Jump Ship To Freedom Part 8

It was pretty interesting to see a foreign place like New Jersey. It was all different. They didn't have many wooden clapboard or shingle houses the way we did in Connecticut. In New Jersey they was mostly of stone, with piazzas across the front. Nor did I see so many oxen as I was accustomed to. The wagons was mostly drawn by horses, two or three abreast.

The land was flatter, too. At one place we went through a long marsh, four or five miles, I reckoned. We traveled through it on a narrow stone causeway just about wide enough for one carriage. There was breaks in the causeway, where we went over bridges or took ferries for a stretch. And after the marsh there was more ferries to take us across the Hackensack River and the Second River.

We came to a little village called Newark about eight o'clock in the morning and stopped at Pell's Tavern for breakfast. I reckoned I'd bring Mr. Fatherscreft his breakfast out to the carriage, but he said no, he was feeling better, he'd come into the inn. We had porridge, bread, and cheese-two shillings, six pence.

The breakfast put Mr. Fatherscreft in a talkative mood. "Daniel, thou art very lucky. Thou art privileged to take part in a great event."

"A great event, sir?"

"Oh, yes. If the convention can agree to a const.i.tution, thou will be witness to the founding of a new nation. It has never happened this way before."

"There was never a new nation started before?"

Mr. Fatherscreft laughed a bit until he started to cough. "Of course there have been new nations. But always in the past they've come out of war or conquest. Never before have nations come together to settle for themselves what manner of government they shall have. For really, Daniel, each of the united states has been acting like an independent little country in most ways. But if we can compromise our differences between large states and small ones, between farmers and merchants, and especially between states dependent on slaves and those with few of them, Daniel, we will have done what has never been done before. We will have peaceably combined twelve or thirteen little republics into one great one."

Well, I didn't know much about history, so I reckoned he was right. "Sir, suppose they can't get together on it. I mean, suppose they can't agree about whether the big states should have more votes, or whether there ought to be slavery."

"Oh yes, Daniel, we're a long way from agreement yet. Some days I've been very doubtful of it all. But today I'm optimistic. We'll have our compromise on slavery, at least. It may not be what thou and I want, but it at least indicates that men of goodwill can find solutions to difficult problems."

It didn't seem like much of a solution to me, being as I was likely to stay a slave for the rest of my life. I didn't want to say so, though, so I switched the subject. "But if they agree, and get a const.i.tution, then my daddy's soldiers' notes will be worth the whole six hundred dollars?"

Mr. Fatherscreft thought about that for a minute. "Not certainly, Daniel. And perhaps not right away. But there are men in the convention who own notes, too; and a good deal more than six hundred dollars, in many cases. I'll wager that they'd be worth something substantial within a year or so."

"So the best chance for me and Mum to be free is for the convention to agree to a const.i.tution joining all the states into a new nation."

"No doubt of it, Daniel. What the convention does over the next few weeks will touch thee deeply, as it will touch all of us."

When he put it that way, it seemed clear enough that I ought to be pushing for the new const.i.tution as hard as I could. But there was another side to it. For according to the compromise Mr. Fatherscreft was carrying down to Philadelphia, the new country would have slavery in the South and a fugitive-slave law that said anybody who knew I was a runaway had to turn me in. And sooner or later I'd get caught, sure. Captain Ivers was bound to put out a reward for me. He was sure to be having handbills about me made already. That's what they always did. Somebody was certain to turn me in for the reward and feel he was doing the right thing, too.

Oh, it was a puzzle. On the one side of it, if the convention agreed, and we got a const.i.tution, I'd have the soldiers' notes to buy me and Mum free. But on the other side of it, as soon as the const.i.tution was signed, I was likely to be captured and turned back to Captain Ivers. The first thing he'd do would be to take those notes away from me and sell me South. And that would be the end of me forever.

And that's when something else came to me: why was I helping Mr. Fatherscreft bring a message down to Philadelphia that could put me into the cane fields for the rest of my life?

12.

Talking about this seemed to give Mr. Fatherscreft the idea that we shouldn't waste time, so we finished up breakfast quickly and started off again. We figured on reaching Trenton by nightfall and then crossing the Delaware River into Philadelphia the next day. Trenton was where my daddy had fought, and I wanted to see it.

