Passenger on the Pearl Read online

  The carriage crashed to a halt. Rather than surrender peacefully, Chaplin and the runaways drew their pistols and shot at the officers, who returned fire. During a five- or six-minute shootout, 27 bullets were fired, but astonishingly, no one was killed. One of the enslaved men was shot in the hand but still managed to run; the other survived the gun battle only because he had been carrying a large pocket watch that deflected a bullet that otherwise would have injured him.

  After some hand-to-hand fighting, Chaplin was eventually taken into custody and arrested, and the fugitives were returned to their owners. Rather than making a heroic entrance at the convention, as he had planned, Chaplin joined the captains of the Pearl in the Washington City Jail.

  William Chaplin (1796–1871) worked with the American Anti-Slavery Society and the Society for the State of New York.

  THE CAZENOVIA CONVENTION

  On August 21, 1850, Emily, Mary, and about 400 other people crowded into the Free Congregational Church in Cazenovia, New York, for the opening of the Cazenovia Fugitive Slave Law Convention. Hundreds of others gathered outside the building, unable to find a seat in the pews. Frederick Douglass, already famous for his 1845 autobiography, Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, An American Slave, presided over the meeting and told the audience about Chaplin’s arrest.

  The first piece of business at the convention was to devise a plan to support Chaplin. The group broke into committees to plan ways to raise the considerable amount of money needed for his bail. In addition, those in attendance passed a resolution; it read:

  We call on every man in the Free States, who shall go to the polls at the approaching elections, go with this motto burning in his heart and burst from his lips: “CHAPLIN’S RELEASE, OR CIVIL REVOLUTION.”

  That revolutionary spirit continued throughout the convention. In fact, the Cazenovia Fugitive Slave Law Convention adopted one of the most radical attacks on slavery that had ever come out of an antislavery meeting. A letter written and endorsed by the convention members encouraged Southern slaves not to hesitate to violate the law in order to escape slavery, because their personal right to freedom superseded the property rights of their owners. The letter concluded: “by all the rules of war, you have the fullest liberty to plunder, burn, and kill, as you may have occasion to do so to promote your escape.”

  Emily and Mary were eager to do whatever they could to help raise bail for their good friend Chaplin, who was held in the Blue Jug, the jail they knew all too well from the days they spent there after their capture. It was unusual for a woman—even more so for a woman of color—to address a large audience, but Mary felt compelled to step forward at the convention and say a few heartfelt words about the important role that Chaplin had played in her life. Some in attendance described her effort as touching and eloquent.

  JUMPING BAIL

  On September 18, 1850, the same day that President Fillmore signed the Fugitive Slave Act into law, Chaplin appeared in court before Judge William Cranch. Chaplin sighed with relief when the judge set his bail at $6,000—a lot of money, no doubt, but Chaplin knew that his supporters would be ready and able to meet that bail.

  But Chaplin wasn’t freed. After he posted bail, he was handed over to the Maryland authorities, who took him directly to another jail, in Rockville. The charges against him in Maryland were far more serious than they were in the District of Columbia. In addition to two counts of larceny for attempting to steal slaves and two counts of assisting runaways to escape, he was charged with three counts of assault and battery with intent to kill for firing at the officers in the shootout. This time, the judge set Chaplin’s bail at an exorbitant $19,000.

  During the Cazenovia Convention, the organizers commissioned a daguerreotype, an early type of photograph, to send to William Chaplin in prison. Frederick Douglass is seated on the left side of the table. Mary Edmonson is the tall woman standing behind him with a plaid shawl. Emily Edmonson, also in plaid, is standing to the right of the abolitionist Gerrit Smith, the central figure.

  Chaplin languished in prison as those in the abolitionist community worked on raising the money for his second bail. Chaplin was not cut out for prison life. In the weeks that followed, his bruises faded and his wounds healed, but Chaplin was haunted by his memory of the beatings. Jittery and afraid, he questioned himself and his role in the abolitionist movement.

