Tag: underground-railroad

(Editor’s note: The most heavily traveled route from slavery to freedom involved crossing the Ohio River from Northern Kentucky into Cincinnati. Enslaved people called it “The River Jordan,” symbolizing a perilous but hopeful journey. Cincinnati was a critical hub for the Underground Railroad, with numerous supporters, safe houses, and abolitionist organizations operating there.) 

Well, sir, I can tell you about the Ohio River. It was the line between a man’s bondage and his freedom. I reckon I know it better than most. I crossed it more times than I could count, though I didn’t do it for myself till much later.

You ever stand by the water on a moonless night? You can’t see but ten feet ahead. That’s what it was like most nights I went down there. The cold air bit through my shirt, and sometimes the fog was thicker than smoke. You could hear the current whisperin’, as if it was sayin’ Come on, come on—if you dare.

I was still a young man then and belonged to the Clapp family in Boone County, Kentucky. Their property bordered the river. My mistress, Miss Ellie, she was a strange one. She was kind-hearted, I’ll give her that, but troubled in her soul. She read her Bible every night and said she believed God made all men equal, but her husband surely didn’t share that view. He was a harsh man who doled out his punishments without mercy. I recall seeing him tie one of our workers, Jake, to a tree and whip him without battin’ an eye. I did my chores quietly around him, never lookin’ him straight in the face, lest he see what I really thought of him,

One evening, Miss Ellie knocked on the door of my room in the slave quarters, unusual for her to be out after dark. Standing in the doorway, she looked over her shoulder then back at me. “Samuel,” she said, “The Lord’s put something on my heart. There are folks who need help crossing that river into freedom, and you could be the one to do it. I can help make it possible and no one will suspect you.”

I knew the risk she took in sayin’ that to me. And I knew the far greater risk of what she was askin’ me to do. But her words were a challenge that went straight to my heart. And she was right about no one suspectin’ me. Like most slaves, I was invisible to white folks. I could be standing right in front of them and they would look through me like I was part of the scenery, like the fence posts or the smokehouse.

So I decided to accept Miss Ellie’s challenge, though I was half-sure it would cost me my life.

__

First time I went, Mister Clapp was away on business and Miss Ellie made the arrangements. I used an old wooden rowboat stored in the barn, patched so many times it looked like a quilt. I took a young woman that night, and I thought my knees would give out from fear. Her name was Sarah, and she was holdin’ on to a little sack like it contained her whole world.

“Are you sure you wanna go?” I whispered to her.

“Yessir. More sure than I ever been.”

“Well, OK then.”

I got her on board and pushed us off. There was no moon, the river runnin’ its southwesterly course, the current softly ripplin’. I knew I had to row strong to the north to keep the right direction, then look for a signal on the far shore. It wasn’t easy, my back strainin’ with every pull of the oars.

I could hear Sarah mutterin’ quietly. I strained my ears and could finally make out those familiar words from Psalm 23, “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” She just kept sayin’ it over and over. I’ll be honest. I’m a believer, but that scripture didn’t make my fear go away.

Finally, I saw the lantern light Miss Ellie had promised. Three short swings. That was the sign. When we reached the bank, two men jumped from the dark and my heart leapt in my chest cuz I thought we’d been caught. Instead, they helped us out of the boat.

One of ‘em, an older man with a gray beard, caught my arm and said, “You did good, son. You want something to eat?”

He handed me a piece of bread. It was the first meal I ever ate on free soil, and I swear it was the best thing I ever tasted, even if I wasn’t free myself.

As they turned to lead Sarah away, she glanced back at me in the lantern light and said, “God bless you, sir.”

Those words brought tears to my eyes, and after that, I kept goin’. Miss Ellie would let me know when someone would be waitin’ by the river. Each time she and I conspired together, I grew in my courage and she seemed less troubled.

—

There was one crossing I remember more than most. Another moonless night, same as always, the river runnin’ high with spring rains. I was standin’ by the shore when I saw three figures comin’ through the trees. A man, a woman, and a little boy wrapped in a shawl too big for him.

