The House Girl (29 page)

July 6, 1848

Dearest Kate,

Today we laid Jack Harper’s good mother to rest. I remember her scarcely at all, she was rarely in town & never once called socially on Mother or for Father’s services. But no doubt she was a good, kind-hearted woman, I am sure of it as Jack seems such a worthy person. All members of the congregation were in attendance, save the poorly Mrs. Broadmoor. Pastor Hoady spoke of Mrs. Harper’s godliness & thrift, her service as dutiful mother & wife, her striving to fulfill God’s will in all manners of daily life & toil. I could not help but steal glances at Jack, who sat stony-faced beside his Father. Nothing seemed to move him, no words from the Pastor or well wishes from the neighbors who filed past following the sermon. His Father too displayed no emotion apart from an abject tiredness & he leaned upon Jack’s shoulder as the well-wishers filed past. Unlike the custom with Pastor Shaw, Pastor Hoady did not invite the congregation to the parish house but instead encouraged us all to retire to home & reflect in solitude on the blessed journey of the departed
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Jack & his Father were fast into their carriage & away but a group lingered, ourselves included. There was much conversation outside the church, though I suspect less of the sacred nature than Pastor Hoady would have wished. Mr. Gilkeson was there, milling about with the other landowners, speaking of the loss of his slave Alfred Joiner and where could he have gone, he must have been aided by one among the neighboring farms, and what he wouldn’t do to any such scoundrel caught harboring another man’s property
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Mother, Samuel & I stood some distance apart from the men but still I heard his words, he spoke them with such force. Presently Father bade the group good-bye & came to join us & we made our way home under the noon-day sun. We rode in silence, Father & Mother both with faces set and grim
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Yours,
     

Dot         

July 21, 1848

Dearest Kate,

I am sorry to be so long delayed in answering your last letter. We have had much activity here recently, & my nights have been full. I hesitate to describe the particulars of each sorry case Father & I have seen appear at the barn door like apparitions come from the darkness. There have been 5 since last I wrote, 4 men & 1 woman. Father seems now to accept me as his helper, & we have arrived at a routine of sorts. He hides the fugitive away in the barn & sets to work on ascertaining the best means of escape while I prepare food & drink & retrieve items of clothing or blankets, medicine, or whatever else may be needed. I sit with the fugitive while he eats & it is these times that have proven immensely illuminating. Last night’s fugitive was an elderly gentleman of 58 years, Langston Crockett was his name, born & raised on a cotton plantation in Alabama, never traveled further than the perimeters of that estate in his whole long life until setting foot upon the path north, & now we find him, brought to Father’s barn by a neighboring conductor. On his right hand, instead of a thumb he had only a stump of flesh, the result of a punishment some 30 years prior for the sin of fainting dead away in his pickers’ row while ill with fever
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Father & I have arrived at a problem. We cannot send them all inside the caskets as Father’s shipments are not so frequent as are the fugitives who appear at our door. Last night Father transported Mr. Crockett in the dead of night in the wagon, fitted now with a clever bottom panel such that the fugitives may lie beneath the floor of the wagon unseen by any who might examine it. Upon leaving, Father said that I was to bar the door, close & lock the shutters & remain inside until his return. The night was a long one. I scarcely closed my eyes, imagining our Father stopped by some patroller or the sheriff, but he returned unharmed, just as the sky showed dawn, with his task completed. But he cannot be ferrying large numbers in this manner. Such night-time activity will only rouse the suspicions of our neighbors and Father’s exhaustion would soon leave us without a livelihood
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I plan soon to involve Samuel in our activities, to give him the satisfaction of participating in our family’s good work. He has been quite taken with Pastor Hoady’s sermons of late & indeed their effect is difficult to escape. The Pastor leads the congregation in chanting & at times a great emotional wave sweeps through the hall such that people cry out spontaneously, or fall to the ground with writhing. It is both horrible & intoxicating to witness & is most affecting to the younger members of the church. I believe Samuel suffers still from the sudden loss of his Mother & those lost hours during which he sat with her body alone, awaiting his murderous Father’s return. With our parents’ love and guidance, he will in time inure to the devious charms of men like Preston Hoady
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I have not yet spoken to Father about my intention, but I am confident he will agree with me as to Samuel’s fitness for such work & indeed the need for another pair of helping hands
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Yours,
     

