The Slave Catcher

Patrick opened his eyes. He and Beth were standing on a wooden platform. In one hand he held a train ticket.

A grown-up bumped against him. Others pushed to get on a train. A noisy crowd surrounded them.

“There are American flags all over the train,” Beth said. The steam locomotive’s smokestack looked like a parade float. A brass band was playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” The platform was too crowded for Patrick and Beth to see the band.

The Imagination Station faded and then disappeared.

Patrick looked down. The black bag was at his feet. He poked it with his toe. He was wearing shoes with tiny black buttons on the side. He was also wearing a gray wool cloak. Under it was a loose-fitting, light-brown suit.

He looked at Beth. She wore a fancy green dress with white trim. The petticoats made the dress billow out like a parachute. A green velvet cloak hung over her shoulders. The cloak’s hood covered her head.

The early morning sun shone brightly, but it was still windy and cold.

“Patrick,” Beth said, “I have two train tickets for Saturday, February 16, 1861. The trip goes from Cleveland, Ohio, to Buffalo, New York.”

“Two tickets?” Patrick said. “Then we have an extra one.” He held up his own ticket.

Beth said, “Maybe the extra ticket is a mistake.”

Patrick looked at the ticket. “You’re right,” he said. “This one is for the Black Rock Ferry into Canada.” He shrugged and stuffed the ticket into his pants pocket.

A discarded page of newspaper blew in his direction. It wrapped around his shin. Patrick pulled it off. He read the headline out loud: “‘Supporters in Buffalo Await Lincoln’s Arrival.’”

“What else does it say?” Beth asked.

Patrick skimmed the article. “This is Mr. Lincoln’s inaugural train,” he said. He looked at Beth. “Does inaugural mean the beginning of Mr. Lincoln’s presidency?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s it,” she said. “Presidents have to give an inaugural speech when they take office.”

Patrick read more of the article. “He’s been on the train about a week so far,” he said. “He has another week of stops. Then he gives the speech on March fourth.”

“Then I say we board this train!” Beth said. “Maybe we’ll get to meet Mr. Lincoln.” She handed one of the tickets to Patrick.

Other people pressed around them. The passengers were mostly men. They looked important in their dark suits and brimmed hats.

A pile of luggage was heaped in front of a car that was right behind the coal car. It had a wide, sliding door. One railroad crewmember was loading bags into the car.

“That’s the baggage car,” Beth said. “Let’s board one of the passenger cars.”

A hiss of steam left the locomotive’s smokestack.

“The engine is starting!” Patrick said. He picked up the bag and hurried toward the train.

Beth lifted her skirt a few inches and hurried after him.

The cousins headed toward a narrow door at the end of the second passenger car. They climbed three metal steps to a small platform outside the door. They each offered their ticket to a man in a black cap.

The man said, “You’re just in time. Welcome to the Lincoln Special. I’m Conductor Nottingham.” He took the tickets from each cousin’s hand. He used a ticket punch to mark them. Then he handed the tickets back.

Patrick put his ticket in his pocket. Beth slipped hers into her cloak pocket. The cousins stepped inside the train.

Nottingham shouted, “All aboard!” and shut the door.

Patrick looked for a place to sit. But businessmen filled every velvet-covered bench. They were talking and laughing together. Servants had to stand and were gathered at the back of the car.

A small wood-burning stove was in the center of the car. It gave out heat and a little smoke.

“Where do we go?” Patrick asked. He set Lincoln’s bag on the floor near the stove.

“Let’s ask the conductor where Mr. Lincoln is,” Beth said.

Patrick scanned the passenger car. Nottingham was talking to the servants at the back.

Across the aisle, a rugged-looking man leaned against one wall. The man had blond hair. He wore a long leather coat with a star-shaped badge. The fabric of his pants was thick. His brown boots went nearly to his knees.

“Maybe the man with the badge knows,” Patrick said, pointing to him. The cousins moved toward the man.

The man saw them coming. He opened his jacket and reached inside a pocket.

Patrick glimpsed a revolver in a holster on the man’s hip. A coiled whip also hung from his belt. Patrick wondered if the man was a sheriff.

The man pulled out a folded poster. He opened it so Patrick and Beth could see it.

The scared face of a teen slave stared at them. Patrick read the words above the picture: “Wanted, Isobel Culver, also known as ‘Sally.’”

Below the picture were these words: “Reward: $450 for information leading to her capture.”

Patrick was stunned. He read the man’s badge. It said, “Runaway Slave Patrol.”

The man said, “Sally escaped from a good home in Lexington, Kentucky. I got a tip that she’s on this train. I’ll give you part of the reward—fifty silver pieces—if you help me find her.”

Patrick shook his head. “No,” he said, “not for a million dollars.”

Beth’s stomach flip-flopped. She felt ill. She had never dreamed she would meet a slave catcher.

“My name is Holman Jones,” the man said. “What are you staring at, miss?”

Beth felt confused. “I’m sorry for being rude,” she said. “But aren’t we in the North, where slavery is illegal?”

“That’s right. We’re in Ohio,” Jones said.

“Then go back to the South,” Patrick said. “No one can own a slave in Ohio.”

The man chuckled. “This badge doesn’t mean I can own a slave in Ohio,” he said. “It means I can capture runaway slaves—legally. Then I return them to their owners.”

“For money,” Patrick said.

“That’s right, young man,” Jones said. “I get paid for lawful, hard work. Slaves are property. If someone stole your horse, you’d want it back, wouldn’t you?”

Beth crossed her arms and glared at Jones. “A person is not an animal,” she said.

Jones laughed. “Of course not,” he said. “A good slave is worth more money than a horse!” His eyes narrowed. “For instance, what if you were a runaway slave?” He poked Beth in the shoulder with his finger. “I could take you back to your master and get a reward.”

“You couldn’t do that!” Patrick said. “She’s not a slave.”

A sinister smile formed on the slave catcher’s lips. “Who’s to say?” Jones asked. He looked Beth over. “You could be of mixed race. Your hair is as black as a Negro’s.”

He reached over and fingered a lock of Beth’s dark hair.

Beth slapped his hand away. Her face flushed red with fury. “And what if I am of mixed race?” she said. “God loves everybody the same. And that’s what counts.”

“You sound religious,” Jones said. “Like a Quaker.”

Beth knew Quakers were Christians. She guessed they were against slavery from what Jones said. She said, “I’m glad to sound like a Christian. You sound like the devil, full of lies.”

Jones sneered at Beth. He briskly walked over to a group of men. He showed them the poster.

Beth’s temper was still fired up. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. At the same time, she felt Patrick nudge her.

Beth turned toward him. “I don’t care if using that word is bad manners,” she said. “He does sound like the devil.”

“It’s not that,” Patrick said. He looked ill.

“Then what?” Beth asked, confused.

“Mr. Lincoln’s bag,” Patrick said. “I lost it.”