Frederick Douglass: A Novel

By Sidney Morrison

Frederick Douglass was the most prominent African American of the 19th Century and Sidney Morrison has created a mesmerizing historical novel richly detailing his life and the Civil War Era. This portrayal of Douglass distinguishes him as one of the founders of American democracy instrumental in ending the institution of slavery from which he escapes to become a fierce abolitionist, gifted orator, and newspaper publisher of The North Star. Douglass collaborates with William Lloyd Garrison, John Brown, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, and the Underground Railroad, as well as Presidents Abraham Lincoln to Grover Cleveland and becomes the first African American to hold esteemed political positions such as U.S. Marshal of the District of Columbia and Minister to Haiti.

What makes this portrayal of Douglass unique is that it takes readers beyond the public persona by also detailing the women in his life: Anna Murray Douglass, instrumental to his escape, becomes his wife and the mother to his five children; English abolitionist, Julia Griffith, works with Douglass until a scandalized community whispers about an extramarital affair and she returns to England; German journalist, Ottilie Assing, dies by suicide after years of waiting for Douglass to marry her and instead he marries a white abolitionist 20 years his junior, Helen Pitts, following Anna’s death. These stories are central to understanding the great man as a fully complex human whose life was rich in conflict, drama, and suspense. Frederick Douglass dedicated his life to racial equality and this novel is an homage to him as a significant figure in U.S. and African American History.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawthorne Books
• Release date: Jun 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218194222

Sidney Morrison

Sidney Morrison was born in New York City and now lives in Los Angeles with his wife Karan. He is a retired teacher and school principal (elementary, middle and high school, one of the few serving as principal at all three levels), and now a part time educational consultant and leadership coach for school leaders in school districts in Southern California. He also provides professional development in workshops about ethical leadership and diversity/equity issues in schools. Before retiring he worked in the public schools for 36 years serving as a History and English teacher, then as an assistant principal and principal. Elected to the Board of Directors of the Association of California School Administrations, representing the LA south bay area, he was then elected as state president for 1998-1999. He is proud of ACSA’s recognition of his leadership through two major awards. He is also proud of the Bronze Star earned as a medical corpsman assisting the wounded in a minefield during the Vietnam War.

Book preview

PROLOGUE: 1844

Frederick

BOY, YOU’RE NO SLAVE, shouted the old white man who stood in the fifth row, interrupting Frederick with a voice so deep it should not have come from a slanted, withered body. You’re just another lying, big-headed nigger.

A few in the audience gasped, but no heads turned to investigate or condemn, as if the old man had been appointed to say what the others were thinking.

A young, wiry man with a bulbous nose stood. Yes, prove it! You sure don’t talk like one.

Frederick’s neck veins throbbed against his crisp shirt collar and cravat; he didn’t know what to say. He was usually quick to respond to verbal affronts with sarcastic remarks or pointed questions, but now he took a deep breath, lifted his wide chest, and glared at the hundreds who packed the town hall that Sunday afternoon in Massachusetts.

He waited.

Still wearing the dark coats and frocks required for the morning’s church service, the people before him sat on benches with backs in rigid formation, a field of jutting rocks. Beyond the closed windows, the red, yellow, and gold leaves shimmered in the sunlight.

Rage reddened the face of the young man, and he looked around, agitated by the silence. Prove it, he yelled. Prove it!

Now ignited, the audience began to chant, Prove it. And as the chant swelled to a chorus of shouting and stomping feet, the customary reserve of New Englanders was unmasked to reveal the brutality of mobs, the faces of witch-burners, the crowd that chased William Lloyd Garrison in Boston.

Frederick smirked.

After three years as a lecturer, discovered by Garrison and other white abolitionists during an antislavery convention on Nantucket Island, Frederick had told his story countless times throughout New England, noticing surprise and suspicion in whites, overhearing the whispered comments about his yellow skin, his articulate speech. But before today he had never been confronted about his past with such raw effrontery.

He wanted to shout them all down with his bass–baritone voice. Frederick had learned to use this powerful instrument and could chastise like the best preachers or curse like a dockworker.

Frederick knew what he had to do. A shouted denunciation like the jeremiads of the Old Testament he quoted often, another story with more graphic details of his past, more revelations of the emotional pain he felt as a child—none of these would not satisfy the demands for proof. He needed to shock the audience, force their silence, destroy the last vestiges of doubt.

Frederick started to unbutton his overcoat. With every button, he recalled the snide remarks, the contemptuous questions, the mocking surprises: Where did the abolitionists find him? His white father explains his intelligence. Who does he think he is, talking like a white man? Even some of his white antislavery colleagues had suggested that he speak less formally and add plantation talk to his narratives for greater authenticity.

He unbuttoned his waistcoat and thought, How dare you presume to judge me. I am your equal. No, I am better.

Frederick deliberately folded his coats before he placed them on the chair behind him. He took the suspenders off his thick shoulders, leaving them as dangled hoops on his hips, and pulled at the tail of his shirt after releasing the lower buttons. Wanting no interference, he avoided the widening eyes and gripped hands of the meeting chairman, James Buffum, whose Quaker reserve was as tight as the cravat around his neck.

"Friend Douglass, what are you doing?" asked Buffum, motionless as he stared, at the nearby table.

"I’ll show them," he said to Buffum. Frederick’s face was hot. He was sure that the ridge across the top of his nose, scars from injuries long ago, bulged.

No, said Buffum. The ladies …

"Let them see," said Frederick.

A few men pulled their female companions’ arms, ushering them out. Most people remained transfixed as Frederick, gathering and lifting the folds of his shirt, turned around to show the work of the slave breaker Edward Covey, who was hired to crush his spirit and almost drove him to suicide. Frederick was fifteen, his lacerations the stories of an unforgettable year at a remote farm on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.

Exposing the gashes healed by thick lard, Frederick pulled his shirt as high as he could and held it there for what seemed an eternity. He counted the thirty seconds as he stared ahead, hearing the pounding of his heart, feeling the sweat of his brow, holding his breath as he clenched his teeth and felt the shocked silence.

The doubting old man then started to applaud. The singular clapping of his hands crackled like snapping wood in the silent hall. Another man clapped, and then another. Soon there was a standing ovation and shouted cheers.

