The judge bankrupted him for helping enslaved people escape. He stood up in court and told everyone: send me more.
Wilmington, Delaware, 1848. Thomas Garrett stood before a federal court, facing financial ruin. Two Maryland slaveholders had sued him for helping an enslaved family escape to freedom. The evidence was clear—he’d hidden them, fed them, and sent them north on the Underground Railroad.
The verdict: guilty. The fine: $5,400—roughly $200,000 in today’s money.
It destroyed him financially. Everything he’d built as a successful iron merchant—gone. His business—crippled. At 59 years old, Thomas Garrett was bankrupt.
The judge, believing he’d broken this stubborn Quaker, said with satisfaction: “Thomas, I hope you will never be caught at this business again.”
Thomas Garrett stood up. And instead of showing contrition or defeat, he looked at the judge and said:
“Judge, thou hast left me not a dollar, but I wish to say to thee and to all in this courtroom that if anyone knows a fugitive who wants a shelter and a friend, send him to Thomas Garrett and he will befriend him.”
The courtroom went silent. The judge had just bankrupted him, and Thomas was publicly declaring—in a federal courthouse, in front of the very people who’d prosecuted him—that he would continue breaking the law.
Not quietly. Not secretly. Openly. Defiantly.
And he did.
For the next 23 years, until his death in 1871, Thomas Garrett continued operating one of the most important stations on the Underground Railroad. His home in Wilmington sat right on the dividing line between slave state (Maryland) and free state (Pennsylvania). It was the last stop before freedom for thousands of people fleeing enslavement.
Thomas Garrett wasn’t just helping people in secret. He was brazen about it. He kept detailed records of everyone he helped—something most Underground Railroad conductors never did because it was evidence of their “crimes.” He documented names, families, where they came from, where they went.
He helped approximately 2,500 people escape to freedom.
His most famous partnership was with Harriet Tubman. She would lead people north from Maryland, and Wilmington was often their first safe stop. Thomas would be waiting—with food, clothing, money, and a safe place to rest before the final push to Philadelphia and beyond.
Harriet Tubman trusted him completely. In a network where secrecy meant survival and one betrayal could mean death or re-enslavement, that trust meant everything.
“I never met with any loss,” Tubman said, reflecting on her 19 trips south. And that was partly because people like Thomas Garrett were absolutely reliable.
But here’s what’s remarkable about Thomas Garrett’s story: he didn’t start as a radical abolitionist. He started with one moment of witnessing injustice.
In 1813, when Thomas was 24, a free Black woman who worked for his family was kidnapped by slave catchers who planned to sell her south. Thomas tracked them down, confronted them, and secured her release.
That moment changed him. He saw firsthand how the system of slavery didn’t just oppress enslaved people—it endangered even free Black people. How the entire apparatus of law and commerce was designed to turn human beings into property.
From that day forward, he devoted his life to fighting slavery.
He rebuilt his business after the 1848 bankruptcy—with help from abolitionist supporters who were outraged at his treatment. He used his rebuilt fortune to fund Underground Railroad operations. His iron shop became a cover for resistance work.
When the Civil War came, Thomas was already in his 70s. He’d been fighting slavery for nearly 50 years by then. And when the war ended, when the 13th Amendment abolished slavery in 1865, Thomas didn’t stop working.
He continued advocating for Black civil rights through Reconstruction. He supported Black education. He worked for the passage of the 15th Amendment, which guaranteed Black men the right to vote.
Only after the 15th Amendment was ratified in 1870, when Thomas was 81 years old, did he finally retire.
He died in 1871. Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass both attended his funeral. These titans of the abolition movement came to honor the white Quaker merchant who’d spent his entire adult life—nearly 60 years—fighting alongside them.
Frederick Douglass said of him: “I can say what few men can say in this world, that I never felt myself in the presence of a stronger religious influence than while in this man’s house.”
Thomas Garrett’s story matters because it shows what resistance looks like when you refuse to stop.
He could have apologized after the 1848 trial. He could have paid the fine and quit. He could have said, “I tried, but the system is too powerful.”
Instead, he stood in that courtroom and announced he’d continue.
And he did. For 23 more years. Through bankruptcy, through the increasing dangers of the 1850s (when the Fugitive Slave Act made helping escapees even more dangerous), through the Civil War, through Reconstruction.
He never stopped.
That’s not just courage. That’s a lifetime commitment to justice even when justice seems impossible.
Today, Thomas Garrett’s house in Wilmington still stands. There’s a historical marker. Students learn about him in Delaware schools. But nationally, he’s largely forgotten—one of thousands of Underground Railroad operators whose names faded from history.
But Harriet Tubman didn’t forget. Frederick Douglass didn’t forget. And the 2,500 people who passed through his station—and their descendants—didn’t forget.
The judge in 1848 thought he could break Thomas Garrett with a fine. Instead, he created a moment that would define a life of resistance.
“If anyone knows a fugitive who wants a shelter and a friend, send him to Thomas Garrett.”
He meant it. For 23 years after that trial, he proved he meant it.
How many of us, facing total financial ruin for our principles, would stand up and publicly declare we’d do it again?
Thomas Garrett did. And then he actually did it again. And again. And again.
For 2,500 people, that defiance meant freedom.