USA > Pennsylvania > Erie County > A twentieth century history of Erie County, Pennsylvania : a narrative account of its historic progress, its people, and its principal interests, Volume I > Part 36
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Some, however, are still well remembered, though many of them are camped with the dead. Among these the name of Hamlin Russell is preserved. and at his place in Belle Valley, between the Wattsburg and the Lake Pleasant roads, was situated the last station on the route through Union City before reaching Erie. Arrived at Hamlin Russell's, although the fugitive might well believe his trials nearly over as he could from there see the blue waters of the lake that marked the last
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boundary between him and freedom, there were still desperate chances to be taken and eternal vigilance to pay as the price of liberty.
Erie, however, held a number of faithful and fearless men who were in frequent communication with Mr. Russell, ready to receive the pas- sengers, and if the pursuit was hot. to effectually conceal them. Among the most prominent of these Underground Railroad men of Erie in those days (the forties especially, and into the fifties) was Jehiel Towner, and many a black man owed his escape from slavery to this staunch and faithful friend of the persecuted race. Not less reliably the friend of the fugitive was the late Henry Catlin, Mr. Towner's son-in-law, and more than one fleeing wretch was safely concealed in the paper bins and other corners of the office of the True American until he could be forwarded safely on his way to freedom.
Thus has one route of the railroad been located. But there was another branch of the Meadville line. This led through Corry and Beaver Dam in Wayne township. up to Wattsburg. Now at Watts- burg there lived for years a faithful minister of the gospel known to all the countryside as Parson Rice, and this man was also privately known as one of the most active and efficient of the conductors on the Underground Railroad. Mr. Rice was especially well acquainted and trusted in the Gospel Hill neighborhood in South Harborcreek and also in that other locality known since its settlement in 1813 or thereabouts as Wales, and his course when entrusted with a passenger was towards Erie through South Harborcreek. There was one place highly regarded as a depot on the line, and that was the woolen mill of John Cass in the valley of Six-mile Creek.
Long ago the valley of that stream fairly swarmed with indus- tries, such as woolen mills, tanneries, grist mills, saw mills and the like, and traces of these remain to this day, although it is many years since the last of them was abandoned and the building, disused, fell into utter decay.
Situated well up the stream in a rather narrow valley enclosed by high and bluff, heavily wooded sides, was the Cass woolen mill, shut in from the world, so far as any of its occupants could see. It was quite a large building, two stories in height, with a number of outbuildings contiguous and adjacent. This mill was a favorite place for the concealment of runaway negroes, (if concealment were necessary), until they could be taken to Wesleyville to be sent across the lake.
But there was still another route, and that led to Erie from Ohio. Many slaves that entered Ohio as far west as Cincinnati worked their way eastward as they traveled toward the north, for Cleveland was a favorite place of deportation, and so also was Ashtabula. It was not always possible to get out of Cleveland by steamer or sailing ves- sel, for the espionage there was particularly sharp. Ashtabula also
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was carefully looked after, for was not that under the shadow of Joshua R. Giddings, the great anti-slavery champion, and his partner Ben Wade, not less violently an abolitionist? Therefore it became necessary to adopt a new route. This led, variously, considerably to the south, and Warren and Youngstown were frequently in the track. There is a little town not far over the Pennsylvania line in the Buckeye state, noted for its devotion to education as many another place in the West- ern Reserve is, and also at one time known as the place of abode of a Universalist clergyman named Charles L. Shipman. Later we came to know Mr. Shipman as of Girard, a venerable hale old gentleman with a patriarchal beard, and eyes that could win the friendship of a stran- ger at a glance-Elder Shipman he is familiarly and affectionately called by all who know him and many who do not. Elder Shipman was the principal conductor in his younger days at Andover, and there were few who would put more painstaking care into the work of forwarding his passengers. There have been cases on record where he conveyed them himself to Linesville; then to Albion, where the old tannery was a refuge ; and then to Girard. Here there was an honest farmer man named Elijah Drury, a friend and coadjutor of Elder Shipman, whose aid was effectual in forwarding their charge to Federal Hill or Eagle Village. That was situated where the Ridge road crossed the Edin- boro or Waterford pike (now Peach and Twenty-sixth streets) two miles from Erie, and here a good old doctor, Dr. John Brown, took charge, either forwarding the passenger to Erie, or to Wesleyville, ac- cording as the coast was clear.
