Shackles of a Freeman: The Untold Story of Lewis Sheridan Leary

By Don Alexander

Lewis Leary was born into freedom on the lucky day of March 17, 1835, but growing up in North Carolina as a free Black man, he soon realized that his privilege could not shield him from the harsh realities of a society where people with his skin color were treated as property. Despite his privileged upbringing, Lewis was drawn to the plight of the slaves and was determined to make a difference.

Through his friendship with Luke, a slave who worked on the family property, Lewis learned to take his privilege with a grain of salt and ultimately decided to leave the South and settle in the Free State of Ohio, where the Anti-Slavery movement was at its peak. In Oberlin, a diverse town where Lewis and his best friend John Copeland became involved in the fight against slavery, Lewis was able to put his ideals into action as a freedom fighter and skilled underground railroad conductor.

However, as much as Lewis had accomplished in his fight against slavery, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was not doing enough to fight the system as a whole. It wasn't until he met the famous abolitionist John Brown that Lewis reached the pinnacle of what he felt he could do to end slavery in the country. Together, they journeyed to Harpers Ferry, where they became part of a moment in American history that would ultimately lead to the Civil War.

"Shackles of a Freeman" is a gripping and thought-provoking historical fiction novel that brings to light the sacrifices and bravery of those who fought against slavery in the 1850s. Through Lewis Leary's journey, the reader will be transported back in time and experience the struggles and triumphs of the Anti-Slavery movement, making this a captivating and inspiring read for audiences of all backgrounds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667891279

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Shackles of a Freeman

© 2023 by Don Alexander

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN (Print): 978-1-66789-126-2

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-66789-127-9

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1 – THE LUCKY ONE

CHAPTER 2 – A LETTER FROM OHIO

CHAPTER 3 – SOMEONE from THE OTHER SIDE

CHAPTER 4 – Summer of Independence

CHAPTER 5 – THE FIGHT

CHAPTER 6 – THE MAN TRAPPED IN A BOOK

CHAPTER 7 – THE REWARD

CHAPTER 8 – NO OTHER CHOICE

CHAPTER 9 – A WHOLE NEW WORLD

CHAPTER 10 – The Liberators

CHAPTER 11 – TALK OF THE TOWN

CHAPTER 12 – PRICE OF FREEDOM

CHAPTER 13 – ALONE IN THE DARK

CHAPTER 14 – A TIME TO BREATHE

CHAPTER 15 – FAREWELL OBERLIN

CHAPTER 16 – WELCOME TO HARPER’S FERRY

CHAPTER 17 – WHAT’S IN A NAME (EPILOGUE)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Author’s Notes

This story takes place in a little-explored period of American history, between the 1840s and 1850s, and offers a glimpse into American life before the Civil War.

A time when the nation was deeply divided, on the verge of tearing itself apart.

And is inspired by historical records, real people, and true events.

Dedicated to LTC Donald Stanley Walker (Feb. 15, 1953–Oct. 27, 2021)

My father, may he rest in power.

CHAPTER 1 – THE LUCKY ONE

It was 1846, another sweltering day in the Antebellum countryside of North Carolina. The sun beat down mercilessly on the stable yard behind my father’s business at the edge of town. I, an eleven-year-old boy with stringy arms, stood nervously on a stool in front of a horse’s massive ribcage. My name was Lewis Sheridan Leary.

My father wanted me to test the first saddle I had ever built in his shop. It was a simple sheepskin saddle, nothing special, but he believed it was important for me, as a free colored child, to be skilled in a trade at a young age. This was a lesson passed down to him by his father.

Stop thinking and put it on, Lewis, my father said from behind me, urging me to stop procrastinating. I had been daydreaming about not being there. My father, whom I’ll refer to as Pa, was Matthew Nathaniel Leary. He was a free colored man of mixed race, classified as mulatto by the census.

His father, my grandfather, Jeremiah O’Leary, was of Irish and Lumbee Indian descent and fought in the War of Independence against the British. After that, he married Sarah Revels, my grandmother, a free woman of Black lineage, whose father, Aaron Revels, also fought in the war. This distinguished American history of the family name came with great pride for Pa, as illustrated by the large wooden sign over his shop, which read Leary’s Saddle & Harness Co. and was on the edge of Main Street in Fayetteville.

