MY BONDAGE and MY FREEDOM

CONTENTS

MY BONDAGE and MY FREEDOM

EDITOR’S PREFACE

If the volume now presented to the public were a mere work of ART, the history
of its misfortune might be written in two very simple words—TOO LATE. The
nature and character of slavery have been subjects of an almost endless variety
of artistic representation; and after the brilliant achievements in that field,
and while those achievements are yet fresh in the memory of the million, he who
would add another to the legion, must possess the charm of transcendent
excellence, or apologize for something worse than rashness. The reader is,
therefore, assured, with all due promptitude, that his attention is not invited
to a work of ART, but to a work of FACTS—Facts, terrible and almost
incredible, it may be yet FACTS, nevertheless.

I am authorized to say that there is not a fictitious name nor place in the
whole volume; but that names and places are literally given, and that every
transaction therein described actually transpired.

Perhaps the best Preface to this volume is furnished in the following letter of
Mr. Douglass, written in answer to my urgent solicitation for such a work:

ROCHESTER, N. Y. July 2, 1855.

DEAR FRIEND: I have long entertained, as you very well know, a somewhat
positive repugnance to writing or speaking anything for the public, which
could, with any degree of plausibilty, make me liable to the imputation of
seeking personal notoriety, for its own sake. Entertaining that feeling very
sincerely, and permitting its control, perhaps, quite unreasonably, I have
often refused to narrate my personal experience in public anti-slavery
meetings, and in sympathizing circles, when urged to do so by friends, with
whose views and wishes, ordinarily, it were a pleasure to comply. In my letters
and speeches, I have generally aimed to discuss the question of Slavery in the
light of fundamental principles, and upon facts, notorious and open to all;
making, I trust, no more of the fact of my own former enslavement, than
circumstances seemed absolutely to require. I have never placed my opposition
to slavery on a basis so narrow as my own enslavement, but rather upon the
indestructible and unchangeable laws of human nature, every one of which is
perpetually and flagrantly violated by the slave system. I have also felt that
it was best for those having histories worth the writing—or supposed to
be so—to commit such work to hands other than their own. To write of
one’s self, in such a manner as not to incur the imputation of weakness,
vanity, and egotism, is a work within the ability of but few; and I have little
reason to believe that I belong to that fortunate few.

These considerations caused me to hesitate, when first you kindly urged me to
prepare for publication a full account of my life as a slave, and my life as a
freeman.

Nevertheless, I see, with you, many reasons for regarding my autobiography as
exceptional in its character, and as being, in some sense, naturally beyond the
reach of those reproaches which honorable and sensitive minds dislike to incur.
It is not to illustrate any heroic achievements of a man, but to vindicate a
just and beneficent principle, in its application to the whole human family, by
letting in the light of truth upon a system, esteemed by some as a blessing,
and by others as a curse and a crime. I agree with you, that this system is now
at the bar of public opinion—not only of this country, but of the whole
civilized world—for judgment. Its friends have made for it the usual
plea—“not guilty;” the case must, therefore, proceed. Any
facts, either from slaves, slaveholders, or by-standers, calculated to
enlighten the public mind, by revealing the true nature, character, and
tendency of the slave system, are in order, and can scarcely be innocently
withheld.

I see, too, that there are special reasons why I should write my own biography,
in preference to employing another to do it. Not only is slavery on trial, but
unfortunately, the enslaved people are also on trial. It is alleged, that they
are, naturally, inferior; that they are so low in the scale of humanity,
and so utterly stupid, that they are unconscious of their wrongs, and do not
apprehend their rights. Looking, then, at your request, from this stand-point,
and wishing everything of which you think me capable to go to the benefit of my
afflicted people, I part with my doubts and hesitation, and proceed to furnish
you the desired manuscript; hoping that you may be able to make such
arrangements for its publication as shall be best adapted to accomplish that
good which you so enthusiastically anticipate.

FREDERICK DOUGLASS

There was little necessity for doubt and hesitation on the part of Mr.
Douglass, as to the propriety of his giving to the world a full account of
himself. A man who was born and brought up in slavery, a living witness of its
horrors; who often himself experienced its cruelties; and who, despite the
depressing influences surrounding his birth, youth and manhood, has risen, from
a dark and almost absolute obscurity, to the distinguished position which he
now occupies, might very well assume the existence of a commendable curiosity,
on the part of the public, to know the facts of his remarkable history.