These all were roads that entered Erie. There were as many that, departing, gave opportunity for the fugitive slaves to complete their escape. Mention has already been made of the Himrod property at the foot of French street. This was a famous depot or waiting room for passengers who were to embark at the port. Of course, it will be understood that forwarding runaway slaves by vessel was one of the most difficult methods of all. No other mode of travel was as closely watched. But yet there were many shipments out of Erie harbor.
The most important point of sailing, however, was from the port of Wesleyville-the mouth of Four-mile Creek. Few communities had so large a contingent of Underground Railroad men ; in few places was the anti-slavery sentiment so strong. The leader at Wesleyville was Frank Henry, a remarkable man from whatever point of his many- sided character he might be viewed. Brave and bold as a lion, he had the heart of a child and the gentleness of a woman. Pure of heart, he abominated iniquity and yet had had experience with the world so that he knew men, their wickedness and their wiles, as well as their virtues. He was tireless in waiting upon duty and never weary in relieving distress or assisting the unfortunate. To know Frank Henry was to love him. And yet Frank Henry could hate, and did hate,
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though there were very few that he did not promptly forgive as soon as the neat of passion had passed. Frank Henry was the leader or perhaps, talking of a railroad, might be styled the superintendent. But there were others zealous in the work. Thomas Elliott was one of them and the Chamberses, and a goodly contingent from the Welsh settlement, besides Mr. Trimble and old Major Fitch.
The principal depot or waiting room at Wesleyville was the little old Methodist church, and there many a hunted fugitive found an asy- lum. Few of the worshippers knew the use to which the church was put, for though perhaps all of the membership and congregation were heartily in sympathy with the cause for which the Underground Rail- road stood, there was danger in a too general knowledge of it. and only the elect were permitted to be aware of the doings of those who had the business in charge. The church of those times was a primi- tive affair, with a gallery around three sides and a garret above, and this loft was pressed into service for the concealment of the passen- gers when services were held, the fugitives remaining in the garret until after the congregation had dispersed and then taking up their posi- tion around the big box stove plentifully supplied with cordwood in case the night was cold. Here they waited until a favorable opportunity afforded by which they could be embarked for a passage across the lake to Long Point.
As the water route was not available at all seasons, there was yet another route over which the runaway slaves were forwarded. This was overland. A convoy was provided, generally a team with a good wagon or sleigh. By this conveyance the runaways were car- ried eastward where, assisted by the Moorheads. they were turned over to Elder Nutting at the state line, who conveyed them to the Knowl- ton station at Westfield .- whence they were forwarded to Fredonia, where Mr. Pemberton took charge and they eventually reached Buffalo, at which point there was little difficulty in landing them on the opposite side of the Niagara river.
These were the routes of the Underground Railroad through this part of the country and hundreds of escaping slaves passed over it. As has been already stated, the business of aiding these fugitives in their efforts to gain freedom covered many years, and the business was especially brisk in the fifties. Sometimes but a single person claimed the attention of the zealous conductors, again there were large parties, and it is yet among the traditions that the harn of Henry Teller at Girard has sheltered so many at one time that it was crowded. Possi- bly this is somewhat of an exaggeration, but there is no doubt but that as many as half a score at one time have been traveling together.
Many an adventure full of stirring interest took place on the Un- derground Railroad, and many a time have the conductors been hard put to find a means to carry forward their work. But they were fer-
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tile in expedient, and full of courage. Perhaps the most interesting story-teller of all the train was Frank Henry. He had a talent that way. Frank is still well remembered in Erie. for he lived until October, 1889. At that time he was assistant city editor of the Dispatch, but previously, for a term of years, had been keeper of the lighthouse at the entrance to the harbor, a position he was compelled to relinquish because of rheumatism which afflicted him terribly, a disease that was a relic of the times when, as a conductor on the Underground, he en- dured all manner of hardships and exposure in the interest of the cause. It was in the year 1880 that he was first induced to relate some of his experiences to the public, and many of these given to Mr. Frank H. Severance, then editor of the Gasctte, were published and subsequent- ly appeared in a historical work entitled Old Trails on the Niagara Frontier. Here are a few of the stirring stories that Mr. Henry told.
