Passing To Freedom, Chapter 45: Fates Worse…

Chapter 45

We put our plan into action. I’d spoken with several who had been taking turns listening at the taverns and following Smith and his men, changing costumes often, I was glad to hear. They told me that they did this especially often when they followed Loving, who tended to be far more solitary, and thus more difficult to follow. Many were young men, boys, even, who found the adventure of this chase both exciting, and a story for their grandchildren, one confided in me.

“You are like unto a damsel in distress.”

His gaze upon me made me blush, and we both turned our heads. He had even knelt before me, hat in his hands held over his heart, his red hair clipped so short it was sticking up at all angles on his head. I reproached myself bitterly for not having seen this.

“I am loath to give offense, but as much as I am honored by your affection, my heart belongs, to another.”

This young man seemed kind and courageous. He took my rejection in good humor, saying:

“Nonetheless, I will ever be you defender, come what may.”

“I thank you,” I paused, searching for a name: “May I call you Courageous Red?”

His face lit up like the sun, as he scampered out the door.

Because of my training in grooming horses, courtesy of the family of Brutus, I was moved by a Conductor early in the pre-dawn hours to a new Station: a stable. Adding paddock boots to my costume, I tended the horses.

I saw many whom I had met earlier during my stay, coming and going with messages all day. They always looked relaxed once they crossed the threshold into the stable, as though suddenly free from the weight of vigilance.

One of those messages, to my surprise, a young boy delivered into my own hand, right under the curry comb I was using at that moment, just about mid-day.

The message could only be from a vanishingly small number of people, as most working class women could not read. Few knew that I could. I waited until he left, and then chose a stall with good light, as though going to see to my personal needs. It was a very short note, written in the hand of Brutus’ wife, which I recognized from all of her recipes as she had taught me to cook. It said only:

Farmer Brown has betrayed us. Burn this note. Mrs. B.

I stood in the stall in shock, glad of the privacy, horrified that this man whom I had thought to be our friend would do such a thing. An entire free family was now at the mercy of a law which not only made their activities illegal, but also punished colored people far more harshly than white citizens. Even worse, Mr. Brown knew all of us.

He knew me, he knew young Tilly, he knew Anna, and he knew, or had known, all three of our horses. He had been a stable hand in the home of family for some years, so he could also point each of them out on sight.

As I stood in the stall fighting back tears for the friends who had saved us in Shrewsbury, I head footsteps crossing into the barn. A voice called out my name. Or rather, my newest name.

“Jenny, are you decent?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

I hurried out to make the worker’s curtsy to the Conductor who had led me here in the morning, showing me which stalls to give to our Tilly’s little gelding, who needed coaxing to eat, these days. I often wondered if this little horse missed both Captain and Old Mary as much as I did their riders.

He looked very sad, and grim. His thin lips were stretched nearly flat, and they were entirely devoid of blood.

“I have bad news, I am afraid.”

I could see that, already. And just as I had been starting to have high hopes for our plan, as it began to show fruit. Tonight had been fixed as the evening to draw both of the Senator’s head men together. Smith was more and more belligerent lately, making it easy to get him thrown out. But these tidings looked like they might change things. I nodded, giving him my full attention.

“I’m afraid that your friend, young Tilly, may be out of our hands.”

My eyebrows shot up, and I waited.

“She seems to have been sold.”

“Sold?” I was confused.

“But her former owner has been looking for her. Has he ceased to advertise for her in the papers, then? This makes no sense.”

“That is what we thought, too, but her owner seems to have renounced all claims to her.” He’d pronounced the word owner as if it were an expletive. “There have been no more postings for her, and now,” he had paused to look at me, frowning again, and said, “that Senator from Virginia has had Smith take her away, shutting her up along with his other people under Smith’s guard.”

The Senator? Bought Tilly? No. God, please, no! That could not be. She already had an owner who was searching for her, and that meant that … unless he had found her and was holding her for the other man?

“Why do you believe that her former owner has renounced all claims to her? Do you mean to say that you have seen a bill of sale for her, in his name, or” God forbid, “was there an auction?”