EDITOR

INTRODUCTION

When a man raises himself from the lowest condition in society to the highest,
mankind pay him the tribute of their admiration; when he accomplishes this
elevation by native energy, guided by prudence and wisdom, their admiration is
increased; but when his course, onward and upward, excellent in itself,
furthermore proves a possible, what had hitherto been regarded as an
impossible, reform, then he becomes a burning and a shining light, on which the
aged may look with gladness, the young with hope, and the down-trodden, as a
representative of what they may themselves become. To such a man, dear reader,
it is my privilege to introduce you.

The life of Frederick Douglass, recorded in the pages which follow, is not
merely an example of self-elevation under the most adverse circumstances; it
is, moreover, a noble vindication of the highest aims of the American
anti-slavery movement. The real object of that movement is not only to
disenthrall, it is, also, to bestow upon the Negro the exercise of all those
rights, from the possession of which he has been so long debarred.

But this full recognition of the colored man to the right, and the entire
admission of the same to the full privileges, political, religious and social,
of manhood, requires powerful effort on the part of the enthralled, as well as
on the part of those who would disenthrall them. The people at large must feel
the conviction, as well as admit the abstract logic, of human equality; the
Negro, for the first time in the world’s history, brought in full contact
with high civilization, must prove his title first to all that is demanded for
him; in the teeth of unequal chances, he must prove himself equal to the mass
of those who oppress him—therefore, absolutely superior to his apparent
fate, and to their relative ability. And it is most cheering to the friends of
freedom, today, that evidence of this equality is rapidly accumulating, not
from the ranks of the half-freed colored people of the free states, but from
the very depths of slavery itself; the indestructible equality of man to man is
demonstrated by the ease with which black men, scarce one remove from
barbarism—if slavery can be honored with such a distinction—vault
into the high places of the most advanced and painfully acquired civilization.
Ward and Garnett, Wells Brown and Pennington, Loguen and Douglass, are banners
on the outer wall, under which abolition is fighting its most successful
battles, because they are living exemplars of the practicability of the most
radical abolitionism; for, they were all of them born to the doom of slavery,
some of them remained slaves until adult age, yet they all have not only won
equality to their white fellow citizens, in civil, religious, political and
social rank, but they have also illustrated and adorned our common country by
their genius, learning and eloquence.

The characteristics whereby Mr. Douglass has won first rank among these
remarkable men, and is still rising toward highest rank among living Americans,
are abundantly laid bare in the book before us. Like the autobiography of Hugh
Miller, it carries us so far back into early childhood, as to throw light upon
the question, “when positive and persistent memory begins in the human
being.” And, like Hugh Miller, he must have been a shy old-fashioned
child, occasionally oppressed by what he could not well account for, peering
and poking about among the layers of right and wrong, of tyrant and thrall, and
the wonderfulness of that hopeless tide of things which brought power to one
race, and unrequited toil to another, until, finally, he stumbled upon his
“first-found Ammonite,” hidden away down in the depths of his own
nature, and which revealed to him the fact that liberty and right, for all men,
were anterior to slavery and wrong. When his knowledge of the world was bounded
by the visible horizon on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, and while every thing
around him bore a fixed, iron stamp, as if it had always been so, this was, for
one so young, a notable discovery.

To his uncommon memory, then, we must add a keen and accurate insight into men
and things; an original breadth of common sense which enabled him to see, and
weigh, and compare whatever passed before him, and which kindled a desire to
search out and define their relations to other things not so patent, but which
never succumbed to the marvelous nor the supernatural; a sacred thirst for
liberty and for learning, first as a means of attaining liberty, then as an end
in itself most desirable; a will; an unfaltering energy and determination to
obtain what his soul pronounced desirable; a majestic self-hood; determined
courage; a deep and agonizing sympathy with his embruted, crushed and bleeding
fellow slaves, and an extraordinary depth of passion, together with that rare
alliance between passion and intellect, which enables the former, when deeply
roused, to excite, develop and sustain the latter.

With these original gifts in view, let us look at his schooling; the fearful
discipline through which it pleased God to prepare him for the high calling on
which he has since entered—the advocacy of emancipation by the people who
are not slaves. And for this special mission, his plantation education was
better than any he could have acquired in any lettered school. What he needed,
was facts and experiences, welded to acutely wrought up sympathies, and these
he could not elsewhere have obtained, in a manner so peculiarly adapted to his
nature. His physical being was well trained, also, running wild until advanced
into boyhood; hard work and light diet, thereafter, and a skill in handicraft
in youth.

