Chapter 2

THE TWO STRANGERS—THE CIRCUS COMPANY—DEPARTURE FROM SARATOGA—VENTRILOQUISM AND LEGERDEMAIN—JOURNEY TO NEW-YORK—FREE PAPERS—BROWN AND HAMILTON—THE HASTE TO REACH THE CIRCUS—ARRIVAL IN WASHINGTON—FUNERAL OF HARRISON—THE SUDDEN SICKNESS—THE TORMENT OF THIRST—THE RECEDING LIGHT—INSENSIBILITY—CHAINS AND DARKNESS.

THE TWO STRANGERS. THE CIRCUS COMPANY. LEAVING SARATOGA. VENTRILOQUISM AND SLEIGHT OF HAND. THE JOURNEY TO NEW-YORK. FREE PAPERS. BROWN AND HAMILTON. THE RUSH TO REACH THE CIRCUS. ARRIVAL IN WASHINGTON. HARRISON’S FUNERAL. THE SUDDEN ILLNESS. THE AGONY OF THIRST. THE FADING LIGHT. UNCONSCIOUSNESS. CHAINS AND DARKNESS.

One morning, towards the latter part of the month of March, 1841, having at that time no particular business to engage my attention, I was walking about the village of Saratoga Springs, thinking to myself where I might obtain some present employment, until the busy season should arrive. Anne, as was her usual custom, had gone over to Sandy Hill, a distance of some twenty miles, to take charge of the culinary department at Sherrill's Coffee House, during the session of the court. Elizabeth, I think, had accompanied her. Margaret and Alonzo were with their aunt at Saratoga.

One morning in late March 1841, I had no particular work to occupy me. I was walking around the village of Saratoga Springs, thinking about where I might find work until the busy season arrived. Anne had gone to Sandy Hill, about twenty miles away, as she usually did. She was in charge of the cooking at Sherrill's Coffee House while the court was in session. I think Elizabeth had gone with her. Margaret and Alonzo were with their aunt in Saratoga.

On the corner of Congress street and Broadway, near the tavern, then, and for aught I know to the contrary, still kept by Mr. Moon, I was met by two gentlemen of respectable appearance, both of whom were entirely unknown to me. I have the impression that they were introduced to me by some one of my acquaintances, but who, I have in vain endeavored to recall, with the remark that I was an expert player on the violin.

At the corner of Congress street and Broadway, near the tavern, I met two respectable-looking gentlemen. Both were complete strangers to me. Mr. Moon kept the tavern at the time, and for all I know, he still does. I believe an acquaintance introduced the gentlemen to me and mentioned that I was an expert violinist. But I have tried in vain to remember who it was.

At any rate, they immediately entered into conversation on that subject, making numerous inquiries touching my proficiency in that respect. My responses being to all appearances satisfactory, they proposed to engage my services for a short period, stating, at the same time, I was just such a person as their business required. Their names, as they afterwards gave them to me, were Merrill Brown and Abram Hamilton, though whether these were their true appellations, I have strong reasons to doubt. The former was a man apparently forty years of age, somewhat short and thick-set, with a countenance indicating shrewdness and intelligence. He wore a black frock coat and black hat, and said he resided either at Rochester or at Syracuse. The latter was a young man of fair complexion and light eyes, and, I should judge, had not passed the age of twenty-five. He was tall and slender, dressed in a snuff-colored coat, with glossy hat, and vest of elegant pattern. His whole apparel was in the extreme of fashion. His appearance was somewhat effeminate, but prepossessing, and there was about him an easy air, that showed he had mingled with the world. They were connected, as they informed me, with a circus company, then in the city of Washington; that they were on their way thither to rejoin it, having left it for a short time to make an excursion northward, for the purpose of seeing the country, and were paying their expenses by an occasional exhibition. They also remarked that they had found much difficulty in procuring music for their entertainments, and that if I would accompany them as far as New-York, they would give me one dollar for each day's services, and three dollars in addition for every night I played at their performances, besides sufficient to pay the expenses of my return from New-York to Saratoga.

