The Kidnapped And The Ransomed Part 1

The Kidnapped and the Ransomed.

by Mrs. Kate E. R. Pickard.

INTRODUCTION.

WITHIN the last four years, many hundreds, probably thousands, of persons in our nominally free States, have seen Peter Still, a neat, staid black man, going from city to city, town to town, house to house, asking a.s.sistance to enable him to purchase the freedom of his wife and children. He has always been grateful for the smallest favors, and never morose when utterly denied. He has not obtruded himself or his story; but those who have shown curiosity enough to make any inquiries, have been soon led to suspect that he was no common man; that the events of his life had been thrillingly interesting--some of them even more wonderful than we often meet with in works of fiction. Kidnapped, in his early childhood, from the door-step of his home in New Jersey; more than forty years a slave in Kentucky and Alabama; his unsuccessful appeal to the great Henry Clay; his liberation through the generosity of a Jew; his restoration to his mother by the guidance of the slightest threads of memory; the yearning of his heart for his loved ones; the heroic but disastrous attempt of Concklin to bring his wife and children to him--wherever these incidents of his life were detailed, they seldom failed to draw from the hand of the listener some contribution towards the exorbitant sum demanded for the liberation of his family.

Words of discouragement, even from his warmest friends, fell without weight on the heart of Peter Still. Arguments, sometimes urged against the propriety of paying, especially an exorbitant price, for liberty, were parried by him with a skill not to be acquired in "The Schools." His soul was intent upon a great purpose. He could not be withheld; he could not be turned aside.

His perseverance, his patience, his exactness, his tact, everywhere attracted attention, and often commanded respect. In less than three years, his wife and children were restored to him; and, after a few weeks spent in seeing and being seen by friends and relatives, they all settled themselves in employments, by which they are earning comfortable livelihoods, and laying the foundation of future independence.

It was thought, by most of those who had heard the histories of Peter Still and Seth Concklin, that such histories ought not to remain unwritten or unpublished. It was believed that good narratives of both of these remarkable men, would give to the people of the Northern States some new ill.u.s.trations of the horrors of that "peculiar inst.i.tution," which has well-nigh subjugated to itself our entire Republic.

It so happened that a lady was at hand, singularly qualified for the former and larger part of the task, not only by her ability as a writer, but by her personal acquaintance with Peter Still, while he was in bondage. Mrs. Pickard had lived several years in the very town, or neighborhood, where most of the events transpired that would come into the narrative. She knew personally many of the individuals, who had acted conspicuous parts in the tragedy she was called upon to write. Moreover, she had conceived a very just appreciation of the character of this man and woman, who, under the laws of our country, had been subjected to all that domestic servitude can do to imbrute human beings, and yet retained so much that is distinctive of the best specimens of our race. She was therefore persuaded to undertake the work, which is now given to the public.

The writer of this narrative was a highly, esteemed teacher in the Female Seminary of Tusc.u.mbia, Alabama. There Peter Still was employed in several menial offices, and was subject to her observation every day for many months. She often admired his untiring diligence, his cheerful patience, his eagerness to get work rather than to avoid it, and his earnest gratefulness for the perquisites that were frequently bestowed upon him by the many, whom he served in various ways, and served so well. Little did she suspect what was the mainspring of the intense life that she witnessed in the poor slave-man, who seemed to her to have so little to live for. She did not know that (as he has since told her) he was "hungering and thirsting after liberty," which had been promised him by a compa.s.sionate Jew, who then owned him, for a sum that it seemed possible for him to acc.u.mulate. It was that hunger and thirst which filled "Uncle Peter" with all the graces, and brought him all the gifts, that he needed to attain the object of his heart's desire. He had long been known, and universally respected and loved, in the town where he lived. Everybody believed that what Uncle Peter said was true; and that every duty imposed upon him would be faithfully discharged. But the amount of labor that he was then accustomed to perform had come to be a matter of frequent remark and admiration. Some attributed his severe toil to the requirements of his Jew master. They had yet to learn, that there is a harder driver than any Jewish or Christian slaveholder, even the man's own spirit, when the priceless boon of liberty is set before him, as an incitement to exertion.