Hear, hear!

Yes, sir!

Frederick turned his head to the right and grinned, enjoying Buffum’s open-mouthed surprise as much as the deafening noise. He quickly tucked in his shirt and put on his coats before turning.

He waited for absolute silence, staring at three stone-faced men with folded, defiant arms at the back of the room. One of them lowered his arms, but still Frederick waited, demanding the capitulation of the other two.

The second man lowered his arms. Then the third. Only then did Frederick return to the exact place where he had stopped and continue his well-rehearsed speech. He concluded with his now famous parody of southern preachers defending slavery. Oh, if you wish to be happy in time, happy in eternity, you must be obedient to your masters, their interest is yours, he intoned, enjoying his mastery of mimicry developed in childhood. God made one portion of men to do the working, and another to do the thinking. Now you have no trouble or anxiety. But ah, you can’t imagine how perplexing it is to your masters and mistresses to have so much thinking to do on your behalf. Oh, how grateful you are obedient to your masters! How beautiful are the arrangements of Providence! Look at your hard, horny hands—see how nicely they are adapted to the labor you have to perform. Look at our delicate fingers, so exactly fitted for our station, and see how manifest it is that God designed us to be this His thinkers, and you the workers—Oh, the wisdom of God.

Frederick knew his audiences. With laughter and applause, white Methodists, Baptists, and Congregationalists relished their superiorities. Southerners were the true Christian hypocrites.

Nevertheless, Frederick believed he had debased himself. The lifting of his shirt was vulgar and melodramatic, unworthy of a gentleman; it reminded him of the slave block where slaves were examined for physical assets and liabilities. He had successfully rebuked these New Englanders, but he knew he would never reveal his scars again. With no bill of sale, he had to find another way to prove himself. Legally, he was still a fugitive.

Frederick’s credibility was now a matter of open discussion in The Liberator. One correspondent wrote, Many persons in the audience seemed unable to credit the statements which he gave of himself and could not believe that he was actually a slave. How a man, only six years out of bondage, and who had never gone to school a day in his life, could speak with such eloquence, with such precision of language, and power of thought, they were utterly at a loss to devise.

After three years standing before the white public, Frederick could tolerate the whispered suspicions, the innuendo, the gossip shared by colleagues. But printed suspicion made his situation intolerable. He needed to respond in kind because he understood the power of the printed word, the fear it inspired, the hope it nurtured. As a youth, Frederick had dared to teach adult slaves how to read, creating a school in the forest of the Eastern Shore, and was almost lynched for it. Print mattered. A book could change the world.

Frederick knew what to do: write an autobiography and name family members, masters, and plantations. He would tell everything except the details of his escape and put the entire matter to rest. There was no other choice. All he had was his word. His career as a legitimate antislavery agent was at stake.

Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey Douglass had a book to write.

PART I: 1836–1845

Anna Murray Douglass and William Lloyd Garrison

1.

FREDERICK BAILEY WAS ACTIVE in his church choir and the debates of the East Baltimore Improvement Society. He loved to sing, and he loved to talk even more, always arguing. The women talked about him at the meetings, at church and the socials, noting his assets, making comparisons with the other men, and granting his superiority on several scales of value. There was no denying it. He was a tall, handsome man, and very smart. But his enslavement was an insurmountable barrier; no free woman in Baltimore was going to marry a slave.

But Anna Murray had different ideas.

She was an excellent cook and domestic servant at the house of Mr. Wells, the postmaster on South Caroline Street. A practical hard worker, she lived frugally and saved money for emergencies and the future, a possible life with a husband and children, like her parents, former slaves who raised twelve children on the Eastern Shore. She wanted at least four or five.

Anna had no suitors. They preferred younger, light-skinned girls. Now twenty-five, she was not pretty and fretted about her thick arms. Anna appreciated her black eyes, most of the time. Large and bright, they could detect foolishness in seconds, wither opposition with a glance, and see beauty in a pebble or a grain of rice. They also made men squirm. Then, at an Improvement Society social, she met Frederick Bailey.

Like most of the women attending the social, Anna had provided food, in her case the best fried chicken in the Point. She was one of the servers in the food line when Frederick came to the table. Quickly, she thanked him for comments made earlier. Mr. Bailey, I liked what you said about those people wanting us all to leave.

The colonization people?

"Yes, them. This is our country, too."

Yes, he replied before moving on.

Later, Anna saw an opportunity when she was talking in a small group of women. When Frederick began to approach them, they glanced over their shoulders, rolled their eyes, and quickly left. Anna did not go with them. Instead, she smiled and extended her hand, approaching him. Mr. Bailey, I’m Anna Murray, and we all talk about you. You’re hard to miss.

Her boldness clearly surprised him, but she was more taken by his cool acceptance of compliments. He was not shy.

I’ve been the tallest since I can remember, or at least since I started to really grow, he replied.

And you’re good with words. You sure know how to talk and give speeches. I like the sound of them words, even though I can’t read them.

I have a hard time with many of them, too, in the Bible and in Mr. Shakespeare, especially in Mr. Shakespeare.

I can’t read none of them, she said.

None?

I’m not ashamed. I never learned to read, too busy cooking and cleaning, and helping with raising white children. I keep thinking the time will come, and the time just gets away from me.

It’s never too late. I had a school on the Eastern Shore with grown men and women. They learned.

I’m from the Eastern Shore, too, she said. From Denton.

Tuckahoe, Frederick replied. Do you miss it?

I miss my brothers and sisters. I’m one of twelve. Do you miss your family?

What’s left of it? No. My mama is dead. I don’t know who my father is, and I barely know my brother and two sisters. Baltimore is what I know and want to know.

I came here when I was seventeen. I had to get away from slavery, even though my mama and papa got their freedom papers just before I was born, a month before.

"And you’re free," he said, unable to hide his bitterness about the singularity of his legal condition.

And you’ll be free someday, she said.

I’m not counting on my master to do what that white man did for your family. You don’t know Hugh Auld.

Baltimore is too small a place for a man like you, Mr. Bailey. So, when are you leaving?

