Here is the return of our young writer Heer! Now she is back with an inspiring story that she prepared as a school assignment. I really like it. It came with this note:
This story is a historical fiction piece based on the story Never Caught (Young Readers Edition) by Erica Armstrong Dunbar and Kathleen Van Cleve. Some of the characters did not exist in real life and some of the events did not take place. Ona Judge’s character is based on her story in the original book.
Also by Heer:
Adventure in Candy Island
(The) magic herb
From the forest to the sky
Way from Anglia, Part 1 , Part 2
We could not identify the origin of this picture and could not ask for permission. However, it was so appropriate for the story that we decided to use it hoping that we are not infringing any rights.
Runaways
You know my story. I was a girl of mixed race who grew up on George Washington’s plantation called Mount Vernon in Virginia. I was a slave since I was born to my mother and father Betty and Andrew Judge. You guessed it: I’m Ona Judge.
But do you really know my story? People write about things that happened to me and my life story, but you’ve never actually heard it from me. So here it is—the story of my childhood life and how I was affected by the society around me.
I was pretty normal as an enslaved child. I didn’t have any work to do, so I was babysat by some of the other slaves because my mother was always at work. Sewing and attending to Martha Washington. I looked up to Martha. She was beautiful, rich, and had a sense of power that just aired from her whenever I saw her, clinging to my mother’s legs. But that all changed when I turned ten.
When I “came of age,” I had more responsibilities. I was Martha’s personal attendant, doing her hair, helping her bathe, folding her clothes, attending to everything Martha wanted me to do. On top of that, I had to serve as a “playmate” for Martha’s granddaughter Nelly Custis. But it was more of being a babysitter. That Nelly was quite the hassle. She yelled and screamed and cried whenever she didn’t get something she wanted. She also ate a lot, scarfing down the freshly made wheat rolls in the kitchen and other expensive food that I could’ve never imagined eating.
That’s how six years of my life passed, but the work hardened, and the days got longer as I became older. I would retire to bed late at night and sometimes had to sleep on the floor of the Quarters—the crowded house that all the slaves like my mother and I had to live in. It was slightly better than the log cabins that some of the slaves that worked in the fields lived in, but in the Quarters, you have to share your bedroom with about fifty or sixty different people. Imagine that!
Around this time, George Washington, Martha’s husband, was elected president of the United States. He accepted, which meant that he had to move north to New York. And as his wife, Martha had to go too. Martha was not happy. I was doing her hair, and she was complaining the entire time.
“I don’t get it. Why would he sacrifice everything we have here just to move to wretched New York? There’s nothing for him over there.” Her face was very animated when she got frustrated, so I was secretly laughing in my head. I never really said anything back, just listened. I think that’s why she preferred me. I was quiet, obedient, and a good listener. She was the opposite. She had a big mouth and blabbed all day, sometimes saying more than she needed. She told me everything—I was like a statue that would just listen with no response, no emotions. Just a way for her to get everything out.
We moved to New York. It was Martha and George up front with the fancy carriages and horses, while we had to ride behind them in the most uncomfortable chariot. Not as comfortable as it sounds – more like a wagon or a cart. We passed through Philadelphia, where I thought people would be envious of me for being Martha Washington’s right hand, but the look of disgust and pity surprised me. There were so many people, most of them black. Black men and women and children stood on the streets, all of them staring at us. I realized that they were free. Not enslaved. They had the right to do what they wanted, walk wherever they wanted, work wherever they wanted. I didn’t. I was chained to the Washingtons for my entire life.
That’s when I decided I would run. It wasn’t a split-second decision; I’d been thinking about it for years. Many years. When I was younger, three girls named Lucy, Esther, and Deborah had escaped onto a ship called the HMS Savage. They got caught though and brought back to the plantation. That wasn’t going to be me, though. I was going to make it. I had to. I thought of my mother and how proud she would be of me if I did. Every slave’s dream is to be free. But it was not my dream. It was my goal. If I didn’t run now, I would wait until the perfect moment. But I would run.
One day, I was walking Nelly to school. She was only six years younger than me (by this time, I was eighteen), but I still had to babysit her. At her age, or actually, before her age, I was already doing half the work that my mother did. It still stumped me how different our lives were. Nelly was a creature of her own. She was a spoiled brat, no doubt, but she was also the most curious person I’ve ever met. Our daily conversations on the way to school just consisted of her bizarre questions and my not-so-good answers.
“Ona, why is the sky blue?”
“I’m not sure…Because the ocean is blue?”
“But that wouldn’t make sense. Okay, how about this? What’s the point of a lock?”
