Joyce Wilson
                                Contributing Columnist

Joyce Wilson

Contributing Columnist

CHAPTER 10

This week we get a bird’s eye view of what it looked like to assist fugitive slaves escape via the Underground Railroad. This story probably took place sometime during the 1840s. The Conductors you will meet are John and his wife, Jane Milligan, who are now elderly having been born in the 1700s. They continue to live on “The Ridge” and were the parents of Jane (Milligan) Wickerham, wife of John Wickerham whom you met in the first few chapters.

The Covenanters of the Ridge had assisted many a weary runaway slave to freedom before 1850, but ever since the passing of the Fugitive Slave Law in 1850, they had been active conductors on the Underground Railroad. This new law made them more active. Other church groups here lent support too, no doubt.

The old stone house where the Sharps lived on the mill road, the Ralston old log house at the turn of the McCullough Road and the Milligan log house about halfway along the Ridge Road were “stations” of this community; there may have been others.

Somewhere very near the Ohio River was a settlement of Quakers among whom the first station was connected with the “railroad” that passed through the Ridge.

Regardless of backwoods roads often rutty and muddy to the point of being almost impassable, the escaping slaves kept steadily arriving on The Ridge where food, shelter and clothing if needed, were supplied from their meager means and with a prayer, they were sent on their way toward Canada.

Sentiment against the Fugitive Slave law was being aroused by both prose and poetry. The song entitled, “The Fugitive Slave to the Christian,” was being sung throughout the North. Only the chorus I remember hearing:

“The hounds are baying on my track;

O Christian, Will you send me back?”

Uncle Tom’s Cabin, published in 1852, very quickly found its way into all abolitionist homes, fanning the flames of resentment against the slave traffic to a white heat.

It was a sultry summer night in the early days of the Underground Railroad. Pitch blackness was lighted at intervals by flashes of lightning as thunder rumbled in the distance. Mrs. John Milligan was sitting by her living room window in the darkness, watching the road, in the flashes of lightning. John had left in mid-afternoon to meet a party of Negroes along the road. She and John were well over eighty, but they had aided the slaves toward freedom for years. Since Senator Seward (1801-1872) had created quite a furor by saying in a Senate debate, there was a higher law then the Constitution, many who had not before dared to break the law, now saw it as a duty dictated by moral right to defy this fugitive slave law.

As Mrs. Milligan prayed silently, a peaceful calm enveloped her. Presently, she heard faint sounds out of the night and a flash of lightning disclosed an approaching wagon and horses. John guided the party of several Negroes into the house, whereby the flickering light of a candle. Mrs. Milligan gave them food and drink while John stood outside listening. After being given instructions as to what they were to do in case their pursuers caught up with them, they all lay down on the living room floor. It was not an uncomfortable bed, this rag carpet over a thick padding of straw. Wearied from travel and fright, they sank thankfully down and fell sound asleep.

The storm had struck with heavy rain soon after their arrival. Now just before dawn, it was clear starlight when Mrs. Milligan suddenly sat up in bed, awakened by the barking of their watchdog. Cautiously she peered through the window. Men on horseback were halting. Quickly she aroused John from his deep slumber. “What is it, Mass?” “Are they after us?” moaned an old Negro whom John shook, whispering for all to make haste to their hiding place.

Out into the shed room, John quietly guided the party. Through an opening in the logs that took them under the house, they crept into the spidery blackness. The house was built on a hillside making the far side narrow, but in their fright, they did not stop until wedged tightly against the far wall, as far away as they could get from the opening.

John swiftly replaced the cut-out section of the logs and pushed a pile of kindling shavings placed here for camouflage. All this took scarcely longer than it took the men outside to tie their horses.

“Open up in the name of the law!” shouted a voice from outside. John took his time as if being awakened out of sleep. Before he got to the door, shots rang out. As well as being angry, they were evidently drinking. The door was rudely kicked open and the slave owners with an officer of the law entered. They then prowled through rooms, kicking and poking every object that might conceal one of their slaves. Up the ladder into the low loft room they went, then to outbuildings, but no sign of their prey could they find.

“Sirs, what right have you to be desecrating my property?” I advise you to be moving on.” said John, addressing the men. “Your horses out there answer the description of those seen on the road a few miles back and they have been driven this night. Those covered-up sacks of grain had niggers behind them. You are known, and you had better take care breaking the law of our country,” angrily accused one man.

“Prove that,” John quietly answered. “Come on, we’ll find the niggers. He’s left them at some other place,” said the officer and they mounted and rode off.

Not until the cover of darkness came could these poor frightened creatures be persuaded to leave the security of their hiding place. Then they were spirited on to the next station. This old log house, near the Steele McCreight place, still stood in the early nineteen hundreds with the bullet holes of this night’s raid still in the door jam.

Written circa late 1950s and early 1960s by Lena McCoy Mathews (1893-1988) and transcribed for The Defender by Joyce Wilson. Look for more history in future issues of The People’s Defender.