the point of reference within paragraphs. Any hyphens occurring in line breaks have been removed, and the trailing part of a word has been joined to the preceding line. All quotation marks, em dashes and ampersand have been transcribed as entity references. All double right and left quotation marks are encoded as ” and “ respectively. All single right and left quotation marks are encoded as ’ and ‘ respectively. All em dashes are encoded as — Indentation in lines has not been preserved. Running titles have not been preserved. Spell-check and verification made against printed text using Author/Editor (SoftQuad) and Microsoft Word spell check programs. </editorialDecl> <classDecl> <taxonomy id="lcsh"> <bibl> <title>Library of Congress Subject Headings, 24th edition, 2001 English Abolitionists -- United States -- Biography. Society of Friends. Slavery -- North Carolina -- History -- 19th century. Antislavery movements -- United States -- History -- 19th century. Slavery and the church -- Society of Friends. Coffin, Levi, 1798-1877. Dillingham, Richard, d. 1850. Fairbank, Calvin, 1816-1898. Quaker abolitionists -- United States -- Biography. Quakers -- United States -- Biography. Underground railroad -- Indiana. Underground railroad -- Ohio. Fugitive slaves -- United States -- History -- 19th century. Slavery -- Ohio -- History -- 19th century. Slavery -- Indiana -- History -- 19th century. 2002-08-29, Celine Noel and Wanda Gunther revised TEIHeader and created catalog record for the electronic edition. 2001-12-19, Natalia Smith, project manager, finished TEI-conformant encoding and final proofing. 2001-11-30, Melissa Meeks finished TEI/SGML encoding 2001-10-20, Apex Data Services, Inc. finished transcribing the text.

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Yours Truly Levi Coffin. [1st Frontispiece Image]

Yours Truly Catharine Coffin. [2nd Frontispiece Image]

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REMINISCENCES OF LEVI COFFIN, The Reputed President of the Underground Railroad; BEING A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE LABORS OF A LIFETIME IN BEHALF OF THE SLAVE, WITH THE STORIES OF NUMEROUS FUGITIVES, WHO GAINED THEIR FREEDOM THROUGH HIS INSTRUMENTALITY, AND MANY OTHER INCIDENTS. SECOND EDITION—WITH APPENDIX. CINCINNATI: ROBERT CLARKE & CO. 1880. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by LEVI COFFIN, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. PREFACE.

I HAVE been solicited for many years to write a history of my anti-slavery labors and underground railroad experiences, and although I had kept a diary the most of my life, it was without any prospect of ever putting it into book-form. I had no desire to appear before the public as an author, having no claim to literary merit. What I had done I believed was simply a Christian duty and not for the purpose of being seen of men, or for notoriety, which I have never sought. But I was continually urged by my friends to engage in the work, believing that it would be interesting to the rising generation; but being so fully occupied with other duties, I seemed to find no time that I could devote to this work, so that it was put off from year to year. I also often received letters from different parts of the country, desiring me to write the history of my life and labors in the anti-slavery cause, reminding me that the most of my co-laborers had passed away, and that I must soon follow, and that these stirring anti-slavery times in which I lived and labored were a part of the history of our country, which should not be lost. But still I deferred it until now, in the seventy-eighth year of my age. And although I feel the infirmities of that period of life fast gathering around me, I have gathered up my diaries, and other documents that had been preserved, and have written a book. In my own plain, simple style, I have endeavored to tell the stories without any exaggeration. Errors no doubt will appear, which I trust the indulgent reader will pardon, in consideration of my advanced age and feebleness. It is here proper also to acknowledge the valuable services of a kind friend, for aid received in preparing these pages for the press. I regret that I have been obliged to leave out many interesting stories and thrilling incidents, on account of swelling the size and cost of the book beyond what was agreed upon with the publishers. Among the stories omitted is the account of the long imprisonment and sufferings of Calvin Fairbank, of Massachusetts, in the Kentucky penitentiary, for aiding fugitives, and of Richard Dillingham, of Ohio, who suffered and died in the penitentiary at Nashville, Tennessee, for a similar offense.

Some time ago I requested my dear old friend and co-laborer in the cause of the slave, Dr. Wm. Henry Brisbane, to write a few introductory words for my book, which I here introduce as part of the preface:

My very dear old friend has requested me to write some introductory words, or preface, for his book; and I can not do justice to my own most affectionate feelings toward him and his amiable wife, dear “Aunt Katy,” without complying with his request and accepting the honor thus conferred upon me.

I have in my possession a picture, executed by Mr. Ball, a colored man from Virginia. The central figure is a native of South Carolina, a representative of the old planter class of that State, who manumitted his slaves many years before the Emancipation Proclamation of President Lincoln. On each hand sits with him a friend and Christian brother—the one, a sedate, benevolent-looking Quaker, a native of North Carolina, and a faithful representative of that class known as Orthodox Friends; the other, with a countenance full of humor and amiable mischief, a native of Rhode Island, and a true representative of the old Roger Williams class of Soul-Liberty Baptists. The cause of the slave brought into a most intimate and happy friendship these three men of diverse origin, training, habits of life, temperament, disposition and other personal characteristics. For many years they labored and suffered together for those in bonds as bound with them. In Christian love they bowed themselves before their Heavenly Father and prayed together for the oppressed race; with a faith that knew no wavering they worked in fraternal union for the enfranchisement of their despised colored brethren, and shared together the odium attached to the name of abolitionist, and finally they rejoiced together and gave thanks to God for the glorious results of those years of persevering effort. The youngest of these has gone to his reward in heaven, and those who knew Edward Harwood can not wonder that the other two loved him with a love that was more than a brother's. The oldest—the placid, the benevolent, the kind-hearted and devoted friend of the slave, and of all mankind—Levi Coffin, still lives to give, for the benefit of humanity, the reminiscences of his experiences, so full of interesting incidents and touching pathos. The other survivor thanks God with all his heart that his dear brother has been spared to leave this valuable record as a legacy to his thousands of friends, white and black, in this our beloved country, redeemed from the curse of slavery with the atoning blood of many a battle-field.

And now, with no more fugitives to hide, and no clanking chains to disturb our peaceful old age, I subscribe myself,

Fraternally and lovingly his, WM. HENRY BRISBANE. CINCINNATI, OHIO, June 17, 1876.

Trusting that this volume will accomplish something toward the eradication of the spirit of caste, which still exists in our land—though, in the providence of God, slavery itself has been removed—and in the acceptance and practice of that command, which reads: “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” I now commend it to the reader.

LEVI COFFIN. CINCINNATI, Eighth Month, 1876. CONTENTS. INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. Genealogy . . . 3-11 CHAPTER I. Conversion to Abolitionism—Incidents of the Cruelties of Slavery—First Efforts on Behalf of the Slaves—Stephen, the Kidnapped Negro—The Captured Slave—Services of Vestal Coffin—The Story of Ede—The White Slave . . . 12-31 CHAPTER II. The Story of Jack Barnes—My Journey with a Slave-owner—A Mission Full of Anxiety—The Story of Sam—I Turn Slave-hunter—Narrow Escape from Arrest—Penalty of Aiding a Slave—Fate of Poor Sam . . . 32-68 CHAPTER III. Teaching Slaves to Read—Sabbath-School Work—Agitation of the Anti-Slavery Cause—Manumission Societies—Trip to Indiana—Incidents on the Way—The Early Settlements of Indiana—I Engage in School Labors—Organization of the first Sabbath-School in Western Indiana—A Visit to Illinois—Lost on the Prairie—Springfield, Illinois, Fifty Years Ago—Conclusion of School Labors in Indiana—Return to North Carolina—Short Trip to Virginia . . . 69-102 CHAPTER IV. Marriage—Removal to Indiana—I Locate at Newport and Engage in Mercantile Business—Underground Railroad Work—Difficulties and Dangers of the Work—Trip to North Carolina—Heart-rending Scene at a Slave Auction—Temperance Work at Newport . . . 103-138 CHAPTER V. Newport Stories—The Cunning Slave—Robert Burrel—Eliza Harris—Sam, the Eloquent Slave—Prejudice Against Color—Aunt Rachel—A Slave-hunter Outwitted—Seventeen Fugitives . . . 139-177 CHAPTER VI. Newport Stories Continued—Seventeen Fugitives—Two Slave Girls from Maryland—Anecdote of a Visit to Cincinnati—Story of Louis Talbert John White . . . 178-222 CHAPTER VII. Discussion of the Anti-Slavery Subject—Anti-Slavery Societies and Lecturers—Opposition to the Movement—Separation of Friends of Indiana Yearly Meeting—Action which Caused the Separation—Reunion—The Committee from London Yearly Meeting—Interviews with the Committee—Last Interview with William Forster—Visit to Canada in 1844—Meetings with Fugitives—Their Stories—A Special Providence—Aunt Susie's Dream—The Story of Jackson—A Mother Rescues her Children . . . 223-264 CHAPTER VIII. Free Labor—Testimony of John Woolman and Others—My Convictions—Free-Labor Societies of New York and Philadelphia—Our Organization in the West—Removal to Cincinnati—Free-Labor Business—Southern Cotton Produced by Free Labor—Incidents of a Southern Trip—Interviews with Slaveholders . . . 265-296 CHAPTER IX. Underground Railroad Work in Cincinnati—A Reminiscence—The Fugitive Cook Girl—A Company of Twenty-eight Fugitives—Aunt Betsey—Jack and Lucy—Assessments on Underground Railroad Stock—A Pro-Slavery Man Silenced—The Story of June . . . 297-334 CHAPTER X. Cincinnati Stories Continued—The Rag Baby—The Vice-President's Slave—The Disguised Slave—Wolves in Sheep's Clothing—Sally, the Slave Mother—Louis and Ellen—The Michigan Raid . . . 335-373 CHAPTER XI. Cincinnati Stories Continued—John Wilson and Eliza—Uncle Tom—Rose, the White Slave—Story of Jim and his Friend in a Tight Box . . . 374-418 CHAPTER XII. Louisa Picquet, the Octoroon—John Fairfield, the Southern Abolitionist—John and Mary—Narrow Escapes of Fugitives . . . 419-461 CHAPTER XIII. A Pro-Slavery Man Turns Abolitionist—Fourteen Fugitives Cross on the Ice—Slave Children Placed in our Charge—The Case of William Thompson . . . 462-489 CHAPTER XIV. Major Phillips—A Slaveholder's Colored Family—My Trip with the Major down the River—Incidents of the Journey—Discussions with Slaveholders—Insights into Southern Social Life—A Whipping on Board a Boat . . . 490-523 CHAPTER XV. The Mob Spirit in Cincinnati—Destruction of the Philanthropist Press in 1836—Demonstration of Pro-Slavery Feeling in 1841—A Disgraceful Riot-The Scanlan Mob . . . 524-541 CHAPTER XVI. Trials Under the Fugitive Slave Law—The Wash. McQuerry Case—The Services of John Jolliffe—Escape from a Court Room—The Rosetta Case—Margaret Garner—The Story of a Hat . . . 542-574 CHAPTER XVII. An U. G. R. R. Depot—The Purchase of Slaves by their Relatives—Other Services for the Colored People—The Case of Connelly—Sambo in a Tight Box . . . 575-593 CHAPTER XVIII. Last Work on the U. G. R. R.—The Prince of Wales—Beginning of the War—Kirby Smith's Threatened Raid—Rescue of a Slave Girl by Two Union Soldiers—The Kentucky Policy and Col. Utley's Action . . . 594-618 CHAPTER XIX. Work Among the Freedmen-Visit to Cairo—Destitution and Suffering of the Colored People—Efforts in Their Behalf—Organization of Relief Societies . . . 619-650 CHAPTER XX. Mission to England—Labors in Behalf of the Freedmen—Incidents of the Work—Contributions from all Classes of Society—Public Meetings . . . 651-712 APPENDIX. 1. Memoir of Richard Dillingham . . . 713-718 2. Memoir of Calvin Fairbank . . . 719-726 3. Death and Funeral of the Author . . . 726-732 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. GENEALOGY.