Upon hearing Pa’s voice, I shook out of my daze, trying my best to abide by his demand, which took some balancing, as I wasn’t the most coordinated kid in the world. After a couple of labored deep breaths, I readjusted my feet on the stool, using all my lanky strength in my legs to bend, and with one swift motion, finally swinging the saddle onto the horse’s back.

SUCCESS! I remember thinking to myself, following a giant sigh of relief after briefly stepping off the stool to secure the straps around the horse’s body. I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of myself as I glanced over at my older brother, who I will refer to as Junior because he was named after Pa. He was the eldest boy by two years but acted more like he was born ten years my senior by the way he carried himself. Because of that, I never failed an opportunity to gloat, so at this moment, I grinned ear to ear, cheesing over at Junior who was standing next to Pa like a baby bird under its mother’s wing. He just gave me the classic no big deal treatment with the shrugging of his shoulders and snarky glare.

Junior was always at my father’s side, naturally considering himself the ideal heir to the so-called throne and eager to follow in our father’s footsteps. This created a rift between us because he saw me as a threat to that idea. At eleven years old, I didn’t care about the family business and saw the rivalry between us as trivial. I preferred to revel in the competition for pure entertainment, so any opportunity I had to get under my older brother’s skin, I took it.

Hop on now, Lewis! Pa yelled as he caught me daydreaming again.

These weren’t the words I wanted to hear, because Spartacus, the horse in front of me, was a monster compared to my thin frame and looked as if he could break every bone in my body with just a sneeze. I had thought Pa would test the saddle out for himself, maybe to the delight of thinking I was a boy genius for crafting such a perfect product, but that didn’t happen. Instead, he approached from behind and placed a firm hand on my shoulder, digging his fingers into the fabric of my linen shirt and my skin, causing that pinch I knew all too well—a reminder that there would be consequences if I didn’t do what he said.

Knowing that Junior would have loved to see me get the paddle, and convinced that I could do without it, I took a deep breath, trying to gather the type of bravery I had only heard about in my father’s tales of my grandfather’s time during the Revolutionary War or read about in books. I hopped onto the saddle, secretly praying to God that Spartacus wouldn’t buck and hurl me into the burning Southern sun. To my surprise, the ride started off smoothly. I even had time to look over at Pa, and to my other surprise, saw him give a head nod with a hint of fatherly pride—which I ruined the moment I stuck my tongue out at Junior.

Jesus, Lewis! Show some damn humility! Pa yelled out, shaking his head, the look of approval quickly vanishing.

I straightened up, focusing only on what was in front of me: the mane running down the back of Spartacus’s neck and a lot of dirt. I felt a newfound confidence that I had never known but had always believed was lurking within me. Soon, I felt larger than life and in complete control of the beast, gripping the saddle reins tightly as my young brain started coming to terms with this simple piece of equipment that my father had forced me to construct.

Could this be the best saddle ever made? I thought to myself.

And before I could allow my eleven-year-old ego to get carried away …

The lace attached to the horse’s body, which went through the stirrups, suddenly broke and whipped around, spooking Spartacus and causing him to jolt up and down like a bull at a rodeo. I forgot any thought of grandeur I had as the saddle repositioned itself, sending me underneath the turbulent animal. All I remembered was hitting the ground as the horse’s enormous frame blocked the daylight and eclipsed my body. I hadn’t lived long enough to have my life flash before my eyes, so all I could do was stare up as one of Spartacus’s back hooves came barreling down.

I took a deep breath and, with a loud thud, Spartacus’s hoof luckily landed inches away from my head as the dust from the impact took over my vision.

I sat up in the dirt, my view clearing as I watched Spartacus try to gallop away, only to be stopped by the hardwood fence boards of the stable. At that moment, I could tell that deep down, Spartacus wanted to venture far beyond the borders that Pa had laid out for him, but for some strange reason, he just stood there, frozen in conflict as his head peeked over the railing.