  Emily and Mary joined other abolitionists who spent much of September 1850 making appearances in small towns across upstate New York raising money for Chaplin. The girls spoke and sang and begged and pleaded everywhere they could, every day they could, even on Sundays, which they didn’t consider to be sinful because they believed that working to earn Chaplin’s freedom was doing the Lord’s work.

  Three and a half months later, the entire $19,000 had been collected for Chaplin’s second bail. In January 1851, Chaplin was released from the Montgomery County, Maryland, jail.

  When he was released, Chaplin fled, refusing to return for trial and forfeiting $25,000 in bail money—the $6,000 that had been paid to the District of Columbia and the $19,000 paid to Montgomery County, Maryland. While they understood his anxiety about returning for trial and running the risk of going back to jail, Chaplin’s supporters expected him to make an effort to raise funds to reimburse his donors. To their surprise and regret, Chaplin made very little effort to repay his debts. He refused to put himself at risk any longer. Chaplin retired and abandoned his antislavery work. It is unlikely that Emily and Mary ever saw their friend again.

  SIXTEEN

  Pardoned

  MONTH AFTER MONTH, Drayton and Sayres remained in prison, waiting for their associates in the abolitionist movement to come up with a plan for their release. Drayton’s patience ran out, however, when he learned that William Chaplin had been arrested and that money had been raised for his bail while Drayton and Sayres remained in the Blue Jug. How could his abolitionist associates have found so much money for Chaplin so quickly when he and Sayres had been sitting in jail for more than two and a half years?

  Angry and annoyed, Drayton wrote to abolitionist William R. Smith and explained that Chaplin’s supporters should not hold it against him if he revealed Chaplin’s involvement in the Pearl escape. He wrote that the abolitionists “must not blame him if the chains weigh so heavily upon his limbs he should lose his power of endurance and seek that relief which his fellow citizens have not afforded him.”

  Not long after sending the letter, Drayton received word that his associates had renewed their efforts to get both of the captains pardoned and released from jail. With that understanding, Drayton agreed to maintain his silence, at least for a while.

  The plan to free Drayton and Sayres required that the abolitionists convince a majority of the slaveholders to whom they owed fines to drop their claims for compensation. Drayton understood that his case was complicated by a Maryland law that required him to pay half his fines to the District of Columbia and half to the owners of the fugitive slaves. He also knew that his wife and his attorney, Daniel Radcliffe, had been going door-to-door making personal appeals and trying to persuade the slaveholders to waive their claim to the fine money. But months had passed and no visible progress had been made in his case, and at the end of the day, Drayton was still behind bars, still waiting.

  While there were only 36 slave owners to visit, it took more than two months to execute the plan. Drayton learned that some of the slaveholders believed that Drayton and Sayres had served enough time for the crime and they signed the waiver with enthusiasm; others signed with some hesitation. Even years after the failed escape, a few still maintained that the captains should be hanged or, alternatively, tarred and feathered for their role in the escape.

  A PRESIDENTIAL PARDON

  Once a majority of slaveholders dismissed their claims against Drayton and Sayres, Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts wrote to President Millard Fillmore and asked him to pardon the captains. On August 12, 1852, President Fillmore signed a presi
dential pardon that released Drayton and Sayres from jail but left them financially responsible to the slave owners who did not waive their fines. While Drayton and Sayres were still required to pay thousands of dollars in fines, no one involved in the case expected that they would ever be able to do so.

  As soon as the pardons had been executed, Senator Sumner arrived at the jail and demanded the immediate release of the captains. The U.S. marshal refused. He had received word from the Secretary of the Interior to hold the men until the next morning because the Virginia authorities wanted an opportunity to arrest and prosecute them for theft and the illegal transportation of two Pearl fugitives who had been owned by Virginians.