THE following brief sketch of the Coffin family is gathered from the first number of the American Historical Record, published at Philadelphia, and from private records copied from those kept at Nantucket. The earliest account of the name we have dates back to 1066. In that year Sir Richard Coffin, knight, accompanied William the Conqueror from Normandy to England, and the manor of Alwington, in the county of Devonshire, was assigned to him. The authorities respecting the county of Devonshire make honorable mention of Sir Elias Coffin, knight of Clist and Ingarby, in the days of King John; of Sir Richard Coffin, of Alwington, in the time of Henry II.; of Sir Jeffrey Coffin and Combe Coffin, under Henry III., and of other knights, descendants of these, until the time of Henry VIII., when we find Sir William Coffin, sheriff of Devonshire, highly preferred at Court, and one of eighteen assistants chosen by the king to accompany him to a tournament in France, in 1519. He was also high steward of the manor and liberties of Standon, in Hertford. By his will he bequeathed his horses and hawks to the king, and devised the manor of East Higgington, Devonshire, to his nephew, Sir Richard Coffin, of Portledge. His monument in Standon Church is mentioned in Weever's “Funeral Monuments,” at page 534.

Nicholas Coffin, of Butler's parish, in Devonshire, died in 1603. His will, which was proved at Totness, in Devonshire, November 3, 1603, mentions his wife and five children, viz: Peter, Nicholas, Tristram, John and Anne. Peter married Joanna Thimber, and died in 1627, leaving four daughters and two sons. One of these sons was the famous Tristram Coffin—or Coffyn, as he spelled it—the ancestor of the numerous families of that name in this country. Nearly all his descendants are enabled, by means of the accurate genealogical records in existence, to trace their lineage back to him, although nearly two centuries have elapsed since his death. He was born at Brixton, near Plymouth, in the county of Devonshire, England, in the year 1605. He married Dionis Stevens, and in 1642 came to New England, bringing with him his wife and five children, his mother and his two sisters. He first settled at Salisbury, Massachusetts, where he lived a number of years, and in 1660 removed, with his family, and settled upon the island of Nantucket. He was one of a company of nine who first purchased Nantucket from the Indians, which fact appears in a conveyance from the Sachems, Wanackmamack, and Nickanoose. Prior to this purchase from the natives, the English title to the greater portion of the island had been obtained from Thomas Mayhew, who held the same under a conveyance from Lord Stirling. Tristram Coffin and his sons at one time owned about one-fourth of Nantucket, and the whole of the little island adjacent to it on the west, called Tuckernuck, containing one thousand acres, which was purchased of the old sachem, Potconet. He appears to have been a leading spirit among the first settlers, and was frequently selected by the inhabitants to transact important public business.

The children of Tristram Coffin were Peter, Tristram, Elizabeth, James, John and Stephen. We trace our line of the family from John. He married Deborah Austin; their son Samuel married Miriam Gardner; their son William married Priscilla Paddock; their son Levi married Prudence Williams. These last were my parents, and this places me in the fifth generation from the first Tristram Coffin, of Nantucket. The different branches of Tristram Coffin's family have increased and scattered, until there are representatives in nearly every part of the United States.

The island of Nantucket being small, and its soil not very productive, a large number of people could not be supported thereon, and as the population increased, a number of the men engaged in the whale fishery and other maritime pursuits, in order to gain a livelihood. Others turned their attention to other parts of the country, and were induced to remove and settle elsewhere, with a view to better their condition, as to providing for their children, etc. A while before the Revolutionary War a considerable colony of Friends removed and settled at New Garden, in Guilford County, North Carolina, which was then a newly settled country. My grandfather, William Coffin, was among those who thus emigrated. His removal took place in the year 1773. My grandparents, William and Priscilla Coffin, had ten children—eight sons and two daughters—all of whom lived to have families of their own. They settled at New Garden, North Carolina, and were all members of the religious Society of Friends. My father, Levi Coffin, was the youngest of eight sons and next to the youngest child. He was born on the island of Nantucket, 10th month, 10th, 1763, and was about ten years old when the family moved to North Carolina. My grandfather Coffin lived to be eighty-three, and my grandmother eighty-one years old. Both died in the year 1803, at the place where they first settled in North Carolina. I remember them well, though I was young at the time of their death. Both were valuable elders in the religious Society of Friends, and were highly esteemed in the community. Their house had long been a resort and a place of entertainment for Friends who came into the neighborhood to attend religious meetings, and for traveling ministers. They lived on a farm, a short distance from New Garden Meeting-House. My father was brought up as a farmer, but managed to get a fair education, considering the limited advantages at that day, and, when a young man, engaged during the winter season in teaching school in the neighborhood. After the marriage of my parents, they settled on a farm in the neighborhood of New Garden, and I was brought up as a farmer, until I reached my twenty-first year. My parents had seven children. I was the only son and next to the youngest child. I could not well be spared from the farm to attend school, and the most of my education I obtained at home. My father took pains to instruct me and my sisters during his hours of leisure from out-door work, so that I kept about even with my associates in the neighborhood who had better opportunities for gaining an education, and during the short intervals that I attended school, I was classed with them, and often stood at the head of my class. But our schools then were very inferior, compared with those at the present. I thirsted for a better education, and as soon as I was of age I sought a better school than we had in our neighborhood.

I remained there one session, then engaged as assistant teacher during the winter session, and the following winter attended another good school. I then taught, at intervals, for several years. In the year 1816 my sister Sarah died. She was in her twentieth year and two years my senior. This was a heavy stroke upon me. She was a kind and affectionate sister, and we had been inseparable companions in our childhood. Although she died rejoicing in her dear Redeemer, with a bright and glorious prospect before her, I could not for a long time be resigned sufficiently to say concerning her loss, “Thy will, O Lord, not mine, be done.” My older sisters were married, and I and my youngest sister Priscilla were all that were left at home with our parents. Priscilla was three years my junior. She was a sweet and attractive child, and we were warmly attached to each other. When she was about twelve years old she was converted, and at the age of fifteen she appeared in public testimony. She appeared to have a remarkable gift in the ministry, and her words impressed all who heard her and touched the hearts of many. Her mission and labors for several years seemed to be mostly confined to family circles and to social gatherings of young people. On such occasions she was frequently prompted to speak in a most remarkable manner, and her words seemed to have great effect on her young associates and others who heard her. For some years after her first appearance in the ministry, she spoke but seldom in public assemblies, but when she did, it was to the edification of her hearers. A few years afterward she was recorded as a minister of the religious Society of Friends.

In the spring of 1825 my parents and sister moved to the State of Indiana, where my married sisters had all located. I was then engaged in teaching, but expected soon to follow with my own little family, which I did the next year. My sister Priscilla married a short time before I removed to Indiana. My parents were now left alone, and being old and feeble, I took charge of them and located them near me, in the village of Newport. My father died in 1833, in his seventieth year. We then took my mother into our house and cared for her until the close of her life. She died in 1845, in her eighty-eighth year.

My mother's family, the Williamses, were of Welsh extraction. I have understood that my great-grandfather, George Williams, came from Wales to America, and settled in Prince George County, Maryland. My grandfather, Richard Williams, married Prudence Bales, and their oldest two children were born in Maryland. Afterward they emigrated to North Carolina and settled in Guilford County, about the year 1752. They located near the place where the old New Garden Meeting-House now stands, and where the yearly meeting of the religious Society of Friends has been held for many years. At the time of their removal to that neighborhood, it was thinly settled, but it grew in time to be a large and prosperous settlement, the members of which were mostly Friends. My grandparents had many hardships to encounter and privations to undergo, such as the first settlers of a new country always have to experience. When the stock of provisions which they had brought with them gave out, they had to go to an older settlement, about fifty miles distant, to get a new supply. The first winter they cleared a small piece of land, and in the spring planted corn and garden seed. Provisions again became scant, and they had to live on roasting-ears and vegetables till the corn ripened, being entirely deprived of bread. As soon as the corn was ripe enough to shell, they dried it by spreading it on the ground in the sun, and then took it on horseback to a mill about thirty miles distant, on Cane Creek, now in Chatham County. My grandfather Williams donated the ground on which New Garden Meeting-House was built, besides several acres of land, covered with timber sufficient for all building purposes. The battle of Guilford Court-House, fought about the close of the Revolutionary War, commenced near New Garden Meeting-House and continued along the old Salisbury road, a distance of about three miles, to Martinsville, the old Guilford Court-House, near where the main battle was fought. A number of soldiers were killed near the meeting-house and along the road, and were buried by the roadside and in the Friends' burying ground near the meeting-house. I have often seen their graves. After the battle the meeting-house was used as a hospital for the wounded soldiers, and my grandfather Williams' house was occupied by the wounded British officers. My grandfather Coffin's house was used by the American officers as a hospital for their sick and wounded. The two farms joined, and the headquarters of the different forces were thus in close proximity.

The small-pox broke out among the British officers, and my grandfather Williams caught the disease from them and died. My grandmother was left with twelve children, five sons and seven daughters. She was sister to Thomas Bales, who is said to have been the first white emigrant that settled in Ohio. At his death he was buried in a coffin dug out of a log, there being no dressed timber available and no saw-mill within hundreds of miles. His descendants are quite numerous in the Western States. My grandmother remained a widow for the rest of her life. She lived to a good old age, and died respected by all who knew her. She was an elder in the religious Society of Friends for many years, and was highly esteemed as a “Mother in Israel.” The date of her death and her age are not in my possession, but I can remember her well. Most of her children lived to a good old age, and, with the exception of one son, all had large families, so that my connections, on my mother's side, as well as on my father's, are quite numerous.

Both my parents and grandparents were opposed to slavery, and none of either of the families ever owned slaves; and all were friends of the oppressed, so I claim that I inherited my anti-slavery principles.

CHAPTER I.

CONVERSION TO ABOLITIONISM—INCIDENTS OF THE CRUELTIES OF SLAVERY—FIRST EFFORTS ON BEHALF OF THE SLAVES—STEPHEN, THE KIDNAPPED NEGRO—THE CAPTURED SLAVE—SERVICES OF VESTAL COFFIN—THE STORY OF EDE—THE WHITE SLAVE.

I DATE my conversion to Abolitionism from an incident which occurred when I was about seven years old. It made a deep and lasting impression on my mind, and created that horror of the cruelties of slavery which has been the motive of so many actions of my life. At the time of which I speak, Virginia and Maryland were the principal slave-rearing States, and to a great extent supplied the Southern market. Free negroes in Pennsylvania were frequently kidnapped or decoyed into these States, then hurried away to Georgia, Alabama, or Louisiana, and sold. The gangs were handcuffed and chained together, and driven by a man on horseback, who flourished a long whip, such as is used in driving cattle, and goaded the reluctant and weary when their feet lagged on the long journey. One day I was by the roadside where my father was chopping wood, when I saw such a gang approaching along the new Salisbury road. The coffle of slaves came first, chained in couples on each side of a long chain which extended between them; the driver was some distance behind, with the wagon of supplies. My father addressed the slaves pleasantly, and then asked: “Well, boys, why do they chain you?” One of the men, whose countenance betrayed unusual intelligence and whose expression denoted the deepest sadness, replied: “They have taken us away from our wives and children, and they chain us lest we should make our escape and go back to them.” My childish sympathy and interest were aroused, and when the dejected procession had passed on, I turned to my father and asked many questions concerning them, why they were taken away from their families, etc. In simple words, suited to my comprehension, my father explained to me the meaning of slavery, and, as I listened, the thought arose in my mind—“How terribly we should feel if father were taken away from us.”