Alarmed, Frederick looked around the room and came closer to Anna, whispering, Miss Murray, we can’t talk about this. This is dangerous, too dangerous. I could get arrested if someone heard.

She looked around, and then said with a casual lack of concern, Nobody can hear us, and besides, my question could mean all kinds of things.

Miss Murray, please.

I can help.

I hate to be rude, but we can’t talk anymore. He turned away, obviously shaken.

When Anna saw Frederick next at church, she turned and smiled, nothing more. Then at midweek Bible study, she smiled at him and nodded her head before turning back around to listen to the explanation of Job. During a brief break, she said to Frederick, Help me understand what makes the good Lord make children suffer?

He answered, I don’t know either, and I’m tired of asking. I’m get tired of thinking, too. Sometimes, I just want to live.

Frederick turned away. They didn’t talk anymore that evening. She saw him at another social and, from across the room, waved her hand. He waved back but didn’t come to her.

At yet at another social in June, 1838, Anna again waved at Frederick, and this time he came to her, smiling and extending his hand. Miss Murray, I must apologize for not coming sooner. I thought I should come with a better answer to your Job question. But I realized that if I had an answer as a condition for ever speaking with you again, that it might never happen, speaking to you again, that is, since the ways of the Lord may never be understood by me or anyone else for that matter.

Frederick sounded nervous, his words rushed. Anna took this as her cue to try boldness again. "Oh, don’t worry, Mr. Bailey, since we are not courting, you haven’t damaged your chances with me."

Frederick stepped back to protest, his words now more rushed and agitated. "Miss Murray, I don’t think it proper to suggest even the possibility …"

Still smiling, Anna took a step toward him and gently said, Mr. Bailey, I am only stating the obvious. These are places for people to see people and look them over, even at church. The good Lord might be at the front in the voice of the preacher, but everyone else in the pews is looking to the sides, measuring and planning and scheming.

In church!

At socials, too, like this one.

"Are you?" Frederick asked, his eyes critical.

Yes, she replied.

Then good day, Miss Murray, Frederick said, starting to turn away.

Wait, Mr. Bailey, I didn’t mean to be rude. I was just telling the truth.

"I don’t mean to be reminded again that I’m not good enough for free women."

I said no such thing.

You don’t have to. I see the looks, the moving away. I know.

I haven’t looked away.

That comment disarmed Frederick, and he smiled again. Only you have been willing to take the time. What should we talk about? He paused, and then answered his own question. Let’s not talk about Job, though.

Fine. Let’s talk about family, then.

Not that either.

Anna objected, We all have them, and we all have stories about growing up.

Some of them are not happy ones.

Then let’s talk about only the happy ones.

They start happy, but they don’t end that way.

We all die, Mr. Bailey, even with a happy life before it.

What about heaven? Frederick asked.

I hope for heaven, Anna replied.

Hope, only hope?

Do you know anybody who came back to describe it?

No, but I have faith in the promises of Jesus.

So do I. Anna was slightly irritated. She took a breath and replied, Faith I understand. We all decide who to believe, who to trust, who to count on. We do it all the time, like I’m doing now.

What do you mean? Frederick’s voice trembling slightly, as if it were the most important question of the afternoon.

"I believe in your future. I put my faith in you when I told you I would help you, and I meant it. That’s faith."

He lowered his eyes, clearly moved, perhaps humbled. Thank you, but what if I don’t deserve your faith? What if you’re wrong?

"That not for you to decide. This is about my faith."

And mine, too.

"Then do you have faith in me? Will you let me help you?"

He paused again and said, emphatically, Yes.

Good. Just let me know when the time comes.

I don’t want to go alone, Frederick said. But I will have to. All my friends are free and will not leave their family and friends.

She almost asked, Are we courting, Mr. Bailey? But she refrained and said, Maybe you will find someone to go with you.

No, I will have to go alone because if I get caught, I don’t want something to happen, an arrest, or worse. I can only take the risk for myself.

Then that person can follow you, come later, after you reach freedom.

They will still face so much risk, take so many chances.

That’s faith, Mr. Bailey.

Could you leave Baltimore? Frederick asked.

Anna took a deep breath. Are we courting, Mr. Bailey?

No, he said. "It’s too early for that."

Mortified, Anna could only say weakly, I see.

We’re agreeing to get to know each other better for a future decision, Frederick elaborated, making the awkward situation worse.

I see, she repeated.

Total strangers get married, and even if they’re not strangers they get married when they don’t like each other. I’ve seen enough of that. He gets a cook; she gets a house. I don’t want that.

She wanted to slap him, knock all this marriage talk out of his big mouth. What could he know about marriage? He was a man-boy, just twenty. He was in the habit of giving lectures, but he needed to approach some subjects with a measure of humility, at least a pinch of it.

But instead, she agreed. I don’t want that either. She tried boldness one last time that day. When will you know?

Know what? he frowned. He obviously knew she was asking about marriage. On the day I decide to leave, you will know.

Then what if you don’t leave, then what?

He hesitated, calculating to say the right thing.

Too late. I see, Anna noted.

See what?

What’s more important.

Frederick had a confrontation with Hugh Auld on Monday, August 7, 1838, and the future was settled at last. When Frederick told Anna his story, his voice shook with the rage Hugh had ignited.

2.

FREDERICK HAD BEEN GRANTED permission to hire himself out and live in his own place, paying rent to the owner. This practice, common in Baltimore, New Orleans, and other cities, allowed slaves to find their own jobs, arrange salaries and length of service, and make predetermined payments to their masters. Cities needed armies of Blacks to pave and clean streets, build bridges, collect garbage, and dig sewers. Whites unable to afford a slave could rent one, and employers unwilling to house and feed scores of men could hire slaves to do a specific job and then let them go. There were countless opportunities for an enterprising slave and a willing master.

On the previous Saturday, Frederick didn’t keep his usual appointment with Hugh to give away his earnings. That night he didn’t have time to go to Hugh’s house after work and also leave with his friends for a weekend camp meeting. He assumed that Hugh only cared about the money, not when he received it.

He enjoyed himself so much, singing hymn after hymn until late Sunday, he did not return to Hugh’s house until Monday night with the expected three dollars.