In the year 1841, Captain Daniel Porter Dobbins, afterward super- intendent of life saving stations in the Ninth U. S. district, was a resident of Erie. The Dobbbins residence, let us state right here, was ar old-fashioned house of generous and hospitable proportions, that stood on the corner of Third and State streets, where the Sands block is now located. The house itself was moved round the corner to make room for that block, and is still standing on Third street, somewhat altered from its original appearance.
In politics Captain Dobbins was one of the sturdy old-time Demo- crats, not a few of whom, in marked contrast to their "copperhead" neighbors, secretly sympathized with and aided the runaway slaves. Captain Dobbins had in his employ a black man named William Mason. who, tired of receiving nothing but blows as a reward for his toil, had some time previously left his master determined to gain his free- dom or die in the attempt. After a varied experience he succeeded in reaching Erie and was given employment by Captain Dobbins. He was a stalwart negro, intelligent above the average, altogether too fine a prize to let slip easily, and the professional slave hunter lost no time in hunting him out.
For many years prior to the Civil War a large class of men made their living by ferreting out and recapturing fugitive slaves and returning them to their old masters, or, as was often the case, selling them into slavery again. Free black men, peaceable citizens of the northern states, were sometimes seized to be sold to miscrupulous men ever ready to buy them. There was but little hope for the negro who found himself carried south of Mason and Dixon's line in the clutches of these men who were generally provided with a minute description of the runa- ways from the border states, and received a large commission for cap- turing and returning them to bondage.
One day, as Mason was cutting up a quarter of beef in Captain Dobbins' house. two men came in, making plausible excuses. Mason
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observed that they were watching him closely and his suspicions were aroused at once.
"Is your name William?" one of the men asked.
"No," said Mason curtly, pretending to be busy with the beef.
Then they told him to take off his shoe and let them see if he he had a scar on his foot. On his refusing to do so they produced handcuffs and called on him to surrender. Livid with desperation and fear, Mason rushed at them with his butcher knife, whereupon the fel- lows took to their heels. They then proceeded to get a warrant from a magistrate upon some trumped-up charge, and put it in the hands of an officer for execution.
While the incident in which the butcher knife figured was occur- ring, Captain Dobbins came in and to him Mason hastened in appeal. Swearing "by the hosts ob heaben" that he would never be taken alive, he begged piteously for the help and protection of his employer. His appeal was not in vain. Calling upon Mason to follow he hurried with him to the Josiah Kellogg house, then one of the finest places in Erie. It still stands on Second street, east of French, a fine old fashioned brick house overlooking the harbor. Mrs. Kellogg at once com- prehended the situation and soon the fugitive was so well hidden that, as the captain said, "The devil himself could not have found him, sir."
Expeditious though they were, they were none too quick. Cap- tain Dobbins had scarcely regained his door, when the slave hunters came back with the sheriff and demanded Mason.
"Search the premises at your pleasure," said the captain, and the house was ransacked from cellar to garret. Of course Mason was not to be found. At that time there lived in Erie a big burly negro named Lemuel Gates, whose strength was only surpassed by his good nature and who was ready to lend himself to the cause of humanity. The captain owned a fast horse and while the sheriff and the hunters were still linger- ing about the house on the watch, he hitched up, and taking Lemuel upon the seat by his side, drove off in the gathering darkness. He took good care that the spies should see him as he drove past at a furious pace, and then headed direct for Hamlin Russell's place at Belle Valley. The chase was on and Captain Dobbins won out. Telling Mr. Russell what he was about, and slipping a coin into Gates' hand, with the injunction to make tracks for home as fast as he could, the captain took up his course for the city again. At the point where the Lake Pleasant road and the Watts- burg road join the pursuers were met.
"Where is Mason." they demanded.
"Find out," said the captain, who drove leisurely homeward, while the slave hunters worked themselves into a fine passion in a fruitless search of Mr. Russell's premises.
Early one morning a few days afterward Captain Dobbins saw a ves- sel round the point of the peninsula, sail up the channel and cast an-
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chor in Misery bay, awaiting a lull in the storm then prevailing. Soon a yawl put off, and reaching shore, was met by the captain, who found in the skipper of the vessel an old shipmate-who heartily en- tered into Captain Dobbin's plans.