In any case, they immediately began discussing the subject and asked many questions about my skill. My answers seemed to satisfy them, and they offered to hire me for a short time. They said I was just the sort of person their business needed. They later gave their names as Merrill Brown and Abram Hamilton, though I have strong reasons to doubt those were their real names. Brown appeared to be about forty years old. He was somewhat short and stocky, with a face that suggested shrewdness and intelligence. He wore a black frock coat and black hat. He said he lived either in Rochester or Syracuse. Hamilton was a young man with a fair complexion and light eyes. I judged him to be no more than twenty-five. He was tall and slender, and wore a snuff-colored coat, a glossy hat, and an elegantly patterned vest. All his clothes were at the height of fashion. He looked somewhat effeminate, but had a pleasing appearance. His easy manner showed that he had experience of the world. They told me they were connected with a circus company then in the city of Washington. They were on their way back to join it after a short trip north to see the country. They were paying their expenses by giving occasional performances. They also said they had found it very difficult to get music for their shows. If I would go with them as far as New-York, they would pay me one dollar for each day's work. They would also pay me three dollars more for every night I played at their performances. In addition, they would give me enough to cover my return from New-York to Saratoga.

I at once accepted the tempting offer, both for the reward it promised, and from a desire to visit the metropolis. They were anxious to leave immediately. Thinking my absence would be brief, I did not deem it necessary to write to Anne whither I had gone; in fact supposing that my return, perhaps, would be as soon as hers. So taking a change of linen and my violin, I was ready to depart. The carriage was brought round—a covered one, drawn by a pair of noble bays, altogether forming an elegant establishment. Their baggage, consisting of three large trunks, was fastened on the rack, and mounting to the driver's seat, while they took their places in the rear, I drove away from Saratoga on the road to Albany, elated with my new position, and happy as I had ever been, on any day in all my life.

I accepted the tempting offer at once, both for the promised reward and because I wanted to visit the city. They were eager to leave immediately. I thought I would be away only briefly, so I did not think it necessary to write to Anne about where I had gone. In fact, I supposed I might return as soon as she did. So I took a change of linen and my violin and was ready to leave. The carriage was brought around. It was covered and drawn by a pair of magnificent bay horses. Altogether, it made an elegant sight. Their baggage consisted of three large trunks, which were secured to the rack. I climbed into the driver's seat while they sat in the back. Then I drove away from Saratoga on the road to Albany. I was delighted with my new position and as happy as I had ever been on any day of my life.

We passed through Ballston, and striking the ridge road, as it is called, if my memory correctly serves me, followed it direct to Albany. We reached that city before dark, and stopped at a hotel southward from the Museum.

We passed through Ballston and took the road called the ridge road, if I remember correctly. We followed it straight to Albany. We reached the city before dark and stopped at a hotel south of the Museum.

This night I had an opportunity of witnessing one of their performances—the only one, during the whole period I was with them. Hamilton was stationed at the door; I formed the orchestra, while Brown provided the entertainment. It consisted in throwing balls, dancing on the rope, frying pancakes in a hat, causing invisible pigs to squeal, and other like feats of ventriloquism and legerdemain. The audience was extraordinarily sparse, and not of the selectest character at that, and Hamilton's report of the proceeds presented but a "beggarly account of empty boxes."

That night, I had a chance to see one of their performances. It was the only one I saw during my entire time with them. Hamilton stood at the door, I was the orchestra, and Brown provided the entertainment. He threw balls, danced on a rope, fried pancakes in a hat, and made invisible pigs squeal. He also performed similar feats of ventriloquism and sleight of hand. The audience was extremely small, and its members were hardly the most refined. Hamilton’s report of the proceeds showed only a "beggarly account of empty boxes."

Early next morning we renewed our journey. The burden of their conversation now was the expression of an anxiety to reach the circus without delay. They hurried forward, without again stopping to exhibit, and in due course of time, we reached New-York, taking lodgings at a house on the west side of the city, in a street running from Broadway to the river. I supposed my journey was at an end, and expected in a day or two at least, to return to my friends and family at Saratoga. Brown and Hamilton, however, began to importune me to continue with them to Washington. They alleged that immediately on their arrival, now that the summer season was approaching, the circus would set out for the north. They promised me a situation and high wages if I would accompany them. Largely did they expatiate on the advantages that would result to me, and such were the flattering representations they made, that I finally concluded to accept the offer.

