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“That’s how your daddy wanted it.”
I gave him a blank look. “Unfortunately for you, O’Reilly, my father is dead which means Bellevue belongs to me now. And it will be run the way I want it.”
O’Reilly’s nasty grin disappeared. “I can’t do this job if I ain’t allowed to use a whip.”
I looked him dead in the eyes. “You’ll find a way,” I said. “Or, if you’re still unable to follow the rules I set forth, than by all means feel free to leave tonight.”
As I sat upon Beauty the next day, I looked across the vast fields of Bellevue and felt the cool breeze upon my face and chest. It was early September and the weather was already beginning to turn. As much as I loathed being a slave owner, there was an expectation to keep the plantation productive and profitable. As grueling as picking cotton was, the real back breaking work on the plantation involved the harvesting of the sugar cane.
From October to January, countless hands were divided between the field and sugarhouse which was full of heavy machinery to make the whole process of sugar making that much more efficient. The season was fast approaching and it would be soon time to go out into the fields and level the cane. The grinding work brought slaves to the most unrelenting labor of the year where eighteen hour days were the norm. Depending on the weather, all the men would soon be cutting, hauling and making sugar simultaneously. The men worked in shifts and no one got more than six hours of sleep. As rigorous as the harvesting was, the negroes enjoyed the season more than any other. And I did my best to boost their morale with generous portions of food, tobacco and coffee which, it seemed, made the entire sugar making process easier and somehow less grueling.
Every day that I worked alongside the men, I was reminded of my abolitionist work in Boston, the place where I used my mind to fight injustice and help slaves find their freedom. Here, as a slave owner, I was pushing my body to its limits to maintain the very system I had been trying to fight, all in the name of preserving the family legacy. I was working against myself and my body and soul were silently suffering. In my heart, I was an abolitionist, a man who helped other men to be free. The plantation, despite its grandeur and beauty, represented oppression and I no longer wanted to be a part of it. And then it came to me, a realization of what I must do in the face of it all. It was risky, dangerous business, even illegal. But if I was to maintain my integrity – and even sanity – then it was something that had to be done. I would write to my cousin, Haydon, and outline my plans. The decision had to be carried out no matter the stakes.
Chapter Four
On a cold, Saturday morning in February 1851, thirty-seven year-old Frederick Wilkins went to work at Cornhill Coffee House in the commercial heart of Boston, Massachusetts, where he worked as a waiter. He was a stout, copper-colored man who had escaped slavery nine months prior and seemed to be on the path to living a life of freedom, once and for all. With about 2,500 blacks living in Boston at the time, runaway slaves found refuge with other fellow runaways. Most slaves knew they were protected because of the strong abolitionist presence in the city, and could hide or blend in without being captured. But for Wilkins, that was not to be.
As he served breakfast to two white male patrons, Wilkins was immediately arrested. The patrons were federal U.S. marshals in disguise. Wilkins’ owner wanted his property back. Word quickly spread about Wilkins’ arrest which was the first under The Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 which allowed slave owners to reclaim their slaves whether they were found in a free state or not. The Fugitive Slave Act forced law enforcement agencies throughout the North to arrest and return fugitives to their owners, making Boston’s reputation as a safe haven uncertain.Renowned abolitionist lawyers Robert Morris, Richard Henry Dana, Jr., Ellis Gray Loring, and Samuel E. Sewall came to Wilkins’ assistance, but under the Fugitive Slave Act, his seizure was legal.
As Haydon, Uncle David and I stood outside the crowded courtroom with hundreds of our fellow abolitionists and anti-slavery supporters later that afternoon at the hearing, we learned that Wilkins’ real name was Shadrach Minkins from Norfolk, Virginia, who belonged to John DeBree, a purser in the U.S. Navy. Lemuel Shaw, Chief Justice of the Supreme Judicial Court of Massachusetts, refused to consider the defense’shabeas corpuspetition causing chaos in the crowd.
Shortly after, members of the anti-slavery Boston Vigilance Committee, led by black abolitionist Lewis Hayden, burst into the courtroom and shoved the deputies aside. They whisked a startled Minkins out of the courtroom and down the marbled corridor into the Courthouse Square. We followed and ran alongside with the others, not wanting to miss one moment. Cheers and shouts came from protestors in the street as Minkins’ rescuers continued to race with him down the streets to Boston’s West End. And like a ghost in the night, Minkins quickly disappeared from sight.
Little was known about Minkins whereabouts after that day. We later learned through contacts that he had been kept in a safe haven in Beacon Hill and subsequently taken to Montreal, Canada, through the Underground Railroad. President Millard Fillmore ordered Boston authorities to arrest and indict all nine abolitionists who were involved in the escape. In the end, however, they were all acquitted by supportive juries.
I remembered this day with intense clarity as I slowly began to map out how to use Bellevue as a station in the Underground Railroad.
Chapter Five
As I moved throughout the mansion, every bone and muscle in my body ached from the long day in the fields, but I couldn’t stop. Not yet. The letter to Haydon had to be written tonight.
St. Bernard Parish, Louisiana
November 4, 1855
Dear Cousin,
Thank you so much for your kind and thoughtful letter. It warmed our hearts and brought incredible comfort to our souls in this time of need. We are getting along as well as can be expected in light of father’s absence. There is still much to settle in the way of his affairs, personal and otherwise. I endeavor to find peace and can only pray that it come soon. Since I have been at Bellevue, I have done my utmost to make every day reveal itself to me, and I can say, with the deepest of truth, that there is still much to do. I miss you and I miss our work together, side by side. To be there with you and Uncle David is what I so long for again, yet, I know this is not to be, at least for the time being. As I look around me, the state of affairs in this country compels me to write to you with a sense of urgency and to make more use of what God has given me. To wit, I am opening my arms to all who would endeavor to use Bellevue as a jumping off place. I have learned much in our years together and can start accepting whatever baggage en route immediately.
Your ever faithful cousin,
Thomas
I sealed the letter and locked it away. I would deliver it tomorrow. There was one more task I needed to do, but it would have to wait until morning. As if reading my mind, Lizzie appeared in the entryway of the sitting room, a hint of concern on her smooth face.
“Ain’t no sense in drivin’ yourself like a mule,” she said. “You should rest tomorrow.”
“I need to stay busy,” I responded. “Besides, who am I to sit idly by while others work?”
“Your father did it just fine.”
I gave a wry smile. “You should know by now I’m nothing like my father.”
“‘True. But some lessons you should take from him. Men die early when they take on too much.”
“I would be concerned about that if I had more to live for.”
Her eyes met mine. “Perhaps you do,” she said. “You just don’t know it yet.”