When Frederick opened the back door, Hugh started yelling. Where the hell have you been, you worthless nigger? Where? You’re to be here every damn Saturday, every goddamn Saturday with my money, my money …

Interrupting, Frederick tried to explain. This only made matters worse.

Stunned, Hugh stepped back, blinking with incomprehension. He started pacing the room. You left the city without my permission? He yelled louder. How dare you leave the city without my permission? A slave can’t leave without permission, and you know it. You expect me to believe you when you won’t take a piss without calculating your advantage first.

Frederick persisted. I didn’t know I had to ask. Sir, I hired my time and paid you. I thought all I had to do was pay you.

You had to be here on Saturday, insisted Hugh. "I’m the master, and I told you to be here every Saturday. Maybe I should whip a reminder into your Black hide. You’re a slave, and you do what I tell you."

Frederick reached into his pocket and held out the bills, but Hugh scoffed, as if insulted by a bribe. That will not change my mind. Your hire out days are over. Bring your tools and clothes home at once. I’ll teach you to go off. Hugh revealed the fear behind his rage, the fear of all slave masters so close to Pennsylvania, the nearest free state.

One final appeal: But, master …

Hugh turned away to leave, his money still in Frederick’s hand. Just put the money on the table, he said and left.

Frederick stood there, unwilling to move for fear that he would rush through that door and grab Hugh by his narrow neck. His head ached with a pounding rage.

He threw the money at the door, needing to do something before feeling the full weight of disappointment and depression. The bills fell quietly to the floor. Frustrated by this feeble display, Frederick reached into his pockets for some coins and threw them with all the force he could muster. He had assumed wrongly that Hugh’s greed mattered more than contracts, that avoiding daily contact with a troublesome slave mattered more than the rules of the system.

It was his own fault that this had happened. But Frederick was not yet ready to assume personal blame, so he decided to channel his energy into retaliation schemes. So, you think I’m going to work on my own. Just wait and see. I’m not going to find one job, not one, and you won’t get a penny. You want a shiftless, obedient nigger? I’ll make your dreams come true.

Frederick opened the door and felt the unusually cool night air coming in from the harbor on the Patapsco River. It soothed his face as he breathed it in. Closing his eyes, he thought of the North Star and stepped into the night, heading to his room on the Alley. The desire for freedom would grow in his heart, and soon, very soon, the desire would be so great that nothing, not Hugh or Thomas Auld, not the sounds of manacled slaves marching through Fells Point to waiting transport in the Inner Harbor, not the fear of slave patrollers roaming the fields and forests of Harford and Cecil counties between Baltimore and Philadelphia, not the fear of cotton and Alabama, not even the separation from friends, could keep him from crossing over into the promised land.

For a week, Frederick did only housework or stayed in his old room upstairs, reading, planning, and anticipating the delicious moment when finally comprehending Frederick’s passive resistance, Hugh would rush into his room a flailing, drunken mess of anger and frustration.

Hugh summoned Frederick the next Saturday night and demanded his weekly payment as if nothing had changed except Frederick’s return to the Fells Street house.

Again, Frederick didn’t expect such a scene. How could Hugh now believe that he had three dollars still coming to him? Was he that stupid?

But, sir, I don’t have it, he said.

You’re a liar. Hugh didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move in his chair. You have it, even though you didn’t work this week. Your savings.

Hugh didn’t move in his chair. His eyes were wide pools of blue ice. He knew what was going on. Miss Sophia gives me daily reports after I come home from work. I know what you’re doing. You’re a low-down, lying nigger. None of you can be trusted.

Frederick closed his eyes and heard a change in Hugh’s voice. He went on. I will find work for you, Freddy, work that will make your plantation days seem like heaven. You will work every day, Monday through Saturday, into the night, and you won’t get a cent at the end of the week, not one damn cent. And when you’re not working out there, you’ll be working here, and you’ll be so tired that you’ll not want to see your free nigger friends.

Frederick opened his eyes, awakening from a spell. Hugh’s voice, powerful in its serenity, shocked him. Behind that once handsome face now lined and gray was still the will to destroy Frederick’s dreams. By trifling with it, Frederick had risked everything.

Hugh said softly, I hate you, Frederick Bailey, and I will always hate you.

Frederick had to pick a specific day for his escape, make plans for it, and tell Anna. By openly declaring his hatred at last, Hugh had signaled that he surely was going to kill Frederick. Hugh would tell his brother Thomas, Frederick’s legal owner, he’d just had to do it. And if Thomas would not accept his explanation, Hugh would ignore the inevitable threats about lawsuits and financial compensation. The brothers hated each other anyway.

On the day of Hugh’s declaration, Frederick decided his day of escape had to be Monday, September 3. He would need two to three weeks to make all the arrangements, and the first Monday of the month, the day after the day of rest, made sense. The Sabbath made white folks lazy, and many of them had a hard time getting to work after church, time with family, and a late weekend whoring and drinking. Servants and slaves were up early, as usual. But many white people were not. Surely, Hugh would not be up that Monday.

He told Anna, I’m going on the new train, the Baltimore/Susquehanna, on September 3, if I can find somebody who’ll lend me his free papers.

Yes, you’ll need them, but there is not a Negro in these parts who will have papers that will fit what you look like. Do you know somebody who’s big, tall, and yellow like you?

No, said Frederick grimly.

Do you know some sailors?

No. Why?

"Then you should dress like one of them, so you’ll look like them, and people will see a red shirt with a knot around your neck, and a flat hat, and not you."

Frederick paused and agreed. Yes, that’s a good idea, dressing like a sailor.

I’ll work on that shirt and that kerchief, and I have a friend who was married to a sailor. He was away all the time, and she complained about him. But I know why she married him; he is some looker. And he has papers. I’ll ask her for them, just to borrow.

Will she do that for you? And don’t those sailor papers have a date?

I don’t know, but he just got out. But my friend will do this for me, if not for you. She might ask questions, but you should know that some of us free people want to help slaves. So, when I get them, you will need to see if the papers work for you. Or we just might have to come up with another plan.

He grabbed her hands and said, quickly, And when I get to New York City, I’ll send for you, and we’ll get married there.

For the first time, he mentioned the word marriage and Anna went on as if this undeclared proposal was an assumed fact.