Early the next morning, we resumed our journey. Their conversation was now mostly about their eagerness to reach the circus without delay. They hurried on without stopping to perform again. In time, we reached New-York and found lodging on the west side of the city, on a street running from Broadway to the river. I thought my journey was over. I expected to return to my friends and family in Saratoga within a day or two. Brown and Hamilton, however, began urging me to continue with them to Washington. They claimed that the circus would head north as soon as they arrived, since summer was approaching. They promised me a position and high wages if I went with them. They spoke at length about the advantages I would gain. Their promises were so flattering that I finally decided to accept the offer.

The next morning they suggested that, inasmuch as we were about entering a slave State, it would be well, before leaving New-York, to procure free papers. The idea struck me as a prudent one, though I think it would scarcely have occurred to me, had they not proposed it. We proceeded at once to what I understood to be the Custom House. They made oath to certain facts showing I was a free man. A paper was drawn up and handed us, with the direction to take it to the clerk's office. We did so, and the clerk having added something to it, for which he was paid six shillings, we returned again to the Custom House. Some further formalities were gone through with before it was completed, when, paying the officer two dollars, I placed the papers in my pocket, and started with my two friends to our hotel. I thought at the time, I must confess, that the papers were scarcely worth the cost of obtaining them—the apprehension of danger to my personal safety never having suggested itself to me in the remotest manner. The clerk, to whom we were directed, I remember, made a memorandum in a large book, which, I presume, is in the office yet. A reference to the entries during the latter part of March, or first of April, 1841, I have no doubt will satisfy the incredulous, at least so far as this particular transaction is concerned.

The next morning, they suggested that I get free papers before leaving New-York, since we were about to enter a slave State. The idea seemed wise, though I doubt it would have occurred to me if they had not suggested it. We went at once to what I understood was the Custom House. They swore to certain facts showing that I was a free man. A paper was drawn up and given to us, and we were told to take it to the clerk's office. We did so, and the clerk added something to it. He was paid six shillings, and we returned to the Custom House. After some further formalities, the papers were complete. I paid the officer two dollars, put the papers in my pocket, and left with my two friends for our hotel. I must confess that, at the time, I thought the papers were hardly worth the cost of obtaining them. The possibility that my personal safety might be in danger had never even remotely occurred to me. I remember that the clerk we were sent to made an entry in a large book. I presume the book is still in the office. I have no doubt that anyone who doubts my account could check the entries from late March or early April 1841. They would be convinced, at least as far as this particular transaction is concerned.

With the evidence of freedom in my possession, the next day after our arrival in New-York, we crossed the ferry to Jersey City, and took the road to Philadelphia. Here we remained one night, continuing our journey towards Baltimore early in the morning. In due time, we arrived in the latter city, and stopped at a hotel near the railroad depot, either kept by a Mr. Rathbone, or known as the Rathbone House. All the way from New-York, their anxiety to reach the circus seemed to grow more and more intense. We left the carriage at Baltimore, and entering the cars, proceeded to Washington, at which place we arrived just at nightfall, the evening previous to the funeral of General Harrison, and stopped at Gadsby's Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue.

With proof of my freedom in my possession, we crossed the ferry to Jersey City the day after arriving in New-York. From there, we traveled to Philadelphia. We stayed there one night and continued toward Baltimore early the next morning. In time, we arrived in Baltimore and stayed at a hotel near the railroad station. It was either run by a Mr. Rathbone or known as the Rathbone House. Throughout the journey from New-York, their eagerness to reach the circus seemed to grow stronger. We left the carriage in Baltimore, boarded the train, and continued to Washington. We arrived at nightfall, on the evening before General Harrison's funeral, and stayed at Gadsby's Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue.