This was the first awakening of that sympathy with the oppressed, which, together with a strong hatred of oppression and injustice in every form, were the motives that influenced my whole after-life. Another incident of my boyhood is indelibly engraved on my mind. I accompanied my father one spring to the famous shad fishery at the narrows of the Yadkin River, a spot of wild and romantic scenery, where the stream breaks through a spur of the mountains and goes foaming and dashing down its rocky bed in a succession of rapids. Every spring, when the shad ascended the river, many people resorted to the place to obtain fish. They brought with them a variety of merchandise, saddlery, crockery-ware, etc., and remained in camp some time, buying and selling. The fishery was owned by two brothers named Crump. They were slaveholders, and sometimes allowed their slaves the privilege of fishing after night and disposing of the fish thus obtained, on their own account. A slave, who had availed himself of this privilege, disposed of the fish he caught to my father. Next morning he came to the place where we were preparing breakfast, and entered into conversation with my father, speaking of the fish he had sold him, and asking if he would take more on the same terms. Noticing this, and thinking it a piece of presuming familiarity and impertinence, on the part of the negro, a young man, nephew of the Crumps, seized a fagot from the fire and struck the negro a furious blow across the head, baring the skull, covering his back and breast with blood, and his head with fire; swearing at the same time that he would allow no such impudence from niggers. My father protested against the act, and I was so deeply moved that I left my breakfast untasted, and going off by myself gave vent to my feelings in sobs and tears.

A few such instances of “man's inhumanity to man” intensified my hatred of slavery, and inspired me to devote myself to the cause of the helpless and oppressed, and enter upon that line of humane effort, which I pursued for more than fifty years. I would still be engaged in it had not Abraham Lincoln broken up the business by proclamation in 1863

STEPHEN, THE KIDNAPPED NEGRO.

The first opportunity for aiding a slave occurred when I was about fifteen years old. It was a custom in North Carolina, at that time, to make a “frolic” of any special work, like corn husking, log-rolling, etc. The neighbors would assemble at the place appointed, and with willing hearts and busy hands soon complete the work. Then followed the supper and the merry-making, and the night was in“The wee sma' hours ayant the twal,” before the lights were out and the company gone.

At a gathering of this kind, a corn husking at Dr. Caldwell's, I was present. The neighbors assembled about dark, bringing their slaves with them. The negroes were assigned a place at one end of the heap, the white people took their place at the other, and all went to work, enlivening their labor with songs and merry talk.

A slave-dealer, named Stephen Holland, had arrived in the neighborhood a short time before, with a coffle of slaves, on his way to the South, and as this was his place of residence, he stopped for a few days before proceeding on his journey. He brought with him his band of slaves to help his neighbor husk corn, and I was much interested in them. When the white people went in to supper I remained behind to talk with the strange negroes, and see if I could render them any service. In conversation I learned that one of the negroes, named Stephen, was free born, but had been kidnapped and sold into slavery. Till he became of age he had been indentured to Edward Lloyd, a Friend, living near Philadelphia. When his apprenticeship was ended, he had been hired by a man to help drive a flock of sheep to Baltimore. After reaching that place he had been seized one night as he was asleep in the negro house of a tavern, gagged and bound, then placed in a close carriage, and driven rapidly across the line into Virginia, where he was confined the next night in a cellar. He had then been sold for a small sum to Holland, who was taking him to the Southern market, where he expected to realize a large sum from his sale. I became deeply interested in his story, and began to think how I could help him to regain his freedom. Remembering Dr. Caldwell's Tom, a trusty negro, whom I knew well, I imparted to him my wishes, and desired him, if it could be arranged, to bring Stephen to my father's the next night. They came about midnight, and my father wrote down the particulars of Stephen's case, and took the address of the Lloyds. The next day he wrote to them, giving an account of Stephen and his whereabouts. In two weeks from that time, Hugh Lloyd, a brother of Edward Lloyd, arrived by stage in Greensboro. Procuring conveyance, he came to my father's, and there learned that Stephen had been taken southward by the slave-dealer Holland. Next day being regular meeting-day at the Friends Meeting-House, at New Garden, the case was laid before the men after meeting, and two of them, Dr. George Swain and Henry Macy, volunteered to accompany Hugh Lloyd in search of Stephen.

A sum of money was made up for the expenses of their journey, and Lloyd was furnished with a horse and saddle and the necessary equipments. The party found Stephen in Georgia, where he had been sold by Holland, who had gone farther South. A suit was instituted to gain possession of him, but the laws of that State required proof, in such instances, that the mother had been free, and Hugh Lloyd was too young to give this proof. So the matter was referred to the next term of court, security being given by Stephen's master that he should be produced when wanted. Lloyd returned North, and sent affidavits and free papers giving proof in the case, and in six months Stephen was liberated and returned home. The man who had hired him to drive the sheep to Baltimore had, in the meantime, been arrested on the charge of kidnapping, but as Stephen was the only prosecuting witness, the suit could not go on while he was absent. The man's friends took him out of jail on a writ of habeas corpus and gave bond for his appearance at court, but he preferred forfeiting his bond to standing the trial, and fled the country before Stephen returned.

THE CAPTURED SLAVE.

But I was not always so fortunate as to be able to render assistance to the objects of my sympathy. Sometimes I witnessed scenes of cruelty and injustice and had to stand passively by. The following is an instance of that kind: I had been sent one day on an errand to a place in the neighborhood, called Clemen's Store, and was returning home along the Salem road, when I met a party of movers, with wagons, teams, slaves and household goods, on their way to another State. After passing them I came to a blacksmith's shop, in front of which were several men, talking and smoking, in idle chat, and proceeding on my way I met a negro man trudging along slowly on foot, carrying a bundle. He inquired of me regarding the party of movers; asked how far they were ahead, etc. I told him “About half a mile,” and as he passed on, the thought occurred to me that this man was probably a runaway slave who was following the party of movers. I had heard of instances when families were separated—the wife and children being taken by their owners to another part of the country—of the husband and father following the party of emigrants, keeping a short distance behind the train of wagons during the day, and creeping up to the camp at night, close enough for his wife to see him and bring him food. A few days afterward I learned that this man had been stopped and questioned by the party of men at the blacksmith's shop, that he had produced a pass, but they being satisfied that it was a forgery had lodged him in jail at Greensboro, and sent word to his master concerning him. A week or two afterward I was sent to a blacksmith's shop, at Greensboro, to get some work done. The slave's master had, that very day, arrived and taken possession of him, and brought him to the blacksmith's shop to get some irons put on him before starting back to his home. While a chain was being riveted around the negro's neck, and handcuffs fastened on his wrists, his master upbraided him for having run away. He asked:

“Wer'n't you well treated?”

“Yes, massa.”

“Then what made you run away?”

“My wife and children were taken away from me, massa, and I think as much of them as you do of yours, or any white man does of his. Their massa tried to buy me too, but you would not sell me, so when I saw them go away, I followed.” The mere recital of his words can convey little idea of the pitiful and pathetic manner in which they were uttered; his whole frame trembled, and the glance of piteous, despairing appeal he turned upon his master would have melted any heart less hard than stone.

The master said, “I've always treated you well, trusting you with my keys, and treating you more like a confidential servant than a slave, but now you shall know what slavery is. Just wait till I get you back home!” He then tried to make the negro tell where he had got his pass, who wrote it for him, etc., but he refused to betray the person who had befriended him. The master threatened him with the severest punishment, but he persisted in his refusal. Then torture was tried, in order to force the name from him. Laying the slave's fettered hand on the blacksmith's anvil, the master struck it with a hammer until the blood settled under the finger nails. The negro winced under each cruel blow, but said not a word. As I stood by and watched this scene, my heart swelled with indignation, and I longed to rescue the slave and punish the master. I was not converted to peace principles then, and I felt like fighting for the slave. One end of the chain, riveted to the negro's neck, was made fast to the axle of his master's buggy, then the master sprang in and drove off at a sweeping trot, compelling the slave to run at full speed or fall and be dragged by his neck. I watched them till they disappeared in the distance, and as long as I could see them, the slave was running.

FUGITIVES IN CONCEALMENT.

Runaway slaves used frequently to conceal themselves in the woods and thickets in the vicinity of New Garden, waiting opportunities to make their escape to the North, and I generally learned their places of concealment and rendered them all the service in my power. My father, in common with other farmers in that part of the country, allowed his hogs to run in the woods, and I often went out to feed them. My sack of corn generally contained supplies of bacon and corn bread for the slaves, and many a time I sat in the thickets with them as they hungrily devoured my bounty, and listened to the stories they told of hard masters and cruel treatment, or spoke in language, simple and rude, yet glowing with native eloquence, of the glorious hope of freedom which animated their spirits in the darkest hours, and sustained them under the sting of the lash.

These outlying slaves knew where I lived, and, when reduced to extremity of want or danger, often came to my room, in the silence and darkness of night, to obtain food or assistance. In my efforts to aid these fugitives I had a zealous co-worker in my friend and cousin, Vestal Coffin, who was then, and continued to the time of his death—a few years later—a stanch friend to the slave.

Vestal was several years older than I, was married and had the care of a family, but, in the busiest season of work, could find time to co-operate with me in all my endeavors to aid runaway slaves. We often met at night in a thicket where a fugitive was concealed, to counsel in regard to his prospects and lay plans for getting him safely started to the North. We employed General Hamilton's Sol, a gray-haired, trusty old negro, to examine every coffle of slaves to which he could gain access, and ascertain if there were any kidnapped negroes among them. When such a case was discovered, Sol would manage to bring the person, by night, to some rendezvous appointed, in the pine thickets or the depths of the woods, and there Vestal and I would meet them and have an interview. There was always a risk in holding such meetings, for the law in the South inflicted heavy penalties on any one who should aid or abet a fugitive slave in escaping, and the patrollers, or mounted officers, frequently passed along the road near our place of concealment. When information had been obtained from kidnapped negroes regarding the circumstances of their capture, Vestal Coffin wrote to their friends, and in many cases succeeded in getting them liberated. In this way a negro man of family and means, who had been abducted from Pennsylvania and taken to New Orleans and sold, was finally restored to his friends. Obtaining through Vestal Coffin a knowledge of his whereabouts, they brought suit against his owners and gained his liberty.

SERVICES OF VESTAL COFFIN.

Another negro was kidnapped from Delaware, and brought to Guilford County, North Carolina, by a man named John Thompson. Learning the particulars of his case, Vestal Coffin went to Hillsboro, a neighboring town, and obtained a writ, which he placed in the hands of the sheriff to be served on Thompson, requiring him to produce the negro in court, for investigation regarding the unlawfulness of his being held in bondage. Thompson, disregarding the writ, sent the negro South, and sold him. Vestal Coffin went back and procured another writ, causing Thompson to be arrested on charge of kidnapping, and thrown into prison till the negro should be produced. This proceeding greatly enraged Thompson, but he was obliged to send for the negro, who was delivered to the charge of Vestal Coffin. When the case went into court, Thompson secured the best lawyers, but Vestal Coffin had right on his side, and finally triumphed. As the poet says:

“Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just.”

