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So many and varied have been the changes of half a century, and so rapid the growth of the city in the past twenty-five years, that few of the present inhabitants of Washington, and less of its old-time frequenters, now ever think of the cemetery that skirted the stage road leading north from the city. True, in those by-gone days it was a popular burial place, even for the first families of the capital, but like many another “silent city” it long since fell into disuse, and consequently became for years the most desirable place near the city for an underground railroad station, and to such use it was assiduously appropriated.

In this solitary place, on a quiet Sabbath evening of October, 1839, there was heard just as the last faint twilight trembled on the western horizon a low, distinct whistle. Immediately there arose from among the growth of bushes and from behind already reclining headstones five dusky forms, actuated evidently by the same impulse. The whistle was repeated, and the forms cautiously approached the point whence it proceeded, and there gathered in presence of a stranger to them all, but with no previous knowledge of each other’s intent, though all of them were the property of the same man, Colonel Hardy, a tobacco planter of the District of Columbia, as previously stated in the “Introduction” to these “Romances and Realities.”

The first exclamations of surprise over, their unknown companion proceeded to give them the instructions for the night, after allaying their superstitious fears, that they were to sink into the earth for a time, and be under the conduct of invisible personages. Indeed, so far from that being the case they soon found very much depended upon their own physical exertion. No sinking down into the ground among the dead, no sojourn among spooks and ghosts, impressions that had almost gotten the better of their thirst for freedom, was to be theirs. On the contrary they were to take at once to the pike and follow it until they came to the said road, which was then to be their pathway, only turning out to pass around villages and stations until they came to a man standing in the track who should signal them by the simple name “Ben.” To him they were to yield themselves implicitly.

Seeing the little company once fairly started, the stranger returned to the city, and as he passed the post-office deposited therein a letter addressed,

“JOHN JONES, Esq.,

Albany,

N. Y.”

Leaving this missive and the fugitives to pursue their respective journeys, we pause to inquire into the personalities of the latter. They were named, respectively, Nancy, Kate, Robert, Harry and Jo, or more complete, Jo Norton.

As has been said, they were the property of one man, and when not needed on the plantation, were hired out in the city. Harry was recognized among his fellows as a man of spirit and ability; but the latter quality never saved him from the frequent “buckings” engendered by the too free play of the former. Nancy, an octaroon, was well formed, about twenty years of age, and according to Kate, who had a spontaneous gift of gossip, a special favorite of the “Kunnel.”

Jo Norton was a sprightly, intelligent fellow, and had a wife named Mary, who, with their little boy, was the property of a Mr. Judson, residing in the city. In his boyhood Jo had been continually employed upon the plantation, but after he was sixteen was engaged at a hotel during the winter for several years. For a long time in this place it was his special duty to wait upon Daniel Webster at table and otherwise. It was whilst thus employed that he became acquainted with and won Mary, who had the care of the great statesman’s rooms. During the summer, the Colonel, when reasonably good natured, allowed Jo to visit his wife and child once in two weeks, on Sunday. When too choleric to grant his “chattel” this indulgence, a pass was readily secured from the old man’s daughter, who was his private secretary, and with whom Jo was a great favorite. In these visits the possibility of an escape, more especially for the sake of their boy, was frequently discussed, though no plan was ever perfected.

One evening whilst returning from one of these visitations, Jo fell in company with a gentleman whose manner so impressed him that he asked if he were not from “de Norf.”

“Yes, from Massachusetts,” said the stranger.

“Wy, Massa, dat am de home ob de great Dan’l Webster.”

“Yes; I know him very well.”

“Yes, Massa, an’ doan dis chile knows dat great man to?”

“How is that?”

“Wy, Massa, doan I stan’ ’hind his chaah all dese winters wen him comes to Congress?”

“Ah, I see. But wouldn’t you like to go north and be free?”

“Lor’ Massa, dat was wat Mary and I talks ’bout dis blessed day.”

“Who is Mary?”

“Mary am my wife, sah, and James am my little boy. Da’longs to anuder man.”

“A wife and child!” said the stranger half musingly. “Well my good fellow, we will see what can be done, but we must talk no more now. Meet me on the corner of “F” and the Avenue two weeks from to-day at noon.”

“Yes sah,” and the two parted.

Two weeks passed, and, as agreed, the parties met, the one readily assuming the air of a southern gentleman and the other instinctively falling into the role of his servant. Thus they passed on until a quiet place was reached, when it was agreed that Jo should take a designated place in the old cemetery three weeks from that night, but that Mary and the child should be left in the city till a fitting way for their escape presented itself. In the mean time the other parties had been separately interviewed, and assigned their several hiding places, and given the signal which would call them into the presence of a stranger. Thus it was that they came together unawares.