For his special mission, then, this was, considered in connection with his
natural gifts, a good schooling; and, for his special mission, he doubtless
“left school” just at the proper moment. Had he remained longer in
slavery—had he fretted under bonds until the ripening of manhood and its
passions, until the drear agony of slave-wife and slave-children had been piled
upon his already bitter experiences—then, not only would his own history
have had another termination, but the drama of American slavery would have been
essentially varied; for I cannot resist the belief, that the boy who learned to
read and write as he did, who taught his fellow slaves these precious
acquirements as he did, who plotted for their mutual escape as he did, would,
when a man at bay, strike a blow which would make slavery reel and stagger.
Furthermore, blows and insults he bore, at the moment, without resentment; deep
but suppressed emotion rendered him insensible to their sting; but it was
afterward, when the memory of them went seething through his brain, breeding a
fiery indignation at his injured self-hood, that the resolve came to resist,
and the time fixed when to resist, and the plot laid, how to resist; and he
always kept his self-pledged word. In what he undertook, in this line, he
looked fate in the face, and had a cool, keen look at the relation of means to
ends. Henry Bibb, to avoid chastisement, strewed his master’s bed with
charmed leaves and was whipped. Frederick Douglass quietly pocketed a
like fetiche, compared his muscles with those of Covey—and
whipped him.

In the history of his life in bondage, we find, well developed, that inherent
and continuous energy of character which will ever render him distinguished.
What his hand found to do, he did with his might; even while conscious that he
was wronged out of his daily earnings, he worked, and worked hard. At his daily
labor he went with a will; with keen, well set eye, brawny chest, lithe figure,
and fair sweep of arm, he would have been king among calkers, had that been his
mission.

It must not be overlooked, in this glance at his education, that Mr. Douglass
lacked one aid to which so many men of mark have been deeply indebted—he
had neither a mother’s care, nor a mother’s culture, save that
which slavery grudgingly meted out to him. Bitter nurse! may not even her
features relax with human feeling, when she gazes at such offspring! How
susceptible he was to the kindly influences of mother-culture, may be gathered
from his own words, on page 57: “It has been a life-long standing grief
to me, that I know so little of my mother, and that I was so early separated
from her. The counsels of her love must have been beneficial to me. The side
view of her face is imaged on my memory, and I take few steps in life, without
feeling her presence; but the image is mute, and I have no striking words of
hers treasured up.”

From the depths of chattel slavery in Maryland, our author escaped into the
caste-slavery of the north, in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Here he found
oppression assuming another, and hardly less bitter, form; of that very
handicraft which the greed of slavery had taught him, his half-freedom denied
him the exercise for an honest living; he found himself one of a
class—free colored men—whose position he has described in the
following words:

“Aliens are we in our native land. The fundamental principles of the
republic, to which the humblest white man, whether born here or elsewhere, may
appeal with confidence, in the hope of awakening a favorable response, are held
to be inapplicable to us. The glorious doctrines of your revolutionary fathers,
and the more glorious teachings of the Son of God, are construed and applied
against us. We are literally scourged beyond the beneficent range of both
authorities, human and divine. * * * * American humanity hates us, scorns us,
disowns and denies, in a thousand ways, our very personality. The outspread
wing of American christianity, apparently broad enough to give shelter to a
perishing world, refuses to cover us. To us, its bones are brass, and its
features iron. In running thither for shelter and succor, we have only fled
from the hungry blood-hound to the devouring wolf—from a corrupt and
selfish world, to a hollow and hypocritical church.”—Speech
before American and Foreign Anti-Slavery Society, May, 1854.

Four years or more, from 1837 to 1841, he struggled on, in New Bedford, sawing
wood, rolling casks, or doing what labor he might, to support himself and young
family; four years he brooded over the scars which slavery and semi-slavery had
inflicted upon his body and soul; and then, with his wounds yet unhealed, he
fell among the Garrisonians—a glorious waif to those most ardent
reformers. It happened one day, at Nantucket, that he, diffidently and
reluctantly, was led to address an anti-slavery meeting. He was about the age
when the younger Pitt entered the House of Commons; like Pitt, too, he stood up
a born orator.