We went along through some little places called Spanktown and Bonhamtown. There was beautiful farms along through here, especially orchards, with about every kind of fruit tree you could think of. I didn't know the names of them all, but Mr. Fatherscreft did, and he told them to me. About one o'clock in the afternoon we came into New Brunswick, a pretty big place on the Raritan River. There were lots of fancy houses here, mostly brick or stone.

We pulled through town and up to the ferry landing on the Raritan. There was lots of little boats out in the river going up and down. On a hill in the middle of town was a great brick building. Mr. Fatherscreft said it had been used for a barracks during the Revolution. I wondered if my daddy stayed there. While we were waiting for the ferry, we stopped at a little inn called The Lion and ate some pork and beans. Then we crossed the Raritan on the ferry and headed for Princeton, seventeen miles farther south. We got there at ten at night. I could see that Mr. Fatherscreft was pretty tired from the traveling. It wasn't doing him any good. His cough was worse, and I had to sort of help him along from place to place. We ate supper and went right to bed.

Mr. Fatherscreft woke up coughing three or four times in the night. I went downstairs for some rum, but there wasn't anybody around. The place was dark and shut up tight. I found a pitcher of beer somebody had left and brought that up to Mr. Fatherscreft, but it wasn't the same. "Daniel," he said in his weak voice, "I must rely on thee for everything now."

"You ain't that bad off, Mr. Fatherscreft," I said to cheer him up. "Once we get to Philadelphia, you can get a good long rest."

He reached out of bed, took my hand, and gave it a little squeeze. "Daniel, thou art a good lad. Don't ever let anybody tell thee otherwise. Take pride in thyself."

"Yes, sir," I said. "I will." I meant it, too. My daddy, he was good as any white man, and I was determined that I would be, too.

In the morning I told Mr. Fatherscreft that we ought to go a little slower and maybe take a good long rest at noontime, so's he wouldn't get so tired out. He wouldn't hear of it. He was coughing pretty bad when we started off for Trenton, where we'd cross the Delaware River to Pennsylvania. But he was all fired up to get to Philadelphia as soon as we could. He'd rest when we got there, he said. I knew what he was thinking. He was thinking that he was bound to die soon, and he wanted to get to Philadelphia with his message before he went.

So he sat up, and coughed and dozed between times, and I tried to enjoy the view out the window. It was rich country; there was rye and oats and barley growing in the fields, and here and there they were reaping the wheat and tying it up in shocks in the fields to dry. But worrying about Mr. Fatherscreft maybe dying took most of the fun out of looking at the scenery, so after a while I lay down on my seat and tried to doze, too.

By the end of the afternoon Mr. Fatherscreft wasn't so much coughing as just lying back gasping for breath. He was hot and sweaty, too. We still had three or four miles into Trenton. Twice I had the driver stop by streams to get Mr. Fatherscreft some cold water. It didn't seem to help much. He went on gasping.

Finally, as the sun was going down, we came into Trenton. There was a little creek through it, and a big stone mill. We didn't stop but went right on through the town and out the other side to the ferry crossing on the Delaware. There was a tavern at the ferry landing called Vandergrift's. We pulled in here, and I hauled Mr. Fatherscreft out of the coach and into the tavern.

He had got so weak from coughing that I had to sort of drape him over my shoulders to get him up to his room. I propped him up in bed to ease his coughing, and wrapped him up good in a blanket. His face was soaked in sweat, and every once in a while he gave a big shiver. "Daniel," he said in a voice so low I could hardly hear it, "we can be in Philadelphia tomorrow if we get an early start. I must live that long. I must."

"Don't worry, Mr. Fatherscreft, you ain't going to die. I'll see to that. You just rest now and don't do no more talking. I'm going to get you some rum."

I got a full bottle so I'd have enough for the night. He had trouble swallowing it, but I got some in him, and he dozed off. I was feeling pretty nervous and shaky, so I had a dram of it myself and lay down on the floor to sleep.

But Mr. Fatherscreft's breathing was coming so hard I couldn't doze off. It was loud and raspy as somebody sharpening a saw with a file. After a bit I got up and stood looking out the window at the Delaware River. It was three-quarters of a mile wide, as near as I could judge. The sun was going down in the west, laying great patches of red on the water. A ferry was coming across, loaded down with two or three wagons. Every little while a rider would come down the road to the tavern, tie up his horse, and come in for his dinner. It was a pretty sight, but I couldn't take pleasure in it for the rasping of Mr. Fatherscreft's breath behind me.