  Stunned, Sumner hurried to the office of the National Era to consult with Lewis Clephane, the newspaper’s 23-year-old business manager, who was in charge of removing the two men from the District of Columbia once they were released. Clephane shared Sumner’s concern that like Chaplin, Drayton and Sayres would be released from the District of Columbia jail only to be immediately jailed in another jurisdiction.

  Together, Sumner and Clephane returned to the jail to plead their case. Word of the presidential pardon had spread and local gossip included talk of a mob gathering at the jail. Sumner warned the marshal of the possibility of unrest if he waited any longer, so the officer grudgingly agreed to let the prisoners leave. As the door of the Blue Jug opened and Drayton and Sayres walked out of jail, the black prisoners inside cheered. After more than four years and four months of incarceration, Drayton and Sayres were free.

  But that didn’t necessarily mean that they were safe.

  When his Whig Party nominated Winfield Scott as their candidate in the coming election, President Millard Fillmore (1800 – 1874) knew his political career was over. With nothing at risk, he then pardoned captains Daniel Drayton and Edward Sayres. The pardon left the men financially responsible to those slaveholders who did not waive their fines.

  RACE TO FREEDOM

  Clephane, a native Washingtonian, first ushered the captains to his home a few blocks away from the jail. Drayton and Sayres feasted on their first meal as free men while Clephane tried to line up a carriage and driver to take them to Baltimore later that night. Several days of heavy rain had damaged area bridges and washed out a number of roads, so many drivers refused to consider making the journey. Clephane eventually found a driver willing to make the treacherous trip, but for a substantially higher fee than normal.

  By 10 p.m., Drayton, Sayres, and Clephane were on their way to the railroad station in Baltimore, where they hoped to board a train without being recognized. The unpaved roads were waterlogged and muddy. Near Bladensburg, Maryland, the river had overflowed its banks and the driver insisted they would have to turn back because the footing wasn’t safe for the horses.

  If they returned to Washington, they would be intercepted by the Virginia authorities and arrested. Unwilling to accept a change in plans, Clephane reached into his pocket and pulled out the large iron key that opened the door to the National Era offices. From the back seat, he reached forward and pressed the cold, hard metal into the back of the driver’s head as if it were a gun and demanded that they keep going.

  The driver urged his horse forward.

  By the light of dawn, the carriage reached Baltimore. Drayton and Sayres were put on different trains: Sayres went directly to Philadelphia, while Drayton traveled to Harrisburg then east to Philadelphia. When he arrived in Philadelphia, Dr. Cleveland greeted Drayton and gave him $100 to help him get back on his feet, the same amount he gave Sayres.

  Drayton took the cash, but no amount of money could make up for his compromised health. Drayton no longer resembled the able-bodied, 46-year-old man who first entered the Washington City Jail. He was withered and weak and unable to work; he walked stiffly and coughed often. He was unsure of his future, but grateful for his freedom.

  SEVENTEEN

  “The Last Two Drops of Blood in My Heart”

  IN THE FALL of 1851, Emily and Mary Edmonson enrolled at New York Central College, in McGrawville, a small town in upstate New York. Emily was about 16 years old and Mary was about 18. They studied grammar, geography, and arithmetic, among other subjects, with the hope of someday founding a school for runaway slaves in Canada.

  The girls made ends meet without Chaplin’s financial support by working at school; the college paid female students three cents an hour for domestic work in the kitchen and dormitories and male students six cents an hour for agricultural work on the campus farm. They also received some support from abolitionist friends.

  Their semester at school was interrupted by news that their younger siblings, Louisa and Josiah, were to be sold. As Emily and her siblings had feared at the time of their escape, their owner, Rebecca Culver, needed money. Her business agent had contacted Bruin to find out what the last two Edmonson children were worth. Valdenar, Culver’s agent, then told Paul Edmonson that he would sell the children for $1,200—either to the family or to Bruin.

  At that time, Louisa, about 12 years old, still lived at home with her parents. Josiah, about 14 years old, had been hired out to live with and work for Valdenar, probably because his overseer considered the risk of Josiah’s running away too great to send another one of the Edmonsons into the District of Columbia to be hired out.