New York? she asked.

It’s the biggest city in the country. No one will know us.

We’ll raise a family, she added.

A large family, Frederick added, anticipating the days when his wife and children would sit at a large dining room table and eat huge plates of meat, fish, and vegetables, or sit in the parlor and listen to him read, sing, and tell stories. A happy family.

Mr. and Mrs. Bailey, Anna whispered, smiling. Sounds good, sounds real good, even though you didn’t ask me.

But I did, I did, he protested.

Anna laughed. I know you did, in your own Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey way.

You like the sound of my name.

Of course. It fits for a man with a heart and head as big as yours.

Oh, Anna, was all he could say.

And you’ll need me from letting you get too big on your high horse.

You won’t knock me off that high horse, he said, grinning.

Just a gentle pull, that’s all, now and then.

When they arrived at the Wellses’ house, she asked him to wait outside before he left to meet his friends. I have something for you, she explained.

She returned quickly, holding out to him a small sack of cloth rapped with a thick string. When it touched his right hand, he could feel the coins.

Anna said, You’ll need this.

He started to protest, but she silenced him by taking his hand into hers and looking into his eyes. "You’ll need this, she repeated. Mr. Auld is not going to give you much, no matter how hard you work, and you have only a little time. I sold one of my featherbeds. I still have one, and I have a little savings …"

Her generosity moved him, and at that moment he wanted to say that he loved her, but he would not lie to her, not now when she was placing her life in his hands. She was his friend, but he did not desire her, did not sit up at night thinking of her, wanting her to be with him every night, like the passionate lovers in the plays and poems of Shakespeare. He had no Songs of Solomon to sing.

Not yet, he thought. Give it time. He listened to the talk. Some marriages don’t start with love but can end with the deepest love imaginable. Wait. Be patient.

But he could see the love in her eyes, and he dropped to his knees. Thank you, he said, offering marriage as her reward. Will you marry me?

"Now that’s how it was supposed to happen earlier. She laughed lightly. But this is good enough, and our money will help us through. Hold on to it. We’re going to need it after we get married."

But now he didn’t see a wedding ceremony before him. He saw all the potential pitfalls the weeks could bring him: white suspicion and a zealous train conductor scrutinizing every paper; Negro jealousy and a betraying friend needing a little reward; his own ignorance of geography; and Hugh Auld, dangerous because he was no longer predictable.

Goodbye, Anna. He quickly turned away so he would not infect her with his dark misgivings. We’ll talk some more … soon.

Frederick joined his friends later that afternoon at Jim Mingo’s, telling them the day of his escape. This was no surprise; they had talked about freedom many times before. The inevitable question came immediately: How?

Again, he hesitated, feeling that same cold fear that maybe, just maybe, one of them would tell. I can’t tell you, he said finally.

What? asked Mingo.

I can’t tell you, because someone might find out …

Mingo, a large man with a voice to match, stood, slapping his big hand on the table. Sir, you insult us!

Frederick pressed on: No, I trust that you would not betray me. You are my friends, and I know that you only want what I want. But the risks are greater when too many know.

"We are not the many." Mingo was proud to have risked his own liberty by teaching a slave.

All it takes is one person, one slip of the tongue …

We are sworn to secrecy, said Mingo, relentless.

Frederick continued explaining, You can’t tell what you don’t know. You won’t have to lie.

Harris said, You’re right, Frederick. It’s better that we don’t know the details. If your way is found out, then that’s one less way out for other slaves.

That’s right, said another, joining the change in attitude with nods of his head. There can’t be an Underground Railroad if everyone knows the stops.

You’ll need free papers, said John Chester, a man Frederick admired for his quick intelligence and knowledge. You can use mine.

Thank you, but no. If I’m caught, I don’t want you to be accused of helping an escape.

"But you must have papers," said Mingo, now accepting the situation.

None of you look like me, Frederick said.

Harris, always ready to amuse, commented, Well, you’re goin’ to have some trouble finding a paper that describes a yellow Negro over six feet tall who weighs almost two hundred pounds.

Frederick revealed a small part of his plan to settle the argument. I’ll be a sailor. Sailor papers are general, and hopefully the conductor will be impressed by how I look, what I’m wearing. He didn’t say more; he couldn’t risk implicating Anna in his escape plan, not even to them. In the colored community, everyone talked.

Yes, of course, said Harris, struck dumb by your good looks.

He’d better be, or I will be in deep trouble, replied Frederick. They all laughed.

At that moment, feeling a bond with them again, Frederick did not want to mention farewells or talk about his plans anymore. There would be time to say goodbye, and he did not look forward to it. Their farewells would have to be permanent. They had all talked of leaving Baltimore, of finding a place where they could be truly free, maybe California, or Canada, or even South America. Thousands of miles would separate them soon.

Frederick reached for a glass and lifted it up as a toast, saying, To the United States Navy.

His friends replied, as one, To the Navy.

For the next three weeks, Frederick worked as the obedient slave. He accepted without complaint the jobs Hugh assigned him and contracted for others when Hugh was out of things for him to do. On Saturdays, he relinquished his wages without a scowl, sneer, or comment.

The city now felt like a protective womb, its familiar landmarks sustaining him with memories as he walked the streets one last time. He would miss Baltimore. The last week came, and Frederick completed his arrangements. Needing the free time, he didn’t work that last Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and risked Hugh’s suspicions when he presented him only six dollars that Saturday night in the kitchen.

Frederick saw the question in Hugh eyes: are you holding out on me? But Frederick offered no explanation, afraid to reveal that this was the last night he would ever have to give his earnings to another man.

Hugh smiled indulgently and said, Now, Fred, I know you can have a better week next week. Right?

A simple question was capable of eliciting insolence in a simple answer. From his early childhood, Frederick had learned the possibilities of inflection in a single word. But silence was equally dangerous, a void into which Hugh could dump hostility; and so, he answered with a delicate word reversal, deflecting power away from yes by giving it second place.

Sir, yes.

Once, he enjoyed the game of irritation, finding just the word or gesture that would excite Hugh into spasms of invective, but no more. He wanted everything to be calm now, so he put on the courteous, grinning servant mask again. Sir, anything more tonight?