The man said, “You Samuel?”

“That’s me,” I told him. “We best move quick.”

We climbed into the old rowboat, the little boy clingin’ to his mama’s dress, eyes big as moons. When he whimpered at the cold, I told him, “Hush now, son. We gotta be very quiet.”

Then I pushed off. The current grabbed us right away, strong and mean. I pulled at those oars till my arms burned. The only sound was water hittin’ wood and the boy’s small breaths.

Halfway across, I saw the lantern signal on the far side. But just then, I saw another light behind us movin’ closer. And then came a loud voice.

“Who’s out there? Show yourself or suffer the consequences!”

That’s a sound that’ll freeze the blood in your veins faster than a winter wind. I hissed at my passengers to get down. The woman dropped flat, coverin’ the boy. The man hunkered low. I bent to those oars like a madman.

Then came the gunshots. The first one seemed to crack the dark clean in half. The second one hit the water right behind us. I heard the boy cry out, and I prayed under my breath, “Lord, give me the strength to get us there!”

The signal lanterns were now hidden, so I had to go by memory, hopin’ I could keep us all safe. And then came the sweetest sound of the boat scraping against the shore.

“Out,” I said. “Go quick!”

Two men appeared from the dark, one tall, one short. I could barely make them out in the starlight. The shorter one said, “You Samuel Cranston?”

“Yessir. Miss Ellie sends her regards.”

“Name’s John Parker. You did good. Quickly now, follow me. There’s a safe place nearby.”

We worked together to drag the small boat behind some bushes, and God was with us. The boat that had pursued us veered into the darkness, swept away by the current.

The family and I followed John through some willows, every step a miracle. Then we came to a small cabin with dim yellow light showing through its windows. A white lady opened the door. She didn’t ask no questions, just gave the woman a blanket, the man some bread, and the boy a cup of milk.

I stood by the door drippin’ sweat despite the cool night air, feelin’ like I didn’t belong anywhere. Parker looked over and said, “You’ve got great courage, Samuel. You crossed for more than one soul tonight.”

I told him, “They’re the brave ones. I just row the boat.”

He shook his head. “Every freedom journey starts with someone pulling an oar.”

__

I stayed with the Parkers till dawn, knowin’ Mister Clapp was still away on business and Miss Ellie would cover for me. When the sky started to pale, John walked me back to the river.

“Do you ever think about staying?” he asked me. “We could find you some work and help keep you safe.”

“I think about it every day,” I told him. “But I can’t just yet. There’s still folks on the other side dependin’ on me.”

He nodded. “Then God go with you, Samuel. And when you’re ready, this side’ll still be here.”

We stood a long while, watchin’ the sun change colors on the water. Then I asked him, “You think we’ll see it, John? The day when nobody’s gotta sneak across this river?”

He said, “Maybe not us. But somebody will. Every crossing you make brings that day closer.”

__

I reckon he was right. I kept rowin’ that river till the war came and set us all free, at least on paper. I never did count how many I helped, but it was surely in the hundreds.

I outlived my wife, and my children scattered to other places further north. Now I sit by the river sometimes, my old bones achin’, my hands twisted from years of layin’ concrete for the growing city of Cincy. I listen to the Ohio whisper the same song it always has. A song of possibility and hope. Some nights I swear I can still hear the splash of oars, the soft cries, and the prayers whispered into the fog.

And I never forget that first passage. Sarah mutterin’ that Psalm, and her face as she turned to me and said, “God bless you, sir.” I often wonder what happened to her. Did she really find freedom, I mean real freedom for her soul, or just learn to survive in a country full of hatred and racism? I pray for her and all the others I helped.

A little boy came by once while I was sittin’ there on the riverbank. He was fishin’ with a crooked stick. He asked me, “Mister, is this where the slaves used to run across?”

I told him, “That’s right. This here’s the place.”

He looked puzzled. “Mama says people can’t fly.”

I laughed at that. “Sometimes they can. You just got to have faith, and a strong enough river.”

He didn’t understand, but that’s all right. Someday maybe he will.