Dorothea

August 13, 1848

Dear Kate,

There has been a most distressing development. I have learned that the runaway from Mr. Gilkeson’s plantation—do you recall my letter about him? The gentleman Alfred Joiner who came to our door these many weeks past?—has been recaptured & is now bound once again for Charlotte County. A slavecatcher discovered him in Richmond & I have no doubt, is happily awaiting the substantial reward offered by Mr. Gilkeson for Alfred’s return. It pains me beyond measure to consider that this has been the outcome of his flight
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It was Jack Harper who told us the news. He came to call this afternoon, bringing Mother a basket of fine apples from their trees. He told us that his own dear Father had passed on, peaceably dead in his sleep, joining his own beloved wife in Heaven. Jack dug a simple grave himself, his Father having wished for no ceremony or fuss
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We sat, all 5 of us, to visit & express our condolences. Presently Jack relayed the story of poor Alfred & of Mr. Gilkeson’s vow to whip him until he divulges the name of any & all who assisted him in his escape. Jack knows not where Alfred & the slavecatcher are now on their journey, but it seems certain they will arrive back in Lynnhurst within the week
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This is my worst fear realized—certainly we shall be revealed. And what then? Will Gilkeson take Alfred at his word? Shall we try to dissuade Gilkeson from believing in such a confession, that a whipped man is inclined to say any number of untrue things? Shall we leave town now, even before the slavecatcher’s return, forfeiting our home & livelihood? Poor Jack throughout his visit knew not the agitation his words provoked. I sat gripping the seat of my chair as he spoke, & Father’s face washed white as ash. Mr. Gilkeson is adamant, Jack said, truly committed to discerning the truth
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What will become of Mother & Samuel? Will our neighbors believe that it was Father & I alone who acted in defiance of the law? What will they do to Father? And how might we continue to assist the fugitives? Think of the numbers whom we might still help, think of the man or woman who even now may be readying a pack, counting the minutes until nightfall when escape will be at hand
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Yours,
     

Dorothea

August 14, 1848

Dear Kate,

It is scarcely 24 hours since I posted my last letter & already there is great change in our situation. Even as I wrote my troubled lines to you yesterday, Alfred & the slavecatcher had already returned to Gilkeson’s farm & Alfred whipped to death. He said not a word before his death but remained silent as the grave, not even crying out in pain as the whip bore down. Father heard the tale from Gilkeson’s overseer, who himself administered the lashes. We are not revealed, we can continue unmolested in our efforts, that is the only solace here. The rest is simple tragedy, pure & unrelieved. Surely Gilkeson does not now believe that this example will weaken the Negroes’ desire for freedom? The punishment meted out on poor Alfred will do nothing to dissuade others from fleeing. It will only strengthen their resolve. Men like Mr. Gilkeson or Mr. Stanmore cannot guess at the intensity of feeling to throw off the shackles & yoke. Perhaps it is that living as they do, Lords of their personal kingdoms with nary a voice to raise above theirs, they have no way of imagining a life bereft of autonomy. You & I can so imagine, can’t we, Kate?

Today I have told Samuel of our work. I did not seek Father’s permission beforehand & even now he does not know the extent of Samuel’s understanding. Perhaps this was foolish of me, perhaps Father will scold me for it later, but we desperately need another to assist in our activities. Samuel can run ahead to the next safe lodging, he can fetch the supplies that the fugitives need for their journeys, he can perform any number of useful tasks that now have Father & I running to & fro all night long. He looked at me wide-eyed as I told him my tale—the man in the barn, Father with the hammer—and of the recent horrible events & our blessed release from suspicion. He asked me not a single question, only nodded his head gravely. Perhaps it was too much for him to take in at a single sitting & me in such a state today, weeping & so forth. Samuel is a good boy, I have great faith in him, that he will support Father & I. We must continue with even greater secrecy than before
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Your adoring sister,

Dot                        

August 28, 1848

Dearest Kate,

What times these are for us, Kate. Last night a girl came to the house. She was heavy with child, though she seemed not to understand, she only wanted to flee. She would not tell us from where she ran. It did not seem that she had come far, her feet were hardened but did not bleed though she was nearly delirious with exhaustion. I feared for her child & for herself, she was not fully present in her mind. After much entreaty, she told us that her name was Josephine
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