Pleased, too, Hugh smiled. No, Fred. But check with Miss Sophia before you go to your room.

Frederick went into the parlor, where Sophia Auld always read Bible stories to three of her children. He felt a deep sadness seeing her there. He recalled the times when she had read to him and her son Tommy long ago, so determined to communicate the beauty of language and its moral power.

Miss Sophia, anything else tonight? he asked, never resorting to servile, plantation speech with her.

No, was all she said, not bothering to look up at him.

He closed the door, still mystified that her love could change to hate.

Sunday night he could barely sleep, worrying about capture, anticipating everything that could possibly go wrong. He would miss the scheduled train. He would be betrayed, as he once was on the Eastern Shore. The conductor would doubt his papers and call for the police. Hugh would somehow find him and kill him on the spot, unconcerned what his brother Thomas thought.

On Sunday, he stayed away from the Auld house for most of the day. Hugh didn’t care what Frederick did on Sundays anymore. He just had to be ready for work Monday morning in the house or at the shipyards.

That evening, he quietly knocked on the kitchen door at the Wellses’ house. Looking around, he made sure no one could see him enter at the preplanned time. It was dark, and Anna opened the door without a candle.

After hugging her quickly, he tried to say what needed to be said, the words of comfort and assurance, the bright tokens of certainty offered by a calm voice. But fear gripped him.

I’m afraid, he confessed.

I would be more worried if you weren’t.

I stayed away from the house all day, and tomorrow morning I’ll get up at daybreak, pretending I was going to work at Mr. Butler’s yard again. Right now, he likes me going to yard for work without my telling him, and he gets his money at the end of the week, so he’s not suspicious. This time I had only six dollars, but he didn’t make much of it. But I was sure he could hear the beating of my heart.

And the Pratt and Light Street Station tomorrow.

And Wilmington, Philadelphia, and then New York.

It’s so far.

But I’ll be there, waiting for you to come.

And when I come, we’ll get married.

The same day.

These declarations did not comfort them, but soon they were in each other arms, embracing in the dark after Anna had quietly closed the door to the alley.

Frederick, be careful.

I will, I promise. I will.

It was time to go. Now he had to be all business, or he would never leave her.

I will write to Mingo, he said. He’ll come and tell you the directions for where to find me. See you soon.

He saw tears in her eyes and looked away, fearing another delay. Without embracing her again, he ran down the street, and whispered again and again the name of their future home as if two words could somehow open the very air and place him on Manhattan’s golden streets.

New York, he whispered. New York.

3.

HUGH AULD CAME TO the Wells house three days later, pounding on the front door and yelling, Where is he? Where is he? I know that black bitch knows where he went. She has to tell me!

Mr. Wells opened the door and allowed Hugh to come inside. Hugh ranted. "It took some time to find out, but I’ve been asking around, and she’s been seen with him at church and meetings. If anyone would know, she would know."

Know what, sir? asked Mr. Wells, maintaining his polite composure. And are you talking about what Miss Murray knows?

I don’t care what her name is, Hugh replied, his tone still hot but not as loud. But if she helped my slave escape, there will be hell to pay. It’s against the law to help a slave escape.

And how do you know she helped him? And how do you know he escaped?

Of course I know, Hugh snapped. He’s not been back for three days. I demand to see her. I have questions to ask, and I will have answers.

She is a free colored woman, sir, said Mr. Wells. She doesn’t have to answer your questions.

Hugh softened. He remained emphatic but was no longer belligerent. Sir, you know we need slaves in Baltimore. And you know times are hard and getting harder. If all the slaves got away, we would be all ruined.

We are not talking about all the slaves this morning, just one.

As if this was proof of his claims, Hugh declared with a triumphant rise of his chin, Then you know what I’m talking about.

I know Fred Bailey, if that’s what you mean?

Then you know he’s a slave, and you have to tell his master what you know.

Sir, I am a free man, and I don’t have to tell you anything. And if I did, the only way you could make me talk, if I knew anything, would be in court after I received a subpoena to testify before a judge. Good day, sir.

Please, sir, Hugh pleaded, you are a man of property. You should understand the impact of the loss of something valuable. I just need some help with getting my property returned. That is all.

Wells paused. I will ask Miss Murray if she knows anything about where Mr. Bailey is.

I need to ask her myself, said Hugh, stopping when Wells turned his back.

No, you don’t, Wells said, walking away. This is my house.

He left the parlor and found Anna in the pantry. She had been listening, of course. How could she not hear so heated an exchange? Wells didn’t offer any explanation or repeat Hugh’s avowals. He only asked, Well, Anna, what do you know?

Nothing, sir, she replied directly.

Then you don’t know about his escape?

No, sir, she lied, surprised that she was not at all nervous or feeling threatened.

Were you not seeing each other? He’s been here, I know.

Yes, he sometimes called on me here, and we would see each other at church.

He was friendly to you.

Yes, we were friends.

Was he courting?

Not yet.

But you wanted him to, Wells said.

Yes, but that can’t happen if he’s gone and decided I’m not that important.

If he ran away, Wells asserted.

"If he ran away," Anna repeated.

Slaves do that, said Mr. Wells, as if sympathizing with her loss.

And if he did, I will miss him.

Her heart was beating rapidly, and she was already sick with worry. Nonetheless, she could see that her words had disarmed Mr. Wells. She could hear his thoughts: Anna could not possibly take a burdensome and dangerous risk for a man who would leave her without saying goodbye, risking her safety and reputation for the kind of man the ladies of the house called a cad.

Thank you, Anna. That is all, he said, smiling, and went back to the front parlor.

Unable to handle the disappointing news, Hugh started shouting again, incredulity in every syllable. You actually believe that black bitch? You should know the niggers band together, free and slave together, working against us, making plans. They would kill us all if …

Mr. Wells was not provoked, staying calm even in the face of an uncouth tirade. Sir, you have said enough, and you will leave my house now, or you will be the one in jail.

Are you threatening me? cried Hugh. Are you?

Yes, replied Wells. And if you don’t leave this very minute, I will send Miss Murray to summon the constable, and you will have not one but two coloreds adding to your troubles this morning.

Damn you all to hell, said Hugh, turning toward the door. Damn all you nigger-lovers to hell.

