Secret Hay Ride

Secret Hay Ride Leads to Freedom

Published in The GRIST MILL, February 7, 1947

Story Credit: This article is from the February 7, 1947 edition of The GRIST MILL.

Eunice Merton wrote a column in this paper during the 1940s which served several local communities including Richfield. Eunice was co-owner of Merriam Hills Nursery and wrote the column “Between the Rows” where she wrote about nature, farming, weather predictions, family and history, often writing about Richfield’s role in the Underground Railroad, the abolitionists and the many supporters who lived in the community.

Dorothy Sykes, a noted historian and librarian in Richfield at the time, encouraged Eunice to interview Jennie Oviatt who relayed the story as told to her by her grandmother Fanny Oviatt. Eunice took great care in accurately telling the facts, fashioned in the way stories were told back in the day. Eunice lived in two of the houses that were Stations on the Underground Railroad, one in Broadview Heights and one in Peninsula Ohio.

“Whatever are you putting a load of hay on the wagon at night for?” Fanny Oviatt asked her husband.

Mason’s eyes shifted down to his boots and Fanny checked an instinct to reach out and pat him. She had picked him out and married him from the five Oviatt boys, all over six feet tall and with muscle and brawn that could outlift anyone in Richfield Township, or Summit County for that matter.

She was sure he would be willing to stand up to anyone in the state of Ohio and she loved him for it. She wondered if she didn’t love him even more at times like this when he was shy and wouldn’t face her because he had something of which she might disapprove.

“I’m hiding it for Uncle Heman.”

“Where to?”

“West a ways.”

as far as oberlin

“As far as Oberlin?” Fanny’s voice was frightened. “Mason Oviatt are you getting mixed up with John Brown and runaway slaves?

“I’d almost as soon see you get mixed up with Mallett’s counterfeiting gang,” Fanny said. “Did you fix it so those poor men can breathe? They’ll be half scared to death without smothering them, too.”

Mason grinned at the change in her.

“Don’t you worry. I’ll get them there safe. I may be gone three or four days.”

With a lift of his massive shoulders he went across the yard to the barn to put the team to the wagon.

On the Way

The horses trotted smartly out the drive and turned east on the main road. Their feet clattered on the plank bridge over the creek that fed into Rocky River. The sound carried to Fanny’s listening ears.

Mason slowed the team for the grade over the natural bridge. It was all uphill through West Richfield and then down to the Center where the stagecoach road went through from Cleveland to Massillon.

John Brown lived in the second house east of the Center of the south side of the road.

John Brown House, circa 1940s

“He ought to have stuck to tanning,” Mason said to himself. “Hudson folks say he is the best tanner west of the Alleghenies. He’s a good sheep herder too.”

Mason slowed the horses down and turned them in the drive. Jason, a tall, lanky youth, the first of Brown’s sons by his first wife, came out with a lantern and showed him where to turn the team and bring them back up to the house. The horses faced the road so that anyone passing could not see what was going on at the back of the wagon.

Jason blew out the lantern and said “Father is in the house. He said for you to come in. I’ll watch the team.”

This Way to Freedom

Mason went in to where John Brown was sitting wrapped in a quilt by the fire. He looked old, older than his forty-two years but perhaps that was because he was gaunt and thin. When he talked there was a glitter in his blue eyes that was brighter than the fire of fever. He gave his instructions concisely.

“Do you understand – perfectly?” he asked.

Mason nodded.

“May God be with you and all there are in your care on this journey.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brown.”

At a nod from his father, John Jr. went down the inner steps to the cellar and Mason went out to the waiting wagon. Carefully he drew the hay away to disclose the false bottom he had built on the rack that afternoon.

The moon would not rise for another hour. He heard the cellar door at his side open and half saw a dark head peering up.

“All right, man,” he whispered and held down a hand. “Come on up. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.

Mason helped him wriggle into the shallow space cautioning him to keep over to the right as far as possible so as to leave room for the others. One after another four men scrambled into the space between the load of hay and the floor of the rack.

John Brown, circa 1840s

Mason Oviatt, circa 1840s

One More To Go

Mason turned. John Jr. touched him on the arm.

“Here’s another.”

“I thought there were only four,” Mason said. “We can’t get him in. They’re in there now tighter than pigs in a trough.”

“We’ve got to,” John’s whisper was urgent. “He came last night. It may be weeks before we go out again.”

The others moved still closer together and the little one quickly squeezed his way in.

Mason stuffed a couple of armfuls of hay across the end of the box and with his fingers combed the overhanging hay down to hide it.

There was nothing stirring in West Richfield and he gave the team its head on the two mile down grade to his place.

There hoofs clattered over the plank bridge and they started to turn in the home driveway, but he kept them steady on.

Lights of Home

Oviatt House, circa 1870s

He wanted to go in, too, for Fanny came to the door and stood silhouetted with the light at her back. He carried that picture of her with him all the long westward trip.

He drew the horses to a slow walk as they came to Hinckley Hill. It was a long pull and the steepest hill anywhere about. He stood with his hand on the brake and when they came to the first thank-you-ma’am he set it hard and shouted, “Whoa.”

The horses’ flanks were heaving and he gave them a long breathing spell. Several times he did this before they reached the top.

When they pulled over the top of the last grade, which seemed the steepest, he looped the lines around the standard and climbed down.

Safety in Solitude

There were no houses anywhere near. He went to the back of the wagon.

“You men want to get out and stretch a bit? Don’t want to wear your bellies clear out lying flat on them that way.”

He loosened the check reins and let the horses crop the grass beside the road.

Presently the men were stowed away again. He reined up the horses and climbed to his place.

“Gee up there,” he said and drew them to the middle of the road.

The moon, like fire, rose behind him and threw his shadow far ahead of the horses.

Another load of slaves rolled up the road, to freedom.