“To have privacy.” I would die to get my own room with my own lock.
“But a lock turns a door into a wall. That also makes no sense.”
I don’t get this girl. She has a point, though.
Sighing, I say, “I don’t know, Nelly.” This is what I said every time because it was true. I had no education in anything.
When I was heading back, I walked past the house of Thomas Jefferson, the Secretary of State. He lived on the same street as the Washingtons. I know. This was New York. I heard voices coming from the courtyard. Voices of important white men that were arguing. I knew I should get home quickly because Martha would be waiting, but I was curious to hear what they were arguing about.
“The capital should stay in New York. There is no reason for it to be anywhere else. Most of the nation’s people live here and there is access to everything.” The voice was stern and witty, most likely Alexander Hamilton’s. He would be the first to start the arguing.
“But the people of the South will protest if things are not fair to them. It would make more sense to have the capital near the Potomac. That’s the middle of the nation. Neither North nor South.” That was George Washington’s dear old friend TJ. He often visited the Washington’s house. I could never say it was my house, because it wasn’t. I was just living there because I had to.
“I agree with Jefferson.” This man was calmer and sounded much more composed. James Madison.
“Alright, I propose an idea. How about we move the capital to the Potomac, but on one condition.”
“And what would that be?” I could tell that Jefferson was intrigued. He hardly ever was.
“If the federal government can pay off the debts, we shall move the capital.”
A pause. Quiet murmurs, probably of Madison and Jefferson discussing the proposition. “That could work. But we need a temporary capital while the federal city is being built.”
“Philadelphia.”
That was all I heard before they all went inside. I don’t know what I was feeling. I was angry that we just got here, and they were going to make us pack our bags and haul them to another place. “Us” being the slaves. Which included me. But at the same time, I was happy. Philadelphia was the one place that would give me the opportunity to escape.
I’m going to fast-forward and skip this part. It’s rather boring unless you’d want to hear about bag-hauling, bumpy chariots, and more of Martha’s endless bickering. The point is, when we got to Philadelphia, we got into a routine once again. George Washington had a farm nearby because he was homesick. But with the farm came the slaves. He had some slaves from Mount Vernon transported here.
Then one evening, after taking out Martha’s braids, helping her out of her corset, organizing her giant collection of cosmetics, and finishing sewing a skirt, I pretended to go to bed in the room that I shared with Washy, Martha’s other grandchild. The bed was rickety and old, creaking every time I moved, or even breathed. I envied Washy’s new and pristine bed, but I knew that I would never experience that comfort.
Today was the perfect day to escape. Half of the slaves were still working out in the fields because today was Harvest Day. We had those once a week in the fall, where the workers in the fields had to stay outside until 11 at night. I was surprised when she asked me to stay home. I packed a bag, stuffing my belongings, which barely contained anything. A few pairs of clothes that I had sewn, a blanket, and a picture of my family. That was the one thing I valued more than anything.
I checked to make sure the lanterns were blown out, before creeping down the stairs. My room, well actually, the room I shared, was right next to the Washingtons, upstairs. And George and Martha were at a formal dinner party at someone’s house. Which was why today was the perfect day. I snuck outside from the door in the back, checking that no one was around. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I’d thought about this day for so long, dreamed about it even. I’d been planning the perfect escape in my head since the first time I decided I would do it. A sliver of doubt entered my mind. What if someone caught me? What then? I didn’t want to think about it. I had to make sure I won’t be caught.
It was a chilly night, so I was glad I had brought my hand-me-down coat. The wind whistled in my ears as I scrambled along the path farther and farther away from the people I’d stayed with my entire life. Where will I go? I didn’t plan what would happen after the escape. I didn’t have much time to dwell on it before I realized I was in trouble.
I heard shouts from far behind me. Shouts of confusion.
“Where did she go?”
“Have you seen her?”
“Tell me where she went!”
“I don’t know! I haven’t seen anyone!”
Dread filled me. I knew they were talking about me. I didn’t realize they’d find out so soon. Flickering lights from lanterns filled the dark night, illuminating the pathway. Then I ran. I ran and ran, faster than the wind, my cheeks numb from the cold air. I didn’t slow down. I couldn’t slow down. My heart thundered in my chest, threatening to jump out of my body. I started to run out of energy until I collapsed. At least I couldn’t hear them anymore.
I knew they were still looking for me. They wouldn’t stop until they found me, or until the Washingtons gave up. I knew that news would reach the Washingtons soon about my escape. In mere hours, at the most. I turned into a narrow alleyway, hiding behind the buildings. I breathed heavily, trying to catch my breath.
“Who are you?” A voice said. I jumped. If someone found me here, I could be caught. It started to dawn on me now, the mess that I’d gotten myself in. I’d be running for the rest of my life. I’d never actually be free. Always looking behind my back, expecting someone to be chasing after me, always prepared to run.
I looked around cautiously, my body in a defensive position. I couldn’t see anyone around.
“Psst. Down here,” the voice said again. It sounded like a child’s voice. Peering down, I saw a shadow of a little girl. She had matches in her hand, and I was fully prepared that she was going to try and hurt me. But instead, she lit a lantern so I could see her face.
She was rather young, maybe a bit older than Nelly. She had hair the color of fire and her eyes were a stark contrast to them, a pale blue-green. Icy and cold, but the clusters of freckles dotting her face made her look innocent.
“So,” she said, “you didn’t answer my question. Who are you?” she repeated in a thick accent, hinting that she is probably from a foreign country.
I didn’t know if I should answer. Should I lie? I decided that there was no harm in telling her. She didn’t look like she would harm anyone. Innocent. But again, those who look the most innocent, are the real masterminds.
“Ona. My name is Ona.” I said, my voice shaking.
The girl smiles, surprising me. “Pleasure to meet you, Ona. My name is Peggy. It’s short for Margaret.” She wrinkles her tiny nose at the sound of her full name, while she sticks her hand out at me. I’m startled, but I shake it anyway. This girl is confident for someone her age. I admire it. Speaking of young age, where are her parents? I look around, but I don’t see anyone in the abandoned alley.
“What are you looking for?” She asks, turning around.
“Where are your parents?” I am merely curious, but the mention of her parents is like a slap to her face. Peggy’s expression contorts into one of pain, and her bright eyes are now clouded and empty. I feel like I have cut the old wound open again that was starting to heal. I knew I was treading on dangerous water, asking her this. She looks at me, her blue eyes piercing me for a whisper of a second. “Dead.” Her voice is flat and she looks away, avoiding my gaze.
“Oh…me too,” I say. Her gaze is curious now.
“Really?”
“Kind of…I’ve never met my father before, so I assume he’s dead. And I haven’t seen my mother for over two years now. She might not be dead, but it feels that way. At least for now. And now I might never see her again.”
Peggy seems to understand. “Come on, let’s talk inside.” She motions for me to follow her, and I do reluctantly.
She takes me to a tiny run-down house that was hiding behind a large manor. There were two small beds in one corner, opposite the kitchen. A neat stack of clothes was on the other side of the room and a small lantern kept the room illuminated. The house’s size in total is less than the size of the Washingtons’ bedroom in the Philadelphia house. Which was smaller than the ones in Mount Vernon and New York.
“Do you live here alone?” I asked, giving myself a quick tour.
“Yes. Well, there used to be another girl, maybe about your age, but she left when she got married.” She pronounced “married” like MAR-ied and rolled her R’s. “And I’ve only stayed here for a few weeks now.”
That was interesting. “Why?”
Peggy goes to the kitchen, pulling something out of the drawers. “I’m an indentured servant to the Masons.” I’ve heard of them before. They were a rich white couple that was always at the formal dinner parties that the Washingtons hosted. “I’m supposed to serve them for three more years, but…” I could tell that she was tensing up, like the reminder of the topic hurt her somehow. “I escaped because I was being abused.” I knew what that was like. I hadn’t ever experienced it firsthand (thankfully), but when you’re a slave and you live with hundreds of other slaves, you’re bound to at least see it.
My mouth was dry, and I didn’t know what I should say. Should I comfort her? Or did she not want my pity? I stayed silent as she plopped onto the bed and continued her story.
“I came here from Ireland two years ago, because my family was trying to escape the famine. But smallpox was going around on the ship that we were on, and we all caught it,” she pauses, taking deep breaths. “It was horrible. Everyone on the ship was hacking and the red spots were looked at with dread. I survived; I don’t know how. I truly thought I was going to die. But my parents weren’t as lucky. And my older brother survived too, but we were separated when we got here. And that’s how I got here.” I could imagine what her life was like. I had an older brother too, Austin. I knew what it was like to be alone.
“I’m sorry,” I say, unsure of how she will react.
“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault.” She’s surprisingly calm for someone who went through all of that at such a young age. I pondered over everything that had happened in the last 24 hours. At the beginning of the day, I was living my everyday life as Martha’s slave, and now in the hours of a random girl I met in the streets. “So, what’s your story?” She asked, breaking the awkward tension in the room.