  Their father, now 65 years old, had gone north to try to raise the money, but he could collect only $100. Paul considered selling his 40-acre farm, but it was worth only $500. He owned farming equipment worth $35, and three horses, three cows, and five pigs, together worth $120. Just as was the case when he tried to raise money for Mary and Emily, if he sold everything he had, he would be left without the means to support himself and he would still fall far short of what he needed to buy their freedom.

  Emily and Mary knew that it would be up to them to find a way to ransom their brother and sister. They feared that if they weren’t able to raise the money, their siblings would have to endure the beatings and harsh conditions in the slave pens, as well as the threat of being sold south. They reached out to their abolitionist friends for help. This time, their mother, Milly, wanted to make an appeal to those who might be able to help the family. It is not known whether Milly had permission from her owner to travel out of the area. She would not have been considered a fugitive because her owner had faith that she would return; it was not conceivable that she would leave her family behind.

  Their friends made arrangements for the girls and their mother to go to New York for a meeting with Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of the best-selling novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin. At the time, Stowe was in Brooklyn visiting her younger brother, the same Rev. Beecher who had been instrumental in raising Emily and Mary’s ransom. Stowe had learned about the Edmonsons from her brother, and she modeled several characters in her novel after Emily and Mary.

  Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Heartbreak

  Harriet Beecher Stowe understood Milly Edmonson’s sorrow. The year before she wrote Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Stowe lost her son, Charley, to cholera. On December 16, 1852, Stowe wrote to friend and fellow abolitionist Eliza Cabot Follen:

  I have been the mother of seven children, the most beautiful and most loved of whom lies buried near my Cincinnati residence. It was at his dying bed and at his grave that I learned what a poor slave mother may feel when her child is torn away from her. In those depths of sorrow, which seemed to be immeasurable, it was my only prayer to God that such anguish might not be suffered in vain.

  Stowe’s grief inspired and motivated her to write her best-selling novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

  In addition to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Harriet Beecher Stowe (1811 – 1896) wrote more than 20 books, including several under the pen name Christopher Crowfield.

  MEETING HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

  Emily and Mary met their mother at Beecher’s home in Brooklyn. The girls had not seen their mother in the four years since they moved north to attend college. They hugged and stared at one another; Emily noted that her mo
ther was older, grayer, and more stooped than when she last saw her, but her spirit remained the same.

  After all the necessary introductions, Milly settled in to tell Stowe about the pressure of raising children in the shadow of slavery. She explained how she had taught her children to value liberty and to work for their freedom. She recounted the story of her daughter Henrietta, who had a chance to buy her freedom when she was sick and facing death. Henrietta’s doctor told her not to bother buying her freedom because she would not live long. She told him: “If I had only two hours to live, I would pay down that money to die free.” True to her word, Henrietta spent her savings and died a young—but free—woman. Milly couldn’t have been more proud.

  Stowe’s 1853 book A Key to Uncle Tom’s Cabin provides an account of Milly’s comments. When Milly told Stowe about the horror she felt when six of her children were sold to a slave dealer after they attempted to escape on the Pearl, Emily and Mary chimed in with a bitter description of all slaveholders.

  “Hush, children!” said Milly. “You must forgive your enemies.”

  “But they’re so wicked,” one of the girls responded.

  “Ah, children, you must hate the sin but love the sinner.”

  “Mother,” said one of the girls, probably Emily. “If I was taken again and made a slave of, I’d kill myself.”

  Milly stared at Mary and Emily in disbelief: How could her children have such unchristian things to say? Had slavery—and freedom—changed her daughters? “I trust not, child—that would be wicked.”

  “But Mother, I should. I know I never could bear it.”

  “Bear it, my child? It’s they that bears the sorrow here is they that has the glories there,” Milly said, referring to the promise of Heaven.