The case was delayed nearly a year, and in that time Vestal Coffin procured affidavits and other documents establishing the negro's freedom, and he was set at liberty. These are some of the results of the consultations held by night in the pine thickets.

EDE.

As I was always interested in the work and ready to engage in it, I found opportunities to be of service to the slaves in various ways. The following is an account of one of my efforts in this line:

Dr. Caldwell, whose name has been mentioned before, was one of our near neighbors. He was a learned clergyman and physician, founded a college—said to be the first in North Carolina—and numbered among his pupils many of the prominent men of that State. His son Samuel was a Presbyterian minister, and was located in the southwestern part of the State, in charge of a church there. At one time, when on a visit to his relatives in Guilford County, he told his father that his wife very much needed a good house servant, and, after some deliberation, the old Doctor concluded to make him a present of one.

The question thus was, Which one of the negro women should it be?

The mistress was a humane Christian lady, and did not like the idea of separating husband and wife, but all the negro women that were grown had husbands, and the girls were too young to fill the place, so it was finally decided that a woman named Ede should go. She was strong and healthy, and in the prime of life, and would be the most suitable. She had four children, three of whom were to be left behind; the youngest, being a babe a few months old, was to go with its mother. To satisfy the scruples of his wife against separating husband and wife, the old Doctor told her that Ede's husband—who belonged to another master—was a trifling negro, and that his master would probably sell him before long; that slave marriage was not legal; and that perhaps Ede would soon get a better man for a husband.

When Ede learned that she was to go and live with her young master, more than a hundred miles distant from her husband and children, she was filled with grief and dismay, and studied how she might avert the threatened calamity.

The night before the time fixed for her start to her new home, she decided to flee to the thickets and hide herself for a week or two, hoping that in this time her master and mistress would change their mind about sending her away, and consent to let her remain. Preparing a little store of provisions, and taking her baby in her arms, she fled to the woods, and found a hiding place in a dense thicket, about a mile from my father's house. As it was some distance from the road, she ventured to kindle a little fire by the side of a log, for the weather was cool and chilly, and both she and her child suffered from the cold. She made a bed of leaves, by the side of a large log, and sheltered herself as well as she could from the wind. She had remained in this hiding place for several days and nights, when her child became ill, from cold and exposure. Filled with fresh anguish at the sight of its sufferings, and unable to alleviate them, she determined to leave her place of concealment. Her little stock of provisions had by this time given out, and she was beginning to suffer with hunger. She was acquainted with my father's family, and knew us to be friends to the fugitive, and resolved to apply to us for help. She made her way to our house, at night, and was kindly received, though we knew we laid ourselves liable to a heavy penalty by harboring a fugitive slave. A hot supper was prepared for her, and then we heard her story, and consulted together in regard to what should be done. Father was liable to fine and imprisonment if she was discovered at our house, yet we could not turn her away. The dictates of humanity came in opposition to the law of the land, and we ignored the law. My mother said, “The child is sick, and may die before morning; we can not turn them from our doors.” My father said he would risk the penalty, and Ede was given a comfortable resting place for the night. My mother did all that she could for the sick child. She spent the night trying to relieve its sufferings, and, at daylight, had the satisfaction of seeing it free from pain and in a quiet sleep.

When morning came, the question arose, What should be done with Ede? We could not turn her out in the cold with her sick child, to return to her hiding place in the woods, and she begged us not to send her back to her master's. As she repeated her sad story, the tears streamed down her cheeks, and she said she would rather die than be separated from her family.

I volunteered to go and plead her case with her master and mistress, as I was acquainted with them, and thought I could persuade them not to send her away. I also hoped to save my father from the penalty he had incurred by harboring a fugitive. Leaving Ede and the child at my father's, I made my way to the mansion of the aristocratic gentleman of the old school. I felt some misgivings as to the success of my mission when I entered the house, and was at first embarrassed when I was shown into the room where the Doctor was sitting. He received me kindly, as was his custom, and entered into conversation. Among the solid qualities of his character was a rich vein of humor, and he always made himself attractive to young people, entertaining them with some droll story, or puzzling them with knotty questions. He inquired about our school at New Garden, where Jeremiah Hubbard, a well-known Quaker preacher, was then teaching, and said, “You ought to pay Mr. Hubbard double price for your tuition, for I hear that he has taught his pupils the art of courting, beside the common branches of a school education. I hear that two of his pupils have made known their intentions of marriage, or given in meeting, as you call it. How do you suppose those young Quakers feel now that they are half married?”

“Like they intended to be wholly married soon, I suppose,” I replied.

He continued, “Now, we Presbyterians do up such business sooner than you Quakers do”—and was going on in this strain when his wife entered the room. My diffidence had vanished by this time, and I longed for an opportunity to introduce the subject which occupied my thoughts. After the mistress of the house had greeted me and taken her seat, I said that I had come to speak with them on an important matter, and inquired if their slave woman Ede had run away.

The Doctor replied, “Yes, she ran off several days ago, to keep from going home with our son Sam, I suppose. She needs a good flogging for her foolishness—she would have a good home at his house. Do you know where she is hiding?”

I related the incident of her coming to our house and what had been done for her, and then pleaded her case with all the earnestness and eloquence I was master of, quoting all the texts of Scripture bearing on the case that I could remember, and bringing the matter home to ourselves, putting ourselves in her place, etc. I soon saw that I had touched the old lady's feelings. She said she thanked my mother for taking such good care of the sick child, and that she had very reluctantly given her consent for Ede to be separated from her family. I told them that Ede said she wished to come home if they would let her stay, but that she had rather die than be sent away from her husband and children. The old Doctor had listened attentively to my pleading, but had made no reply. I now asked him if my father had done right in taking in Ede and her child in violation of the law, thus laying himself liable to a heavy penalty, if he was disposed to prosecute.

He replied, “Your father has done right; I shall not trouble him, and I thank your mother for her kindness to the sick child. As for you, you have done your part very well. Why, Mr. Coffin, you would make a pretty good preacher; if you will come to me I will give you lessons in theology without charge.”

I thanked him for his offer, but said I had not come to talk about theology that morning; I wanted to know what word I should carry back to poor Ede, who was waiting at our house, in anxious suspense.

He said, “Well, this is no doubt your first sermon, and you would be disappointed and might give up preaching if you are not successful; you may tell Ede to come home, and I will not send her away.”

I took my leave, and went home rejoicing. I gave an account of my visit and the success that had attended my efforts, and Ede shouted for joy. In the middle of the day, when it was warm and sunny, she started home, carrying her child, which my mother had wrapped comfortably in a small blanket.

The Doctor kept his word, and she was allowed to remain at home with her family.

THE WHITE SLAVE.

In the following story I was no way concerned, but the incidents came under my observation, and I can well remember the feelings of deepest sympathy and indignation which it aroused in our neighborhood at the time of its occurrence. It shows one of the cruelest phases of slavery, and gives one of the many instances in which the deepest suffering was inflicted on those who merited it by no act of their own, but received the curse by inheritance.

A slaveholder, living in Virginia, owned a beautiful slave woman, who was almost white. She became the mother of a child, a little boy, in whose veins ran the blood of her master, and the closest observer could not detect in its appearance any trace of African descent. He grew to be two or three years of age, a most beautiful child and the idol of his mother's heart, when the master concluded, for family reasons, to send him away. He placed him in the care of a friend living in Guilford County, North Carolina, and made an agreement that he should receive a common-school education, and at a suitable age be taught some useful trade. Years passed; the child grew to manhood, and having received a good common-school education, and learned the shoemaker's trade, he married an estimable young white woman, and had a family of five or six children. He had not the slightest knowledge of the taint of African blood in his veins, and no one in the neighborhood knew that he was the son of an octoroon slave woman. He made a comfortable living for his family, was a good citizen, a member of the Methodist Church, and was much respected by all who knew him. In course of time his father, the Virginian slaveholder, died, and when the executors came to settle up the estate, they remembered the little white boy, the son of the slave woman, and knowing that by law—such law!—he belonged to the estate, and must be by this time a valuable piece of property, they resolved to gain possession of him. After much inquiry and search they learned of his whereabouts, and the heir of the estate, accompanied by an administrator, went to Guilford County, North Carolina, to claim his half-brother as a slave. Without making themselves known to him, they sold him to a negro trader, and gave a bill of sale, preferring to have a sum in ready money, instead of a servant who might prove very valuable, but who would, without doubt, give them a great deal of trouble. He had been free all his life, and they knew he would not readily yield to the yoke of bondage. All this time the victim was entirely unconscious of the cruel fate in store for him.

His wife had been prostrated by a fever then prevalent in the neighborhood, and he had waited upon her and watched by her bedside, until he was worn out with exhaustion and loss of sleep. Several neighbor women coming in one evening to watch with the invalid, he surrendered her to their care, and retired to seek the rest he so much needed. That night the slave-dealer came with a gang of ruffians, burst into the house and seized their victim as he lay asleep, bound him, after heroic struggles on his part, and dragged him away. When he demanded the cause of his seizure, they showed him the bill of sale they had received, and informed him that he was a slave. In this rude, heartless manner the intelligence that he belonged to the African race was first imparted to him, and the crushing weight of his cruel destiny came upon him when totally unprepared. His captors hurried him out of the neighborhood, and took him toward the Southern slave markets. To get him black enough to sell without question, they washed his face in tan ooze, and kept him tied in the sun, and to complete his resemblance to a mulatto, they cut his hair short and seared it with a hot iron to make it curly. He was sold in Georgia or Alabama, to a hard master, by whom he was cruelly treated.

Several months afterward he succeeded in escaping, and made his way back to Guilford County, North Carolina. Here he learned that his wife had died a few days after his capture, the shock of that calamity having hastened her death, and that his children were scattered among the neighbors. His master, thinking that he would return to his old home, came in pursuit of him with hounds, and chased him through the thickets and swamps. He evaded the dogs by wading in a mill-pond, and climbing a tree, where he remained all night. Next day he made his way to the house of Stanton White (afterward my father-in-law), where he remained several days. Dr. George Swain, a man of much influence in the community, had an interview with him, and, hearing the particulars of his seizure, said he thought the proceedings were illegal. He held a consultation with several lawyers, and instituted proceedings in his behalf. But the unfortunate victim of man's cruelty did not live to regain his freedom. He had been exposed and worried so much, trailed by dogs and forced to lie in swamps and thickets, that his health was broken down and he died before the next term of court.

CHAPTER II.

THE STORY OF JACK BARNES—MY JOURNEY WITH A SLAVE-OWNER—A MISSION FULL OF ANXIETY—THE STORY OF SAM—I TURN SLAVE-HUNTER—NARROW ESCAPE FROM ARREST—PENALTY OF AIDING A SLAVE—FATE OF POOR SAM.

I NOW come to the relation of an occurrence in which, strange as it may seem, I turned slave-hunter. A gentleman by the name of Barnes, who lived in the eastern part of the State, had a body servant named Jack, to whom he was much attached.

