The Underground Railroad Page 2
“Tamika,” I said, as I put my hand on her shoulder, “we don’t have to do this. We can tell Miss Pepper that it was just too dangerous.”
The professor looked at us kindly. “I understand your concerns, but I wouldn’t do anything to put you in danger. Every slave who even tried to escape had to be very brave and very smart. We can learn a lot about their courage and wisdom by visiting with Mr. Douglass.”
The green teleporter cloud glowed and crackled in the background. The professor paused a moment before continuing. “If you decide to go back in time and you get scared, we’ll return right away. Okay? It’s up to you. We can go or stay.” Then the professor held out his hand to us.
Tamika slowly nodded her head, then hesitated a moment before saying, “Let’s go.”
We quietly joined hands and walked through the green cloud and into the past.
Looking for Mr. Douglass
London—1846
Soon after entering the teleporter cloud, everything turned upside down and we began tumbling head over heels. I could tell that Tamika didn’t like it one bit. She was really scared. My friend squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. After the upsetting ride, we made a soft landing in a park. It was cool and foggy outside, and a steady rain was falling. The professor quickly opened his umbrella.
“I don’t ever want to do that again,” Tamika said as she shivered in the rain.
“We’ll have to go through the teleporter in order to get back home,” the professor noted. “I’ve been through it many, many times. But I admit, it is a little scary at first.”
Tamika and I huddled beneath the umbrella with Professor Tuesday. We looked around, but it was hard to see anything because of the rain and fog. The professor spoke softly. “There are no slaves or slave chasers in London in the 1840s,” he said. “I should tell you that we have traveled to a place where cities and people are very different than they are in our time.” He turned to Tamika and said, “But there is absolutely no reason to be afraid.”
“That’s good,” I said. Tamika agreed.
The professor continued. “We will be walking into a city that will look like it came out of a Charles Dickens novel.”
“Charles who?” Tamika asked.
“Charles Dickens,” answered the professor. “He was an author in the 1800s who wrote several famous books. Many of them have been made into wonderful movies.”
Tamika and I just looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. “We have no idea who you are talking about, professor.”
“I know a movie you may have heard of,” the professor said. “How about A Christmas Carol—you know, the movie that has Ebenezer Scrooge in it?”
“I didn’t like that movie,” Tamika said with a sour look. “It’s got a kid named Tiny Tim and some scary ghost things.”
“That’s right,” said the professor. “Charles Dickens wrote several books and all of them took place in the middle 1800s. If you’ve seen older versions of A Christmas Carol, you’ll kind of get an idea of what we’ll be seeing today. And another thing, people spoke very differently in those times, so I have Tuesday Translators for you. While they are speaking the same language, words and phrases they choose are very different.”
He handed us little objects that looked like ear buds and he told us to put them in our ears. “You will be able to understand everything Mr. Douglass says. And if you would like to say something to Mr. Douglass, it will translate the words you say into words that he will understand.
“Cool,” Tamika said.
We stayed close to the professor as he walked through what looked like a tree-lined park. Before long, we came to a street that was made out of stones pieced together. We saw a horse pulling a cart and driver. The cart bounced down the street as the horse’s hooves made loud sounds on the stones. Clippety-clop, clippety-clop, clippety-clop.
“These streets look different than those in our day,” the professor noted. “These are called cobblestone streets. People in carriages and carts had very bumpy rides over cobblestone roads. And we should be careful when we walk. There are horse droppings all over the street.”
“What are horse droppings?” Tamika whispered to me.
“You know,” I replied. “Horse poop.”
“Oh, yuck,” she said, making a face. From that point on, she was very picky about where she stepped.
A row of buildings lined either side of the cobblestone street. Smoke rose out of chimneys on each roof, adding to the layer of fog that gathered around us. Everything was covered with gritty ash.
As we walked, a young boy passed us carrying a huge bundle of rags. On a corner up ahead, a man was selling chickens. He held motionless birds by their feet as he called out to the people walking by his table. I’ve gone to the grocery store several times with my mother, but I’d never seen a chicken being sold with its feathers still on. Right next to the chicken salesman stood an old woman selling vegetables.
People in long frock coats walked alongside the road. Most of the men wore tall, black hats on their heads, like the kind President Lincoln wore. The shirts that peeked out of their coats had ruffled fronts. Many of the women wore shawls and hats that were close to their heads.
We walked past several houses and stopped in front of one that stood in the middle of the block. Professor Tuesday dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper. He looked at the paper and then at the address on the tall brick building.
“This is it,” said the professor excitedly. “This is where Frederick Douglass and his family live. I sure hope he is home today.”
We walked up the slippery stone steps to the doorway. The professor reached out a fist toward the thick wooden door and knocked loudly. We heard some movement from inside. The sounds seemed to get closer and closer. Suddenly, the big door opened wide. A woman stood in the doorway. She was wearing a black dress with white lace around the collar.
“Begging your pardon, madam,” said the professor as he bowed deeply, “but is this the residence of Mr. Frederick Douglass?”
