Virginia Hamilton (14 page)

“The slave recognized me, then,” Brent said. “ ‘How do you do, Master William?' he said. And then when asked, he said he was quite willing to go back home to Virginia.”

That is not at all what Anthony told us, Richard Dana was thinking as he began his cross-examination of Brent. He objected to Brent calling Anthony “slave” and said so. He won that point when the Commissioner said, “The witness must not state any person to be a slave without corroborative legal evidence.” But no matter how Dana tried in his cross-examination, he failed to get any further evidence that would materially affect the case.

As for Anthony, from the moment Mars Brent had said that he had gone off on the vessel, his mind had taken a leap backward. Sitting in the courtroom, almost in a trance, he thought, I love a woman. And he was back in Richmond, the great port where the tall ships came in on the tide.

16
Winter 1854

HE HAD MET
the woman on his rounds
for the druggist, Millspaugh, delivering medicines to the back doors and kitchens of the city. She too was a slave.

I must leave her, Anthony realized, after setting his new arrangement for work and payment with Millspaugh. I cannot help it. I cannot stay in Richmond any longer. How would I take her away with me? Best not even to say, “Fare thee well, my love.” Oh, mercy! I will give her up. I must. But I swear, I will never have any other, for as long as I shall live.

Anthony roomed in Mr. Millspaugh's own house above the man's bedroom. One night, in the early part of February 1854, he put on four outfits of clothing, with the worn, coarse work clothes he dressed in each day as the topmost layer. Next, he wrapped food and some belongings in a small bundle, which he meant to carry with him. Then he lay down to sleep. There was another slave who shared the room with him, a young clerk. Luckily, he never awoke the whole night. For this was the night that Anthony
would run.

An hour before dawn, Anthony left the house and made his way over to the docks. Arriving unseen, he boarded an old Baltimore clipper.

Anthony had a sailor friend on board the ship. At their last meeting they had talked about keeping secrets. “Now you musn't call me by my real name again, Anthony,” his friend told him. “Forget you ever knew it. And after this trip, I will forget I ever knew your name.”

So Anthony made up a new name. He called his friend Cal Cross. Cal was Calvary, the hill where Jesus died upon the cross.

Cal quickly stowed him away in a place he had prepared. Anthony never knew where it was on the ship, they had gone so stealthily and made so many twists and turns up and down corridors. It was a damp, dark place, no better than a hole and just barely big enough for Anthony, smelling of oil and slime. He could hear the sea slapping against the hull outside. “
Let there be no rats in this place!
” he asked Jesus.

Hours and hours later, the ship had not moved. Lord! When will she sail? thought Anthony. His hiding place was so small, he couldn't stretch out. It grew hot and uncomfortable, and at last he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Some time later Anthony awoke with a start, barely able to move in his cramped position. The ship, now under full sail, pitched and tossed in the rough water and heavy, contrary winds. Lying on one side with no room to turn, Anthony became seasick. By
the time Cal came to see him, Anthony was miserable.

“At the next port,” he begged, “put me off, please. I cannot stand it any longer. Put me off the ship!”

“And what becomes of freedom?” asked Cal.

“It dies, because surely I am dying!” Anthony said.

“You are sick, but you will not die,” Cal told him. “Here is some fresh water. And I have bread for you—make it last. I'll try for meat tomorrow.” Cal left him to his misery.

Two days later the ship docked in Norfolk, Virginia, where it stayed half a day. Then it continued on toward its destination, Boston. Though the passage was to take ten days to two weeks, it took nearly three. Anthony was sick almost the whole time. He was unaccustomed to the February cold and commenced to shiver and shake violently. Not once could he leave his hiding place or change his position from his side. Never was he able to moan or cry out in his pain. Bread and water were what he lived on; he received the nourishment every three or four days when Cal was able to give it to him. At no time was anyone else, the captain or any officer, aware that he was there in hiding.

The ship was headed north. Anthony had never experienced February cold. And before the end of the voyage, his feet were frozen in his boots.