“No,” the man had rushed to say, putting out a reassuring hand, “nothing like that. Certainly not in this city,” he had added, as though such a commonplace thing, where I was from, were unthinkable here in the North.

“So…?”

“The Senator has been displaying her, rather … publicly, since yesterday.”

The man looked suddenly embarrassed, blushing deeply.

“Displaying?”

I continued to wait for a reply.

“He has been displaying her outside of a house of ill repute, promising to give her, free of charge, to any man with information on the whereabouts of a certain very light skinned …”

“For me.”

I felt nauseous, my knees trembling and my arms aching suddenly, fists clenched as I fought to draw breath and stay on my feet. How dare that foul beast of a man do such a thing to this child.

Then it occurred to me:

“But, how can he do that?”

I got another blush in response.

“I mean, without the permission of her owner, how can he do something that would compromise her value later, at auction, or even for a private sale.”

The man looked mildly shocked at my words, but I was merely repeating such things as I had heard the men in the company of the Senator saying for nearly my entire life, in Virginia.

“You must forgive me. I had forgotten that this is not a topic of general conversation up here in the North.”

“Is is so, down there?” He turned beet red, now. “I mean to say, down south?”

“Yes, it is,” I had replied. “And rather too often, I am afraid.”

But how had the Senator been able to find Tilly, and why do this to her? We knew that he must have found out we were all together, after that woman had locked us in and called his men to come collect us, while she collected the rewards on our heads. But how had he gotten hold of her?

In the instant that a thought came to me, I knew that it was true. Could I really have any other choice?

“I am very sorry,” then, almost in a murmur, “the poor child.”

I had quite forgotten that this man was still standing there. Perhaps he would know.

“Do we know how she came to be in the clutches of that foul b-, man?”

His eyebrows had risen, hearing me about to call the Senator a beast, but a knowing nod was all that betrayed his thoughts. He heaved a great sigh, as though he were thinking something over.

“We were able, through some accountants who are friends of the cause, to trace her papers, which have been examined,” he added quickly, “and the papers are genuine, or at least they appear so, being properly notarized with the Virginia state seal,” he paused, and then said, “only to trace the sale to another enterprise in that state.”

Then he sighed again.

“And now we also know how she was found, for it seems that this was no accident, I am afraid.”

Of course it was not. Nothing was, with the Senator. I braced my self, waiting to hear what was coming.

“It seems that the child had been tracked down by a certain notorious bounty hunter, and with the help of a formerly enslaved man.”

“But if he has not even been paying Smith and his men, as we have heard, then how has he been able to pay this bounty hunter?”

“On credit, from what we have been able to glean.”

That made sense. I now recalled a long ago discussion between the Senator and Loving. Some of his creditors were demanding that any new purchases be made in coin, others calling for full payment of his debts. I’d forgotten that gentlemen were always presumed to be in good standing, and expected to be extended credit for nearly all of their purchases.

“Some of our watchers saw the kidnapping take place, but were unable to stop it.” He frowned, and then his face brightened:

“I know that particular Porter, and I can assure you that he, at least, would have tried, if he could have gotten to the horse in time.”

He coughed as I looked down, balling my fist.

“But we did get a good description of the colored man who grabbed her. He’s likely working in the employ of the bounty hunter, for whom the set of expenses, including his hire of the man who identified young Tilly, was enumerated as part of the set of transactions listing the child’s sale to the Senator.”

So that was how they had found the slave catcher who had caught young Tilly. This sounded like the work of Mr. Loving. I heard him ordered to investigate rivals, both political and business related, from time to time. And the slave catcher, if he had found young Tilly, must have had help. Who was this former slave he kept mentioning, though?

“How do you know of this former slave that helped capture Tilly? You seem to be very familiar with that man.”

He frowned, his face falling even further. “We are, or we were, at any rate, sadly.”

“How so?”

“The man was once a friend not only to the cause, but also to some friends of yours, in Shrewsbury. That family has had to leave the state, now, due to this sad business.”

“Wait,” I said, feeling a growing pain in the pit of my stomach, “not the former slave who left that town not long before we ourselves did?”