William Lloyd Garrison, who was happily present, writes thus of Mr.
Douglass’ maiden effort; “I shall never forget his first speech at
the convention—the extraordinary emotion it excited in my own
mind—the powerful impression it created upon a crowded auditory,
completely taken by surprise. * * * I think I never hated slavery so intensely
as at that moment; certainly, my perception of the enormous outrage which is
inflicted by it on the godlike nature of its victims, was rendered far more
clear than ever. There stood one in physical proportions and stature commanding
and exact—in intellect richly endowed—in natural eloquence a
prodigy.” 1

It is of interest to compare Mr. Douglass’s account of this meeting with
Mr. Garrison’s. Of the two, I think the latter the most correct. It must
have been a grand burst of eloquence! The pent up agony, indignation and pathos
of an abused and harrowed boyhood and youth, bursting out in all their
freshness and overwhelming earnestness!

This unique introduction to its great leader, led immediately to the employment
of Mr. Douglass as an agent by the American Anti-Slavery Society. So far as his
self-relying and independent character would permit, he became, after the
strictest sect, a Garrisonian. It is not too much to say, that he formed a
complement which they needed, and they were a complement equally necessary to
his “make-up.” With his deep and keen sensitiveness to wrong, and
his wonderful memory, he came from the land of bondage full of its woes and its
evils, and painting them in characters of living light; and, on his part, he
found, told out in sound Saxon phrase, all those principles of justice and
right and liberty, which had dimly brooded over the dreams of his youth,
seeking definite forms and verbal expression. It must have been an electric
flashing of thought, and a knitting of soul, granted to but few in this life,
and will be a life-long memory to those who participated in it. In the society,
moreover, of Wendell Phillips, Edmund Quincy, William Lloyd Garrison, and other
men of earnest faith and refined culture, Mr. Douglass enjoyed the high
advantage of their assistance and counsel in the labor of self-culture, to
which he now addressed himself with wonted energy. Yet, these gentlemen,
although proud of Frederick Douglass, failed to fathom, and bring out to the
light of day, the highest qualities of his mind; the force of their own
education stood in their own way: they did not delve into the mind of a colored
man for capacities which the pride of race led them to believe to be restricted
to their own Saxon blood. Bitter and vindictive sarcasm, irresistible mimicry,
and a pathetic narrative of his own experiences of slavery, were the
intellectual manifestations which they encouraged him to exhibit on the
platform or in the lecture desk.

A visit to England, in 1845, threw Mr. Douglass among men and women of earnest
souls and high culture, and who, moreover, had never drank of the bitter waters
of American caste. For the first time in his life, he breathed an atmosphere
congenial to the longings of his spirit, and felt his manhood free and
unrestricted. The cordial and manly greetings of the British and Irish
audiences in public, and the refinement and elegance of the social circles in
which he mingled, not only as an equal, but as a recognized man of genius,
were, doubtless, genial and pleasant resting places in his hitherto thorny and
troubled journey through life. There are joys on the earth, and, to the
wayfaring fugitive from American slavery or American caste, this is one of
them.

But his sojourn in England was more than a joy to Mr. Douglass. Like the
platform at Nantucket, it awakened him to the consciousness of new powers that
lay in him. From the pupilage of Garrisonism he rose to the dignity of a
teacher and a thinker; his opinions on the broader aspects of the great
American question were earnestly and incessantly sought, from various points of
view, and he must, perforce, bestir himself to give suitable answer. With that
prompt and truthful perception which has led their sisters in all ages of the
world to gather at the feet and support the hands of reformers, the gentlewomen
of England 2 were
foremost to encourage and strengthen him to carve out for himself a path fitted
to his powers and energies, in the life-battle against slavery and caste to
which he was pledged. And one stirring thought, inseparable from the British
idea of the evangel of freedom, must have smote his ear from every side—

Hereditary bondmen! know ye not
Who would be free, themselves mast strike the blow?

The result of this visit was, that on his return to the United States, he
established a newspaper. This proceeding was sorely against the wishes and the
advice of the leaders of the American Anti-Slavery Society, but our author had
fully grown up to the conviction of a truth which they had once promulged, but
now forgotten, to wit: that in their own
elevation—self-elevation—colored men have a blow to strike
“on their own hook,” against slavery and caste. Differing from his
Boston friends in this matter, diffident in his own abilities, reluctant at
their dissuadings, how beautiful is the loyalty with which he still clung to
their principles in all things else, and even in this.

Now came the trial hour. Without cordial support from any large body of men or
party on this side the Atlantic, and too far distant in space and immediate
interest to expect much more, after the much already done, on the other side,
he stood up, almost alone, to the arduous labor and heavy expenditure of editor
and lecturer. The Garrison party, to which he still adhered, did not want a
colored newspaper—there was an odor of caste about it; the
Liberty party could hardly be expected to give warm support to a man who smote
their principles as with a hammer; and the wide gulf which separated the free
colored people from the Garrisonians, also separated them from their brother,
Frederick Douglass.