Barnes was a bachelor, with no direct heirs, and being in ill-health, he made his will, in which, as was allowed by a provision of the law, he bequeathed to Jack his freedom for faithfulness and meritorious conduct, also a considerable portion of his estate. At his death, distant relatives flocked to the scene, seized upon the property and entered suit to contest the will. Jack knew very well that from Southern courts of justice he could expect no favor; so procuring a copy of the will, and a certificate of good conduct, signed by several leading white men of the place, who were friendly to him, he sought a more secure place in which to await the decision of the court. He had heard of a settlement of Quakers at New Garden, near Greensboro, Guilford County, who were opposed to slavery and friendly to colored people. He obtained directions to aid him in finding this place, and left home privately, that it might not be known where he was if the case should go against him. He reached New Garden safely, was introduced to me, and I took him to my father's house.

Jack remained in our neighborhood for some time, employed on the farms of my father, of Vestal Coffin, and others, and proved himself to be an industrious and faithful servant. He won the esteem and sympathy of all who knew him and his story, by his steady habits, intelligent character and manly deportment. He came to New Garden in the fall of 1821, and in the following March received the news that the case in court had been decided against him. The property that had been willed to him was turned over to the relatives of his master, and he was consigned again to slavery. The judge decided that Barnes was not in his right mind at the time he made the will; this was apparent from the nature of the will. The heirs took possession of the property, but where was Jack, the able-bodied valuable servant, who also belonged to them? He was not to be found, and they advertised in the papers, offering one hundred dollars reward to any one who would secure him till they could get hold of him, or give information that would lead to his discovery.

This advertisement appeared in the paper published at Greensboro, and when Jack saw it he was greatly alarmed. The questions which occupied his mind and with which he greeted his friends were, “What shall I do? can I get to a free State, or any place, where I can enjoy liberty in safety?”

It was decided that for the present he must be concealed, and he was secreted among his friends, part of the time at our house, and part at the house of Vestal Coffin. A council was held by Jack's friends to devise some plan to get him to a free State. Bethuel Coffin, my uncle, who lived a few miles distant, was then preparing to go to Indiana, on a visit to his children and relatives who had settled there. He would be accompanied by his son Elisha, then living in Randolph County, and by his daughter Mary. They intended to make the journey in a two-horse wagon, taking with them provisions and cooking utensils, and camp out on the way. This was the usual mode of traveling in those days. The road they proposed to take was called the Kanawha road. It was the nearest route, but led through a mountainous wilderness, most of the way. Crossing Dan River, it led by way of Patrick Court-House, Virginia, to Maberry's Gap, in the Blue Ridge mountains, thence across Clinch mountain, by way of Pack's ferry on New River, thence across White Oak mountain to the falls of the Kanawha, and down that river to the Ohio, crossing at Gallipolis.

This was thought to be a safe route for Jack to travel, as it was very thinly inhabited, and it was decided that my cousin Vestal and I should go to see our uncle, and learn if he was willing to incur the risk and take Jack with him to Indiana. He said he was willing, and all the arrangements were made, and the time for starting fixed. The night after they started, Vestal Coffin took Jack, on horseback, to Dan River, about twenty miles distant, where they camped the first night, and where the fugitive joined them.

Here we will leave his story for a time, and turn to the trials and persecutions of another slave, named Sam, who lived in the neighborhood of New Garden. Osborne, his master, who might have represented the character of Legree in “Uncle Tom's Cabin,” took particular delight in whipping and abusing poor Sam, till he was compelled to take to the thickets or the premises of his friends for safety. Even the slave-holders in the neighborhood sympathized with him. After living in this manner for several months, and finding no opportunity to escape to the North, Sam went to Robert Thompson, a slave-dealer, and asked him to buy him. He was willing to take the chance of getting a better master, even if he was sold to the rice swamps of the far South. Thompson went to Osborne, and offered him six hundred dollars for Sam, “as he ran,” taking the chances of his capture.

Osborne replied, “I'll not take less than $999.99 for him until I have caught him; then, after I have settled with him, you may have him for $550.”

Thompson swore at Osborne, and told him he hoped he would never get Sam, then returned home, and giving Sam a pair of good pantaloons, told him to clear himself and never let his master get possession of him again.

A few days after my uncle had started on his journey to the West, Osborne was out looking for his slave. Meeting a man whom he knew, who was returning from a journey near the mountains, Osborne asked him if he had met any movers on that road accompanied by a negro.

“Yes,” was the reply; “I met an old Quaker man with a two-horse wagon, who said he was going to Indiana, and there was a negro man walking a short distance behind the wagon.”

He described the negro, and Osborne said, with an oath:

“That's my nigger Sam, I'm sure. The rascal has been lying out for several months, and I heard that he got the papers of some free nigger, and said he intended to follow the first movers he could meet with going to the West. It is old Mr. Coffin and his son Elisha; I know them. I suppose that rascal Sam has met with them somewhere on the road, and made them believe he is a free man, and is now traveling with them. I think they are both gentlemen and would not steal my nigger. Well, I will follow them and get that rascal Sam.”

As I was returning from Fourth-day meeting at New Garden, the third day after my uncle started, I met a man who had heard this conversation between Osborne and the traveler, and who informed me that Osborne had gone directly home, got a fresh horse and started in pursuit that very morning. I hastened home and told my father the story. We decided that something must be done immediately. We knew that if Osborne should come up with the party and find that the negro was not his Sam, but Jack Barnes, he would capture him all the same, for he knew that Jack had been in the neighborhood, and that a reward was offered. He would recognize Jack by the description in the advertisement, and would secure him, and bring him back for the sake of the one hundred dollars reward. It was decided that I should go at once to my Cousin Vestal, a man several years older than I was, and a faithful worker in the cause of liberty, and see if he could not suggest a plan by which Jack might be saved. I laid the matter before Vestal, who felt, as we did, that something must be done, and that quickly, to rescue Jack from Osborne's clutches. We came to the conclusion, that the only thing to be done was for some person to start at once on a good traveling horse, and go far enough ahead of Osborne to warn Jack of his danger. Vestal was so situated that he could not go, but he accompanied me to his brother Elihu's, to see what arrangements could be made there. We laid the matter before him, knowing that he would be a suitable person to go, but he could not leave his business then. He insisted that I should undertake the trip, and Vestal uniting with him, I decided to go, though I was young and had never been on such a responsible journey before.

Elihu offered me his fine traveling mare and all the necessary equipments. I told him I had no money with me and no overcoat—was entirely unprepared for traveling, as I had no such prospect in view when I left home. But they agreed to furnish everything needful, and to inform my parents of my mission, that they might not be uneasy at my long absence. Elihu had the horse brought out and freshly shod, and prepared a wallet of oats that I might feed it when necessary during the night. His wife prepared some provisions for me to eat on the journey, which were placed in the saddle-bags. I put on Elihu's warm overcoat, and with enough money in my pocket to take me to the Ohio River and back, I felt fully equipped. I ate my supper, mounted my beautiful traveling mare, and started, between sunset and dark. There was no moon, but the night was clear and the stars shone brightly. The first ten miles of the way was familiar to me, and I had directions as far as Dan River ford; beyond that, all was new and strange. I traveled at a steady but moderate pace the first twenty miles, and reached the ford about midnight. Dan River at this place is a wide, shallow stream, with a swift current, perfectly safe to cross if one is acquainted with the ford. There were piles of stones placed at intervals across it, to guide the traveler, but it was difficult to see them by starlight, and when I got to the middle of the river I lost sight of them. I thought I had got into deep water and that my mare was swimming—I seemed to go so swiftly and easily—but I soon discovered it was my head that was swimming, and that the animal was standing still. I had involuntarily checked her by my tight hold on the reins. Casting my eye across the river I pushed ahead, and in a few moments was below the ford and in deep water. My animal swam out with me nicely, but I got a good wetting. Reaching the opposite shore, I alighted, and pulling off my shoes, wrung the water from my stockings and pantaloons as well as I could. I then rubbed the limbs of the mare, and after giving her some oats on a smooth stone, and partaking of some food from my store in the saddle-bags, I mounted again, and set off at greater speed. Now and then I drew rein in front of a house by the wayside, and calling somebody out of bed, inquired the road to Patrick Court-House. After receiving directions, I rode on before the people had time to question me. Just at daybreak I came to a loghouse with a tavern sign. Calling the man out, I inquired about the road and found I had traveled forty-seven miles. The man told me if I would stop an hour or two, I would have company on my journey, a gentleman who had stopped with him that night and was going the same road, adding:

“He is in pursuit of some movers who have one of his negroes with them.”

I made some excuse and pushed on. I knew that it was Osborne and that I was now ahead of him, but the next thought was—can I keep ahead of him? I was satisfied that I could not; I had traveled all night and my animal was tired, while his had rested through the night and would be fresh for the journey. I had taken good care of my mare, giving her a light feed of oats several times during the night and rubbing her legs frequently; she seemed in good condition, but I did not think it would be possible to push ahead and reach my uncle's wagon before Osborne overtook me.

Many anxious thoughts passed through my excited mind, and finally I fixed on a plan. I would stop at the next tavern, which was a few miles ahead, feed my mare, get breakfast and rest a few hours, thus allowing Osborne to overtake me. I knew him by sight but did not think he knew me, as we had never had any acquaintance. I intended to travel awhile in his company and find out his plans, then make an excuse for taking another road, and fall back while he went on, then pass him in the night when he was at some tavern. Public houses were scarce in that poor and thinly settled part of Virginia, and private houses would not take in travelers, because the law of the State did not allow them to charge for entertainment without obtaining license. It was half past eight o'clock when I halted at the next tavern, and called for breakfast, and food for my horse. About nine o'clock Osborne rode up and stopped for the same purpose. It was the custom then, in traveling on horseback, to make an early start, and stop about nine o'clock for breakfast.

Osborne went to the bar and called for liquor and invited me to drink with him—though I was a stranger to him—but I declined. After breakfast he inquired which way I was traveling. I told him that I was going west, would cross the mountain at Maberry's Gap, then take the left-hand road, leading to Burk's Forks. At that place my Uncle Samuel Stanley had a stock farm where he kept a number of cattle through the winter, allowing them to fatten on the range during the summer. I said:

“Last fall I went over there and helped my Cousin Jessie Stanley drive a drove of beef cattle home to Guilford County, then we crossed the mountain at Bell Spur, but I thought I would cross this time at Maberry's Gap.”

Osborne inquired: “Is your name Stanley?”

“No, it is Coffin.”

“Are you any relation to old Mr. Bethuel Coffin?”

“Yes, he is my uncle.”

“Well, I am in pursuit of him.”

“What is the matter?”

“Why, he has one of my niggers with him, taking him to Indiana, I suppose.”

“How is that?” I asked, assuming great surprise; “how did he get the negro? I saw him start and there was none with him then.”

“Oh, I don't think he stole the nigger,” said Osborne; then he went on to relate the story that has been told before, how he supposed his negro had got free papers, and imposed on my uncle.

Osborne now supposed my only business was the journey to Burk's Fork; I had certainly deceived him, but told no untruth. He had taken several drinks, and now became very jovial and familiar with me, expressing great satisfaction that I was going the same road; it was lonesome traveling through that rough, thinly settled country, and he was glad to have my company. His pocket-bottle was filled with whisky; then our horses were brought to the door, and we started off together. As we traveled along he talked and joked in great good humor, but I hardly heard what he said, for my mind was still full of plans and anxious thoughts. He had frequent recourse to his whisky bottle, and pressed me to drink; I turned it up to my mouth several times, but took care that no liquor passed down my throat. I wanted to encourage his drinking and keep my own head clear, thinking that if he became stupefied with liquor I could more easily gain ground upon him, reach the camp that night before him, and warn poor Jack of his danger.