Why doesn’t he just leap over and run away? I wondered, not fully comprehending the severity of almost getting my skull crushed.

I looked over at Pa, who I could tell had just wiped the nervous sweat from his forehead. He was probably trying to shake the morbid image of burying one of his sons.

I swear to the Almighty, son. It’s that damn luck of yours, Pa said.

This LUCK he was referring to didn’t solely hinge on that there was some Irish blood coursing through the family’s veins or that I was born into freedom. This fortune stemmed from me being born on one of the luckiest days on earth, for I, Lewis Sheridan Leary, began this life on Saint Patrick’s Day, March 17, 1835.

Now stop your gazing and get up! Pa yelled as he and Junior struggled to lift my dead-weighted body to my feet, patting the dirt and manure off my clothes. All the while, I kept my eyes fixed on Spartacus, who had given up on his daring escape and was now just grazing over a patch of grass at the edge of the property.

All fine over there, Mister Leary? a man shouted from the backdoor of Pa’s shop, which connected to the stable yard.

At first, the shade of his open-brimmed hat silhouetted this mysterious man’s face, but as he stepped forward into the sunlight, I noticed that the darkness didn’t dissipate from his skin. The man, who had a lazy eye and a deep scar running down his cheek, was introduced to the family as Luke. However, little was revealed to us about this Black man in his early thirties, other than that he worked for Pa.

Everything’s fine! Go fetch that horse and settle it back in the stable, Pa responded to Luke.

As the man complied and rushed over to rein in the now docile Spartacus, Pa walked over and picked up my broken saddle, the torn strap dangling at the side as he grunted and moaned his frustration.

The stirrup was loose …, I heard Pa grumble under his breath before looking over at me.

I suddenly tensed up, mentally preparing myself for a scolding.

I can’t express how important it is to focus on every detail, son. We can’t sell shoddy work to the customer. Our business depends on it. The family name depends on it …, Pa expressed as he then continued his lecture, listing everything wrong with the saddle, even mentioning that my older brother, Junior, had aced his test on the first try.

I just stood there taking it, almost in a dream state, my eyes staring right through my father as I pretended to heed every word with timely head nods of acknowledgment. I even caught Junior in the corner of my eye, holding in his laughter at the verbal onslaught.

This wasn’t the first tongue-lashing that I had ever received from this man I called Pa. In fact, it had almost become habitual at this point in my childhood. All I remember at that moment as Pa dropped the saddle into my chest, causing my skinny legs to buckle backward under the weight, was looking over at the man in the open-brimmed hat leading the defeated horse, Spartacus, into the stable.

I remember feeling a mixture of frustration and sadness as I watched them go—frustrated at myself for not being able to please my father and sad for Spartacus, who seemed to have no desire to escape.

As I stood there, Pa’s gruff voice interrupted my thoughts.

Time to get back to work now, Lewis. We’ve got a business to run.

I sighed and picked up the saddle, determined to do better next time and make Pa somewhat proud. I hoped that once I could achieve this, it would lighten the load of my existence. But as I turned to head back to the workshop, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the story of this mysterious man named Luke …

And I made a mental note to learn more about him.

CHAPTER 2 – A LETTER FROM OHIO

O h, my, Ma said, putting her hands over her mouth as Junior retold the story of me falling off the horse to the whole family while we all sat at the dinner table of our lavish home.

Yep, almost landed right on his head, continued Junior, his voice almost sounding like he wished it had.

That’s enough now, Matthew. Eat your food! Pa snapped from the head of the table.

Complying to Pa’s demands, Junior snuck in a quick smirk over at me, then dug right into his meat and potatoes. Still, I tried not to give him the satisfaction and just kept my eyes on my plate of food.

Are you well, Sheridan? Ma asked as she had always called me by my middle name. I think she did so out of defiance for Pa not allowing her to name me Patrick after giving birth to me on March 17, or she just liked my middle name, one of the two.

Yes, Ma. I’m fine. Just lucky, I guess, I remember saying back to her, keeping my eyes down, a little embarrassed by the incident.

Oh, believe me, you are, Ma said with a reassuring smile.