The arduous nature of his labors, from the date of the establishment of his
paper, may be estimated by the fact, that anti-slavery papers in the United
States, even while organs of, and when supported by, anti-slavery parties,
have, with a single exception, failed to pay expenses. Mr. Douglass has
maintained, and does maintain, his paper without the support of any party, and
even in the teeth of the opposition of those from whom he had reason to expect
counsel and encouragement. He has been compelled, at one and the same time, and
almost constantly, during the past seven years, to contribute matter to its
columns as editor, and to raise funds for its support as lecturer. It is within
bounds to say, that he has expended twelve thousand dollars of his own hard
earned money, in publishing this paper, a larger sum than has been contributed
by any one individual for the general advancement of the colored people. There
had been many other papers published and edited by colored men, beginning as
far back as 1827, when the Rev. Samuel E. Cornish and John B. Russworm (a
graduate of Bowdoin college, and afterward Governor of Cape Palmas) published
the Freedom’s Journal, in New York City; probably not less than
one hundred newspaper enterprises have been started in the United States, by
free colored men, born free, and some of them of liberal education and fair
talents for this work; but, one after another, they have fallen through,
although, in several instances, anti-slavery friends contributed to their
support. 3 It had
almost been given up, as an impracticable thing, to maintain a colored
newspaper, when Mr. Douglass, with fewest early advantages of all his
competitors, essayed, and has proved the thing perfectly practicable, and,
moreover, of great public benefit. This paper, in addition to its power in
holding up the hands of those to whom it is especially devoted, also affords
irrefutable evidence of the justice, safety and practicability of Immediate
Emancipation; it further proves the immense loss which slavery inflicts on the
land while it dooms such energies as his to the hereditary degradation of
slavery.

It has been said in this Introduction, that Mr. Douglass had raised himself by
his own efforts to the highest position in society. As a successful editor, in
our land, he occupies this position. Our editors rule the land, and he is one
of them. As an orator and thinker, his position is equally high, in the opinion
of his countrymen. If a stranger in the United States would seek its most
distinguished men—the movers of public opinion—he will find their
names mentioned, and their movements chronicled, under the head of “BY
MAGNETIC TELEGRAPH,” in the daily papers. The keen caterers for the
public attention, set down, in this column, such men only as have won high mark
in the public esteem. During the past winter—1854-5—very frequent
mention of Frederick Douglass was made under this head in the daily papers; his
name glided as often—this week from Chicago, next week from
Boston—over the lightning wires, as the name of any other man, of
whatever note. To no man did the people more widely nor more earnestly say,
“Tell me thy thought!” And, somehow or other, revolution
seemed to follow in his wake. His were not the mere words of eloquence which
Kossuth speaks of, that delight the ear and then pass away. No! They were
work-able, do-able words, that brought forth fruits in the
revolution in Illinois, and in the passage of the franchise resolutions by the
Assembly of New York.

And the secret of his power, what is it? He is a Representative American
man—a type of his countrymen. Naturalists tell us that a full grown man
is a resultant or representative of all animated nature on this globe;
beginning with the early embryo state, then representing the lowest forms of
organic life, 4
and passing through every subordinate grade or type, until he reaches the last
and highest—manhood. In like manner, and to the fullest extent, has
Frederick Douglass passed through every gradation of rank comprised in our
national make-up, and bears upon his person and upon his soul every thing that
is American. And he has not only full sympathy with every thing American; his
proclivity or bent, to active toil and visible progress, are in the strictly
national direction, delighting to outstrip “all creation.”