Finally, sometime near the final days of February or the first of March, the ship made the wharf at Boston harbor. After giving Cal a grateful, if hurried, good-bye, Anthony managed to get to shore unnoticed. The morning was gray. Not many people were
about. He took on the appearance of an ordinary seaman—who limped. So stiff was he. He found his way to a boardinghouse, where he was able to find a room. After a week he was pretty much recovered from bruises, cold, sickness, and hunger. He could toss and turn on his bed as often as he pleased. And he took particular pleasure in sleeping on the opposite side from the one he'd had to keep to on the ship.

He found work, and it was good work. He became a cook on a flat-bottomed square-end boat called a mud scow. He did well with his new duties, except for one important chore. He was to bake the bread. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not make it rise. And after a week Anthony was let go.

His next employment was with the Mattapan Works in South Boston.

17
May 29, 1854

AS HE SAT
in the courtroom, Anthony's mind raced. That letter I wrote to my pastor, he
thought. I mailed it to brother mine in Richmond, had it postmarked in Canada. But I must have dated it Boston. I do remember, I did that. Never knew how much a little letter could mean. An awful bad mistake. Now, here I be.

Courtroom voices rushed in, startling him, and he was back from his journey into memory. He bowed down his head and closed his eyes, as if to blot out the sounds. But he could not. It seemed that all of his past had caught up to him in the present.

Seth Thomas for the Colonel was speaking: “… to put in the record of the court of Virginia as evidence, that Charles F. Suttle did appear in Alexandria Circuit Court, May 16, 1854, and made satisfactory proof that Anthony Burns was held to service and labor by him. And service and labor are due him from the said Anthony.”

Thomas's voice droned on, but what he said held Richard Dana's rapt attention: “… and that the said Anthony has escaped from the State
aforesaid …”

But by Brent's own testimony, Dana thought, Anthony fell asleep. There was no es
cape!

“… and that the said service and labor are due him, Suttle, the master of Anthony; and having further proved that Anthony is a man of dark complexion, about six feet high, with a scar on one of his cheeks, and also, a scar on the back of his right hand, and about twenty-three or four years of age, we ask that it be therefore ordered,” Thomas continued, “in accordance with an act of Congress—the Fugitive Slave Act respecting fugitives from justice and persons escaping from their masters—that the matter set forth be entered on the record of this Court.”

“It is in that case subject to objection from the prisoner's counsel,” said Commissioner Loring.

Richard Dana examined the transcript of the record of the Alexandria court. It was certified by the Circuit Court clerk as a true transcript from the court records. “We should have several objections to present against it,” Dana said.

Edward Parker for the Colonel said, “The record is decisive of two points: first, that Burns owed service and labor, second, that he escaped.”

Dana had to smile. They are contradicting themselves, he thought.

Parker then requested that Loring examine the marks on the prisoner.

“I perceive the scars on the cheek and hand, and take cognizance with my eye of the
prisoner's height,” said Loring.

Next, Thomas presented a volume of Virginia laws as evidence. Richard Dana at once objected. “A
book
is here presented to show that a person owes service and labor in Virginia! We deny the sufficiency of the evidence.”

“The proper way to prove the law of another state is by books,” said Seth Thomas. “If the book is not sufficient, I wish to prove the fact in another way.”

“Let the book go in as testimony for what it is worth,” Commissioner Loring said.

The evidence on behalf of Charles Suttle now ended. Suttle was pleased that Commissioner Loring had allowed his entire case to be entered, even though Mr. Dana had objected. The court had now been in session five hours, and Suttle's counsel asked for an adjournment. Loring allowed for a half hour's recess to give Dana and Ellis time to make necessary preparations for Anthony's defense.

Richard Dana knew this wasn't enough time to make use of the law library. Why must he handicap me? he thought. Loring was deciding against every objection he or Ellis made. And the Marshal's guard and the military made it impossible for them to come and go freely. Dana felt it was crucial that he get to the law library to study complex questions of the law.