He had nodded, then hung his head, holding it in one hand, and admitting:

“The same, yes. It seems that he somehow met up with this bounty hunter, whether by accident or of his own free will, we do not know. From the large number of expenses requested for payment, it seems that he gave away quite a lot of information, about many of us, to his employer, for quite some time before Tilly was taken by him.”

That, I realized, explained how the Senator knew that using young Tilly to get to me would be an effective attention keeping strategy, a phrase I had heard him use many times before. It would also keep the attention of much of our network of friends in the surrounding states. He could sell a wealth of information about Brutus. And about Old Mary’s training, Captain, and my beloved Anna. This was very bad.

I knew that for the Senator, faking a document with the seal of the Commonwealth of Virginia was a trivial matter. None of this business of a sale by Tilly’s owner made sense, given what she had told us, what Anna had surmised, and also the words of Dr. H.

What did make sense, given my knowledge of the Senator’s lack of scruples, even for his fellow white property owners, was that he might have faked documents. They might keep until young Tilly’s owner finally got word that she was up here, and sent to retrieve her. After that, even the Senator would face serious consequences.

I heard a throat clear. I had forgotten his presence. He’d been telling me about my old acquaintance at the home of Brutus, who was now a traitor, who had given our little Tilly into the hand of the enemy.

“I believe that he was often known as Farmer-”

“Brown.”

“Yes,” he had acknowledged.

When I realized that this was how our Farmer Brown had betrayed us, I knew I could never forgive him.

***

Passing to Freedom: Willow and Weems …

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or

Ni,

fka Shira A. Destinie Jones

Wuthering Heights released in 2026

starts with a hanging and the glee of the onlookers

The closest we will get to the racists glee at seeing #BlackPeople lynched etc which still goes on now.

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt32897959

#movie #blackhistory #whitehistory #blackmastodon

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 44: Plans

Chapter 44

I was moved by yet another Porter to a new Station. A laundry, where I was to work, or at least pretend to do so. I also intended to make a plan, as Anna always did.

My face was rubbed with coal, a work bonnet covering my hair. A large working dress and old cloak covered the rest of me. I was helping to stir the dirty linens, and pondering my plan, as I kept to a dark corner. I remained ready to follow one of my fellow laundresses at the slightest signal. A boy was assigned to watch the door for strangers, constables, and informers.

“You might be better off continuing your journey North alone, Miss B.”

I’d raised an eyebrow, waiting for the other shoe.

“It would be safer for all.”

I refused to leave without any word of the fate of young Tilly, and the whereabouts of Anna. I knew that the one would never stop hoping for us to find her, and the other would never rest until we did.

My plan should work. One thing I’d had plenty of time to do, trapped in that house in Virginia, was to observe. I had seen how those around me reacted, to the Senator, to his visitors, to the overseers, to myself, and to each other. Invisible, as only a piece of decoration can be, I’d watched and listened, even if I spent much of my time trying to forget most of what I’d witnessed. Now, I realized, I must draw upon that which I had tried to throw away.

I knew that Smith was a jealous man, and now I added proud, and unlettered, to the list. Those were faults which my plan must use to our advantage. He must be cut out of the picture, as a spot of mold is cut away from a piece of cheese. There must be some way to encourage, help, trick, or trap him into making a mistake that would remove him.

I hesitated at the idea of plotting a man’s death, for I was no murderess, but I had to admit that a deadly bout of over drinking, or accidentally eating a poisonous mushroom, would not go unwelcome. Removing one of the Senator’s most trusted men, and one who was a distinct danger, would serve us very well, indeed. But how to help that happen?

The animosity between Smith and Loving must be used to render both unable to move forward in the service of the Senator.

“Ouch!”

Heads lifted from their work and turned in my direction. I raised a hand to show that I was alright, bending back to my task. I must be more mindful. Keeping an eye on the boiling water, I continued stirring the laundry cauldron. I went back to mulling over how Smith’s vices could be used to our benefit.

Cutting him out would make life more difficult for the Senator, at least temporarily. That should make it easier for us to find Tilly, and then I could move further north.

Anna, would surely hear of our progress, and could join us later. But how to make some concrete use of that division between the two servants of this Pharaoh?

“Paid.”

“Sorry, what was that, Miss Berty?”

“Oh, sorry, Miss Jenny,” I had babbled, “just thinking out loud.”

