Harriet, The Moses of Her People by Sarah H. Bradford

S >> Sarah H. Bradford >> Harriet, The Moses of Her People

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

Produced by Maria Cecilia Lim and PG Distributed Proofreaders

[Illustration: Letter from Susan B. Anthony, January, 1903.]

HARRIET

THE MOSES OF HER PEOPLE

By

SARAH H. BRADFORD

"Farewell, ole Marster, don't think hard of me,
I'm going on to Canada, where all de slaves are free."

"Jesus, Jesus will go wid you,
He will lead you to His throne,
He who died has gone before you,
Trod de wine-press all alone."

COPYRIGHT, 1886, BY SARAH H. BRADFORD.

PREFACE.

The title I have given my black heroine, in this second edition of
her story, viz.: THE MOSES OF HER PEOPLE, may seem a little
ambitious, considering that this Moses was a woman, and that she
succeeded in piloting only three or four hundred slaves from the
land of bondage to the land of freedom.

But I only give her here the name by which she was familiarly
known, both at the North and the South, during the years of terror
of the Fugitive Slave Law, and during our last Civil War, in both
of which she took so prominent a part.

And though the results of her unexampled heroism were not to free
a whole nation of bond-men and bond-women, yet this object was as
much the desire of her heart, as it was of that of the great
leader of Israel. Her cry to the slave-holders, was ever like his
to Pharaoh, "Let my people go!" and not even he imperiled life and
limb more willingly, than did our courageous and self-sacrificing
friend.

Her name deserves to be handed down to posterity, side by side
with the names of Jeanne D'Arc, Grace Darling, and Florence
Nightingale, for not one of these women, noble and brave as they
were, has shown more courage, and power of endurance, in facing
danger and death to relieve human suffering, than this poor black
woman, whose story I am endeavoring in a most imperfect way to
give you.

Would that Mrs. Stowe had carried out the plan she once projected,
of being the historian of our sable friend; by her graphic pen,
the incidents of such a life might have been wrought up into a
tale of thrilling interest, equaling, if not exceeding her world
renowned "Uncle Tom's Cabin."

The work fell to humbler hands, and the first edition of this
story, under the title of "Harriet Tubman," was written in the
greatest possible haste, while the writer was preparing for a
voyage to Europe. There was pressing need for this book, to save
the poor woman's little home from being sold under a mortgage, and
letters and facts were penned down rapidly, as they came in. The
book has now been in part re-written and the letters and
testimonials placed in an appendix.

For the satisfaction of the incredulous (and there will naturally
be many such, when so strange a tale is repeated to them), I will
here state that so far as it has been possible, I have received
corroboration of every incident related to me by my heroic friend.
I did this for the satisfaction of others, not for my own. No one
can hear Harriet talk, and not believe every word she says. As Mr.
Sanborn says of her, "she is too _real_ a person, not to be true."

Many incidents quite as wonderful as those related in the story, I
have rejected, because I had no way in finding the persons who
could speak to their truth.

This woman was the friend of William H. Seward, of Gerritt Smith,
of Wendell Phillips, of William Lloyd Garrison, and of many other
distinguished philanthropists before the War, as of very many
officers of the Union Army during the conflict.

After her almost superhuman efforts in making her own escape from
slavery, and then returning to the South _nineteen times_, and
bringing away with her over three hundred fugitives, she was sent
by Governor Andrew of Massachusetts to the South at the beginning
of the War, to act as spy and scout for our armies, and to be
employed as hospital nurse when needed.

Here for four years she labored without any remuneration, and
during the time she was acting as nurse, never drew but twenty
days' rations from our Government. She managed to support herself,
as well as to take care of the suffering soldiers.

Secretary Seward exerted himself in every possible way to procure
her a pension from Congress, but red-tape proved too strong even
for him, and her case was rejected, because it did not come under
any recognized law.

The first edition of this little story was published through the
liberality of Gerritt Smith, Wendell Phillips, and prominent men
in Auburn, and the object for which it was written was
accomplished. But that book has long been out of print, and the
facts stated there are all unknown to the present generation.
There have, I am told, often been calls for the book, which could
not be answered, and I have been urged by many friends as well as
by Harriet herself, to prepare another edition. For another
necessity has arisen and she needs help again not for herself, but
for certain helpless ones of her people.