But there were serious difficulties in the way. It would not do to openly borrow a boat, but after a search an old and leaky skiff was found. It was a desperate hazard, but the best that could be obtained, so the captain decided to make use of it. At that period there were no docks or steamboat landings at the eastern end of the bay as now. The waters broke upon a shingly beach at the base of the bluff upon which the Kellogg house stood. Concealing the skiff in the leafy top of a tree that had fallen into the water, Mason was called when night had fallen, and after some difficulty found a place in the skiff. That frail bark leaked like a sieve. Mason wore a stiff "plug" hat and this was called into requisition to bail the water out and keep the crazy craft afloat. Meanwhile the wind had risen, and both men worked with the energy of despair, Captain Dobbins at the oars and Mason bailing. For a long time it seemed a hopeless task, but at length the schooner was reached and Mason was taken aboard. The cargo was staves, among which the negro was safely concealed. Captain Dobbins then set out upon his return and reached the mainland in safety, before break of day.
Knowing that pursuit was now impossible, for there were no tugs in those days, Captain Dobbins quietly told the officer that he was tired of being watched and would show where Mason was. At the time there were a lot of his friends gathered about him for the affair had created a great stir.
"Do you see that sail?" asked the captain, pointing to the vessel in the offing which was steadily retreating.
"Well?" was the impatient answer.
"Mason is aboard of her." At that there was a hilarious shout on the part of the bystanders, while the crestfallen "nigger-chasers" sneaked off.
"Pretty well done-for a Democrat," said Mr. Russell to the cap- tain a few days afterwards. "After your conversion to our principles you will make a good abolitionist."
"In the summer of 1858," said Mr. Henry-"Mr. Jehiel Towner sent me a note from the city of Erie asking me to call on him that evening."
It is only proper here to say that these notes were of a peculiar character, possible of interpretation only by the initiated and there- fore harmless if they should fall into improper hands. It is possible to give Mr. Towner's note, and here it is :
Vol. I-21
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Erie, Pa., 51, 2, 5881.
Dear Frank :
The mirage lifts Long Point into view. Come up and see the beautiful sight. I can't promise a view tomorrow. Truly. JEHIEL TOWNER.
"When night came," said Mr. Henry, "I rode into town from my home in Harborcreek and saw Mr. Towner. 'There are three passengers hidden in town, Henry,' said he, 'and we must land them somewhere on the Canada shore. You are just the man for this work. Will you under- take to get them across?'
"You must remember that we never had anything to do with 'runa- way niggers' in those days, nor even with 'fugitive slaves;' we simply assisted passengers." I knew well enough that there was a big risk in the present case, but I promised to do my part, and so, after talking over matters a little, I drove home.
"The next night just about dusk a wagon was driven into my yard. The driver, one Hamilton Waters, was a free mulatto, known to every- body around Erie. He had brought a little boy with him as guide, for he was almost as blind as a bat. In his wagon were three of the strang- est-looking 'passengers' I ever saw; I can remember how oddly they looked as they clambered out of the wagon. There was a man they called Sam, a great, strapping negro, who might have been 40 years old. He was a loose-jointed fellow, with a head like a pumpkin and a mouth like a cavern, its vast circumference always stretched in a glorious grin ; for, no matter how badly Sam might feel, or how frightened, the grin had so grown into his black cheeks that it never vanished. I remember how, a few nights after, when the poor fellow was scared just about out of his wits. his grin, though a little ghastly, was as broad as ever. Sam was one of the queerest characters I ever met. His long arms seemed all wrists, his legs all ankles ; and when he walked his nether limbs had a flail-like flop that made him look like a runaway windmill. The bases upon which rested this wonderfully-made superstructure were abund- antly ample. On one foot he wore an old shoe-at least number twelve in size-and on the other a heavy boot ; and his trousers-legs, by a grim fatality, were similarly unbalanced, for while the one was tucked into the boot-top. its fellow, from the knee down, had wholly vanished. Sam wore a weather-beaten and brimless 'tile' on his head, and in his hand carried an old-fashioned long-barreled rifle. He set great store by his 'old smooth-bo,' though he handled it in a gingerly sort of way that sug- gested a greater fear of its kicks than confidence in its aim. Sam's companions were an intelligent looking negro, about 25 years old, named Martin, and his wife, a pretty quadroon girl, with thin lips and a pleas- ant voice, for all the world like Eliza in Uncle Tom's Cabin. She carried a plump little piccaninny against her breast over which a thin shawl
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was tightly drawn. She was an uncommonly attractive young woman and I made up my mind then and there that she shouldn't be carried back to slavery if I had any say in the matter.