We can promise the lovers of exciting adventure very much in the ensuing volume to gratify their taste; and all those who really desire to fathom the heights and depths of that Iniquity which is threatening the destruction of our Republic, may turn to these pages, in the a.s.surance that they will find in them a great amount and variety of information, derived from the most authentic sources, and given with the strictest regard to truth.

In this narrative will also be found, incidentally, but very clearly given, intimations of many excellences that are latent, as well as lively sketches of some that are patent, in the negro variety of our race--indeed, all the qualities of our common, and of our uncommon humanity--persistence in the pursuit of a desired object; ingenuity in the device of plans for its attainment; self-possession and self-command that can long keep a cherished purpose unrevealed; a deep, instinctive faith in G.o.d; a patience under hards.h.i.+p and hope deferred, which never dies; and, withal, a joyousness which, like a life-preserver, bears one above the dark waves of unparalleled trouble[.]

The latter and smaller portion of this volume--the Sketch of the Life of Seth Concklin--was written by a gentleman who has long held so high a place among American authors, that we shall not presume to give him our commendation. That Dr. Wm. H. Furness, of Philadelphia, deemed the merits of Seth Concklin to be such as to deserve a tribute from his pen, must be a sufficient a.s.surance that the subject of this sketch had evinced traits of character, and done deeds, or endured trials, worthy of commemoration. Those who know that Dr. Furness never touches anything that he does not adorn, will go to the perusal of his portion of this book, in the confident expectation of being delighted with the unaffected beauty of the sketch, and of having their sympathies and better feelings made to flow in unison with those of the true-hearted author. They will close the volume with grat.i.tude to Dr. F., for having rescued from oblivion, and placed before his countrymen, another well-authenticated example of successful conflict with appalling difficulties in early life; of unwavering fidelity to right principles, in the midst of great temptations; and of heroic, disinterested self-sacrifice in the cause of suffering humanity.

SAMUEL J. MAY.SYRACUSE, Feb. 14, 1856.

THE KIDNAPPED AND THE RANSOMED.

CHAPTER I. THE KIDNAPPER.

LATE in the afternoon of a pleasant summer day, two little boys were playing before the door of their mother's cottage. They were apparently about six or eight years old, and though their faces wore a dusky hue, their hearts were gay, and their laugh rang out clear and free.

Their dress was coa.r.s.e, and in no wise restrained the motions of their agile limbs, for it consisted merely of a cotton s.h.i.+rt, reaching no lower than the knee.

How they ran races down the road, and turned summersets on the green gra.s.s! How their eyes danced with merriment, and their white teeth glistened in the pleasant light!

But as the day wore on they grew weary, and with childhood's first impulse, sought their mother. She was not in the house. All there was still and lonely. In one corner stood her bed, covered with a clean blanket, and the baby's cradle was empty by its side.

Grandmother's bed, in another corner of the room, was made up nicely, and every article of the simple furniture was in its accustomed place. Where could they all have gone?

"I reckon," said Levin, "mammy's gone to church. The preachin'

must be mighty long! O! I's so hongry! I's gwine to meetin' to see if she's thar."

The "church" stood in the woods, about a mile off. It was an old white building that had formerly been occupied by the family of S.

G., who now lived in a large brick house close by. The boys had often been at the church with their father, who kept the key of the building, and opened it for wors.h.i.+p on Sundays, and prayer-meeting nights.

"You better not go thar, I reckon," replied Peter, the younger of the two boys, "Mammy 'll whip you well if you goes to foller her to meetin', and all about."

"Mammy! O Mammy!"

Thus they called their mother, and cried because she did not answer, till their eyes were swollen, and their pleasant play forgotten.