“Oh, alright then, but mind your work, do remember, Dearie.”

Her voice had been kindly, but stern, and she wasn’t wrong. It was dangerous to forget to pay attention in these surroundings. As much for the spies and informers, as for the large vats of boiling laundry.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once it was dark, and everyone had left for the day, I got word that I was wanted for a conference with two Station Masters. They wished to know more about the Senator’s operations, and Loving, in particular. I made a note to myself to remember to mention the man’s evident dislike of Smith, and to ask after Brutus’ wife, while thanking her for teaching me how to judge cheese.

I learned, at that meeting, that in addition to the other actors already known to us, there were a new variety of miscreants active in the city. Some were free men of color in the employ of bounty hunters. The Senator had raised the reward for my capture, and added to those for Tilly and Anna, directing them to be given directly into his custody, by the hand of Smith, here in Philadelphia. Both Station Masters urged me to leave the city at once, but how could I leave young Tilly, and my dear Anna? So I told them of my plan.

“They are already divided, so it may be that all we need to do is simply give them a little push, and that fighting between them can grow into a full scale conflagration.”

I saw one Station Master nod, though looking a bit doubtful. I continued.

“Smith is already spending time in the tavern, and his men are already very unhappy here. Is that not so, gentlemen?”

They had both nodded, evidently having heard at least some of the same reports that I had known must be circulating about the rantings of Smith and his men. I could see that these two Station Masters, both accustomed to shepherding their passengers from one short stay to the next, were not eager to involve themselves in what seemed to be a pointless argument among hired men, but I was sure that there was something larger at stake, here. I tried to explain it as I knew from my years of observing all three of these men.

“The Senator, as he claims, was the key mover in passing this law which so badly affects you now, here up North, is this not so?”

Both men had nodded, as I had known they must agree. Brutus had explained to me that a great many white abolitionists had been angered by the law about which the Senator had boasted so much, which I now knew to be called the Fugitive Slave Act of 1851.

Just four years ago, then, the citizens of even states as far away as New York, or in great cities like Boston, had been affected, and they were angry. So how could it be that a person, myself, who had been privy to the private dealings of the Senator, should not have some idea of how to make good use of this dispute between his men? I had seen how puffed up the Senator, and his man Smith as well, had been, while Loving, who, as the Senator’s personal secretary, ought to have been even more proud of such an accomplishment.

Loving, as the Senator’s real right hand man, must have done a great deal of the actual work involved in bringing that work to fruition. I explained how any affront to the Senator’s good standing affected his relations with the powerful men of Virginia. These, he was always concerned not to offend. At least, not openly. I further explained that if Loving were as angry with the Senator as I suspected him to be, then he was the perfect tool with which to bring down the Senator, starting with Loving’s rival, Smith.

“Which should not be too difficult, seeing as how that drunkard is already doing half the work for us, in the taverns every night.”

This comment from one Station Master reassured me. Smith and his discontented men were now in the habit of carousing rather than searching for me. That likely indicated that they had still not been paid. The taverns were merely allowing them to dispose of the credit in the Senator’s good name. If we could show, by getting Loving to make some misstep, that the first was no longer good, then the second would not take long to follow.

My plan was to get Loving to admit that the Senator was, in fact, no longer in good standing with his creditors. That would begin by bringing the two men together in a public place so that words could be had, heard, and written down. All our men needed to do was to sit in the tavern, help get Smith and his men drunk, which should be no great challenge.

We’d then find a way to lure Loving to the right street, and trip him out in front of the tavern. We would get Smith and his hooligans thrown out at just that moment, running in to Loving there.

It should be no great difficulty to either tip one of the servers or merely encourage a local youth to pull some prank that would start a brawl, and get Smith ejected from the tavern, along with his rascals.

“After all, I don’t imagine that these men are very well appreciated, even at the best of times,” I had observed.

Neither Station Master objected to this idea. They agreed to set the stage and have the audience ready. A show, indeed. On which my freedom and that of many of my fellow bondsmen depended.

