Still in my suit, I brought Sandy to join our new friends for dinner. It was served in a private salon, bright with gas light. Abigail greeted us as we entered.

“I would like to introduce my new friend, Nancy, traveling, for the present, under the nom de guerre William Newcome, and her charge Alexandria. Nancy has survived two attempts on her charge, so I am sure you will all respect her incognito.”

I was surprised and gratified by the warm and unquestioning welcome we received. Abigail showed us to our places at a long table, set with linen, china and silver such as I had not seen. Four candelabras added to its festive character.

At one end sat Lucretia Mott, a Quaker minister in her mid-fifties from Philadelphia. She seemed the de facto leader of the group. At the other end was her husband James, a lawyer who treated her as at least an equal. My expectations were twice shattered by her: first, that she was a minister, and second that she led, with her husband in support. It was an astounding group that I had fallen in with.

On either side of Mrs. Mott sat Mr. Fredrick Douglass, for so the freedman was called, and his wife Anna, together with their children. He was a handsome gentleman of about thirty years, and Anna somewhat younger. Further down, and closer to me, was the woman who had been taking notes on her lap desk, Mary M’Clintock. Abigail sat opposite me and Sandy.

The dinner conversation started with the usual social pleasantries, but quickly moved to the issue of the upcoming convention in Seneca Falls, which had been called by one Elizabeth Stanton of that city. As I listened to the discussion, I came to see that my life, as turbulent as it had been, was sheltered with respect to the larger issues of the world. Mrs. Mott explained to the younger women how Mrs. Stanton had struggled for years with the legislature in this city to secure women’s property rights. Mr. Douglass, in turn, spoke briefly of his three attempts to escape slavery, finally succeeding with help from Anna, and of how his freedom had only been purchased by friends the previous year. His story moved me to tears.

As dessert was served, the conversation turned to the lighter topic of our immediate schedule. The Motts been to the docks and chartered a packet boat, which was yet to be cleaned and provisioned. It would not be ready until the following afternoon. So, it was suggested that we tour the city (principally the Capitol Building) in the morning and go down to the docks after eating lunch.

After dinner, Abigail took the Motts and Douglasses to one side. After a brief consultation, they invited me to join them in the Mott’s suite. Mary M’Clintock would attend Sandy and the Douglass children.

Their suite was much grander than the narrow room Sandy and I shared, comprising a capacious sitting room and a large bedroom, both with a fine prospect.

“Now dear,” began Mr. Mott, “tell us as much of your story as you are comfortable in relating.”

I gave a frank account of the situation Sandy and I found ourselves in, including the attacks we had survived, until meeting Abigail. I said little of my wound other than it having necessitated cutting my locks.

Mr. Douglass, familiar with the necessities of flight, commended me on my actions so far. Then the group considered what course of action to recommend.

“So, dear, other than fleeing danger, what is your purpose? Do you propose remaining in Albany, and if so, have you the means of doing so?” asked Mrs. Mott.

The Captain had enjoined me to speak to no one of my money belt, so I evaded that part of her query. “It would not be safe for us here. I already saw a man at the dock whose sole purpose seemed to be spying arriving passengers.”

“I observed him as well,” interjected Mr. Douglass.

“I suspect he is an agent of Sandy’s stepfather. I fled White Plains when an agent appeared there. So, I hope to carry out the plan Captain de Peyster devised for our contingency. As I have already told Abigail, I intend safely to deliver Sandy to an army friend of the Captain at the Jefferson Barracks in St. Louis. That gentelman has been sent notarized papers appointing him Sandy’s conditional guardian. He will be there until at least August 23rd, as he is to be married on that date.

“Have you advised this officer of your intentions and progress?” asked Mr. Mott.

“No. I had not thought to do so.” I was embarrassed at my stupidity. “If I were to write him now, the letter might arrive after we do.”

“Quite so! Still, there is no need to fret. Last year, a telegraph line from this very city to St. Louis was completed. The office is along the way to the Capitol. We shall stop there in the morning and I shall help you dispatch a message.”

“Oh, I have sent a telegram before.”

“Good, for you!”

“Now, we need to consider your route and security.”

“My route? I thought I would take a canal boat.”

“Yes, but there is a slightly faster alternative. A rail line goes as far as Schenectady. Taking it and then a packet boat would hasten your journey.”

“Oh.”

“I should advise against that,” cut in Mr. Douglass.

“Why?” asked Mr. Mott.

