Lovejoy had asked them to keep the letter with which they had begun their travels.  Under its signature he had written:  “I know the writer and know that the above was written with his own hand.  His word can be relied upon.  To all who follow or respect the example of Jesus Christ I commend this man and woman.”

The letter stated that their late master had often expressed his purpose of leaving them their freedom when he should pass away.  He had left no will and since his death the two had fallen into the hands of his nephew, a despotic, violent young drunkard of the name of Biggs, who had ruled his servants with club and bull whip and who in a temper had killed a young negro a few months before.  The fugitives said that they would rather die than go back to him.

Samson was so moved by their story that he hitched up his horses and put some hay in the wagon box and made off with the fugitives up the road to the north in the night.  When daylight came he covered them with the hay.  About eight o’clock he came to a frame house and barn, the latter being of unusual size for that time and country.  Above the door of the barn was a board which bore the stenciled legend:  “John Peasley, Orwell Farm.”

As Samson drew near the house he observed a man working on the roof of a woodshed.  Something familiar in his look held the eye of the New Salem man.  In half a moment he recognized the face of Henry Brimstead.  It was now a cheerful face.  Brimstead came down the ladder and they shook hands.

“Good land o’ Goshen!  How did you get here?” Samson asked.  Brimstead answered: 

“Through the help of a feller that looks like you an’ the grit of a pair o’ hosses.  Come down this road early in September on my way to the land o’ plenty.  Found Peasley here.  Couldn’t help it.  Saw his name on the barn.  Used to go to school with him in Orwell.  He offered to sell me some land with a house on it an’ trust me for his pay.  I liked the looks o’ the country and so I didn’t go no further.  I was goin’ to write you a letter, but I hain’t got around to it yet.  Ain’t forgot what you done for us, I can tell ye that.”

“Well, this looks better than the sand plains—­a lot better—­and you look better than that flea farmer back in York State.  How are the children?”

“Fat an’ happy an’ well dressed.  Mrs. Peasley has been a mother to ’em an’ her sister is goin’ to be a wife to me.”  He came close to Samson and added in a confidential tone:  “Say, if I was any happier I’d be scairt.  I’m like I was when I got over the toothache—­so scairt for fear it would come back I was kind o’ miserable.”

Mr. Peasley came out of the door.  He was a big, full bearded, jovial man.

“I’ve got a small load o’ hay for you,” said Samson.

“I was expecting it, though I supposed ‘twould be walkin’—­in the dark o’ the night,” Peasley answered.  “Drive in on the barn floor.”

When Samson had driven into the barn its doors were closed and the negroes were called from their place of hiding.  Samson writes: