“_Your word_ is being doubted,” he said to Garrison and Phillips. “That I cannot endure. They are saying that I am an impostor. I shall write out the facts connected with my experience in slavery, giving names, places and dates.” “It will be a powerful story!” said Garrison, his eyes watching the glow of light from the fireplace. Theodore Parker spoke impatiently. “So powerful that it will bring the pack on his heels. And neither the people nor the laws of Massachusetts will be able to protect him.” “He’s mad!” Wendell Phillips’ golden voice was hard. “When he has finished I shall advise him to throw the manuscript in the fire!” But Garrison smiled. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we’ll find a way. God will not lose such a man as Frederick Douglass!” They looked at him sitting there in the dusk, with the firelight playing over his calm face. There were times when Garrison’s quiet faith confounded the two divines. A way did reveal itself. In May, 1845, the _Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass_, prefaced by letters by Garrison and Phillips, made its appearance. Priced at fifty cents, it ran through a large edition. In August, Douglass, with a purse of two hundred and fifty dollars raised by his friends in Boston, boarded the British ship _Cambria_ for England, in company with the Hutchinsons, a family of Abolitionist singers, and James Buffum, vice-president of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society. Anna stood on the dock and waved goodbye. She smiled, though the ship was blurred and she could not distinguish his dear face at the rail. A blast of the whistle made little Freddie clutch her skirts and bury his face in alarm. He wanted to go home. Close by her side, straight and unmoved, stood six-year-old Lewis, holding the hand of his weeping sister, Rosetta. “Look after Mother and the children, Son. I’m depending on you!” Lewis was turning over his father’s parting words. Now he would be the man of the house. Girls, of course, could cry. He watched his mother’s face. A few final shouts, a last flutter of handkerchiefs, some stifled sobs, and the relatives and friends of the voyagers began to disperse. Anna felt a light touch on her arm. “Come, Mrs. Douglass”--it was Mrs. Wendell Phillips--“we’re going to drive you home.” Friends surrounded her--comforting, solicitous. “You can depend upon us, Mrs. Douglass. You know that.” Anna smiled. She had wanted him to go, to get out of harm’s reach. She could not continue to live in the terror that had gripped her ever since Frederick had returned from the western trip. He had made light of the “Indiana incident,” but his broken hand could not be hidden. Each time he left her after that, she knew what _might_ happen. So she had urged him to go; she had smiled and said, “Don’t worry about us, Frederick. You must go!” “My salary will be paid direct to you.” “I’ll manage. Now that we’re in our home, it will be easy.” Nothing but confidence and assurances for him.