Her own sands are nearly run, but she hopes, 'ere she goes home,
to see this work, a hospital, well under way. Her last breath and
her last efforts will be spent in the cause of those for whom she
has already risked so much.

For them her tears will fall,
For them her prayers ascend;
To them her toils and cares be given,
Till toils and cares shall end.
S.H.B.

Letter from Mr. Oliver Johnson for the second edition:

NEW YORK, _March 6_, 1886.

MY DEAR MADAM:

I am very glad to learn that you are about to publish a revised
edition of your life of that heroic woman, Harriet Tubman, by
whose assistance so many American slaves were enabled to break
their bonds.

During the period of my official connection with the Anti-Slavery
office in New York, I saw her frequently, when she came there with
the companies of slaves, whom she had successfully piloted away
from the South; and often listened with wonder to the story of
her adventures and hair-breadth escapes.

She always told her tale with a modesty which showed how
unconscious she was of having done anything more than her simple
duty. No one who listened to her could doubt her perfect
truthfulness and integrity.

Her shrewdness in planning the escape of slaves, her skill in
avoiding arrest, her courage in every emergency, and her
willingness to endure hardship and face any danger for the sake of
her poor followers was phenomenal.

I regret to hear that she is poor and ill, and hope the sale of
your book will give her the relief she so much needs and so well
deserves.

Yours truly,

OLIVER JOHNSON.

AUBURN THEOL. SEMINARY,
_March_ 16, 1886.

By PROFESSOR HOPKINS

The remarkable person who is the subject of the following sketch,
has been residing mostly ever since the close of the war in the
outskirts of the City of Auburn, during all which time I have been
well acquainted with her. She has all the characteristics of the
pure African race strongly marked upon her, though from which one
of the various tribes that once fed the Barracoons, on the Guinea
coast, she derived her indomitable courage and her passionate love
of freedom I know not; perhaps from the Fellatas, in whom those
traits were predominant.

Harriet lives upon a farm which the twelve hundred dollars given
her by Mrs. Bradford from the proceeds of the first edition of
this little book, enabled her to redeem from a mortgage held by
the late Secretary Seward.

Her household is very likely to consist of several old black
people, "bad with the rheumatize," some forlorn wandering woman,
and a couple of small images of God cut in ebony. How she manages
to feed and clothe herself and them, the Lord best knows. She has
too much pride and too much faith to beg. She takes thankfully,
but without any great effusiveness of gratitude, whatever God's
messengers bring her.

I have never heard that she absolutely lacked. There are some good
people in various parts of the country, into whose hearts God
sends the thought, from time to time, that Harriet may be at the
bottom of the flour sack, or of the potatoes, and the "help in
time of need" comes to her.

Harriet's simplicity and ignorance have, in some cases, been
imposed upon, very signally in one instance in Auburn, a few years
ago; but nobody who knows her has the slightest doubt of her
perfect integrity.

The following sketch taken by Mrs. Bradford, chiefly from
Harriet's own recollections, which are wonderfully distinct and
minute, but also from other corroborative sources, gives but a
very imperfect account of what this woman has been.

Her color, and the servile condition in which she was born and
reared, have doomed her to obscurity, but a more heroic soul did
not breathe in the bosom of Judith or of Jeanne D'Arc.

No fear of the lash, the blood-hound, or the fiery stake, could
divert her from her self-imposed task of leading as many as
possible of her people "from the land of Egypt, from the house of
bondage."

The book is good literature for the black race, or the white race,
and though no similar conditions may arise, to test the
possibilities that are in any of them, yet the example of this
poor slave woman may well stand out before them, and before all
people, black or white, to show what a lofty and martyr spirit may
accomplish, struggling against overwhelming obstacles.

HARRIET,

THE MOSES OF HER PEOPLE.

On a hot summer's day, perhaps sixty years ago, a group of merry
little darkies were rolling and tumbling in the sand in front of
the large house of a Southern planter. Their shining skins gleamed
in the sun, as they rolled over each other in their play, and
their voices, as they chattered together, or shouted in glee,
reached even to the cabins of the negro quarter, where the old
people groaned in spirit, as they thought of the future of those
unconscious young revelers; and their cry went up, "O, Lord, how
long!"