Ma was a dark-skinned woman with fine, straight black hair. She went by the name of Juliette Menriel and was born in a French territory of the West Indies in 1808. She had a very unconventional upbringing, along with two brothers. Their mother, my grandma, known as French Mary, was a famous sous-chef of Moorish descent who traveled around France and the West Indies preparing traditional cuisines for French politicians and bureaucrats. She later prepared meals for the highly decorated General Lafayette upon her arrival to North America, where she then settled, making North Carolina her home.

As I picked my head up from my plate, I noticed that something was weighing on Ma’s mind as she slowly glanced over at my other siblings. They were all eating peacefully—Henrietta, who was nineteen, Sarah Jane, who was seventeen, Junior, who was thirteen and has been mentioned before, and my six-year-old little brother, Sinclair. The only one absent at the table was our eldest sister, who had been missing for the past three years.

In North Carolina, there was always this lingering fear that a Negro family with state-granted free papers had to endure. That fear was being captured and taken further into the Deep South, where their free status would be rendered worthless, making it easier to sell them into bondage. Black children were very lucrative to kidnappers and sold easily because of the length of work they could provide to a plantation owner. Sadly, young pubescent Negro girls were at the top of the profitable list because of their ability to reproduce. Since 1843, my parents believed that to be the fate of my eldest sister. At seventeen, she went on a walk along the outskirts of the property and was never seen again.

Mail came in today, got a letter … from Ohio, Ma said, causing everyone to give a slight look of acknowledgment as we shoveled food into our mouths.

Most of us, not knowing where Ohio was, just kept our heads down and kept eating. The only person I noticed looking up from his plate was Pa, his piercing eyes wanting to know more.

It’s from Catherine-Ann, Ma blurted out, adding an extra tremble to her voice at the mention of my long-lost sister.

A collective sound of clanking from all the dropped silverware followed, along with everyone’s jaws hanging open. We were all thinking the same thing:

Have we finally found our lost family member?

My siblings and I quickly finished our dinner and gathered around the chair in front of the fireplace mantel in the living room. We all scooted up close to Ma as she slowly sat down and unfolded the letter before her eyes. The sun had just gone down, so it was a perfect setting as the kerosene lanterns illuminated the area in a bright orange glow. I remember Pa standing in the shadows with his back turned to us, sipping a glass of Irish whiskey while nursing a cigar. He stared out the window overlooking his proud estate, which had just transformed into a vale of darkness under the night sky.

Ma tentatively began to read aloud.

Dear Mother and Father,

I want to apologize for keeping you uninformed of my well-being. I hope you all are in good health and are not still troubled by the prospect of losing me to a different fate, for my life now couldn’t be better. Truth be told, I intended to run away from the South and never return. On my way to freedom, I stumbled across the Copelands, a free colored family from Raleigh, North Carolina. There’s Mr. John Sr. and Mrs. Delilah. They allowed me to tag along as one of their children. Their oldest is named John Jr. He’s about Matthew Jr. and Lewis’s age. I am treated as the oldest sister, so it’s not much different from home. We settled in the most beautiful place America can offer. A place called Oberlin, Ohio, where every colored man and woman for a hundred miles is free, even walking alongside friendly Whites who seek more of a genuine friendship with the coloreds than just business ventures. I would be remiss if I didn’t thank Mother for the brilliant education she has given me, for I am currently taking classes at the university here to be a teacher. My dream is to be an educator for both White and Black children, which can very well happen here in Oberlin. Therefore, I will NEVER return home, but I implore you, my family, to think about settling here as well. I know how stubborn Father can be, and I know he has indulged in the participation of holding our brethren in bondage, but I can only implore …

Ma paused, her expression one of not wanting to continue.

Finish it! Pa said through his teeth while keeping turned around, trying to hide his steaming red face. I watched the cigar shorten between his fingers, but he ignored the burning sensation in anticipation of what Ma was going to read next. She cleared her throat and continued.

I can only implore that my brothers and sisters when they reach the age of comprehension, can heed my example, and leave the wretched land of the South, which continues to enslave our people without impunity. You have a home here in Oberlin, and I would love to