Osborne communicated all his plans to me, saying that he did not intend to go upon them in the day-time, but to keep back, when he came near them, till they had camped for the night; then he would gather a company of armed men, surround the camp and take Sam, dead or alive, shooting him down if he attempted to escape. He said:

“See here, young man, I want you to go with me, and help capture the nigger; I will pay you well. If it proves not to be Sam, I think I know who it is. There was a nigger man working about last winter in the Quaker settlement, who was willed free by a crazy master, but the heirs broke the will and have advertised for him, offering a hundred dollars reward to any one who will secure him and give them notice. His name is Jack Barnes, and he is so well described in the advertisement I think I would know him. If it is not my nigger with your uncle, it must be that fellow, and I will land him in Greenboro jail, sure. If you will go along and help me I will divide the reward with you; that will be fifty dollars apiece, and will pay us well these hard times.”

I made several excuses: said it would consume too much time, my business was urgent, etc.

“Now, see here, my good fellow,” continued Osborne, “you will lose nothing. I will return with you through the Burk's Fork settlement, and spend a day or two there, giving you time to do your business. Come, what do you say?”

I still made excuses, though I had fully made up my mind to go with him, having come, by this time, to the conclusion that my first plan would not do. Osborne had inquired of every person we met in regard to the party of movers, asking how far they were ahead and if there was a negro man with them. The answer to the last question was always “Yes;” then Osborne would ask them to describe the man, and when they did, he would exclaim, with an oath, “That's my nigger, sure.”

He made similar inquiries at every house, and the statements he received confirmed him in the belief that the fugitive was his slave. Jack answered the description of Sam pretty well in regard to personal appearance. All this made it plainer to me that my original plan would not do: if I were to get ahead of Osborne, overtake my uncle and get Jack out of the way before Osborne came upon them, and try to keep him out of the way, Osborne, on coming to the wagon and not finding the negro, could easily prove that he had been with the party at the last camping place, and might harass and perhaps detain my uncle. Then it would be difficult for me to keep Jack secure in the mountains till Osborne gave up the search and returned home, and then try to place him with my uncle again. This arrangement, therefore, was abandoned, and I resolved to travel on with Osborne till we reached the movers, hoping that the influence of the liquor, which he had partaken of freely during the day, or some other influence, would aid me in effecting Jack's escape. We were now nearing the top of the Blue Ridge, and in the afternoon passed the spot where my uncle had camped the night before. A short distance beyond the mountain ridge was the road that led to Burk's Forks. When we reached it, I halted and allowed Osborne to renew his urgent solicitations and offers of money. Finally, and in an apparently reluctant manner, I agreed to keep him company, just to oblige him, he thought—and we went on together. By this time we were seemingly much attached to each other. Osborne's pocket bottle had been refilled, at my expense, and to gain still further his favor, I exerted myself to entertain him, telling him stories and recounting jokes that kept him constantly laughing. It is needless to say that this gayety was all assumed on my part, for I was still weighed down with the heavy responsibility of my mission. Toward nightfall we learned that the wagon was only twelve or fifteen miles ahead of us. I was anxious to press on and accomplish our work that night, pleading the urgency of my business at Burk's Forks. Osborne, on the contrary, wished to stop for the night at the first house that afforded entertainment. I said, “Let us stop and get our horses fed, allow them to rest an hour or two and take some refreshment ourselves, then press on and finish our work to-night.”

“No,” said Osborne, “that will not do. I want to collect a company of eight or ten men, well armed, to surround the camp, and it is too late to rally them to-night.”

We stopped at a little log-house, where a sign indicated entertainment for man and beast, and called for refreshments. I was now getting into a part of the country I had seen before, Montgomery County, Virginia. I had spent two weeks in that county the previous fall, collecting cattle, as I had told Osborne. I knew that one Squire Howells kept a tavern on that road, not far ahead; that he owned no slaves, and was a popular man among the mountaineers. I inquired the distance to his house, and was informed that it was eight miles. I also learned that my uncle's party had passed a few hours before, and would probably camp near Squire Howells', as it was a favorable spot, on account of water, etc.

I now renewed my persuasions to induce Osborne to go on; told him that the poor cabin where we then were afforded little accommodation or comfort; that if we went on to Squire Howells' we would be near the camp, and as that neighborhood was more thickly settled, we could collect the men he wanted and accomplish our work without spending another day. He finally yielded, and called for our horses. He invited me to drink with him at the bar, and I sipped the liquor lightly, wishing to promote his drinking. It was now dark, but the stars shone brightly, and we made our way along the road without difficulty.

We arrived at Squire Howells' tavern before the inmates had gone to bed. Riding up to the gate, we hallooed, and the landlord came out. Osborne inquired if a two-horse wagon with movers had passed that evening, and where they would be likely to camp. Howells replied, “They passed this evening; bought some horse feed of me, and inquired for a good camping place. I directed them to the Six-Mile Branch, as we call it, a stream about six miles from here, where they would find good water and every accommodation for camping.”

“Was there a nigger with them?” asked Osborne.

“Yes,” answered Howells, and gave his description.

“That's my nigger,” said Osborne; “and I am after him, bound to have him, dead or alive. I want you to raise a company of men and help me capture him. I will pay you well for it.”

“I don't much like that kind of business,” said Howells.

“Oh, I'll make you like it,” added Osborne; “I have plenty of money.”

A glow of hope and comfort warmed my heart. I liked Howells' expression, and thought perhaps he might aid me if I could enlist his sympathy for the fugitive. I dismounted and said: “Well, we will have our horses fed, get some refreshment, and talk the matter over.” Howells invited us to walk into the house while he and his son took our horses to the stable. I told Osborne to go in and I would go to the stable to give directions about feeding our horses. I was all excitement, for I felt that the crisis was near. Now was the time to act, if I succeeded in saving Jack. It would be difficult to describe my feelings, my intense anxiety. I had traveled one hundred and twenty miles without sleep or rest, yet I felt no symptoms of sleepiness or fatigue. After giving directions to the young man about feeding our horses, I took Squire Howells to one side and ventured to make a confidant of him. I told him that Osborne and I were from the same county in North Carolina, and that I fell in company with him that morning as I was traveling in this direction on business; that Osborne was in pursuit of my uncle—the man with the wagon, who was going to Indiana—believing that he had one of his negroes with him. I gave him Osborne's story, about hearing that his slave had got hold of free papers; then pictured Osborne's character. I said that the master was a cruel tyrant, and that the slave was a faithful servant who ran away on account of the inhuman treatment he received, and lay out in the woods and thickets for several months. Osborne bore such a character for cruelty in the neighborhood, that even the slaveholders would not aid him in capturing his negro. After relating this, I went on to say that I did not believe the negro with my uncle was Osborne's slave, but another fugitive, and then gave the story of Jack Barnes. I said that before reaching the road, on top of the mountain, leading to Burk's Fork settlement, which I had intended to take, Osborne had insisted on my coming with him to help him capture his slave, and feeling pretty certain that the negro in question was not his Sam, but Jack Barnes, I had come on hoping to be of use in another way. Jack, in my opinion, was entitled to his freedom, having been willed free by his master, and if this were he, I would have nothing to do with recapturing him. But if it proved to be Osborne's negro, I would do what I could in aiding the master to recover his property. I did not tell Howells all I knew; I did not tell him that Sam, Osborne's slave, was lying in the hay-mow in my father's barn when I left home, nor that I knew to a certainty that the negro with my uncle was Jack Barnes.

Howells said at once: “If it is the negro you describe, he ought to be free; I would not detain him a moment, but would much rather help him on his way.”

I told him Osborne's plan was to raise a company of armed men, surround the camp and take the fugitive, dead or alive. If it proved to be Jack Barnes, Osborne would drag him back to slavery for the sake of the reward offered.

I said: “I hope you will go with us, and help me in my efforts to save Jack from such a fate.”

He replied: “Since hearing your statement I have concluded to go with you. In regard to the other part, it will depend entirely on the class of men Osborne gets to go with him. However, I think I can manage that. I will take my son for one, and send for one of my near neighbors, and we will pick up a few more on the way.”

Some relief came to my overburdened mind, and I felt quite hopeful. We went into the house and found Osborne dancing in the bar-room; he had been drinking, and was quite jubilant over the prospect of soon having his negro secured with the handcuffs and rope he had in his saddle-bags.

I told him that Squire Howells had agreed to go with us, and would collect a company of men to surround the camp.

“How many do you want?” asked Howells.

“A half dozen or more, beside Mr. Coffin and myself, and all must be armed, for if the rascal attempts to escape, I want him shot down. I would much rather kill him than let him get away; he has been too much trouble to me already. I will give Mr. Coffin one of my pistols; he says he has none.”

Howells' neighbor came, bringing his gun, Howells and his son took their guns, and mounting our horses we started for the camp, six miles distant. It was now about midnight. As we traveled on, Howells called at several houses a little off the road, leaving us in the road till he returned. He thus gained time to talk with the men and give them the right side of the story. Three more joined us, increasing our party to eight. All were armed but myself; I declined accepting a pistol from Osborne, telling him I did not believe in killing folks. We were now getting very near the Six-Mile Branch, and my heart throbbed with intense excitement. A few minutes more would decide it all. We soon espied the camp-fire and retreated a little way to hold a consultation, and settle the plan of operation.

Howells struck a match and looked at his watch; it was near daylight. Now was my time, and I nerved myself to the effort, feeling that I needed the eloquence of the most gifted orator to aid me in making the appeal in behalf of poor Jack. I told the men that before we formed our plan of attack, I had something to say to them, and then went on to state: “If the negro in camp with my uncle is Osborne's Sam, I will do all I can to secure him, but I am inclined to think it is another man, a negro who was willed free by his master for his meritorious conduct.” Then I gave the circumstances of the will case, and described Jack's character in glowing terms, adding the testimony of the recommendation signed by the leading white citizens of his own neighborhood. I said that Jack had worked in our settlement all winter, but since learning the news that the will had been broken and he was consigned to slavery, he had disappeared, and I presumed he was with my uncle trying to make his way to a free State. If this is the man we find in camp, I further said, I will have nothing to do with capturing him.

Howells said: “Mr. Coffin appears to act from principle, and I think he will find us men of principle too. If it should be the negro described, he ought to be free, and I would much rather aid him on his way to liberty than detain him.”

The rest of Howells' company joined with him, and Osborne seeing them all agreed, turned clever fellow too, and said if it were not his negro he would have nothing to do with him. But he still thought it would prove to be Sam. I now told them I had another proposition to make:

“If we were to surround the camp and break in suddenly upon the sleepers, it would be a great shock and alarm to them. They would find themselves attacked by armed men, and seeing me in the midst would be greatly bewildered. The fright might prove an injury to the young lady, my cousin, who is with her father. As it is now near daybreak, I propose that we wait till daylight, when I will go up to the camp alone, leaving you concealed in the woods and thick underbrush. I will introduce myself to my uncle and give him privately to understand what is going on, and if the negro with them is Sam, I will make some excuse in his hearing, pass on a little way, then take a circuit through the bushes, and return to you. Then we will hitch our horses here, slip up through the thick bushes, and, surrounding the camp, pounce upon Sam and secure him. But if I find that it is Jack, I will soon ride back in sight of you and give a signal for you to come up to camp.”