Apart from the rest of the children, on the top rail of a fence,
holding tight on to the tall gate post, sat a little girl of
perhaps thirteen years of age; darker than any of the others, and
with a more decided _woolliness_ in the hair; a pure unmitigated
African. She was not so entirely in a state of nature as the
rollers in the dust beneath her; but her only garment was a short
woolen skirt, which was tied around her waist, and reached about
to her knees. She seemed a dazed and stupid child, and as her head
hung upon her breast, she looked up with dull blood-shot eyes
towards her young brothers and sisters, without seeming to see
them. Bye and bye the eyes closed, and still clinging to the post,
she slept. The other children looked up and said to each other,
"Look at Hatt, she's done gone off agin!" Tired of their present
play ground they trooped off in another direction, but the girl
slept on heavily, never losing her hold on the post, or her seat
on her perch. Behold here, in the stupid little negro girl, the
future deliverer of hundreds of her people; the spy and scout of
the Union armies; the devoted hospital nurse; the protector of
hunted fugitives; the eloquent speaker in public meetings; the
cunning eluder of pursuing man-hunters; the heaven guided pioneer
through dangers seen and unseen; in short, as she has well been
called, "The Moses of her People."

Here in her thirteenth year she is just recovering from the first
terrible effects of an injury inflicted by her master, who in an
ungovernable fit of rage threw a heavy weight at the unoffending
child, breaking in her skull, and causing a pressure upon her
brain, from which in her old age she is suffering still. This
pressure it was which caused the fits of somnolency so frequently
to come upon her, and which gave her the appearance of being
stupid and half-witted in those early years. But that brain which
seemed so dull was full of busy thoughts, and her life problem was
already trying to work itself out there.

She had heard the shrieks and cries of women who were being
flogged in the negro quarter; she had listened to the groaned out
prayer, "Oh, Lord, have mercy!" She had already seen two older
sisters taken away as part of a chain gang, and they had gone no
one knew whither; she had seen the agonized expression on their
faces as they turned to take a last look at their "Old Cabin
Home;" and had watched them from the top of the fence, as they
went off weeping and lamenting, till they were hidden from her
sight forever. She saw the hopeless grief of the poor old mother,
and the silent despair of the aged father, and already she began
to revolve in her mind the question, "Why should such things be?"
"Is there no deliverance for my people?"

The sun shone on, and Harriet still slept seated on the fence
rail. They, those others, had no anxious dreams of the future, and
even the occasional sufferings of the present time caused them but
a temporary grief. Plenty to eat, and warm sunshine to bask in,
were enough to constitute their happiness; Harriet, however, was
not one of these. God had a great work for her to do in the world,
and the discipline and hardship through which she passed in her
early years, were only preparing her for her after life of
adventure and trial; and through these to come out as the Savior
and Deliverer of her people, when she came to years of womanhood.

As yet she had seen no "visions," and heard no "voices;" no
foreshadowing of her life of toil and privation, of flight before
human blood-hounds, of watchings, and hidings, of perils by land,
and perils by sea, yea, and of perils by false brethren, or of
miraculous deliverance had yet come to her. No hint of the great
mission of her life, to guide her people from the land of bondage
to the land of freedom. But, "Why should such things be?" and "Is
there no help?" These were the questions of her waking hours.

The dilapidated state of things about the "Great House" told truly
the story of waning fortunes, and poverty was pressing upon the
master. One by one the able-bodied slaves disappeared; some were
sold, others hired to other masters. No questions were asked; no
information given; they simply disappeared. A "lady," for so she
was designated, came driving up to the great house one day, to see
if she could find there a young girl to take care of a baby. The
lady wished to pay low wages, and so the most stupid and the most
incapable of the children on the plantation was chosen to go with
her. Harriet, who could command less wages than any other child of
her age on the plantation, was therefore put into the wagon
without a word of explanation, and driven off to the lady's house.
It was not a very fine house, but Harriet had never before been in
any dwelling better than the cabins of the negro quarter.

