ROAD TO FREEDOM

This story by Eunice Merton was first published in "The Gristmill" newspaper, February 7, 1947, in her column Between Nursery Rows. 

(Gristmill editor’s note: This is a dramatized version of an incident in the life of the abolitionist John Brown during his life in Richfield.  It is based on facts given Eunice Merton by Miss Jenny Oviatt of Richfield. She got the details direct from her grandmother, the Fanny Oviatt mentioned in the story.)

“Whatever are you putting a load of hay on the wagon at night for?”, Fanny Oviatt asked her husband.

Mason’s eyes shifted down to his boots, and Fanny checked an instinct to reach out and pat him. She had picked him out and married him from the five Oviatt boys, all over six feet tall and with muscle and brawn that could out lift anyone in Richfield Township, or Summit County, for that matter. She was sure he would be willing to stand up to anyone in the state of Ohio, and she loved him for it. She wondered if she didn’t love him even more at times like this, when he was shy and wouldn’t face her because he had done something of which she might disapprove.

“I’m hauling it for Uncle Heman”.

“Where to?”

“West a ways.”

“As far as Oberlin?” Fanny’s voice was frightened. “Are you getting mixed up with John Brown and runaway slaves? I’d almost as soon see you get mixed up with Mallett’s counterfeiting gang”, Fanny said. “Did you fix it so those poor men can breathe? They’ll be half scared to death without smothering them, too.”

“Don’t you worry.  I’ll get ‘em there safe.  I may be gone three or four days.”

With a lift of his massive shoulders, he went out across the yard to the barn to put the team to the wagon. The horses trotted smartly out the drive and turned east on the main road. Their feet clattered on the plank bridge over the creek that fed into Rocky River. The sound carried to Fanny’s listening ears. Mason slowed the team for the grade over the natural bridge. It was all uphill through West Richfield, and then down to the center where the stagecoach road went through from Cleveland to Massillon. John Brown lived in the second house east of the center on the south side of the road. 

He ought to have stuck to tanning, Mason said to himself. Hudson folks say he is the best tanner west of the Alleghenies. He’s a good sheep herder too. Mason slowed the horses down and turned them into the drive. Jason, a tall, lanky youth, the first of Brown’s sons by his first wife, came out with a lantern and showed him where to turn the team and bring them back up to the house. The horses faced the road so that anyone passing could not see what was going on at the back of the wagon.  Jason blew out the lantern and said, “Father is in the house. He said for you to come in. I’ll watch the team.” 

Mason went in to where John Brown was sitting wrapped in quilt by the fire. He looked old, older than his 42 years. But perhaps that was because he was gaunt and thin. When he talked, there was glitter in his blue eyes that was brighter than the fire of fevers. He gave his instructions concisely. 

“Do you understand – perfectly?”, he asked. Mason nodded. “May God be with you and all that will be in your care on this journey.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brown.” 

At a nod from his father, John Jr. went down the inner steps to the cellar, and Mason went out to the waiting wagon. Carefully he drew the hay away to disclose the false bottom he had built on the rack that afternoon. The moon would not rise for another hour. He heard the cellar door at his side open, and half saw a dark head peering up. “All right, man,” he whispered, and held down a hand. “Come on up, there’s nothing to be afraid of here.” Mason helped him wriggle into the shallow space, cautioning him to keep over to the right as far as possible so as to leave room for the others. One after another, four men scrambled into the space between the load of hay and the floor of the rack. Mason turned. John Jr. touched him on the arm. “Here’s another.”

“I thought there were only four,” Mason said. “We can’t get him in. They’re in there now tighter than pigs in a trough.”

“We’ve got to!”. John’s whisper was urgent. “He came last night. It may be weeks before we go out again.” The others moved still close together, and the little one quickly squeezed his way in. Mason stuffed a couple of armfuls of hay across the end of the box, and with his fingers, combed the overhanging hay down to hide it. 

There was nothing stirring in West Richfield, and he gave the team its head on the two-mile downgrade to his place. Their hooves clattered over the plank bridge, and they started to turn in the home driveway, but he kept them steady on.

He wanted to go in, too, for Fanny came to the door and stood silhouetted with the light at her back. He carried that picture of her with him all the long westward trip. He drew the horses to a slow walk as they came to Hinckley Hill. It was a long pull, and the steepest hill anywhere about. He stood with his hand on the brake, and when they came to the first thank-you-maam, he set it hard and shouted “Whoa!”. The horse’s flanks were heaving, and he gave them a long breathing spell. Several times he did this before they reached the top. When they pulled over the top of the last grade, which seemed the steepest, he looped the lines around the standard and climbed down. There were no houses anywhere near. He went to the back of the wagon. “You men want to get out and stretch a bit? Don’t want to wear your bellies clear out lying flat on them that way.” He loosened the cheek reins and let the horses crop the grass beside the road. Presently the men were stowed away again. He reined up the horses and climbed to his place. “Gee up there!” he said, and drew them to the middle of the road. The moon, like fire, rose behind him and threw his shadow far ahead of the horses. Another load of slaves rolled up the road to freedom.