Finally the sun went down, and I lit a candle and had a look at Mr. Fatherscreft. His face was wet, as if somebody'd flung a bucket of water on him, and his hands was outside of the blanket, sort of picking and clutching at it, as if he was trying to hang on to something. I wondered if I ought to wipe his face off for him. I didn't want to wake him up, but I thought maybe he'd rest easier for it. So I set down the candle on the chair near the bed and took out my handkerchief. I guess it was the light shining in his eyes that done it, for before I touched him he gave a sudden jerk and sat half up, his eyes big as eggs staring out into the room. Then he blinked and fell back and lay there gasping.

"Daniel," he said in the low, hoa.r.s.e voice, looking straight ahead. "I'm dying. Wipe my face."

I did it. "You ain't dying yet, sir. We'll make Philadelphia. Here, take some more rum."

"No, no, it's too late for rum," he said. "I'm dying, Daniel. It's up to thee now; I've gone as far as I can go." Slowly he turned his head over to look at me. "Daniel, thou sayest thou knowest William Samuel Johnson." His voice was weak and low.

"Yes sir," I said, feeling pretty shaky. "I seen him around Stratford since I was born. My daddy worked for him sometimes. He said he'd help us after my daddy got drowned."

"Thou must find him. Thou must give him the message. Only him. Dost thou understand? To n.o.body else." He stared into my eyes hard.

"Yes sir," I said.

He took his hands off the blanket and s.n.a.t.c.hed at my wrist. "Only to Johnson, Daniel, dost thou hear?" he said, all whispery, still staring into my face.

"Yes sir. I won't tell anybody else."

"Give me thy word," he said, his eyes wide in the middle of that pale, wet face.

"Yes, sir, you have my word on it." I took the handkerchief and wiped his face dry.

"Daniel, tell Johnson that Congress will bar slavery north of the Ohio River, with nothing said about the South, new states or old. Tell him that if they give us this, we must accept a fugitive-slave law and leave the matter of slave importation till later."

His voice was so low and whispery now that I could hardly hear it, and I had to bend close over him to make out his words. "Yes, sir," I said. "There's to be no slavery north of the Ohio River, but you won't make a claim about the South."

He turned his face away from me. "And they can have their G.o.dless fugitive-slave law," he whispered. "They can have their slave law."

"Yes, sir," I said low. "They can have their fugitive-slave law."

And so it was going to be me was to carry the fugitive-slave law down to Philadelphia. It gave me a mighty queer feeling. But I didn't have time to think about it then, for Mr. Fatherscreft gave a big gasp, his breath stopped, and his body braced up into an arch and quivered there. I couldn't think of nothing to do but give him a shake. He stopped quivering, sucked in some air, and lay back down. "I'll get a doctor," I said. I raced out of the room and down the stairs into the taproom. It was filled with people at long benches eating and drinking and talking and laughing.

The tavern keeper was standing by the door, talking to a man who had just come in. The man was carrying some handbills and a hammer. I slipped across the room and touched the tavern keeper on the sleeve. "Sir, I need a doctor."

The tavern keeper swiveled around and gave me a hard look. "What do you mean interrupting, boy? Can't you see I'm talking."

"Sir, my master's dying," I said. "He needs a doctor."

"Dying?"

"Yes sir. He can't get his breath."

The other man gave the hammer a quick shake. "Where'll I put the handbill, then?" he asked.

The tavern keeper pointed toward the stairs. "Over there, by the stairs," he said.

"Sir, he's dying," I said.

"That's the old Quaker?" Yes, sir.

"It don't sound to me like a doctor'll be much use.

"Please, sir."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," I said. Then I turned away and slipped back to the stairs. The man with the hammer was standing at the foot of them, nailing the poster to the wall. I gave it a quick look. It said: 10 REWARD.

RUNAWAY SLAVE, AGE FOURTEEN, NAMED DANIEL ARABUS. TRAVELING IN COMPANY OF ELDERLY QUAKER. 5'6: OF MEDIUM DARK COMPLEXION- I didn't want to read any more but took off up the stairs.

13.