***

Passing to Freedom: Willow and Weems …

a historical novel by D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or Ni, fka Shira Destinie A. Jones

Sarah Rector: Childhood Millionaire and Trailblazer in Early 20th Century America

📰 Original title: The Story of Sarah Rector, the Richest Young Black Girl in America in the Early 20th Century

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#history #blackhistory #childmill...

Sarah Rector: Childhood Millionaire and Trailblazer in Early 20th Century America

📰 Original title: The Story of Sarah Rector, the Richest Young Black Girl in America in the Early 20th Century

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#history #blackhistory #childmi...

Photo by James Van Der Zee (1886-1983), Lady with Two Corsages, 1935, gelatin silver print with hand-coloring, paper size: 10 x 8 inches (25.4 x 20.3 cm), image: Krakow Witkin Gallery, Boston. #vintagephotography #photography #blackhistory

From the Smithsonian American Art Museum: ‘James VanDerZee is one of the country's most distinctive portrait photographers. From his first experiments with a small box camera around the age of fourteen, his interest continued as he photographed friends and family in Massachusetts, New York, and Virginia for pleasure and occasional commissions. Settling in New York City around 1909, he secured a job as a "darkroom man" for a photographer's small department store concession. In 1916, he chose photography over a less lucrative career as a musician and opened his first studio on West 135th Street.

During the next forty years, VanDerZee chronicled the people and celebrations of Harlem—from schoolchildren, church groups, and wedding couples, to the parades organized by black nationalist Marcus Garvey and the funeral for singer Florence Mills. The exhibition, Harlem on My Mind, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1969, brought his work to the attention of the art world, to which he had paid little notice. Ironically, he had retired that year because of a declining market for his particular form of portraiture and the advent of cheaper, easier-to-use cameras. Three years before his death, however, VanDerZee resumed photography…

VanDerZee strove to capture the personality, character, and intrinsic beauty of his sitters. His photographs are not simply documents, but celebrations of Harlem lives that included some degree of affluence and an appreciation of small luxuries—a beaded dress, a fur stole, an attentively decorated home. Here was an opportunity for African Americans to see themselves as the center of a universe, as white Americans could in mainstream society. For VanDerZee, this was reflected in the careful framing of a world of elegance, refinement, and a beauty sometimes elusive in the world outside his studio.

Lynda Roscoe Hartigan African-American Art: 19th and 20th-Century Selections (brochure. Washington, D.C.: National Museum of American Art)’

Growing list of those born or died on May 20 in any year

Ernest Hogan (born Ernest Reuben Crowdus; 1865 – May 20, 1909) was the first Black American entertainer to produce and star in a Broadway show, The Oyster Man in 1907

#blackwomen #blackhistory #blackmastodon

Passing To Freedom, Chapter 42: Useful?

Chapter 42

“Is she hurt?”

“We don’t think so.”

Anna had narrowly escaped capture, being forced to come back without Tilly. After warning me to stay put, she left. Again.

The weather was sunny and getting warmer, but I felt as if it were still dark and cold. We had no reports whatsoever on the whereabouts of Anna. My sole consolation was the fact that she had not been seen to have been captured. Everyone assured me that if she were captured we would know nearly instantaneously. The grapevine.

“Your very presence here, Miss Berty, is a victory.” The Station Master at whose home I was staying that day looked me in the eye, as if measuring me.

“How so?”

“Each day you remain out of his hands is a victory over that foul system.”

I must have neglected to hide my trembling, for he took my hands, speaking as if comforting a small child:

“Believe us, you are safe, here.” His wife rushed to me, wrapping me in a blanket and an embrace.

I knew well what lengths that foul system would go to in order to reclaim us. We three were not safe, despite of all the well-meaning reassurances. I felt powerless. If my dearest Anna was gone, and our young Tilly stolen off to a fate worse than death, what remained for me, here?

The next morning, a message came. For me. For me?

“A local abolitionist has requested a visit with you, Miss B.”

His family had taken to calling me this simply to make me more difficult to find.

“Why certainly,” I answered, “but, whatever for?”

“He has volunteered for the task of haunting the taverns that Smith and his men have given themselves over to frequenting. He takes down their words, and thus helps our cause by providing more intelligence on our enemies.”

An uncomfortable blush passed over his face. “The question is a bit delicate.”