After supper they called me to their apartments, and paid me forty-three dollars, a sum greater than my wages amounted to, which act of generosity was in consequence, they said, of their not having exhibited as often as they had given me to anticipate, during our trip from Saratoga. They moreover informed me that it had been the intention of the circus company to leave Washington the next morning, but that on account of the funeral, they had concluded to remain another day. They were then, as they had been from the time of our first meeting, extremely kind. No opportunity was omitted of addressing me in the language of approbation; while, on the other hand, I was certainly much prepossessed in their favor. I gave them my confidence without reserve, and would freely have trusted them to almost any extent. Their constant conversation and manner towards me—their foresight in suggesting the idea of free papers, and a hundred other little acts, unnecessary to be repeated—all indicated that they were friends indeed, sincerely solicitous for my welfare. I know not but they were. I know not but they were innocent of the great wickedness of which I now believe them guilty. Whether they were accessory to my misfortunes—subtle and inhuman monsters in the shape of men—designedly luring me away from home and family, and liberty, for the sake of gold—those who read these pages will have the same means of determining as myself. If they were innocent, my sudden disappearance must have been unaccountable indeed; but revolving in my mind all the attending circumstances, I never yet could indulge, towards them, so charitable a supposition.

After supper, they called me to their rooms and paid me forty-three dollars, more than I had earned in wages. They said they were being generous because they had performed less often than they had led me to expect during our trip from Saratoga. They also told me that the circus company had planned to leave Washington the next morning. But because of the funeral, they had decided to stay another day. They were extremely kind to me, as they had been since we first met. They never missed a chance to praise me, and I, in turn, had a very favorable impression of them. I trusted them completely and would have trusted them with almost anything. Their constant conversation and manner toward me, their foresight in suggesting free papers, and a hundred other small acts I need not repeat all suggested they were true friends, sincerely concerned for my welfare. Perhaps they were. Perhaps they were innocent of the great wickedness I now believe them guilty of. Were they involved in my misfortunes? Were they cunning and inhuman monsters in the form of men, deliberately luring me away from home, family, and liberty for gold? Those who read these pages will have the same means of judging as I do. If they were innocent, my sudden disappearance must have been truly unexplainable. But when I turn over all the circumstances in my mind, I have never been able to believe so generously of them.

After receiving the money from them, of which they appeared to have an abundance, they advised me not to go into the streets that night, inasmuch as I was unacquainted with the customs of the city. Promising to remember their advice, I left them together, and soon after was shown by a colored servant to a sleeping room in the back part of the hotel, on the ground floor. I laid down to rest, thinking of home and wife, and children, and the long distance that stretched between us, until I fell asleep. But no good angel of pity came to my bedside, bidding me to fly—no voice of mercy forewarned me in my dreams of the trials that were just at hand.

After I received the money from them, and they seemed to have plenty of it, they advised me not to go out that night. I was unfamiliar with the city’s customs. I promised to remember their advice and left them together. Soon afterward, a colored servant showed me to a bedroom on the ground floor, at the back of the hotel. I lay down to rest, thinking of home, my wife and children, and the long distance between us. At last I fell asleep. But no kind angel came to my bedside and urged me to flee. No merciful voice warned me in my dreams of the trials that were just ahead.

The next day there was a great pageant in Washington. The roar of cannon and the tolling of bells filled the air, while many houses were shrouded with crape, and the streets were black with people. As the day advanced, the procession made its appearance, coming slowly through the Avenue, carriage after carriage, in long succession, while thousands upon thousands followed on foot—all moving to the sound of melancholy music. They were bearing the dead body of Harrison to the grave.

The next day, there was a grand procession in Washington. Cannons roared and bells tolled. Many houses were draped in black cloth, and the streets were crowded with people. Later in the day, the procession appeared, moving slowly along the Avenue. Carriage after carriage passed in a long line, followed by thousands upon thousands of people on foot. All moved to the sound of mournful music. They were carrying Harrison’s body to the grave.

From early in the morning, I was constantly in the company of Hamilton and Brown. They were the only persons I knew in Washington. We stood together as the funeral pomp passed by. I remember distinctly how the window glass would break and rattle to the ground, after each report of the cannon they were firing in the burial ground. We went to the Capitol, and walked a long time about the grounds. In the afternoon, they strolled towards the President's House, all the time keeping me near to them, and pointing out various places of interest. As yet, I had seen nothing of the circus. In fact, I had thought of it but little, if at all, amidst the excitement of the day.