All agreed to this but Osborne, who objected to the plan, fearing he should lose his negro. I argued the matter with him and told him if his negro escaped by that plan, I would obligate myself to pay for him. The rest thought this was a fair offer, and Osborne, seeing they were against him, finally submitted. When daylight had fully appeared, I rode up to camp. They were greatly surprised at my unexpected appearance in the wild mountain regions of Virginia at such an hour. I hastily informed them of my errand. Jack was much alarmed and wanted to flee to the bushes, but I assured them there was no danger and induced him to remain where he was. I then rode back in sight of the company and gave them the signal to come forward. They advanced to the camp, presenting a formidable appearance with their guns, enough to strike terror to poor Jack's heart. My uncle and cousin knew Osborne and shook hands with him heartily. There was a general greeting for the rest of the party, then my uncle got out a jug of old peach brandy from his wagon, and passed the contents freely around. We all drank, and had a hearty laugh, which made the woods and rocks around us ring and echo. The morning was clear and bright, the load of care was off my heart, and I was jubilant.

But poor Jack did not partake of our merriment. He still feared danger, and thought that the party of armed men had come to take him back to slavery. When brought face to face with him, Osborne acknowledged that it was not his negro, but said, “He looks a d——sight like that rascal Sam.”

After some time spent in talking, joking, and partaking of my uncle's good peach brandy, I told Osborne that I would stay and breakfast with my uncle's party and see them off. He might return to the tavern with friend Howells and get breakfast and have his horse fed, and I would join him there.

This gave me an opportunity to explain matters more fully to my uncle's party, and to remove Jack's doubts and fears. He expressed heartfelt thanks to me for my efforts in his behalf, and I felt repaid for my long fatiguing journey and intense mental anxiety. I spent an hour or two with them, then bade them good-by, wishing that they might have a safe and pleasant journey, and land Jack in Indiana, beyond the reach of the cruel task-master.

I now turned my face homeward. The excitement was over, the anxiety was gone. In looking back over the work of the past few days, I felt that the hand of God was in it. He had blessed my efforts; he had guided my steps; he had strengthened my judgment. My heart was full of thankfulness to my Heavenly Father for his great mercy and favor; my eyes filled with tears, and I wept for joy. Then, as I rode along slowly through the thick woods, I reflected on what I should do next. Osborne was waiting for me at Squire Howells' tavern, and I must soon join him. I did not want his company on the homeward journey, but knew not how to get rid of it. He had promised to accompany me to Burk's Fork, where he understood I had business. That would be ten or fifteen miles out of our way, but I saw no other way to make my story good and keep him blinded in regard to my real mission. While pondering on this dilemma, I arrived at Howells', and soon saw a way out of my difficulties. In that State, magistrates had certain days to attend to law business, and this was one of Squire Howells' days. Several men had already come, on law business, and as Osborne and I were talking about our route, I saw a man whom I knew ride up and dismount from his horse. He lived in Burk's Fork settlement, near my Uncle Stanley's farm. I had had some acquaintance with him the previous fall, and when I went out and met him, he recognized me. I told Osborne to have his horse got out and we would be off; meanwhile I took this man apart and entered into conversation with him. I asked him all the questions I could think of about my uncle's cattle, and his grass farm and the man who lived on it, inquiring if he gave proper attention to the cattle out on the range, salting them frequently to keep them tame and gentle, etc., etc.

I then went to Osborne and told him that I had been quite fortunate; I had met a man right from Burk's Fork, a reliable person to whom I committed my business, and now we were saved the time and trouble of going out of the way—we could go directly home. This seemed to please him, and it was certainly a relief to me. He got his bottle filled at the bar, then we mounted our horses and set our faces homeward. My fleet mare kept up wonderfully; she traveled well, though for two days and nights she had had little rest. As for myself, I was exceedingly weary; the sharp tension of mind and body was relaxed, and I felt the need of sleep and rest. When night overtook us, we were in a poor, thinly settled region, and though we asked for entertainment at all the private houses—some of them mere huts—which we passed, we were not taken in, and had to travel till eleven o'clock before we reached a tavern. We had our horses put up and called for supper, and it was after midnight when we got to bed. I felt worn out and fell into a hard sleep; arising in the morning but little refreshed. After an early breakfast, we started again, and pursued our journey together very pleasantly. The next day we arrived at home, and Osborne and I parted on good terms; he lived eight or ten miles from my father's.

I was warmly greeted by my parents and friends; they had felt anxious about me and were elated with my success. The night after my return Sam slept in the hay-mow of my father's barn. I carried victuals to him and told him the story of my journey with his master. He evinced his emotion during the recital by various exclamations in a subdued tone. We dared not speak aloud, not knowing who might be lurking around in the dark, watching for him or some other fugitive.

About two weeks afterward, Osborne came to my father's house to get me to go with him to hunt his negro. He said he thought Sam was skulking about in that neighborhood, probably hiding during the day in the thickets between our house and old Dr. Caldwell's. He thought Dr. Caldwell's negroes fed him, for he heard that runaways often lay in those thickets and were fed by those d——d niggers. My father reproved him for using profane language, and he replied:

“It's enough to make anybody swear. I have lost time and money looking after that rascal. I can hear of his skulking around Dr. Caldwell's nigger huts, but can't find him. I have got acquainted with your son, Mr. Coffin, and think him a fine young fellow; I had rather trust him than anybody in this neighborhood. I don't know the woods among these thickets, and want him to go with me.”

I said I would go, as I was well acquainted with all the paths and byways through the woods, having often traversed them when hunting for deer and wild turkeys, or looking after our out hogs. Father then invited Osborne to eat dinner with us and have his horse fed. He accepted the invitation, and my father was very social and friendly with him, but reproved him if he used profane language, as he frequently did in common conversation. After dinner I got out my horse and his, and we started off slave-hunting. Rather novel business for me, I thought, but I guess I knew what I was about. Old Dr. Caldwell lived a mile and a half east of my father's place. The space between the two farms was densely overgrown with small trees, shrubs and vines—the large timber having been destroyed by fire some years before. These thickets were the resort of wild game of different kinds, and formed also good hiding-places for fugitive slaves. In some of these, near Dr. Caldwell's, Osborne supposed Sam to be lurking, but I knew that he was then sitting in a thicket, half a mile northeast of my father's, weaving baskets. Caldwell's slaves were frequently permitted to go to the neighbors after night to sell the baskets which they had woven during spare hours, and in this way they disposed of Sam's baskets for him. Only that morning I had taken him some victuals when I went to feed some of our out hogs that ranged in that direction. I guided Osborne toward the southeast, to a dense thicket not far from Dr. Caldwell's. Dismounting from our horses, we hunted through this thoroughly, and followed a spring branch to its source in another thicket looking for tracks made by Sam's feet when he came to get water. We then searched in neighboring thickets but found no trace of Sam. I guided Osborne farther to the south all the time, widening the distance between him and the object of his search. Quite discouraged at finding no track of Sam, Osborne finally gave up the hunt, and we rode out of the bushes into the Greensboro road. Osborne offered to pay me for my time and trouble, but I refused to take anything; then he thanked me for my services and we parted. I reached home about sunset, feeling that I should be well satisfied if that was my last slave hunt. Osborne afterward remarked to some one that there was not a man in that neighborhood worth a d—n to help him hunt his negro, except young Levi Coffin.

About this time one of our neighbors, named David Grose—a man respected by all who knew him—sold his farm, and prepared to move with his family to the State of Indiana. Vestal Coffin and I held frequent consultations about Sam, knowing that he was liable to be captured so long as he remained in the neighborhood, and we thought this was a good opportunity to get him to a free State, if David Grose was willing to assume the risk. We knew Grose to be a kind-hearted, benevolent man, of anti-slavery sentiments, but whether he would be willing to undertake anything so hazardous was a question to be decided. We concluded to go to his house and lay the matter before him. He seemed deeply interested in Sam's case, and said he would consult his wife and consider the subject. Having never seen Sam, he expressed a desire to see and talk with him, and ascertain if he was a bright, shrewd fellow, who could be relied on to act up to arrangements, and carry out plans for traveling, etc. Vestal and I agreed to bring Sam to Grose's house between twelve and one o'clock on a night appointed. It was unsafe to come at an earlier hour, for there might be persons passing about who would betray us. It was death, by the law of North Carolina, to steal negroes, and a heavy penalty to feed or harbor a runaway slave. At the time appointed, and on several subsequent nights, we accompanied Sam to Grose's house and held conferences in a private room, maturing our plans and fixing the time for starting. One night we narrowly escaped being detected by the patrol, a body of armed men who acted as watchmen or mounted police. They acted chiefly in the interest of the slaveholders, arresting all slaves they found out at night without passes from their masters, and administering to them severe whippings, and keeping a sharp look-out for fugitives.

On the occasion referred to, Vestal and I, in company with Sam, were going along the main road, about twelve o'clock at night, on our way to Grose's house. Suddenly hearing the sound of horses' feet coming toward us, we sprang out of the road and threw ourselves down behind a large log in the woods. We had no time to get further away, and lay close to the ground, hoping to escape detection, while our hearts throbbed with excitement, and the sound of horses' feet came nearer and nearer. When the party passed us, we heard the riders talking, and learned from their conversation that they were the patrol. They were talking about capturing runaway slaves, telling of their exploits in that business, and boasting of how many niggers they had whipped. Their conversation was plentifully interlarded with oaths. I well remember the thoughts that passed through my mind as I lay behind that log. I felt that I could fully realize the sensation of the poor hunted fugitive as he lay in woods or thickets, trembling lest any sound that greeted his ear should prove to be the step of a pursuer, come to drag him back to cruel bondage. I could appreciate the anxiety and distress that filled his mind as he wandered about in search of food, perhaps bearing on his back, in marks that were bleeding and sore, the cruel cuts of his master's lash. I could realize vividly his forlorn situation, exposed to the rain and cold and obliged to suffer from hunger, unless he could steal food or find some person who would venture to violate the laws of the land and give him something to eat, and allow him to seek shelter in the hay-mow of his barn. When the patrol had passed, and we heard the sound of their horses' feet dying away in the distance, we arose from our hiding-place, speaking to each other in whispers, and slipped silently through the woods in the darkness. Finally, we ventured to return to the road, and hearing no sound of horseman or foot traveler, we resumed our journey, stepping as lightly as we could. We approached David Grose's house cautiously, not knowing what enemy might be lying in wait. The dog, which was fast in his kennel, gave a short bark, but soon became quiet, and we passed around to the kitchen, where David was waiting for us.

The windows were darkened, and a dim light was burning inside. David admitted us, and we soon completed the arrangement for Sam to accompany him to Indiana. He had a large wagon, drawn by four horses, and intended to take what was called the Kentucky road, crossing the Blue Ridge at Ward's Gap, crossing New River near Wythe Court-House, Virginia, thence by way of Abingdon, crossing Cumberland River near Knoxville, thence over the Cumberland mountains and through Kentucky to Cincinnati, Ohio. He agreed to take the bundle of clothing we had prepared for Sam, in his wagon; Sam was to travel at night, and come up to the camp each morning before daylight to get his breakfast and enough provisions to last him through the day, while hiding in the bushes. The road was rough, and led over hills and mountains the greater part of the way, and the movers would not be able to make more than twenty miles a day; so Sam could easily keep up with them.

Where the road forked, Grose was to leave a green bush or some other sign in the road he had taken, in order to guide Sam, and when he approached rivers that must be crossed by ferries, he would camp near the bank and wait for Sam to come up, then conceal him in the wagon, and thus convey him to the other side.

Matters were now all arranged, and understood by both parties. Our conference closed, and as it was near daylight we hurried away, Vestal and I to our separate homes, Sam to our hay-mow.