“Because it is virtually impossible to escape a pursuer on a moving train. If one of the stepfather’s agents should board with you … You and the child could hardly survive jumping from it.”

“Yes, I see. So, what do you suggest Mr. Douglass?”

“A packet boat, as you originally thought. The question is, should you accompany us?”

“And why should they not?” asked Mrs. Mott with some indignation.

“Because a gaggle of political women and negro abolitionists is sure to draw attention.”

“Ah, of course,” she said.

“Still, it is the best plan,” concluded Mr. Mott.

“Why?” we all asked.

“First, because attention to political women and dark-skinned abolitionists is not attention to a fleeing child and her governess. Second, because of the difficulty of maintaining Miss Winston’s male persona on a packet boat for days on end. How, for example, would she relieve herself? Like a man, off the side of the boat? I think not!”

“So, I should return to my female self?”

“Yes! If you had a cabin on a steam boat, you could travel as you are, but on a packet boat there are no cabins, only men’s and women’s communal sleeping areas. Both would be unsuitable as you are.”

“Of course -- you are right,” I said in exasperation. “There is so much I do not know. … But, what of my hair?”

“That is easily solved, I shall give you my bonnet, and obtain another from a milliner in the morning,” offered Abigail. “Do you need a dress as well?”

“No, thank goodness. … I could pay you for the bonnet,” I offered.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Then we are agreed! You will travel with us, at least as far as Seneca Falls. Sleep well and meet us in the morning in the same dining salon. We break our fast at 7:00.”

Back in my room, I found Sandy already asleep in her camisole. Mary M’Clintock must surely know her secret. What might that portend?

I was exhausted, but I could not sleep, for it came upon me how absurd it was for a girl not yet of seventeen years to undertake the arduous task before me. Reflection on the stories I heard at dinner made me think how much better equipped true adults were for such an undertaking. By what right did I consider myself fit for it? This was not what the Captain had intended. The task was to have been the Sergeant’s – mine merely to attend to Sandy.

I had thought, briefly, that I could attain the freedoms accorded to men by dressing and acting as a man. These women sought to do the same while staying women. I had played recruit under the Sergeant’s tutelage, but had never done more than stick a man with my hat pin. In fact, I had almost died in attempting the role of warrior. All the while, images of the dead Sergeant, the wounded Captain, and poor Mary with a bloody hole in her back came unbidden to me. I desired the warm embrace of Caroline, but each day took me further from her. It was with such self doubts, painful memories and confused feelings that I fell into a fitful sleep.

With me dressed once again as a woman, Sandy and I descended to the dining salon. There we breakfasted on fruit, beans and sausages, before settting off for the Capitol at a leisurely pace. Mr. Mott pointed out the telegraph office, and waited without for Sandy and I to dispatch a message. I wrote, “In Albany. Bringing de Peyster child via canal, river. N. Winston.” In less than a minute, the message’s receipt in St. Louis was acknowledged. Over a thousand miles and back in a flash! If only we could travel as fast.

I found the Capitol building impressive, but the tour not to my interest except for the New York State Library, where I wished I could spend days. After the tour, most returned to the hotel, but Mr. Mott suggested that Sandy and I might accompany a small party to the Albany Academy to see one of the true wonders of the world.

“What is it?” asked Sandy.

“Let it be a surprise, but I assure you it will astound you.”

We walked a short block from the Capitol to a large school building on Lafayette Street. Mr. Mott made a donation to the headmaster and a student was called. The boy guided us to a demonstration room, where an apparatus sat on a table. On each side were jars, called “cells,” with copper and zinc plates immersed in a weak acid of some sort. Connected to them by copper wires was something like a scale beam made of iron – except it had no pan and was wrapped with wire. Where the pans would have been stood iron posts.

The student urged us to move a lever. Sandy, being the youngest, was given the honor. When she moved it, the beam began rocking back and forth, making a loud clacking sound. Whenever it came in contact with a post, sparks issued forth. Soon, an acrid smell filled the air. When the lever was returned to its original position, the apparatus came to a sudden stop.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is Mr. Joseph Henry’s electric motor – the first in the world – invented right here almost 20 years ago. Someday its descendants may power boats and trains just as steam engines do today.”

I recalled how the rise and fall of the pistons had powered us up the river to Albany at 20 miles an hour, and knew I had seen the future.

We stopped at a victualling house for lunch, picked up our baggage at the hotel, and walked down Columbia Street and across the bridge to the canal dock. There we boarded the packet boat Mr. Mott had chartered.