From early in the morning, I was always with Hamilton and Brown. They were the only people I knew in Washington. We stood together as the funeral procession passed by. I remember clearly how the window glass broke and rattled to the ground after each cannon shot from the burial ground. We went to the Capitol and walked around the grounds for a long time. In the afternoon, Hamilton and Brown strolled toward the President's House. They kept me close to them the whole time and pointed out various places of interest. I still had seen nothing of the circus. In fact, amid the excitement of the day, I had hardly thought of it, if at all.

My friends, several times during the afternoon, entered drinking saloons, and called for liquor. They were by no means in the habit, however, so far as I knew them, of indulging to excess. On these occasions, after serving themselves, they would pour out a glass and hand it to me. I did not become intoxicated, as may be inferred from what subsequently occurred. Towards evening, and soon after partaking of one of these potations, I began to experience most unpleasant sensations. I felt extremely ill. My head commenced aching—a dull, heavy pain, inexpressibly disagreeable. At the supper table, I was without appetite; the sight and flavor of food was nauseous. About dark the same servant conducted me to the room I had occupied the previous night. Brown and Hamilton advised me to retire, commiserating me kindly, and expressing hopes that I would be better in the morning. Divesting myself of coat and boots merely, I threw myself upon the bed. It was impossible to sleep. The pain in my head continued to increase, until it became almost unbearable. In a short time I became thirsty. My lips were parched. I could think of nothing but water—of lakes and flowing rivers, of brooks where I had stooped to drink, and of the dripping bucket, rising with its cool and overflowing nectar, from the bottom of the well. Towards midnight, as near as I could judge, I arose, unable longer to bear such intensity of thirst. I was a stranger in the house, and knew nothing of its apartments. There was no one up, as I could observe. Groping about at random, I knew not where, I found the way at last to a kitchen in the basement. Two or three colored servants were moving through it, one of whom, a woman, gave me two glasses of water. It afforded momentary relief, but by the time I had reached my room again, the same burning desire of drink, the same tormenting thirst, had again returned. It was even more torturing than before, as was also the wild pain in my head, if such a thing could be. I was in sore distress—in most excruciating agony! I seemed to stand on the brink of madness! The memory of that night of horrible suffering will follow me to the grave.

Several times that afternoon, my friends went into drinking saloons and ordered liquor. As far as I knew, however, they were not in the habit of drinking too much. Each time, after pouring drinks for themselves, they poured a glass and handed it to me. I did not become drunk, as what happened afterward may suggest. Toward evening, soon after having one of these drinks, I began to feel very strange and unpleasant sensations. I felt extremely ill. My head began to ache with a dull, heavy pain that was unbearably unpleasant. At supper, I had no appetite. The sight and taste of food made me sick. Around dark, the same servant led me to the room I had occupied the night before. Brown and Hamilton advised me to go to bed. They kindly expressed sympathy and hoped I would feel better in the morning. I took off only my coat and boots and threw myself on the bed. It was impossible to sleep. The pain in my head kept growing until it was almost unbearable. Before long, I became thirsty. My lips were dry. I could think of nothing but water. I thought of lakes and flowing rivers, of brooks where I had bent down to drink, and of the dripping bucket rising from the bottom of the well, overflowing with cool nectar. Around midnight, as nearly as I could judge, I got up. I could no longer bear the intensity of my thirst. I was a stranger in the house and knew nothing of its rooms. As far as I could see, no one was awake. I groped about at random, not knowing where I was, until I found a kitchen in the basement. Two or three colored servants were moving through the kitchen. One of them, a woman, gave me two glasses of water. The water relieved me for a moment, but by the time I returned to my room, the same burning desire for drink, the same tormenting thirst, had returned. The thirst was even more torturing than before, as was the wild pain in my head, if that was possible. I was in terrible distress, in the most excruciating agony! I seemed to be on the brink of madness! The memory of that night of horrible suffering will follow me to the grave.

In the course of an hour or more after my return from the kitchen, I was conscious of some one entering my room. There seemed to be several—a mingling of various voices,—but how many, or who they were, I cannot tell. Whether Brown and Hamilton were among them, is a mere matter of conjecture. I only remember, with any degree of distinctness, that I was told it was necessary to go to a physician and procure medicine, and that pulling on my boots, without coat or hat, I followed them through a long passage-way, or alley, into the open street. It ran out at right angles from Pennsylvania Avenue. On the opposite side there was a light burning in a window. My impression is there were then three persons with me, but it is altogether indefinite and vague, and like the memory of a painful dream. Going towards the light, which I imagined proceeded from a physician's office, and which seemed to recede as I advanced, is the last glimmering recollection I can now recall. From that moment I was insensible. How long I remained in that condition—whether only that night, or many days and nights—I do not know; but when consciousness returned, I found myself alone, in utter darkness, and in chains.