At that moment, it struck Anna that after five years working at the house, she had never heard Mr. Wells use the word nigger. He was a very different kind of white man, thank goodness.

She would miss him when she left for New York.

Now Anna would have to wait to receive word that Frederick had arrived safely. Of course, she could leave right now if she wanted to. She was free. But how would she find Frederick? No, she would have to wait, work and wait, wait and pray. She hoped the Lord was listening.

The waiting was painful. Anna knew Frederick would have to take three trains and four boats to get to New York. Then, if he made it, he would have to send a letter to James Mingo telling him of his safe arrival, and that would take time. Mr. Wells always complained about the slow mail. Would it come by ship, by train, by coach? She didn’t know.

In the meantime, she had to get ready: make sure she had her freedom papers ready for inspection at any time; pack her wedding dress, a new plum silk gown she made herself, simple, no frills, but accented with delicate, white buttons; wrap Frederick’s three books of music carefully so they would not be damaged.

Anna recalled their visit to Mr. Knight’s Bookstore, where Frederick bought his first book. He was excited about showing the store to her, still marveling at the piles of books, the smell, the dust, the promise of so much to read and know. When he revealed his interest in music books for violin and piano, she purchased them while he was distracted. When she presented the package to him on the street, he looked at her with a warmth she had never experienced before. She thought she saw a tear forming in his left eye.

Oh, Anna, he whispered before taking her into his arms, his first show of public affection. They had not hugged, held hands, or kissed anywhere.

Nevertheless, she appreciated this heartfelt and spontaneous embrace because it was exceptional and she didn’t know when it would happen again, if ever. Frederick could be hard and stubborn about his rules.

Good, was her only reply, and then they walked back to Mr. Wells’s house. Staying true to his character, Frederick talked all the way, describing the many books he saw and perused in Mr. Knight’s store.

The memories of that day now comforted her, for they promised future books and a house filled with them and music for their family. But she needed more than promises; she wanted prophecy. One thing was certain: she had to tell Mr. Wells she was leaving.

Anna tried to be as brief as possible, fearing that revealing too much could ruin everything. Sir, I’m leaving. I’m moving away. She almost gave her destination, but she stopped herself.

When? asked Mr. Wells, registering no surprise in his voice or eyes.

Again, Anna hesitated.

Mr. Wells explained, I only need to know so I can hire a girl to replace you.

I’m waiting to hear from Mr. Mingo. He’ll come with a message.

Anna now felt she had said too much. She looked down to hide her fear.

She could hear the warmth in Wells’s voice. Anna, you are a free woman. You don’t have to ask my permission to leave, and you don’t have to tell me about where you are going either.

Thank you, sir.

"And I know no one thinks slavery is good for them. It’s for other people."

That was as close to an admission of his knowledge of the escape as Anna heard. But she needed nothing more to reaffirm that Mr. Wells was a good, decent man who had always treated her kindly.

With her free papers, Anna at least had some protections. The slaves in other houses were treated like dogs, slapped, kicked, and spat upon. Besides, Mr. Wells was a widow, and his children were older. He needed a cook and housekeeper, not a servant at the table, or a nurse for his children. Life was good under Mr. Wells’s roof, but her days there were done.

Mr. Wells turned away, went out to the front of the house, and then returned, handing Anna ten folded one-dollar bank notes. You’ll need this, he said.

Standing in front of him, she exclaimed, Sir, you can’t do this!

His involvement in a slave escape could bring all kinds of trouble for him and his family. People talked crazy these days when it came to escapes.

He pressed her hand, saying, I can pay you whatever I want.

But sir …

You’ll need every cent, he insisted, stepping away to place the money on the sideboard. There’s no time for pride now.

He left the kitchen.

Anna whispered to the door, Thank you, sir, and hoped that she would find another time to thank him face to face. He deserved that.

4.

THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS escape, Frederick could barely sleep. He was too worried about capture, anticipating everything that could go wrong. What sleep he did eventually get was due to the comfort that came from the simplicity of his plan.

After getting dressed at daybreak, he would pretend to leave for work and hide in the narrow alleys biding his time before going to the nearby Pratt Street Station for final boarding. He would not buy a ticket before boarding. The scrutiny of his face, body, and papers by the ticket agent could end everything. At the last minute, an acquaintance would rush to the platform and quickly give Frederick his bag. He would find a seat and hope the conductor would be too busy to notice the difference between the sailor before him and the man described in the papers.

In the alley, he sat behind some large containers, satisfied that he had cover for a few hours. But the hours gave him more time to worry. His mouth felt dry, and he felt sweat dripping under his arms and on his forehead. Oh God. I can’t look nervous. This will give me away. He was about to lift his arm to wipe the sweat off, but he stopped, imagining a dirtied shirt sleeve sure to catch attention. He groaned, wearied by all the details that could entrap him.

Finally, it was time to get to the station five minutes before the train’s scheduled departure. Frederick forced himself to keep his face turned away from the street, since some of the Negro workers, a small army of vendors, servants, and drivers might recognize him. He fingered his loosely knotted cravat as the first boarding whistle blew.

Frederick’s stomach was sour with fear. Where’s Isaac? Frederick frantically wondered, his thoughts a sudden, confused rush of insult and recrimination. I knew he couldn’t be trusted, the stupid fool!

The whistle blew again.

Where is he?

Frederick hurried to the Negro-only car as the wood smoke, pouring out of the funnel shape stack of the engine, thickened the cool morning air.

All aboard! cried the conductor.

The train sputtered as it gathered steam. Frederick hesitated at the door of the crowded car, allowing everyone else to enter. Then he heard his shouted name: Fred Bailey! Fred!

Oh, my God, he used my name. He used my real name.

Frederick turned to Isaac, a thin young man with bulging arm muscles, and grabbed his two large duffel bags.

Right on time, declared Isaac, grinning with pride.

Frederick said nothing and entered the crowded car. Quickly, he found a seat near the back at a window.

Now on his first train, feeling its rumble like a rolling thunder under his seat, Frederick understood the enthusiasm of journalists, who told stories of iron horses charging across the land. As he sat there preparing for the conductor’s arrival and scrutiny of his forged papers, he was, for one fleeting moment, a soldier riding a chariot of fire through the parted Red Sea.