Some shrewd young men, not over-conscientious about violating the slave laws of the State, believing that every man was entitled to liberty who had not forfeited that God-given right by crime, managed to get hold of free papers belonging to a free colored man in the neighborhood, and copied them, counterfeiting the names of the signers as well as they could, not stopping to consider the severe penalty attached to such violations of the law. It was so managed that the papers were given to Sam by a slave, and he was instructed not to use them unless he should get into a tight place—even then they might not save him.

The night after Grose and his family started on their journey, we sent Sam on horseback, with a trusty young man, to my Uncle Samuel Stanley's, about ten miles on his route. According to arrangements, previously made, he was to remain there that night and the next day, then, on the following night, overtake the movers.

But next day, my cousin, Jesse Stanley, being about to start on a short business journey to the west, concluded to give Sam a lift by taking him to drive his carriage as far as he traveled on Sam's road. He thought that he would incur no risk, as Sam was now out of the neighborhood where he was known. But it was a daring venture, and afterward involved my cousin in trouble, for, while traveling the main road, they met a man living near Greensboro, who was returning from Salem, Stokes County, to his home. He did not know my cousin, but recognized Sam at once, though he did not speak. We will refer to this again.

Sam overtook the movers that night and traveled on, as arranged, lying by in the daytime and pursuing his journey at night. He got along all right for more than a week, having in this time crossed the Blue Ridge, and traveled some distance in Virginia. One morning he came up to the party, then camped on the Abingdon road, some distance beyond Wythe Court-House, but still in Wythe County. He got his supply of food as usual, then retired some distance from the road to find a safe hiding-place among the hills. He remained in a dense thicket during the day, and at night attempted to make his way into the main road. But he heard wolves howling near him, and suddenly found himself surrounded by a hungry pack, their eyes glaring like balls of fire in the darkness. He had no weapon but a pocket-knife, and that was useless against such enemies. Seizing a club, he beat his way through them and reached a by-road, but was so frightened and bewildered that he knew not which way to turn to reach the main road. Running as fast as he could to escape the wolves, he heard dogs barking, and guided by the sound, made his way to a cabin. It was inhabited by the class of people known down South as poor white trash. He ventured in and inquired the way to the main road, saying he belonged to a party of movers, going to Tennessee, who had camped a few miles ahead on the Abingdon road. He said he had been sent back to look for something left behind, and had lost his way. The people seemed friendly and invited him, saying that they would send for one of the neighbors to go with him and show him the way. Sam suspected no danger and came into the cabin, to rest from his hasty run and his fright. In a short time the boy who had been sent to the neighbors returned, accompanied by two men. Poor Sam now saw that he was in a trap. There was but one door to the cabin, and the men stood in that, looking at him fiercely and questioning him closely. They accused him of being a runaway slave, which he denied, but could produce no free papers to prove his assertion—the papers furnished him being with his bundle of clothes in the wagon. The men seized him and tied him fast, believing him to be a runaway slave, and hoping no doubt to receive a large reward for capturing so valuable a piece of property. Next day he was taken back to Wythe Court-House and put in jail, no camp of movers being discovered in the neighborhood where he was captured.

In slave States every negro was regarded as a slave unless he could produce evidence that he was free, and when one was captured and it could not be ascertained who his master was, he was advertised in the county newspapers. A full description of him was given, and if no owner applied for him within the time fixed by law, he was sold to the highest bidder; part of the money being used to pay jail fees and other expenses, the rest going into the county treasury. Sam would not give his master's name, still claiming that he was free, and he was advertised. The advertisement was copied in the Greensboro Patriot, and Osborne saw it. Believing the person described to be his slave Sam, he went to Wythe Court-House, Virginia, and claimed him. He put poor Sam in irons and started homeward, but never brought him back to Guilford County. The story he told afterward was that he had returned by way of Salisbury, North Carolina, and there sold Sam to a slave-trader. We only had Osborne's statement for this, and some thought that he was wicked and revengeful enough to have whipped poor Sam to death in some wild spot in the Virginia mountains; others thought, however, that even his desire for revenge would not lead him to sacrifice so valuable a piece of property. At any rate, that is the last we ever heard of poor Sam.

Some time after Osborne returned from Virginia, he learned that Sam had been seen driving my Cousin Jesse Stanley's carriage, just before he started for the Northwest. After getting all the necessary evidence, he set about procuring a writ to arrest Stanley for negro stealing. This crime, it will be remembered, was punishable by death according to the laws of that State. I received intelligence of Osborne's intentions while at my school. I was then teaching near Deep River Meeting-House, about eight miles from my home. During the week I boarded with a family near by, riding home at the last of the week. The news reached me about noon one day, and I immediately adjourned my school till the next week, telling my pupils that special business claimed my attention.

I kept my horse at my boarding-place, and it did not take long for me to saddle and bridle it, mount, and be off. My Uncle Samuel Stanley lived ten miles away, near the western line of Guilford County. I made the distance in a short time, and informed my uncle's family of the threatened danger. They were of course greatly alarmed, and immediately began to ask what should be done. My Cousin Jesse was about my own age, and we were much attached to each other, seeming more like brothers than cousins. I entered fully into the feelings of the family, and advised Jesse to flee from the State at once. It was decided that he should go to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where he had relatives. The distance was fully six hundred miles, and there was no public conveyance by the route he must go. He must travel on horseback and start immediately; there was no time for deliberate preparation or leave-taking. He needed a new coat and hat, and as I happened to have on a good coat and a new hat, I exchanged with him. We fitted him out as well as we could on such short notice, and his horse was brought to the door. I agreed to travel with him that night, for company, and see him safely out of the State.

We started about sunset and traveled a by-way till dark—then came out into the main road. We made good progress and soon got out of Guilford County, and into Rockingham County, which bordered on Virginia. I continued with him until we crossed into Virginia, then bade him good-by and returned to my father's house, much fatigued with my journey, but rejoiced to know that my cousin was safe from the clutches of the law.

He arrived safely in Philadelphia, where he soon engaged in teaching. He continued in that profession about twelve years, marrying in the meantime an excellent woman with whom he lived happily. After an absence of nearly twenty years he paid a visit to his friends in North Carolina, but heard nothing of Osborne's writ for negro stealing. I might relate here that after my cousin left the country, Osborne searched for evidence that might implicate others for harboring his slave. He finally learned that Sam had been seen at Abel Stanley's, Jesse's uncle. Abel at that time had sold his farm, intending to move to Indiana. Hearing that Osborne was preparing to have him arrested, he fled from the State, leaving his family to complete the arrangements for moving and join him in Indiana. The rest of us, who were more deeply involved in the crime of harboring and feeding the fugitive slave, than either of the Stanleys, escaped detection, and were never troubled by Osborne.

In the fall of 1822, the year after David Grose had left North Carolina, I accompanied my brother-in-law, Benjamin White, and his family to Indiana. We traveled the same road that David Grose had traveled, camping out every night as was the custom of movers at that day. While passing through Wythe County, Virgina, we camped near the place where Sam had been taken, and there learned all the particulars of his being chased by wolves, his capture and imprisonment. When we reached Richmond, Indiana—near which place my brother-in-law located for the winter—I inquired for Jack Barnes and learned that he lived at Milton, about fifteen miles to the west. Having relatives at that place, I went there, in a few days, traveling on horseback. As I rode into the village, almost the first man I saw was Jack Barnes. As soon as he recognized me, he hastened to me and clasped me in his arms, uttering exclamations of joy and gratitude that attracted the passers-passerbyby. A little crowd of people gathered, and Jack told them that I had saved him from slavery, that if it had not been for me, he would have been dragged back to prison and perhaps sold to the rice swamps of Georgia, or the cotton fields of Alabama, where his only allowance of food would have been a peck of corn a week. When his first excitement was over, he wanted to give me some money, to repay me for my trouble and exertion on his behalf. I told him that I was amply repaid and would not receive a cent. Jack had got employment at good wages, had been industrious and frugal, and had accumulated property. Milton was a new place then; Jack had bought a lot and built the first cottage in the village. He had many friends in the place, and it would have been a difficult task for Osborne, Barnes' heirs, or anybody else, to have captured Jack and taken him away from Milton.

Early in the following spring, I went to Terre Haute, Vigo County, to enter land for my brother-in-law, and finding that David Grose had settled in that county, several miles below, I went to visit him, receiving a warm welcome. He still had Sam's bundle of clothing, but had not heard a word about him since the morning he left their camp in Wythe County, Virginia, to hunt a place of concealment during the day among the thickets. On the follow-lowing morning, when he did not join them as usual, they felt much anxiety about him, fearing that he had got lost or been captured, or that some accident had befallen him. They still hoped that he might overtake them the following night, but when the next night came and no Sam appeared, they gave him up. Since locating in Indiana they had seen no person from North Carolina, of whom they could inquire, and until I arrived they were in the dark regarding the fate of poor Sam.

CHAPTER III.

TEACHING SLAVES TO READ—SABBATH-SCHOOL WORK—AGITATION OF THE ANTI-SLAVERY CAUSE—MANU-MISSION SOCIETIES—TRIP TO INDIANA—INCIDENTS ON THE WAY—THE EARLY SETTLEMENTS OF INDIANA—I ENGAGE IN SCHOOL LABORS—ORGANIZATION OF THE FIRST SABBATH-SCHOOL IN WESTERN INDIANA—A VISIT TO ILLINOIS—LOST ON THE PRAIRIE—SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, FIFTY YEARS AGO—CONCLUSION OF SCHOOL LABORS IN INDIANA—RETURN TO NORTH CAROLINA—SHORT TRIP TO VIRGINIA.

IN the summer of 1821, my cousin, Vestal Coffin, suggested to me that we should organize a Sabbath-school for the colored people, and endeavor to obtain the consent of the slaveholders in the neighborhood to teach their slaves to read. We knew that the Caldwell family—the old doctor, and two or three of his sons who lived on their own plantations—and a few other slaveholders, were lenient and would have no objection to our teaching their slaves to read the the Bible. I heartily united with my cousin in this project, and we visited the Caldwells, the Dokes, and a few other slaveholders, and obtained the desired permission. It was arranged that the slaves should come one Sabbath afternoon to the brick school-house, near New Garden Meeting-House. They collected at the time appointed, wondering at the new and unexpected privilege which had been accorded them. Among them was one of Thomas Caldwell's slaves, called Uncle Frank. He was a gray-haired old negro who had all his life been kept in ignorance, but his heart was full of love for God, and he was thankful for this opportunity of learning to read the Bible. He was quite a preacher in his way, and frequently exhorted the slaves in the neighborhood. On this occasion, he made a long and fervent prayer. He said: “I pray dat de good massa Lord will put it into de niggers' hearts to larn to read de good book. Oh, Lord, make de letters in our spellin' books big and plain, and make our eyes bright and shinin', and make our hearts big and strong for to larn. Make our minds sharp and keen; yes, Lord, as sharp as a double-edged sword, so dat we can see clean through de book. Oh, Hebbenly Fader, we tank De for makin' our massas willin' to let us come to dis school, and oh, Lord, do bress dese dear young men you has made willin' to come heah and larn us poor slave niggers to read de bressed word from de mouf of God. Oh, Lord, teach us to be good sarvents, and touch our massas' hearts and make 'em tender, so dey will not lay de whips to our bare backs, and you, great Massa, shall have all de glory and praise. Amen.”

Then the negroes broke out with one of their plantation songs or hymns, led by Uncle Frank; a sort of prayer in rhyme, in which the same words occurred again and again.

After this