She was engaged as child's nurse, but she soon found that she was
expected to be maid of all work by day, as well as child's nurse
by night. The first task that was set her was that of sweeping and
dusting a parlor. No information was vouchsafed as to the manner
of going about this work, but she had often swept out the cabin,
and this part of her task was successfully accomplished. Then at
once she took the dusting cloth, and wiped off tables, chairs and
mantel-piece. The dust, as dust will do, when it has nowhere else
to go, at once settled again, and chairs and tables were soon
covered with a white coating, telling a terrible tale against
Harriet, when her Mistress came in to see how the work progressed.
Reproaches, and savage words, fell upon the ears of the frightened
child, and she was commanded to do the work all over again. It was
done in precisely the same way, as before, with the same result.
Then the whip was brought into requisition, and it was laid on
with no light hand. Five times before breakfast this process was
repeated, when a new actor appeared upon the scene. Miss Emily, a
sister of the Mistress, had been roused from her morning slumber
by the sound of the whip, and the screams of the child; and being
of a less imperious nature than her sister, she had come in to try
to set matters right.

"Why do you whip the child, Susan, for not doing what she has
never been taught to do? Leave her to me a few minutes, and you
will see that she will soon learn how to sweep and dust a room."
Then Miss Emily instructed the child to open the windows, and
sweep, then to leave the room, and set the table, while the dust
settled; and after that to return and wipe it off. There was no
more trouble of that kind. A few words might have set the matter
right before; but in those days many a poor slave suffered for the
stupidity and obstinacy of a master or mistress, more stupid than
themselves.

When the labors, unremitted for a moment, of the long day were
over (for this mistress was an economical woman, and intended to
get the worth of her money to the uttermost farthing), there was
still no rest for the weary child, for there was a cross baby to
be rocked continuously, lest it should wake and disturb the
mother's rest. The black child sat beside the cradle of the white
child, so near the bed, that the lash of the whip would reach her
if she ventured for a moment to forget her fatigues and sufferings
in sleep. The Mistress reposed upon her bed with the whip on a
little shelf over her head. People of color are, unfortunately, so
constituted that even if the pressure of a broken skull does not
cause a sleep like the sleep of the dead, the need of rest, and
the refreshment of slumber after a day of toil, were often felt by
them. No doubt, this was a great wrong to their masters, and a
cheating them of time which belonged to them, but their slaves did
not always look upon it in that light, and tired nature would
demand her rights; and so nature and the Mistress had a fight for
it.

Rock, rock, went the cradle, and mother and child slept; but alas!
the little black hand would sometimes slip down, and the head
would droop, and a dream of home and mother would visit the weary
one, only to be roughly dispelled by the swift descent of the
stinging lash, for the baby had cried out and the mother had been
awakened. This is no fictitious tale. That poor neck is even now
covered with the scars which sixty years of life have not been
able to efface. It may be that she was thus being prepared by the
long habit of enforced wakefulness, for the night watches in the
woods, and in dens and caves of the earth, when the pursuers were
on her track, and the terrified ones were trembling in her shadow.
We do not thank _you_ for this, cruel woman! for if you did her a
service, you did it ignorantly, and only for your own gratification.
But Harriet's powers of endurance failed at last, and she was
returned to her master, a poor, scarred wreck, nothing but skin and
bone, with the words that "She wasn't worth a sixpence."

The poor old mother nursed her back to life, and her naturally
good constitution asserted itself, so that as she grew older she
began to show signs of the wonderful strength which in after
years, when the fugitive slave law was in operation in New York
State, enabled her to seize a man from the officers who had him in
charge, and while numbers were pursuing her, and the shot was
flying like hail about her head, to bear him in her own strong
arms beyond the reach of danger.

As soon as she was strong enough for work, Harriet was hired out
to a man whose tyranny was worse, if possible, than that of the
woman she had left. Now it was out of door drudgery which was put
upon her. The labor of the horse and the ox, the lifting of
barrels of flour and other heavy weights were given to her; and
powerful men often stood astonished to see this woman perform
feats of strength from which they shrunk incapable. This cruelty
she looks upon as a blessing in disguise (a very questionable
shape the blessing took, methinks), for by it she was prepared for
after needs.

Still the pressure upon the brain continued, and with the weight
half lifted, she would drop off into a state of insensibility,
from which even the lash in the hand of a strong man could not
rouse her. But if they had only known it, the touch of a gentle
hand upon her shoulder, and her name spoken in tones of kindness,
would have accomplished what cruelty failed to do.