When the court reassembled at three thirty that afternoon, Mr. Ellis opened for the defense, and he was furious. He stated that the time that he and Mr. Dana had had to prepare their case was no more than a day. “This case involves novel questions of law,” Ellis said, “but the library has been locked up. The
military makes it next to impossible, even for counsel, to enter the courtroom. I am stopped from climbing the stairway by soldiers with their bayonets at my breast. Still, Your Honor, we must go on.

“We shall offer evidence to contradict that produced by the claimant, evidence upon the
facts
at issue. But before stating it, we claim that there is no evidence offered by the claimant that will justify the signing of a warrant of slavery.

“We stand on the presumption of which Your Honor did well to remind counsel, the presumption of freedom and innocence.

“Sir, you sit here, judge and jury,” Ellis continued.

“You sit to render a judgment which, if against him, no tribunal can review and no court reverse. He, Burns, may be dragged before you without any warrant; you must proceed without any delay; without any charge, on proofs defined only as such as may satisfy your mind, you may adjudge, and your judgment to surrender will be final forever.

“Seized on a false charge, without counsel, the prisoner is to be doomed.

“If such a case stood alone, we feel that it ought to be dismissed. But the prisoner
has a case
.” Charles Ellis looked around the room slowly, measuring the effect of his words. The spectators hung on each one. “The complaint alleges,” he said carefully, “the only record offered proves, the only witness called testifies to, an escape from Richmond on the
twenty-fourth day of March last
. The witness, Brent, swears clearly and
positively that he saw this prisoner in Richmond on the
twentieth day of March
.

“We shall call a number of witnesses to show that the prisoner was in Boston on the
first of March last
, and has been here ever since up to the time of this seizure. This is our defense.”

There were stunned murmurings in the courtroom. Commissioner Loring banged his gavel, and the room quieted.

A black freeman, William Jones, was called by Ellis to the stand. Jones testified that he first saw Anthony Burns in Boston on March 1, 1854, and that on the 4th of March he employed Anthony to labor in the Mattapan Works at South Boston. “He worked with me cleaning windows,” Jones said. “I agreed to give him eight cents a window; and when he was through, I gave him a dollar and a half.” He was able to be certain of the dates, he said, because of notations in a memorandum book that was kept by his employer, a Mr. Russell.

Seth Thomas cross-examined William Jones sharply but got nowhere in shaking his testimony. Finally, the witness was allowed to step down from the stand.

That ended Monday's testimony. On Tuesday, May 30, evidence for the defense continued all morning and afternoon. George H. Drew, the white bookkeeper at the Mattapan Works, confirmed Mr. Jones's statements of the day before. Jones was employed on the first of the month. At that time Drew saw Anthony Burns with him. Drew had no doubt of the identity of the man in the prisoner's box.

Next to take the stand was
James F. Whittemore, a member of the Boston City Council and a director of the Mattapan Works. He said he had seen Burns cleaning windows with Mr. Jones on the 8th or 9th of March. He told Dana, “I am a Lieutenant of the Pulaski Guards. I've no particular interest in this case. I am in no way a Free-Soiler or abolitionist.”

John Favor was then sworn in. “I am a carpenter,” he said. “I saw Jones in my shop in March. He had a colored man with him. He came to get employment for the colored man. When I came to court, I recognized Burns there as the man with Jones. They came to my place about the first of March.”

Next was Horace W. Brown. “I am a police officer,” he said. “I have seen the man in the prisoner's box before. He was cleaning windows at the Mattapan Works, South Boston. I had worked there as a carpenter before I was a policeman. And I saw Burns at work there a week to ten days before I left there on the twentieth of March. I have not the slightest doubt about this.”

With Horace Brown's testimony, the case for the defense ended.

Colonel Suttle and his lawyers and loyal followers had been contemptuous of the first witness, Jones. They had regarded his testimony as a complete lie from beginning to end. But when the next witness, in their eyes a decent white man, took the stand, they turned to one another with some alarm. Their alarm grew when an officer in the Pulaski Guard (which guarded the very Court House now under siege) said he was no abolitionist, but swore he had seen Burns early in March, thus confirming the earlier testimony. Now Colonel Suttle and his
group looked very upset.