Harriet Tubman carried a pistol on every Underground Railroad mission and wasn't afraid to use it. Not on slave catchers or Confederate soldiers, but on the very people she was risking her life to save. At 91, speaking from the Auburn, New York home for elderly African Americans she established after the Civil War, Tubman explains the brutal mathematics of freedom: sometimes the most loving thing you can do is point a gun at someone's head.
This isn't the sanitized version of Tubman taught in elementary schools. This is the woman who threatened to shoot terrified escapees rather than let them endanger everyone else. The spy who planned military raids that freed over 700 people, then spent twenty years begging the government for back pay they'd never send. The legend who died in poverty, forgotten by a country that now considers her heroic enough to put on currency.
In our conversation, Tubman grapples with learning that she'll appear on the twenty-dollar bill — replacing Andrew Jackson, no less — while reflecting on why it took fifty years after her death for America to remember her name. She talks about the visions that guided her through enemy territory, the weight of being called Moses, and what brought her joy in those final years: stubborn chickens, Sunday morning hymns, and the prettiest tomatoes in Auburn.
Some truths about freedom are harder to swallow than others. But Tubman never shied away from hard truths.
The Herald: Mrs. Tubman, you carried a pistol on every rescue mission and threatened to shoot anyone who wanted to turn back. Tell me about the first time you pointed that gun at someone you were trying to save.
Harriet Tubman: First time... Lord, that takes me back. Was a young man, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three years old. We were three days out from Cambridge, moving through Maryland swampland in December cold that cut right through your bones. He got to panicking when we heard dogs in the distance — not even close, mind you, but fear makes a man foolish. Started saying he was going back, that he'd rather take his chances with Master's whip than die in them woods. Well, I pulled that pistol out slow and steady, looked him right in the eye, and said "You'll be free or die a free man, but you won't go back to make a liar out of me." Wasn't really going to shoot him, of course. But he didn't know that, and more important, the others didn't know that. See, one person turns back, they all start thinking about it. Fear spreads faster than fire in dry grass. Had to make it clear — we go forward together or not at all. That boy straightened up real quick and made it all the way to Philadelphia without another word of complaint.
The Herald: You said you weren't really going to shoot him, but you carried that pistol on every trip. Did you ever come close to using it? And what did it cost you, psychologically, to have to threaten people you were risking your life to save?
Harriet Tubman: Oh, I came close. Real close. There was a woman who got so terrified she tried to run back toward the plantation in broad daylight. Would've led the patrollers right to all of us. Had that pistol pressed against her temple, my hand shaking not from fear but from pure rage. She was going to get us all killed or worse — sent back in chains. That's when I learned the hardest truth about freedom — sometimes you got to be cruel to be kind. Sometimes love looks like a gun barrel. I wasn't saving just her, I was saving eight other souls depending on me to get them through. As for what it cost me... Child, there ain't no easy way to carry that burden. You think I liked threatening folks I was trying to help? But I made a promise to the Almighty — I would not lose a single person on my watch. Not one. Every night I prayed for forgiveness. Every morning I picked up that pistol again. Because the alternative — letting fear turn them back into chains — that would've killed my soul dead. Better to be hard and have them hate me but free, than soft and have them dead or enslaved. The Lord forgives what He requires you to do.
The Herald: You mentioned visions from the Almighty guiding your paths. When did these visions first start, and how did you learn to trust them over your own eyes and ears?
Harriet Tubman: Started when I was about thirteen. Overseer threw a two-pound weight at a runaway slave, missed him, caught me right here on my skull. Cracked it open good — blood everywhere, thought I was dying. Master wouldn't even call a doctor, said I wasn't worth the expense. For months after, I'd fall down anywhere, anytime. Folks thought I was simple-minded or lazy. But during those spells... that's when I first saw them. Clear as I'm seeing you now — paths through woods I'd never walked, faces of people I'd never met, safe houses that turned out to be exactly where the visions showed them. You ask how I learned to trust them? Because they saved my life, over and over. First time I followed a vision instead of the regular route, we found out later the patrollers were waiting on the old path. Would've caught us for sure. Course, plenty of white folks called them fits and said I was touched in the head. Even some colored folks whispered. But you know what convinced me they were real? They were always right. Every single time. When God shows you the way through enemy territory nineteen times and brings everyone home safe, you stop questioning and start listening.
The Herald: The name "Moses" — when did people first start calling you that, and how did it feel to carry that comparison?
Harriet Tubman: Started hearing that name whispered in safe houses around 1851, maybe '52. Some old preacher in Philadelphia first said it, talking about how I kept going back for my people like Moses going back to Pharaoh. Made me uncomfortable then, makes me uncomfortable now. Moses was chosen special by God, talked to Him face to face. I'm just a broken-down woman doing what needed doing. But folks need their stories, I suppose. You're right about one thing though — Moses died looking at the Promised Land from a mountain. Me? I walked my people right into it, time and again. Philadelphia, Canada, freedom camps — I saw them settle safe with my own eyes. In that way, maybe the Lord blessed me more than He did Moses. But it was a burden too. Once they started calling you Moses, they expect miracles every time. Can't just be Harriet anymore — got to be larger than yourself. And when you're bone-tired and your head's pounding from those spells, when you just want to sit quiet in your own kitchen... well, Moses don't get to rest, do she? Still, if carrying that name helped even one person find courage to step into the darkness with me, then I'll bear it.
