The next day, July 19th, was the beginning of the Conference. At breakfast, I also learned that our “conductor” was due that day and we should be prepared to leave on short notice. So I packed our things before taking Sandy to join the others in walking to the Wesleyan Chapel.

The first day was to be women only (with a few exceptions). I was surprised to see a crowd that I was told numbered over 300. As it was to be a women’s day, Messrs. Mott and Douglas stood to one side until Elizabeth announced that Mr. Mott would chair the meeting so the principle women could all speak. Mary M’Clintock was appointed recording secretary.

Once the meeting was called to order, Mrs. Stanton orated upon on the present state of women in these United States. I recognized a number of ideas from Miss Fuller’s book, which I had finished the night before. Mrs. Stanton spoke of “the wearied, anxious look of the majority of women” and their “long-accumulating discontent,” with such vehemence and indignation that I was deeply stirred.

A number of speakers followed her, pressing home various points she had made. These included Mrs. Mott, Martha Coffin Wright (Mrs. Mott’s sister), Mary M’Clintock, and Jane Hunt, a member of the M’Clintock family through marriage.

Once the speakers finished, Mary M’Clintock read a series of resolutions, which had been prepared in advance. All met with hearty approval until she came to the 9th, “It is the duty of the women of this country to secure to themselves the sacred right of the elective franchise.” This was met with murmurs and vocal objections, such as “Outrageous,” “We have husbands to vote!” and “Who ever heard of such a thing?” As this resistance was unexpected after the morning’s orations, and the noon hour was almost upon us, Mr. Mott deferred the vote and recessed the meeting for supper.

The supper was a pot luck held in the church basement. As Sandy and I ate, we saw the principles in animated discussion. Obviously, they were devising some stratagem to win approval of the suffrage resolution, which was their chief objective for the Conference. I could tell from the worry in Elizabeth’s face that their whole program was about to be defeated before it began. At last, they seemed to resolve upon a course and began nibbling at their cold meals.

The afternoon session began with Mr. Mott announcing that Mr. Douglass wished to speak and that the executive committee had voted to allow him to do so. He began by telling of his slavery and repeated attempts at escape. The story had intrinsic interest, but in Mr. Douglass’ telling, it became alive. All eyes were fixed upon him. Having established, by vivid example, the immorality of slavery, he went on to build, brick by brick, with relentless logic and full depth of feeling, the parallel between the situation of colored slaves and that of the 19th century woman. He appealed to the words of Jefferson, that all men were created equal, and said that the only way to make these sentiments real was to stand and be heard. Finally, he concluded that the main way to be heard in a democracy was to vote.

When he finished, I expected applause, but there was only silence. Then one lady in the second row began clapping, a second, near her, seemed to awaken and joined her. Soon the trance was broken and the chapel resounded with a thunderous ovation. Elizabeth, striking while the iron was hot, moved the previous question. The ayes narrowly defeated the nays, and the resolution passed!

I sat astonished and turned to see Sandy with tears in her eyes. Clearly, she considered herself female now. We were still basking in the glow of the moment when a young girl came in and said we were wanted without. There, we were greeted by Mr. Stanton, who said that the conductor had arrived and I should hasten to change into male garb.

A few minutes later we climbed on a heavy freight wagon of the kind made in Conestoga, and resumed our journey west – drawn by a team of eight oxen. Henry and Becky lay in a compartment cunningly concealed under six tons of freight, and accessible only through the tool box.

Our conductor was Mr. Wheeler, a dour man with calloused hands and a grizzled beard, who spoke little other than to exchange news with other teamsters as they passed. From them, we learned that a constable was inspecting barges at Lock 33, just east of Rochester, and after that there were none. So, it was decided that we would go to a “station” in Rochester and be conducted on the Canal from there to Buffalo.

Thus, our travel plans changed instantly. At first, I found this a great annoyance, but on reflection I realized that such changes made it virtually impossible to intercept us.

Another source of annoyance was the slow pace of the wagon. We made perhaps four miles in an hour on level roads and as little as one or two on grades – to say nothing of the fact that the road did not follow a straight course, but snaked back and forth to climb and descend. In addition, and necessarily, we stopped every few hours to let Henry and Becky out to stretch their legs and see to the needs of nature.

It was late at night when we stopped at a capacious farmhouse which served as a station. The farmer and his wife were gracious, but declined to give their names for fear of the authorities. We were fed bread and a hearty bean soup, then Sandy and I were given a bed to share, as were Becky and Henry – separated by a bundling board. In the morning we had eggs, potatoes, ham and fresh milk before being sent on our way.

The next night was much the same except that the farmer and his wife were Italian and served us stringy noodles called spaghetti with a delicious sauce of tomato and lingua, which I learned was beef tongue. In the morning we had bread dipped in eggs and herbs and fried with our coffee. Like the Lavradors, they provided us with bread and dry sausage for the journey, but differently spiced from the Portuguese kind. This was called pepperoni and spiced with seeds and hot pepper flakes. Sandy did not like the pepper, but the rest of us were well pleased.

That evening we arrived at the station in Rochester, a warehouse by the canal. We entered though a large gate which was closed after us. The four of us were led to a room with a long table and chairs where we waited. The proprietor came in, greeted us warmly, and said he had sent to a nearby victualing house for food. Shortly, a woman in a white apron followed by a boy came in and served us stew, bread, butter and beer. None of us had tasted beer before, but we all enjoyed a mug or two and found our spirits lifted.

After dinner, we were shown some hard cots and rested. About midnight, we were awoken and shown to a freight barge loaded with Pennsylvania coal for the lake steamers. Becky and Henry were led through the crew cabin to a secret room under the coal. I was to pass as a crewman and Sandy as my sister.

We arrived in Buffalo early the next evening. Becky and Henry remained at the coaling station while Sandy and I were free to find lodging nearby. As we were alone at last, Sandy took the opportunity to confide in me.

“After seeing the ladies speaking in Seneca, I decided I want to be a woman, Miss.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes! I used to think women were weak like mother. Now I know that they are brave like you and strong like the women at the meeting. So, I don’t feel bad about wanting to be a woman anymore.”

“I don't think your mother is weak. She is just in a difficult situation. It took a lot of strength to send you off with me. Still, it sounds like you have thought about this quite a bit.”

“Oh, I have, Miss. … But there is one thing I am sad about.”

“Yes?”

“I wished I could have a bosom, like you and other girls.”

“And if I said you could?”

“You mean I can?”

“Yes, I can make a magic potion for you,” I said smiling. “The problem is, it tastes really
nasty.”

“But it will help me grow a bosom?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don’t care how nasty it tastes.”