Soon the sound of wheels diverted them for a moment from their childish grief, and looking up the road, they saw a handsome gig approaching. Its only occupant was a tall dark man, with black and glossy hair, which fell heavily below his white hat.

He looked earnestly at the little boys as he approached, and marking their evident distress, he checked his horse, and kindly asked the cause of their sorrow.

"Oh! Mammy's done gone off, and there's n.o.body to give us our supper, and we're so hongry."

"Where is your mother?"

"Don't know, sir," replied Levin, "but I reckon she's gone to church,"

"Well, don't you want to ride? Jump up here with me, and I'll take you to your mother. I'm just going to church. Come! quick! What!

no clothes but a s.h.i.+rt? Go in and get a blanket. It will be night soon, and you will be cold."

Away they both ran for a blanket. Levin seized one from his mother's bed, and in his haste pushed the door against his brother, who was robbing his grandmother's couch of its covering.

The blanket was large, and little Peter, crying all the while, was repeatedly tripped by its falling under his feet while he was running to the gig.

The stranger lifted them up, and placing them between his feet, covered them carefully with the blankets, that they might not be cold. He spoke kindly to them, meanwhile, still a.s.suring them that he would soon take them to their mother.

Away they went very swiftly, rejoicing in their childish hearts to think how their mother would wonder when she should see them coming.

After riding for some time--how long they could not guess--they suddenly upset in the water with a great splash. The strange man had, in his haste, driven too near the bank of the river, and the slight vehicle had thus been overturned. He soon rescued the children from the water. They were much frightened, but nothing was injured by the accident, and in a few minutes they were once more covered with the blankets, and flying along the river bank faster even than before.

When the gig stopped again, the sun was just setting. They were at the water side, and before them lay many boats, and vessels of different kinds. They had never seen anything like these before, but they had short time to gratify their childish curiosity; for they were hurried on board a boat, which left the sh.o.r.e immediately.

With the a.s.surance that they should now find their mother, they trusted implicitly, in their new-made friend; who strengthened their confidence in himself by gentle words and timely gifts. Cakes of marvellous sweetness were ever ready for them, if they grew impatient of the length of the journey; and their childish hearts could know no distrust of one whose words and acts were kind.

How long they were on the boat they did not know; nor by what other means they travelled could they afterwards remember, until they reached Versailles, Kentucky. Here their self-const.i.tuted guardian, whom they now heard addressed as Kincaid, placed them in a wagon with a colored woman and her child, and conveyed them to Lexington.

This was the first town they had ever seen, and as they were conducted up Main street, they were filled with wonder and admiration.

Kincaid took them to a plain brick house where dwelt one John Fisher, a mason by trade, and proprietor of a large brick yard.

After some conversation between the gentlemen, which of course the children did not understand, they were taken out to the kitchen, and presented to Aunt Betty, the cook.

"There, my, boys," said Kincaid, "there is your mother--we've found her at last."

"No! no!" they shrieked, "that's not our mother! O, please, sir! take us back!" With tears and cries they clung to him who had abused their guileless trust, and begged him not to leave them there.

This scene was soon ended by John Fisher himself, who, with a hearty blow on each cheek, bade them "hus.h.!.+" "you belong to me now, you little rascals, and I'll have no more of this. There's Aunt Betty, she's your mammy now; and if you behave yourselves, she'll be good to you."

Kincaid soon departed, and they never saw him again. They learned, however, from a white apprentice, who lived in the house, that he received from. Mr. Fisher one hundred and fifty-five dollars for Levin, and one hundred and fifty for Peter.

Poor children! what a heavy cloud now shadowed their young lives!

For the first few weeks they talked constantly of going back to their mother--except when their master was near. They soon learned that they must not mention the subject in his presence.

He was, in the main, a kind, indulgent man--but were they not his money? Why should he allow them to prate about being stolen, when he had bought them, and paid a right good price?

"Father," said John Fisher, junior, "isn't Philadelphia in a free State?"

"Certainly--it is in Pennsylvania."