Nor have the natural gifts, already named as his, lost anything by his severe
training. When unexcited, his mental processes are probably slow, but
singularly clear in perception, and wide in vision, the unfailing memory
bringing up all the facts in their every aspect; incongruities he lays hold of
incontinently, and holds up on the edge of his keen and telling wit. But this
wit never descends to frivolity; it is rigidly in the keeping of his truthful
common sense, and always used in illustration or proof of some point which
could not so readily be reached any other way. “Beware of a Yankee when
he is feeding,” is a shaft that strikes home in a matter never so laid
bare by satire before. “The Garrisonian views of disunion, if carried to
a successful issue, would only place the people of the north in the same
relation to American slavery which they now bear to the slavery of Cuba or the
Brazils,” is a statement, in a few words, which contains the result and
the evidence of an argument which might cover pages, but could not carry
stronger conviction, nor be stated in less pregnable form. In proof of this, I
may say, that having been submitted to the attention of the Garrisonians in
print, in March, it was repeated before them at their business meeting in
May—the platform, par excellence, on which they invite free fight,
a l’outrance, to all comers. It was given out in the clear,
ringing tones, wherewith the hall of shields was wont to resound of old, yet
neither Garrison, nor Phillips, nor May, nor Remond, nor Foster, nor Burleigh,
with his subtle steel of “the ice brook’s temper,” ventured
to break a lance upon it! The doctrine of the dissolution of the Union, as a
means for the abolition of American slavery, was silenced upon the lips that
gave it birth, and in the presence of an array of defenders who compose the
keenest intellects in the land.

“The man who is right is a majority” is an aphorism struck
out by Mr. Douglass in that great gathering of the friends of freedom, at
Pittsburgh, in 1852, where he towered among the highest, because, with
abilities inferior to none, and moved more deeply than any, there was neither
policy nor party to trammel the outpourings of his soul. Thus we find, opposed
to all disadvantages which a black man in the United States labors and
struggles under, is this one vantage ground—when the chance comes, and
the audience where he may have a say, he stands forth the freest, most deeply
moved and most earnest of all men.

It has been said of Mr. Douglass, that his descriptive and declamatory powers,
admitted to be of the very highest order, take precedence of his logical force.
Whilst the schools might have trained him to the exhibition of the formulas of
deductive logic, nature and circumstances forced him into the exercise of the
higher faculties required by induction. The first ninety pages of this
“Life in Bondage,” afford specimens of observing, comparing, and
careful classifying, of such superior character, that it is difficult to
believe them the results of a child’s thinking; he questions the earth,
and the children and the slaves around him again and again, and finally looks
to “God in the sky” for the why and the wherefore of the
unnatural thing, slavery. “Yes, if indeed thou art, wherefore dost
thou suffer us to be slain?” is the only prayer and worship of the
God-forsaken Dodos in the heart of Africa. Almost the same was his prayer. One
of his earliest observations was that white children should know their ages,
while the colored children were ignorant of theirs; and the songs of the slaves
grated on his inmost soul, because a something told him that harmony in sound,
and music of the spirit, could not consociate with miserable degradation.

To such a mind, the ordinary processes of logical deduction are like proving
that two and two make four. Mastering the intermediate steps by an intuitive
glance, or recurring to them as Ferguson resorted to geometry, it goes down to
the deeper relation of things, and brings out what may seem, to some, mere
statements, but which are new and brilliant generalizations, each resting on a
broad and stable basis. Thus, Chief Justice Marshall gave his decisions, and
then told Brother Story to look up the authorities—and they never
differed from him. Thus, also, in his “Lecture on the Anti-Slavery
Movement,” delivered before the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery
Society, Mr. Douglass presents a mass of thought, which, without any showy
display of logic on his part, requires an exercise of the reasoning faculties
of the reader to keep pace with him. And his “Claims of the Negro
Ethnologically Considered,” is full of new and fresh thoughts on the
dawning science of race-history.

If, as has been stated, his intellection is slow, when unexcited, it is most
prompt and rapid when he is thoroughly aroused. Memory, logic, wit, sarcasm,
invective pathos and bold imagery of rare structural beauty, well up as from a
copious fountain, yet each in its proper place, and contributing to form a
whole, grand in itself, yet complete in the minutest proportions. It is most
difficult to hedge him in a corner, for his positions are taken so
deliberately, that it is rare to find a point in them undefended aforethought.
Professor Reason tells me the following: “On a recent visit of a public
nature, to Philadelphia, and in a meeting composed mostly of his colored
brethren, Mr. Douglass proposed a comparison of views in the matters of the
relations and duties of ‘our people;’ he holding that prejudice was
the result of condition, and could be conquered by the efforts of the degraded
themselves. A gentleman present, distinguished for logical acumen and subtlety,
and who had devoted no small portion of the last twenty-five years to the study
and elucidation of this very question, held the opposite view, that prejudice
is innate and unconquerable. He terminated a series of well dove-tailed,
Socratic questions to Mr. Douglass, with the following: ‘If the
legislature at Harrisburgh should awaken, to-morrow morning, and find each
man’s skin turned black and his hair woolly, what could they do to remove
prejudice?’ ‘Immediately pass laws entitling black men to all
civil, political and social privileges,’ was the instant reply—and
the questioning ceased.”