I slipped up the stairs as quick and quiet as I could, got into our room, and threw the bolt. Then I looked at Mr. Fatherscreft. He was lying where I had left him. His eyes were open and he was staring up at the ceiling. His face had gone gray under the sweat. He wasn't breathing anymore. I slipped across the room and touched him. His skin was cold and clammy, and I knew he was dead.

Oh, he was an old man and sick, and bound to die soon anyway. But still I felt awful bad. He'd wanted to get to Philadelphia so much and now he never would. I felt like I'd let him down. I'd promised Mr. Fraunces that I'd take care of him, and I hadn't done it. Oh, I knew it wasn't really my fault, there wasn't any way I could have kept him alive. But I wished I could have.

Still, it was making me feel kind of spooky being alone with a dead man, and that handbill downstairs. I decided the best thing for me to do was just leave. There wasn't anything more I could do for him. Anyway, the important thing was to get to Philadelphia with the message for William Samuel Johnson.

I didn't want to take a chance on going out through the tavern with that handbill hanging there. I went to the window and looked out. It was full night, but there was plenty of stars. There was light coming out of the tavern windows, too, and some lanterns down by the ferry landing. A wagon road ran down a hundred yards from the tavern to the ferry. On either side there was open fields, and along the river, a thin row of trees. The river was flowing so quiet that I could see starlight shining silver on it.

I opened up Mr. Fatherscreft's trunk and took out my soldiers' notes. Then I slipped open the window. I looked back at Mr. Fatherscreft. He was still staring up at the ceiling. I didn't want to touch him again, but I knew what was right, so I went over and closed his eyes for him. Then I slung myself over the windowsill, dropped out onto the ground, and began to trot along down toward the ferry.

On both sides of me there was open fields with split-rail fences. I veered off toward the left, vaulted over the fence, and headed out across the field. The moon wasn't up yet, but there was enough starlight so anybody who was looking could see me running out there. I kept on going, fast as I could, toward the line of trees along the river, where I would be more in shadow. In a moment I was by the river. I didn't know exactly where I was, but the one thing I knew was that the Delaware River wound down to Philadelphia. All I had to do was follow it along.

But that was risky. There were handbills up for me. A black boy traveling by himself was bound to look suspicious, anyway. All anyone had to do was begin to ask me a few questions about who I was and where I was going, and I'd be done for.

Working my way along the riverbank was going to be slow, too. I had about thirty miles to go. It would take me more than a day, which meant I'd be traveling by day a good deal of the time. I looked at the river. It was about three-quarters of a mile wide and moving pretty swift. In a boat I could make pretty good time. The idea of stealing a boat was scary, though. If I got caught I'd be in a peck of trouble, all right.

But one way or another I had to start moving, so I began walking along downstream as fast as I could through the treeline. It was slow work. There were roots and stumps sticking up in the dark ground where I couldn't see them, and the bank was muddy and slippery. If I traveled only at night it'd take me two or three days to reach Philadelphia. But there wasn't anything to do but keep on plugging away.

By the time the sky began to lighten in the east, I figured I'd covered maybe five miles. The dark turned to gray, and then I saw through the trees the pinkish glow of the sun working its way toward the horizon. And just about the same time I spotted the cabin on the riverbank with the little rowboat tied up to a tree in front of it.

I knew I had to steal it. Going along the way I was would take too long to get into Philadelphia. Besides, I was tired and sore from stumbling along the bank I was scared to steal the boat. But there wasn't any way around it.

Then something came to me: why was I going to Philadelphia at all? Did I really want to carry a message to the convention that would put through the fugitive-slave law? For there I was, a fugitive slave myself, with posters up about me and people on my track. What difference would it make for the government to pay off the soldiers' notes if I was sold off to the West Indies first? Captain Ivers was on my trail. Big Tom had seen me going off with Mr. Fatherscreft in the coach. Probably Captain Ivers asked a few questions around Fraunces' Tavern, and he'd be able to find out where Mr. Fatherscreft was headed. Then he'd come after me. On the road to Philadelphia an old Quaker traveling with a black boy wouldn't be hard to track.

There was a good chance that by the time I got to Philadelphia, those handbills would be up all around. The first time I showed my nose anywhere, I'd be nabbed quick as you could say it.