“Indeed,” the lady answered, “Mr. Douglass and his family live here.”
The professor and the woman at the door were talking funny. They used different words for things and her accent was strange to us. It was hard to follow what they were saying.
“My young friends and I do not have an appointment,” the professor said. “However, we were hoping to meet the good gentleman.”
“Mr. Douglass is not in at present,” she replied as the door swung shut in our faces.
The confused look on our faces told Professor Tuesday that he had forgotten to turn on the Tuesday Translators that were in our ears. “Sorry,” the professor said as he turned on the devices. “It looks like Mr. Douglass isn’t home.”
A Word with Mr. Douglass
London—1846
We turned from the doorstep and walked down the slippery steps toward the street. At that moment the rain picked up and began flowing off the professor’s umbrella like it was being poured from a bucket.
“What do we do now, professor?” Tamika asked.
Professor Tuesday sighed deeply. “I suppose we can walk around and look at London as it was in 1846. Maybe Mr. Douglass will come home, but we must find him soon or we won’t be able to talk with him.” The professor looked at his watch. “The teleporter will only stay open for another hour or so.”
A horse-drawn carriage passed us on the street. I turned to see it come to a stop in front of the house we had just left. “Professor, look!”
A distinguished man stepped out of the carriage. His skin was dark. The collar of his coat was up, protecting him from the weather. A thick crop of black hair flowed out of his black stovepipe hat and stood abo
ve the folds of his coat.
I pointed back toward the man. “Could that be Mr. Douglass?” I asked.
“Let’s find out,” said the professor. We rushed toward him.
“Mr. Douglass!” the professor shouted above the rain. “Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. Douglass?”
The man tipped his hat to the professor and our Tuesday Translators crackled to life. “Yes, sir, I am. How may I help you?”
The professor reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Douglass, I have waited a long time to meet you. My friends and I have come all the way from America to talk with you.”
Mr. Douglass looked us over carefully. He must have realized that we wouldn’t cause him any harm. A big smile crossed his face. “Come in out of this miserable weather and join me for tea.”
The professor shook the rain off his umbrella and we entered the house. We hung our coats on wooden pegs that poked out of the walls in the entryway.
Mr. Douglass called out and the woman we had talked to earlier appeared. He introduced her as his housekeeper, Miss Kensington. She curtsied politely. Mr. Douglass then asked her for some tea for himself and the professor and milk for Tamika and me. The woman curtsied once again and left. We followed Mr. Douglass through a large doorway.
He led us to a beautiful room. Long drapes flowed from the tops of the windows to the floor. A colorful rug was placed at the center of the room. A fire in the fireplace at one end offered warmth and comfort. At one side of the room, a flowery, old-looking couch squatted against the wall. A low table stood in front of the couch and wooden chairs sat at each end.
Mr. Douglass gestured and spoke, “Please have a seat,” he said. “Our tea and refreshments will arrive soon.”
The professor joined Mr. Douglass on the couch as Tamika and I sat in the chairs. The wooden seats creaked slightly as we sat down.
“Thank you for taking the time to see us. My name is Professor Tuesday,” the professor began. “These are my friends Jesse and Tamika and we have come here to learn about you and your life.”
Mr. Douglass turned to Tamika and stared at her directly. His eyes were strong and seemed to look right through her. “Let me see your hands, child.”
Tamika turned to me with a shocked look on her face. Then she slowly raised her hands to Mr. Douglass.
“No,” Mr. Douglass said. “Please come here and show me your hands.”
Tamika stood up slowly and edged her way to Mr. Douglass. Then she held out her hands. Mr. Douglass gently took her hands. He held them close to his eyes and looked them over carefully. His rough, workhardened hands traced her palms and fingers. Then he took a long look at Tamika’s face.
“Your hands aren’t cut and calloused,” he said, “and your eyes don’t show the sorrow or sadness of slavery.”
Tamika shook her head and spoke very softly. “I have never been a slave. But some of my relatives were.”
“So, would you like to learn about life as a slave?” Mr. Douglass asked. “I’d be happy to tell you about my experiences.”
Just then a tray of beverages and cookies were brought into the room by Miss Kensington. She placed the tray on the table in front of us. It had a teapot and two glasses of milk. Small cookies were piled high at the center. Mr. Douglass poured tea for himself and Professor Tuesday. Tamika and I picked up our milk. We were surprised to find that it was warm.
I turned to Mr. Douglass and tried to talk the way he would. “Where were you born, sir?”
Mr. Douglass smiled, “I was born in Talbot County, Maryland, although I don’t have any idea of the actual day or year of my birth.”
“You don’t know when you were born?” Tamika asked.
“Most slaves have no idea of their age. The fact that I don’t even know the day I was born makes me very sad,” Mr. Douglass said. “My mother was named Harriet Bailey. When I was born it was common among slaves in Maryland and other states for slaveholders to separate babies from their mothers. My grandmother took care of me from the time I was a young child.”
“That would be terrible,” Tamika said. “Did you ever see your mother?”