“Not much more than what I already told you. I’m owned—was owned?—by the Washingtons and I escaped. I was sick of being Martha’s personal little servant.” My voice dripped with disgust. I told Peggy everything, which was surprising even to me. I trusted this girl already.
“We should go to sleep. It’s dark out.” Peggy motioned for me to take the bed I was sitting on, while she slept on the bed beside me. I started at the ceiling above me, trying to fall asleep. But my mind kept going back to the same question: What if someone finds me?
I wake up to someone shaking me frantically. My eyes shoot open. I wake up, thinking that it’s Washy, but then I realize that Washy’s are brown, unlike the greenish ones staring down at me. Then everything comes flooding back to my head. I’m with Peggy. Not the Washingtons. I’m free.
“Wake up, Ona,” Peggy says, her voice filled with concern.
“Why? What happened?” The back of my neck prickles, like someone is watching me. But there’s no one.
“Shhh…There are people outside.”
My heart skips a beat. We’re dead silent now, and I hear faint voices outside. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know, come here,” she walks to the window, crouching down. Out of the cracked window, there are a few men dressed in brown coats, knee-high boots, and a matching hat. There’s one man that stands out from the rest, with his bizarre-looking mustache (that looks like he purposely spent hours trying to curl up in the perfect way) and his shrewd expression.
“I know who that is,” Peggy pointed to the rat man (that’s what I’m going to call him), “It’s the Masons’ loyal secretary, Luther Wright. Why is he here? And who are those people?”
Dread trickles down my spine. “The slave catchers.” The men huddled together, talking animatedly, and nodding to one another.
“Oh no, this is not good. We have to get out of here. Luther probably made a deal with the slave catchers to get both of us.” Peggy seems so normal about this, like she’s just having a conversation. “I have an idea.” She runs to her bed, crawling underneath it. She lifts a loose floorboard that I hadn’t seen before and pulls out bills of money. “I think there’s enough to get us tickets out of here.”
I didn’t ask where she got the money. I could feel my face wrinkle with confusion. “Tickets?”
“For the train. To New Hampshire, maybe?” Peggy was crazy. New Hampshire? I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“You can’t spend that money on me.”
“Why not? You’re my friend now. And we need to get out of here.”
I could hear the thumping of boots get closer and closer. The slave catchers were getting closer.
“Come on, we can go from the back door,” Peggy said, moving to the kitchen. I was surprised that this tiny house even had a back door.
We tried creeping out as quietly as we could because we knew that they weren’t far behind us. They heard us.
“There they are! Get them!” A shout echoed from behind us, and that’s when we ran. Peggy grabbed my hand and we both darted into the streets, dodging the random things that lay in front of us. The men had the advantage of their long legs and not being tired easily, but I felt like I could run around the entire world right now. My hands were clammy where I gripped Peggy’s wrist. I could feel her heart beating fast. But not as fast as mine. Sweat slicked down my back, soaking through my clothes. But our feet still pounded in synchronization as we ran towards the train station. I could hear our breaths, labored and heavy.
Peggy said something, but I don’t hear her. I’m too focused on running.
“Ona!” I hear her cry. I stop. “I think we lost them.”
No, we couldn’t have lost them. I didn’t have the energy to talk, so I shook my head.
“They’re not here anymore, Ona. We’re safe.” Her hair was blown everywhere, and her eyes were wide. She looked scared, but relieved.
“No, we have to keep running. They’re probably waiting for us.”
“We’re here,” Peggy said, pointing at the train station. This was our chance. Peggy put on a scarf, covering my head and face. “Keep this on and don’t say anything, okay?”
I nod. What has she got in mind?
She marches over to a man wearing a suit. “Excuse me, sir. My name is Annalise, and this is my cousin Dorothy. She’s blind and deaf, though. Can I get two tickets, please?” She holds up the cash.
The man peers at me with a curious expression, but doesn’t question Peggy. He snatches the money out of Peggy’s hands.
“Here ya go. Two tickets to New Hampshire.” He had a southern drawl. Fear sparked in my chest. What if he found out who I am?
“Thank you, sir.” Peggy takes my arm and leads me onto the train. She sighs in relief. “We’re safe, Ona.”
I’m grateful to have found a friend. I thought it was just me against the world. Everyone wanted slavery. The whistle of the train blew, clearing my thoughts. Finally, we’re free.
Of course, I was never legally freed. But once we got to New Hampshire, Peggy found us a job as housemaids. The owner of the house was a kind old lady named Beth-Anne. She was blind, so she never cared what I looked like, as long as I got my work done. She paid well too.
So that’s my story. Quite the chase, I know. But that’s how it was for fugitives like us back then. Runaways.
Francesco Marincola 