The day's work must be accomplished, whether the head was racked
with pain, and the frame was consumed by fever, or not; but the
day came at length when poor Harriet could work no more. The sting
of the lash had no power to rouse her now, and the new master
finding her a dead weight on his hands, returned the useless piece
of property to him who was called her "owner." And while she lay
there helpless, this man was bringing other men to look at her,
and offering her for sale at the lowest possible price; at the
same time setting forth her capabilities, if once she were strong
and well again.

Harriet's religious character I have not yet touched upon. Brought
up by parents possessed of strong faith in God, she had never
known the time, I imagine, when she did not trust Him, and cling
to Him, with an all-abiding confidence. She seemed ever to feel
the Divine Presence near, and she talked with God "as a man
talketh with his friend." Hers was not the religion of a morning
and evening prayer at stated times, but when she felt a need, she
simply told God of it, and trusted Him to set the matter right.

"And so," she said to me, "as I lay so sick on my bed, from
Christmas till March, I was always praying for poor ole master.
'Pears like I didn't do nothing but pray for ole master. 'Oh,
Lord, convert ole master;' 'Oh, dear Lord, change dat man's heart,
and make him a Christian.' And all the time he was bringing men to
look at me, and dey stood there saying what dey would give, and
what dey would take, and all I could say was, 'Oh, Lord, convert
ole master.' Den I heard dat as soon as I was able to move I was
to be sent with my brudders, in the chain-gang to de far South.
Then I changed my prayer, and I said, 'Lord, if you ain't never
going to change dat man's heart, _kill him_, Lord, and take him
out of de way, so he won't do no more mischief.' Next ting I heard
ole master was dead; and he died just as he had lived, a wicked,
bad man. Oh, den it 'peared like I would give de world full of
silver and gold, if I had it, to bring dat pore soul back, I would
give _myself_; I would give eberyting! But he was gone, I couldn't
pray for him no more."

As she recovered from this long illness, a deeper religious spirit
seemed to take possession of her than she had ever experienced
before. She literally "prayed without ceasing." "'Pears like, I
prayed all de time," she said, "about my work, eberywhere; I was
always talking to de Lord. When I went to the horse-trough to wash
my face, and took up de water in my hands, I said, 'Oh, Lord, wash
me, make me clean.' When I took up de towel to wipe my face and
hands, I cried, 'Oh, Lord, for Jesus' sake, wipe away all my
sins!' When I took up de broom and began to sweep, I groaned, 'Oh,
Lord, whatsoebber sin dere be in my heart, sweep it out, Lord,
clar and clean;' but I can't pray no more for pore ole master." No
words can describe the pathos of her tones as she broke into these
words of earnest supplication.

What was to become of the slaves on this plantation now that the
master was dead? Were they all to be scattered and sent to
different parts of the country? Harriet had many brothers and
sisters, all of whom with the exception of the two, who had gone
South with the chain-gang, were living on this plantation, or were
hired out to planters not far away. The word passed through the
cabins that another owner was coming in, and that none of the
slaves were to be sold out of the State. This assurance satisfied
the others, but it did not satisfy Harriet. Already the inward
monitor was whispering to her, "Arise, flee for your life!" and in
the visions of the night she saw the horsemen coming, and heard
the shrieks of women and children, as they were being torn from
each other, and hurried off no one knew whither.

And beckoning hands were ever motioning her to come, and she
seemed to see a line dividing the land of slavery from the land of
freedom, and on the other side of that line she saw lovely white
ladies waiting to welcome her, and to care for her. Already in her
mind her people were the Israelites in the land of Egypt, while
far away to the north _somewhere_, was the land of Canaan; but had
she as yet any prevision that _she_ was to be the Moses who was to
be their leader, through clouds of darkness and fear, and fires of
tribulation to that promised land? This she never said.

One day there were scared faces seen in the negro quarter, and
hurried whispers passed from one to another. No one knew how it
had come out, but some one had heard that Harriet and two of her
brothers were very soon, perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow, to be
sent far South with a gang, bought up for plantation work. Harriet
was about twenty or twenty-five years old at this time, and the
constantly recurring idea of escape at _sometime_, took sudden
form that day, and with her usual promptitude of action she was
ready to start at once.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8