Mr. Douglass had a pained look on his face as he answered. “I saw her no more than four or five times, and all those meetings took place at night. After I was born, she was sold off to Mr. Stewart, a man who lived some twelve miles away. She was a field hand. After her work was done for the day, she made those journeys on foot to see me. She would stay with me in the night and leave early in the morning. If she did not return to Mr. Stewart’s fields by sunrise, she would receive a terrible whipping.”
“Tell us about what your life was like,” Tamika said softly.
“Well,” Mr. Douglass began, “my name at birth was Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey.”
“Wait,” I said, “I thought your name was Frederick Douglass?”
“That is my name today,” Mr. Douglass said. “When I escaped slavery I changed my name so that it would be harder for slave catchers to find me.”
“Was it terrible being a slave?” Tamika asked.
“I would not wish the life of a slave on any man or woman. If slaves misbehave or do not work hard or fast enough, they are beaten with a cane or whip— many times until they bleed. It does not matter if the slave is a man, woman, or child. Sometimes they fall unconscious from the beating. Slaves even die at the hands of the overseers. If a slave is thought to be unmanageable, it is not uncommon for him or her to be shipped off and sold to owners who might be even more cruel.”
Mr. Douglass paused for a moment and turned to Tamika. “Our people are treated worse than common cattle. We are sold in open markets. Mothers are torn away from their children. Husbands, fathers, sons, and daughters are snatched away from their families without notice. Slaves are not allowed to learn how to read and write. Usually, they receive monthly allowances of food—maybe eight pounds of pork or fish and one bushel of corn meal. In many cases that is not enough to survive. When a slave’s work is done for the day—male and female, young and old spend hours working to prepare their food and mending clothes. If their monthly allotment of food runs out, they often go hungry.”
He moved in his chair before continuing. “Once a year usually, slaves are given clothing. Adults are provided with two shirts made of coarse fiber, one pair of trousers, one jacket, a pair of trousers for winter, one pair of stockings, and one pair of shoes. Mind you, these clothing items are only provided once each year.”
“Is that all?” I asked. I couldn’t help but think of all the clothes my mother buys for me before starting the school year.
“There is much more to be said about the horrors of slavery,” Mr. Douglass answered. “Children who are unable, or too young, to work in the fields are generally not given shoes, stockings, or trousers. Instead, they are provided with two shirts a year. When these rough shirts wear out, children may go naked until the following year, even in the cold of winter.”
“Slaves have shelters or homes, but they usually sleep on dirt, covering up against the cold in whatever rags they can find or make. In the sweltering heat and humidity of the summer months, their shelters are like ovens at night. Even though there are many times when slaves get very little sleep, they can only rest until they are called by the driver’s horn.”
“What’s a driver’s horn?” I asked.
Mr. Douglass turned to me. “At first light, slave masters often blow a horn called a ‘driver’s horn.’ It is the signal to be at work in the fields. If a slave doesn’t get up and go off to work immediately, he or she is usually punished harshly.” Mr. Douglass rubbed his beard as he thought. “I remember Mr. Severe, the overseer. He used to stand at the door of the slave quarters with a large hickory stick and a heavy whip in his hands, ready for anyone who did not get up fast enough.”
“Professor,” Tamika said, “this is too scary. I want to go back home now.”
Mr. Douglass reached across the table and gently patted the top of Tamika’s hand. “Child, I know
these things are difficult to hear. But it is important that you understand how terrible slavery really is—especially if your relatives are slaves.”
Mr. Douglass’ Journey
London—1846
Tamika looked up at Mr. Douglass. “When you were a slave, were you ever beaten?” she asked shyly.
Mr. Douglass let out a sigh and leaned back on the couch. He shook his head slowly as he began to speak. “During my life as a slave I received too many beatings to give you an accurate count, my dear.” Mr. Douglass rose up in his seat and lifted his head high. “However, there came a time when I stood up for myself against the cruelty of a slaveholder. But before I tell you how I stood up, let me tell the story from the very beginning.”
He picked up his teacup and took a sip. “At the first of the year in 1833, my master, Mr. Thomas, sent me to a man named Mr. Covey for one year. Before that time, I spent most of my life as a slave working in my masters’ homes. Mr. Thomas was punishing me by sending me to serve as a field hand at Mr. Covey’s farm.
“On top of being a farmer, Mr. Covey was a professor of religion and a leader in his church. At the very same time, he was widely known as a slave breaker, somebody who treated slaves cruelly in order to get them to be more obedient to their masters. In my first week with Mr. Covey, he whipped me many times.”
We watched Mr. Douglass tell his story. Tamika’s eyes were wide with fear, and she covered her mouth with her hand.
Mr. Douglass took another sip of tea. Then he leaned closely over the low table in front of the couch. “For six long months, Mr. Covey beat me regularly. I still carry the scars from those whippings. After terrible beatings that went on day after day, week after week, and month after month, I realized that death would be better than a life of slavery. So, I took action. I had nothing to lose.”
“Wh-what did you do?” Tamika asked nervously.
“I refused to let Mr. Covey beat me like an animal,” Mr. Douglass said defiantly.