"The only persons besides myself who knew of their arrival were William P. Trimble and Major F. L. Fitch. The party was conducted to the old Methodist church in Wesleyville, which had served for a long time as a place of rendezvous and concealment. Except for the regular Sunday services and a Thursday night prayer-meeting, the church was never opened, unless for an occasional funeral, and so it was as safe a place as could well have been found. In case of unexpected intruders the fugitives could crawl up into the attic and remain as safe as if in Liberia.
"It was my plan to take the passengers from the mouth of Four- Mile creek across the lake to Long Point light house on the Canada shore, but the wind hung in a bad quarter for the next two or three days, and our party had to keep in the dark. One rainy night, however-it was a miserable, drizzling rain and dark as Egypt- I was suddenly notified that a sailboat was in readiness off the mouth of Four-Mile creek. At first I was at a loss what to do. I didn't dare go home for provisions, for J had good reason to believe that my house was nightly watched by a cowardly wretch, whose only concern was to secure the $500 offered by Sam's former master for the capture of the slaves. In the vicinity lived a well-to do farmer, a devoted pro-slavery Democrat." (This man was Gen. John Kilpatrick, a notable leader of the Rippers in the Railroad Wat). "Notwithstanding his politics, I knew the man was the soul of honor, and possessed a great, generous heart. So I marshaled my black brigade out of the church and marched them off through the rain, single file, to his house. In answer to our knock our friend threw open the door ; then, with a thousand interrogation points frozen into his face, he stood for a minute, one hand holding a candle above his head. the other shading his eyes, as he stared at the wet and shivering group of darkies, the very picture of dumbfounded astonishment. In less time than it takes to tell it, however, he grasped the situation, hustled us all into the house and shut the door with a most expressive slam.
" 'What in - does all this mean?' was his pious ejaculation.
"He saw what it meant, and it took few words of explanation on my part. 'They are a party of fugitives from slavery,' said I. calling our friend by name. 'We are about to cross the lake to Canada ; the party are destitute and closely pursued ; their only crime is a desire for freedom. This young woman and mother has been sold from her husband and child to a dealer in the far south and if captured she will be consigned to a life of shame.' The story was all too common in those days and needed no fine words. The young girl's eyes pleaded more forcibly than any words I could have spoken.
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"'Well-what do you want of me?' demanded our host, trying hard to look fierce and angry.
"'Clothing and provisions,' I replied.
"'Now, look here," said he, in his gruffest voice, 'this is a bad job -bad job.' Then, turning to the negroes: 'Better go back. Canada is full of runaway niggers now. They'e freezin' and starvin' by thousands. Was over in Canada t'other day. Saw six niggers by the roadside with their heads cut off. Bones of niggers dangling in the trees. Crows pickin' their eyes out. You better go back, d'ye hear?' he added, turning to Sam.
"Poor Sam shook in his shoes and his eyes rolled in terror. He fingered his cherished smooth-bore as though uncertain whether to shoot his entertainer or save all his ammunition for Canada crows, while he cast a look of helpless appeal upon his companions. The young woman, however, with her keener insight, had seen through the sham brusqueness of their host. Though she was evidently appalled by the horrible picture of what lay before them across the lake, her heart told her it was im- measurably to be preferred to a return to the only fate which awaited her in the south. Her thoughts lay in her face and our friend read them ; and not having a stone in his broad bosom, but a big, warm, thumping old heart, was moved to pity and to aid. He set about getting a basket of provisions. Then he skirmished around and found a blanket and hood for the woman, all the time declaring that he never would help runaway niggers, no sir! and drawing ( for Sam's delectation). the most horrible pictures of Canadian hospitality that he could conjure up. 'You'll find them on shore waitin' for ye,' said he; 'they'll catch ye and skin ye and hang ye up for a scare-crow.' Seeing that Sam was coatless, he stripped off his own coat and bundled it upon the astonished darkey with the consoling remark: 'When they get hold of you they'll tan your black hide, stretch it for drumheads and beat "God Save the Queen" out of ye every day in the year.'
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