The Herald: You mentioned the government still owes you back pay from your war service. That stings, doesn't it — serving as a scout and spy, leading that raid on the Combahee River that freed over 700 people, and then being treated like your service didn't matter?
Harriet Tubman: Twenty years. Twenty years I've been writing letters, filling out their forms, having white men vouch for my service like I'm some child making up stories. I planned that Combahee raid myself — studied those waters for weeks, mapped every creek and landing, coordinated with Colonel Montgomery. Seven hundred and twenty-seven souls we brought out that day. Biggest liberation of enslaved people in the whole war. But you know what they remember? That a white colonel led it. Like I was just holding his horse. And it ain't just about the money, though Lord knows this home needs every penny. It's about what it means. White boys who never saw a day of real fighting get their pensions regular as clockwork. Meanwhile, they question whether I was really there, whether I really did what dozens of witnesses say I did. Because how could a Negro woman, a former slave no less, outthink Confederate officers and lead military operations? They'll use you when they need you — "Oh yes, send Harriet behind enemy lines, she knows the country" — but when it comes time to honor that service? Suddenly you're invisible again. I ain't begging. I earned that money with blood and courage. They can keep playing their games, but I know what I did.
The Herald: Here's something that might surprise you. Right now, in 2026, you're about to be put on the twenty-dollar bill — your face will be on American currency, replacing Andrew Jackson. How does it feel to learn that a country that wouldn't pay you a military pension now considers you a national hero?
Harriet Tubman: On... on the money? My face on American money? Child, you're telling me stories now. The twenty-dollar bill... that's got to have some white president on it, surely. And replacing Andrew Jackson? That Indian-killing, slave-owning devil? You're saying they'd take HIS face off to put mine on? This don't make sense. In my time, half the white folks won't even acknowledge I exist, and the other half act like I'm some kind of curiosity. The government won't pay me twenty-eight dollars a month I'm owed for my war service, but you're telling me they want to put my face on their money? What happened? What changed between now and when I... when I died? Because the America I know doesn't celebrate Negro women. It barely tolerates us. Are you telling me the truth? People really know my name? They really... they think I was somebody worth remembering?
The Herald: It's absolutely true. But here's what's even more remarkable — for decades after you died, you were almost forgotten. It wasn't until the 1960s, during the Civil Rights Movement, that Americans began to truly understand what you'd accomplished. What do you make of having to die to become the legend you always were?
Harriet Tubman: The 1960s... that's fifty years after I died. Fifty years of folks not knowing, not caring... So while I was alive, struggling to pay for coal and medicine for my old folks, begging for pennies to keep that home running... I was nobody. Just another old colored woman with her hand out. But fifty years later, when it's safe, when it don't cost them nothing but pretty words, THEN they decide I was a hero? You know what this tells me? They knew. They always knew what I'd done. The records were there, the witnesses were there. But celebrating Harriet Tubman while she's still breathing, still demanding her military pension, still asking uncomfortable questions about why her people are still suffering... that's too dangerous. That's too real. Dead heroes don't demand payment. Dead heroes don't embarrass you by existing in poverty while you ignore them. Dead heroes can't point out that the work ain't finished, that freedom on paper ain't freedom in life. Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s... so you're telling me my people STILL weren't free fifty years after I died? Still had to march and fight for what we thought we'd already won? Maybe that's why they forgot me. Maybe remembering the Underground Railroad was too painful when colored folks were still running — just from different kinds of chains. Well, I'm glad the children know now. But Lord forgive this country for waiting until I couldn't see it to give me my due.
The Herald: In those final years in Auburn, what gave you the most joy? Not the grand missions or historic moments, but the simple, everyday things that made you smile?
Harriet Tubman: Oh... You know what used to make me laugh? Watching the old folks in my home argue over checkers. Lord, they'd get so heated — "That ain't how you play!" "You cheated, I saw you!" — acting just like children. Here they were, folks who'd survived slavery, war, everything this world could throw at them, and they're fussing over a game board like it was the most important thing in creation. And my garden. Had the prettiest tomatoes in Auburn, I'll tell you that. Used to sit out there in the evenings, watching them grow, talking to them like they could hear me. After all those years of moving in darkness, hiding in swamps... there was something powerful about making things grow in the sunlight. But what really got me... Sunday mornings, when some of the old folks who could still sing would gather in the parlor. Miss Sarah had the sweetest voice — used to sing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" so pretty it'd make you cry. And I'd think about all the people I'd led north who were somewhere out there, free, maybe singing that same song with their children. Oh, and my chickens! Had this one old hen, stubborn as the day is long. She'd nest wherever she pleased, and no amount of coaxing would move her. Reminded me of myself, I suppose. Nelson used to say, "Harriet, you and that chicken deserve each other." Simple things. After all the running and hiding and fighting... just simple, peaceful things.
The Herald: A stubborn hen who reminded you of yourself — I love that. And you know what? Those children who learn about you in school today, they don't just hear about the daring rescues and the pistol threats. They also learn that you loved your garden and sang songs and cared for people until the very end. Maybe that's the real victory — not just that they remember Moses, but that they remember Harriet too. The woman who argued with chickens and grew the prettiest tomatoes in Auburn.
Harriet Tubman died on March 10, 1913, at the home for elderly African Americans she established in Auburn, New York. She was 91 years old and still fighting for back pay the government owed her for her Civil War service. In 2026, her face will replace Andrew Jackson's on the twenty-dollar bill — an honor that came 113 years too late for her to see, but right on time for a country finally ready to confront what real heroism looks like.