The most remarkable mental phenomenon in Mr. Douglass, is his style in writing
and speaking. In March, 1855, he delivered an address in the assembly chamber
before the members of the legislature of the state of New York. An eye witness
5 describes the
crowded and most intelligent audience, and their rapt attention to the speaker,
as the grandest scene he ever witnessed in the capitol. Among those whose eyes
were riveted on the speaker full two hours and a half, were Thurlow Weed and
Lieutenant Governor Raymond; the latter, at the conclusion of the address,
exclaimed to a friend, “I would give twenty thousand dollars, if I could
deliver that address in that manner.” Mr. Raymond is a first class
graduate of Dartmouth, a rising politician, ranking foremost in the
legislature; of course, his ideal of oratory must be of the most polished and
finished description.

The style of Mr. Douglass in writing, is to me an intellectual puzzle. The
strength, affluence and terseness may easily be accounted for, because the
style of a man is the man; but how are we to account for that rare polish in
his style of writing, which, most critically examined, seems the result of
careful early culture among the best classics of our language; it equals if it
does not surpass the style of Hugh Miller, which was the wonder of the British
literary public, until he unraveled the mystery in the most interesting of
autobiographies. But Frederick Douglass was still calking the seams of
Baltimore clippers, and had only written a “pass,” at the age when
Miller’s style was already formed.

I asked William Whipper, of Pennsylvania, the gentleman alluded to above,
whether he thought Mr. Douglass’s power inherited from the Negroid, or
from what is called the Caucasian side of his make up? After some reflection,
he frankly answered, “I must admit, although sorry to do so, that the
Caucasian predominates.” At that time, I almost agreed with him; but,
facts narrated in the first part of this work, throw a different light on this
interesting question.

We are left in the dark as to who was the paternal ancestor of our author; a
fact which generally holds good of the Romuluses and Remuses who are to
inaugurate the new birth of our republic. In the absence of testimony from the
Caucasian side, we must see what evidence is given on the other side of the
house.

“My grandmother, though advanced in years, * * * was yet a woman of power
and spirit. She was marvelously straight in figure, elastic and
muscular.” (p. 46.)

After describing her skill in constructing nets, her perseverance in using
them, and her wide-spread fame in the agricultural way he adds, “It
happened to her—as it will happen to any careful and thrifty person
residing in an ignorant and improvident neighborhood—to enjoy the
reputation of being born to good luck.” And his grandmother was a black
woman.

“My mother was tall, and finely proportioned; of deep black, glossy
complexion; had regular features; and among other slaves was remarkably sedate
in her manners.” “Being a field hand, she was obliged to walk
twelve miles and return, between nightfall and daybreak, to see her
children” (p. 54.) “I shall never forget the indescribable
expression of her countenance when I told her that I had had no food since
morning. * * * There was pity in her glance at me, and a fiery indignation at
Aunt Katy at the same time; * * * * she read Aunt Katy a lecture which she
never forgot.” (p. 56.) “I learned after my mother’s death,
that she could read, and that she was the only one of all the slaves and
colored people in Tuckahoe who enjoyed that advantage. How she acquired this
knowledge, I know not, for Tuckahoe is the last place in the world where she
would be apt to find facilities for learning.” (p. 57.) “There is,
in Prichard’s Natural History of Man, the head of a
figure—on page 157—the features of which so resemble those of my
mother, that I often recur to it with something of the feeling which I suppose
others experience when looking upon the pictures of dear departed ones.”
(p. 52.)

The head alluded to is copied from the statue of Ramses the Great, an Egyptian
king of the nineteenth dynasty. The authors of the Types of Mankind give
a side view of the same on page 148, remarking that the profile, “like
Napoleon’s, is superbly European!” The nearness of its resemblance
to Mr. Douglass’ mother rests upon the evidence of his memory, and
judging from his almost marvelous feats of recollection of forms and outlines
recorded in this book, this testimony may be admitted.