“Whatever I can do to help.” My stomach began to churn, but I ordered it to be still.

The question was whether I had ever had to attend the Senator at events or, in his rooms.

I had.

“Men like Loving or Smith often came to report or to receive orders from the Senator, but, I saw the other overseers only when I was made to attend a punishment of one of my fellows in bondage.”

“We may be able, if you are willing, to make use of what you have seen and heard.”

“Of course. What little I know is in your service.”

Especially if it might help Anna and Tilly. Back in Virginia, my tears for my friends, whipped for my flight, had failed utterly to move my companions in suffering. They seemed to believe me guilty for the pain of our friends. And perhaps they were right. After all, even now, I was still making dangerous mistakes, even deadly for some, like our poor Old Mary.

“We are sure that you know more than you think. Any details of the Senator’s affairs can help us in this struggle.”

I bowed my head, trembling again, ashamed to have to recall those days back in that Old Dominion. The Station Master’s wife took my hands in hers:

“You have been of service to others,” she affirmed. “Brutus told me how you tended to young Tilly, at his home.”

She took my head in her hands, and pulled me into her arms.

”This is a hard thing we are asking of you. I know. But … shhh, shhh, there, now, there…”

She smoothed my hair down as the dam broke. I heard footsteps, as if far off, and she pulled my head to her shoulder, holding me tightly. A door closed somewhere, and I felt ashamed of my weakness, and then heard her say:

“You have suffered much, and survived much. You have much to offer.”

I shook my head. What could I possibly have to give? She lifted my chin, gently, looking me in the eyes:

“You have. I tell you, truly. I have seen you at your studies, and at your work. You are of value. Think on this. Have you never given any gift, ever? I cannot believe that, from all I know of you.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

I recalled my first time being able to give a gift, in the form of that famous slice of bacon to the generous wife of Dr. H. but what, I wondered, had I ever done for Anna?

As I pondered how I could be of use to someone who had made me able to be useful, to myself and to others, I reviewed those things that I had learned so far, since meeting at the side of the President’s House. I had learned how to sew, not this foolish embroidery to which I had been restricted all of my life, but garments. Real and useful.

I had learned how to ride a horse, a not unimportant, and for me, impressive, feat, given my size and my life, having been carefully kept indoors, and away from any knowledge that might be useful at all, but especially in getting away from the Senator.

I had also learned how to tend to various kinds of wounds, both of humans and of horses, even while I was learning how to properly groom and care for those same horses.

Most importantly, or perhaps most kindly of all, his wife had taught me to cook. Never had I been allowed to stand anywhere nearer to the kitchen than a stray bit of hot grease might pop. Thus, the kitchen was a place of wonder, to me. Only in fleeing my captivity had I at last been able to be allowed to do real work, the work of feeding people. Useful work.

I vowed that one day I would cook for my beloved Anna, proudly serving her a meal cooked entirely by my own hands.

As I thought on it, I began to understand. Everything I had been taught in Virginia had deliberately left me a child in the mind. I now thought I might understood why. It makes one far easier to convince of anything at all, if one is left a child in one’s mind. Everything that I had ever been told about myself in Virginia, was a lie.

I worried for our little Tilly, kidnapped by a man who should have been one of our own. Now, I knew that there were ways to achieve the task which was set before us. I refused to give up, for the sake of our little Tilly, and for Anna.

My entire life, I had been taught that, apart from my beauty, I had no value. I now knew this to be a lie. One that was convenient for he who called himself my owner. I was capable of learning useful things. Now I would put all that I had to the service of freedom. Starting with our young Tilly.

I would find a way to help Anna, and to find young Tilly, if it was the last thing I ever did.

***

Passing to Freedom: Willow and Weems …

a historical novel by: (sorry Guys, I know that this chapter needs a bit more editing, more more, but this has been such a painful chapter to write and edit, that the fine tuning edits will have to wait for the next draft.

Ni ….)

D. Antonia Jones, aka Nia or Ni,

fka Shira Destinie A. Jones

In new PBS documentary, the complexities and legend of W.E.B. Du Bois come to life - TheGrio

#history #PBS #USHistory #BlackHistory #tv