A single candle in a brass holder sat on a table next to one of two south-facing windows. The window had a magnificent view of the Ohio River flowing westward past the community of Ripley, Ohio, on to Cincinnati, forming the watery border between the free state of Ohio and Kentucky, which practiced enslavement.
John Rankin, a minister driven out of his parish in Carlisle, Kentucky, because of his abolitionist beliefs, had chosen this location for its commanding view. Located on a steep hill 540 feet above Ripley, Rankin’s house was visible to the town below and to those in Kentucky waiting for darkness to cross the river to freedom.
Rankin, his wife Jean and their 13 children received souls trying to liberate themselves from enslavement. To signal it was safe to cross, a candle placed in the window or a lantern outside, meant warmth, clothing and food were available.
The Rankin House was a stop on the tour of important places on the Underground Railroad organized in 2016 by Filson Historical Society. All of us from the bus crowded into the tiny abode, milling through rooms, jostling to see and hear the docent. She described how newly arrived wayfarers removed their telltale clothes of enslavement and burned them in the fireplace. I craned my neck to see replicas of replacement garments suitable for free Black men and women. The newly disguised climbed into the back of a wagon or onto a horse and were hurried away to avoid slave catchers and bounty hunters, who swarmed the town like wasps around a beehive.
The tour wrangler announced the last stop of the day was the John Parker House in Ripley. We were welcome to walk from Rankin House down to town using the route climbed by those bent on self-liberation. Misty rain had been falling, and the tour wrangler warned that the downhill trail could be slippery, especially after the stairs ended.
He deterred all but me and another woman traveling alone. We set off down stone steps and onto wooden stairs, beyond which the trail was greasy, slick mud. One wrong step and the path became a slimy, rock-strewn, S-curving luge run. In less than 20 feet, my walking companion slipped twice. With hands and jeans muddied, she scrambled to stay on her feet.
I asked her to wait while I thrashed about in the woods and returned with two sticks to aid our descent.
“Follow me. Put your feet where mine were,” I said.
Slowly, we inched down the hillside, finally emerging onto a paved road, grateful to be on solid ground. John Parker’s house was situated on the level ground close to the riverbank.
Born into slavery in Virginia in 1827, Parker was 8 years old when he was sold South by the plantation owner—his father, who sold his enslaved mother to a different owner. Joined to a coffle, Parker walked over the mountains of Virginia to Mobile, Alabama—a journey of 860 miles.
Parker’s keen intellect and strong spirit drove him to find a way to pay for his freedom. He learned to read and to mold iron. Once he had his manumission papers, he wasted no time heading for Cincinnati, which had an active population of free Blacks and was a hub of the Underground Railroad. Contrary to commonly held notion, much of the hiding and conducting was done by Free Blacks, not whites.
Parker soon moved to Ripley, where he continued to work as an iron molder by day. By night, he was a fearless conductor, making forays into Kentucky despite the bounty on his head advertised by posters nailed to fence posts and trees.
The information grapevine for those who wanted to escape was as real as it was secretive. Word found its way to Parker, but many individuals simply showed up. They arrived by stolen skiff; during dry summer evenings after wading through shallow parts of the Ohio River; or walking across winter ice, possibly informed only by whispers:
“Look for the light on the hill.”
The presentation completed, I walked outside, crossed the flat plain toward the river, and reaching the embankment’s edge, turned to look up at Liberty Hill. Scanning the horizon, the red brick house was minuscule but visible. A candle in the window might appear a mere speck and an outdoor lantern a flickering glimmer.
I imagined myself in the blackness of the new moon, a preferred time for the enslaved to travel—the moon playing her role in cloaking escape.
Ripley had few streetlamps in 1850, no ambient glow to wash buildings with shadow. On the hill, one spot of light would have been a beacon. For eyes hunting for a guide to freedom, that ray of hope offered reassurance:
Yes—this is the way.
Keep going.
Keep going.
Susan Willmot, Kings City, Ontario, Canada