An hour or more after I returned from the kitchen, I became aware that someone was entering my room. There seemed to be several people, and I heard a mix of voices. But I cannot say how many there were or who they were. I can only guess whether Brown and Hamilton were among them. The one thing I remember with any clarity is that I was told I needed to see a doctor and get medicine. I pulled on my boots and followed them, without a coat or hat, through a long passage or alley into the street. The alley met Pennsylvania Avenue at a right angle. On the opposite side of the street, a light was burning in a window. I believe there were three people with me then, but the memory is vague and unclear, like a painful dream. I headed toward the light, which I thought came from a doctor’s office. It seemed to move farther away as I approached. That is the last faint memory I can recall. From that moment, I was unconscious. I do not know how long I remained that way, whether only that night or for many days and nights. But when I regained consciousness, I found myself alone, in complete darkness, and in chains.

The pain in my head had subsided in a measure, but I was very faint and weak. I was sitting upon a low bench, made of rough boards, and without coat or hat. I was hand-cuffed. Around my ankles also were a pair of heavy fetters. One end of a chain was fastened to a large ring in the floor, the other to the fetters on my ankles. I tried in vain to stand upon my feet. Waking from such a painful trance, it was some time before I could collect my thoughts. Where was I? What was the meaning of these chains? Where were Brown and Hamilton? What had I done to deserve imprisonment in such a dungeon? I could not comprehend. There was a blank of some indefinite period, preceding my awakening in that lonely place, the events of which the utmost stretch of memory was unable to recall. I listened intently for some sign or sound of life, but nothing broke the oppressive silence, save the clinking of my chains, whenever I chanced to move. I spoke aloud, but the sound of my voice startled me. I felt of my pockets, so far as the fetters would allow—far enough, indeed, to ascertain that I had not only been robbed of liberty, but that my money and free papers were also gone! Then did the idea begin to break upon my mind, at first dim and confused, that I had been kidnapped. But that I thought was incredible. There must have been some misapprehension—some unfortunate mistake. It could not be that a free citizen of New-York, who had wronged no man, nor violated any law, should be dealt with thus inhumanly. The more I contemplated my situation, however, the more I became confirmed in my suspicions. It was a desolate thought, indeed. I felt there was no trust or mercy in unfeeling man; and commending myself to the God of the oppressed, bowed my head upon my fettered hands, and wept most bitterly.

The pain in my head had eased somewhat, but I was very faint and weak. I was sitting on a low bench made of rough boards, without my coat or hat. My hands were cuffed, and heavy shackles were fastened around my ankles. A chain ran from the shackles to a large ring in the floor. I tried to stand, but could not. After waking from such a painful stupor, it took me some time to gather my thoughts. Where was I? Why was I in chains? Where were Brown and Hamilton? What had I done to deserve being imprisoned in such a dungeon? I could not understand it. There was a blank in my memory before I woke in that lonely place. I could not tell how long it lasted or remember anything that had happened during it, however hard I tried. I listened closely for any sign or sound of life. But nothing broke the oppressive silence except the clinking of my chains whenever I moved. I spoke aloud, but the sound of my voice startled me. I felt in my pockets as far as the shackles allowed. It was far enough to discover that I had not only been robbed of my liberty, but also of my money and free papers! Then the thought began to form in my mind, dimly and confused at first, that I had been kidnapped. But I thought that was impossible. There must have been some misunderstanding, some unfortunate mistake. Surely a free citizen of New-York who had wronged no man and broken no law could not be treated so inhumanly. Yet the more I thought about my situation, the more certain I became that my suspicions were right. It was a truly desolate thought. I felt that there was no trust or mercy to be found in an unfeeling man. I entrusted myself to the God of the oppressed, bowed my head on my shackled hands, and wept bitterly.