That made another good reason for not going to Philadelphia. When I looked around all sides of it, the only thing that made sense for me was to strike out west to the new lands that was opening up in Pennsylvania across the Allegheny Mountains. I knew how to get there, too, for Mr. Fatherscreft had told me that the Delaware flowed out of the new lands through a deep cut in the mountains on its way to Philadelphia. All I had to do was follow it upstream, and in a few days I'd be out on the frontier where n.o.body was likely to ask a lot of questions. If I could get anything at all for my soldiers' notes, maybe I could buy myself a little homestead, and if I had any luck, in a few years save up enough to buy Mum her freedom.

There was only one thing wrong with that idea, which was that I'd promised Mr. Fatherscreft I'd carry the message to Mr. Samuel Johnson. How could I go back on a promise to a dying man? Mr. Fatherscreft had been good to me, and he was trying to do the best he could for black people. Oh, it was a terrible problem. Stealing the boat and going on into Philadelphia was a sure-fire way to get myself in a mess-put back in slavery and get a beating and maybe put in jail, too. But how could I go back on a promise like that? I stood there thinking about it. The minutes went by and I went on thinking about it. And then finally I told myself not to bother thinking about it anymore, there wasn't any way I could get around a promise to a dying man-a man who knew my father.

I slipped across to the cabin and had a look in the window. There was a man in there lying on a little cornhusk mattress, sound asleep. I ducked back and slid down the bank to the rowboat. The oars were in it. Quickly I untied the rope from the tree. Then I eased out into the water, climbed in, and lay flat on the bottom, letting it drift downstream. I stayed that way with my head down for ten minutes. Then I figured I was far enough downstream to be out of sight of the cabin, and I sat up and began rowing.

What was going to happen to me now? It would be a sad thing for Mum to have me sold off to the West Indies. Then she'd be all alone, no husband, no son, no friends: just her working away for the rest of her life for the Iverses.

I wondered what she was doing just then. Was she thinking about me, the same as I was thinking about her? By this time she'd have learned about the shipwreck and Birdsey and all. Some Connecticut captain who'd been in New York was bound to have brought home the news. Did she know that Captain Ivers was planning to sell me off to the West Indies? Would Mrs. Ivers have told her that? I didn't know; but I knew she'd be worried about me, worried that I'd drowned or got hurt.

What would happen to her if I got caught? The only hope we had was in the soldiers' notes. And I didn't even know if they'd ever be worth anything. So I decided to stop thinking about it, and I sat in the boat, drifting along and looking at the sights.

Around the middle of the morning there began to be a road alongside the riverbank, and some houses and then people coming along the road on foot or horseback. I went drifting on, and a couple of hours later I came into Philadelphia harbor.

14.

It was a pretty sight, with ships everywhere and a forest of masts and bowsprits sticking out over the harbor street. It was just as busy as New York harbor-men everywhere, loading ships from wagons and loading wagons from ships, or just lounging around; stacks of casks and boxes and piles of hay and barrels; small boats filled with fruit and vegetables tied to the wharves. There was a pretty good number of blacks around, too. One old fellow was sitting there smoking a pipe and playing queer tunes on a kind of fiddle made of gourds.

I didn't want to go drifting around the harbor in a stolen boat any longer than I had to, so I pulled up to the first dock I came to, tied up, and climbed out, trying not to look nervous. I walked along the wharves a good way so as to be away from the boat I'd stolen, in case somebody came along and recognized it. Then I leaned up against a wall and waited until a black person came along and asked him how to get to the State House. It wasn't hard to get to, he said, and told me the way. In about twenty minutes I was standing in front of it, feeling pretty nervous.

I tell you, it was a fine great place, all brick, with lots of big windows sparkling in the sun, and carvings and patterns in the moldings around the door. There were gravel walks along the front and some little elm trees they'd just planted. And that wasn't all of it, either. On each side there was stone and brick buildings near as large as the State House. One of them was a prison, I could see that right away. Some of the prisoners was standing by the bars hollering out into the street. A few of them had got long poles, which they tied their caps to and stuck through the bars into the street so people could put pennies in the caps if they were feeling kind and had a mind to do it. And if n.o.body put anything in a cap, why the man who owned it would set up the most terrible cursing you ever heard. As I stood there watching the prisoners, it came to me that if Captain Ivers caught me, I might end up there, too.