raised his son, Alonzo, to love kindness, intelligence, and above all, liberty.
Between Sunday sermons, the Reverend Mr. Price often disappeared for days. Sometimes he returned scratched and bruised, accompanied by black men or women he hid in the root cellar until the next morning, when they were mysteriously gone. Young Lon took this more or less for granted, and accepted it when his father avoided direct answers to questions.
When his father was away, Lon ate and slept at cousin Doraâs farm. Silas, Doraâs husband, came from Paducah, Kentucky. He opposed the Reverendâs antislavery activity because the South couldnât survive without slave labor. Dora objected on different grounds. âHeâll injure himself, or someone will kill him. Itâs dangerous work.â
âBut what kind of work is it?â Lon asked.
âWork that a man of the cloth shouldnât be doing.â She would say no more.
The Reverendâs small library was a place of refuge and happiness for the growing boy. He did his schoolwork there and read his fatherâs books. He loved the chivalry and derring-do of Scott, the thrills of James Fenimore Cooperâs Leather-Stocking Tales, the jollity and melodrama of Charles Dickens. He had a vivid memory of standing in a crowd with his father outside a Lebanon inn called the Golden Lamb as the great literary lion alighted for an overnight stop on his first American tour.
Lon discovered Edgar A. Poe, whose unusual tales appeared in obscure literary quarterlies that came into the house. Particularly fascinating were the adventures of Poeâs Parisian detective, Dupin, who solved crimes with brainpower and observation. A Cincinnati newspaper article led Lon to the lurid memoirs of Vidoçq, founder of the Sûreté, the French criminal investigation bureau. Lying under a shade tree on hot summer days, Lon invented stories about himself as a clever policeman. In one of his first boyish love affairsâhe was eleven, Patience tenâhe said, âI want to be a detective like Dupin or the other one, I donât know how to pronounce his name.â
He and Patience were strolling a country road. She said, âAre there detectives like that in America?â
âI donât know.â
âThen how will you become a detective?â
âI donât know.â
âIf you donât know, Alonzo, why do you bother to think about it? You should be a storekeeper, or a farmer like Silas Filson.â
âThat would be too dull.â
âThen what will you do instead?â
âI donât know,â he cried, vexed. The romance soon withered.
Growing toward adolescence in the 1850s, Lon slowly reached an understanding of what his father did during his absences. Lon overheard people discuss something called the Underground Railroad, which wasnât really a railroad but a secret route to Canada for runaway slaves. Black men and women continued to appear for their brief residence in the root cellar. Sometimes they came with little darky children Lon would have liked to play with, but his father said the children didnât dare show themselves in daylight.
When Lon was twelve, he worked up the nerve to ask his father, âDo you work for the Underground Railroad?â
The Reverend gazed at his son by the light of a whale-oil lamp smoking on the parsonage desk. âYes, I do. Iâm whatâs called a conductor. This home is called a station. Iâve wondered when I should tell you.â
âYou think slaveryâs wrong.â
âIt is an abomination in the eyes of God.â
âCousin Dora says that what you do is dangerous.â
The Reverend absently touched his left eye, brilliantly discolored by a purple and yellow bruise, a souvenir of his last trip. âDora would like me to give it up. Silas thinks Africans are natural slaves, and the institution essential to the livelihood of all those misguided