Paper! snapped the conductor entering the car. Frederick immediately pulled out the sailor’s protection. He shuddered as he watched the conductor proceed down the aisle; the white man grumbled, sneered, and snatched tickets, as if everyone annoyed him.

The conductor examined the papers of every Negro passenger closely. Part of his job was to detect runaway slaves. He held each document with two fat fingers as he scanned it, inspected the face of the traveler, and then returned to a more intense reading, as if he suspected forgeries.

When done, he dropped the key document into the lap of the Negro and passed on, saying, Humph! Legitimacy seemed to surprise him every time.

Frederick felt a deep pounding in his chest.

But the conductor’s demeanor changed completely when he came to him. As Frederick had hoped, the conductor saw his uniform more than skin color. Sailors were popular in Maryland, especially in Baltimore and Annapolis.

Sailor, he said warmly, I suppose you have free papers?

No, sir. Frederick smiled broadly. I never carry my free papers to sea with me.

The conductor nodded his head. Oh yes, of course. He leaned forward to speak confidentially. "But you do have something to show that you’re a free man, don’t you?" His tone was patronizing but still friendly. No doubt, he had to cross-examine hundreds of sailors in the area with similar stories.

Yes, sir. Frederick lifted his chest proudly. I have my protection papers with the American eagle on them. That will carry me around the world.

Struggling to keep his hands from trembling and praying that his face didn’t sweat, he handed over the papers with their vague description of a Negro man. Frederick never looked away from the conductor’s gray, inquisitive eyes, and never stopped smiling.

The conductor only glanced at the papers before handing them back.

Where’re you headed? he asked nonchalantly.

Wilmington, replied Frederick, looking for any change in the conductor’s eyes. This city was the last slave city where city police officers, train conductors, and private citizens were especially vigilant. Here was their last chance to prevent an escape to freedom. Any Negro going to Wilmington was suspect.

That will be three dollars. said the conductor, his eyes still kind, without suspicion.

He collected Frederick’s money, gave him a ticket, and moved on, resuming his rude badgering of the other colored passengers.

"Paper! Let me see that paper, boy."

Drained, Frederick, leaned back against the wood seat, closing his eyes for at least a few moments of rest, seeing Baltimore’s harbor, its water bright and blue in the hot sun, the narrow cobblestone streets of Fells Point, the Auld house on Fells Street, his own room on Strawberry Alley, and the Great House of Wye Plantation on the Eastern Shore, its six tall chimneys rising above the thick maple and oak trees. A vision of great beauty still.

At Havre de Grace, all passengers had to disembark and cross the Susquehanna River by ferryboat before boarding another train. Frederick hurried to the boat’s side railing to envision his first steps on the opposite shore. He heard a familiar voice.

Fred Bailey, what you doin’ in a sailor’s suit? Man, where you goin’? When you comin’ back? I didn’t know you signed up … Mr. Hugh let you?

The words were like rattling bullets in his back, and he turned to silence Nicholls, an acquaintance who worked as a hand on the ferryboat.

Be quiet, Frederick whispered vehemently.

Oblivious, Nicholls went on and on. It’s good to see you, Fred. It’s been a long time. You’re lookin’ good in dem clothes. You’re going to the ocean; now that’s a place I don’t wanna see. I heard how dey treats sailors, though. Real hard. Are you sure you wanna do that?

Frederick started to move away.

I know it’s hard to leave friends and places you know, continued Nicholls, a kind, handsome man with the brain of a peanut. It wasn’t easy fo’ me to leave Baltimore an’ work here. I know, yes, I know.

Frederick stopped to reply, hoping to dismiss him with brief civilities. He was surprised at how calm he was with this new danger.

Yes, I’m goin’ away, Nicholls. Thanks for understanding. It’s hard to leave something close, so I need to be alone, if you don’t mind. We’ll see each other when I come back.

Nicholls smiled. "Sure, man … I know what you mean. It ain’t easy, but you do what’s you gotta do."

Frederick moved to another part of the boat, but this time he faced the passengers on the deck, preparing for anything as he leaned against the railing. He didn’t want any more surprises. When at last he disembarked, and boarded the next train to Wilmington, he had another shock. The southbound train now waited at the station on the opposite side, and a former supervisor, Captain McGowan at Mr. Price’s shipyard, sat at a window where he could see Frederick. He had worked under him just a few days ago. Unable to get out of his seat, Frederick quickly turned his head, hoping that the captain was distracted by the commotion of two waiting trains and would not notice him. The two trains moved on.

This was a mere moment, but the impact of that moment was long lasting. He felt like a caged falcon, trapped on all sides.

Then he heard a voice.

Sailor, said a man with a nudge from behind. That white man at the door is lookin’ at you.

Frederick started at the touch and looked to the car door where Stein, a German blacksmith he knew at the shipyards, was staring at him. Frederick berated himself. How could I be so stupid to believe that no one would know or recognize me? I knew this would happen, just knew it.

His words to his neighbor were calm, however: I never saw the man before. He probably thinks I’m someone else.

Stein turned away, and Frederick held his breath.

The conductor could immediately return with help to arrest him, or he could wait and arrest him just before the train reached the last station.

Frederick’s hands tightened into fists, but he knew he would not fight if cornered. He had to survive. He had to live for another day to escape again.

There was nothing he could do until he saw the conductor again.

He felt drained, more tired than after a full day’s work at the shipyards of Fells Point.

But nothing happened. Even so, he had to get through Wilmington. According to all accounts, Wilmington was full of kidnappers and bounty hunters eagerly waiting to take advantage of their last chance to grab fugitives before they crossed the Mason and Dixon line.

Frederick hurried from the train for the boat to Philadelphia, but he made sure to not run and call attention to himself. He ate a piece of bread and some cheese, taken from his bundle, to help slow his pace and naturally avert his eyes from the scrutiny of others. He didn’t bother to note details of the city as he crossed it. He could have been in a tunnel focused only on the light at the end of it.

Finally, he arrived at the riverboat for Philadelphia. He showed his papers without any complications and boarded.

As the ferryboat pushed