These facts show that for his energy, perseverance, eloquence, invective,
sagacity, and wide sympathy, he is indebted to his Negro blood. The very marvel
of his style would seem to be a development of that other marvel—how his
mother learned to read. The versatility of talent which he wields, in common
with Dumas, Ira Aldridge, and Miss Greenfield, would seem to be the result of
the grafting of the Anglo-Saxon on good, original, Negro stock. If the friends
of “Caucasus” choose to claim, for that region, what remains after
this analysis—to wit: combination—they are welcome to it. They will
forgive me for reminding them that the term “Caucasian” is dropped
by recent writers on Ethnology; for the people about Mount Caucasus, are, and
have ever been, Mongols. The great “white race” now seek paternity,
according to Dr. Pickering, in Arabia—“Arida Nutrix” of the
best breed of horses &c. Keep on, gentlemen; you will find yourselves in
Africa, by-and-by. The Egyptians, like the Americans, were a mixed race,
with some Negro blood circling around the throne, as well as in the mud hovels.

This is the proper place to remark of our author, that the same strong
self-hood, which led him to measure strength with Mr. Covey, and to wrench
himself from the embrace of the Garrisonians, and which has borne him through
many resistances to the personal indignities offered him as a colored man,
sometimes becomes a hyper-sensitiveness to such assaults as men of his mark
will meet with, on paper. Keen and unscrupulous opponents have sought, and not
unsuccessfully, to pierce him in this direction; for well they know, that if
assailed, he will smite back.

It is not without a feeling of pride, dear reader, that I present you with this
book. The son of a self-emancipated bond-woman, I feel joy in introducing to
you my brother, who has rent his own bonds, and who, in his every
relation—as a public man, as a husband and as a father—is such as
does honor to the land which gave him birth. I shall place this book in the
hands of the only child spared me, bidding him to strive and emulate its noble
example. You may do likewise. It is an American book, for Americans, in the
fullest sense of the idea. It shows that the worst of our institutions, in its
worst aspect, cannot keep down energy, truthfulness, and earnest struggle for
the right. It proves the justice and practicability of Immediate Emancipation.
It shows that any man in our land, “no matter in what battle his liberty
may have been cloven down, * * * * no matter what complexion an Indian or an
African sun may have burned upon him,” not only may “stand forth
redeemed and disenthralled,” but may also stand up a candidate for the
highest suffrage of a great people—the tribute of their honest, hearty
admiration. Reader, Vale! New York

JAMES M’CUNE SMITH

CHAPTER I. Childhood

PLACE OF BIRTH—CHARACTER OF THE DISTRICT—TUCKAHOE—ORIGIN OF
THE NAME—CHOPTANK RIVER—TIME OF BIRTH—GENEALOGICAL
TREES—MODE OF COUNTING TIME—NAMES OF GRANDPARENTS—THEIR
POSITION—GRANDMOTHER ESPECIALLY ESTEEMED—“BORN TO GOOD
LUCK”—SWEET POTATOES—SUPERSTITION—THE LOG
CABIN—ITS CHARMS—SEPARATING CHILDREN—MY AUNTS—THEIR
NAMES—FIRST KNOWLEDGE OF BEING A SLAVE—OLD MASTER—GRIEFS AND
JOYS OF CHILDHOOD—COMPARATIVE HAPPINESS OF THE SLAVE-BOY AND THE SON OF A
SLAVEHOLDER.

In Talbot county, Eastern Shore, Maryland, near Easton, the county town of that
county, there is a small district of country, thinly populated, and remarkable
for nothing that I know of more than for the worn-out, sandy, desert-like
appearance of its soil, the general dilapidation of its farms and fences, the
indigent and spiritless character of its inhabitants, and the prevalence of
ague and fever.

The name of this singularly unpromising and truly famine stricken district is
Tuckahoe, a name well known to all Marylanders, black and white. It was given
to this section of country probably, at the first, merely in derision; or it
may possibly have been applied to it, as I have heard, because some one of its
earlier inhabitants had been guilty of the petty meanness of stealing a
hoe—or taking a hoe that did not belong to him. Eastern Shore men usually
pronounce the word took, as tuck; Took-a-hoe, therefore, is, in
Maryland parlance, Tuckahoe. But, whatever may have been its
origin—and about this I will not be positive—that name has stuck to
the district in question; and it is seldom mentioned but with contempt and
derision, on account of the barrenness of its soil, and the ignorance,
indolence, and poverty of its people. Decay and ruin are everywhere visible,
and the thin population of the place would have quitted it long ago, but for
the Choptank river, which runs through it, from which they take abundance of
shad and herring, and plenty of ague and fever.

It was in this dull, flat, and unthrifty district, or neighborhood, surrounded
by a white population of the lowest order, indolent and drunken to a proverb,
and among slaves, who seemed to ask, “Oh! what’s the
use?” every time they lifted a hoe, that I—without any fault of
mine was born, and spent the first years of my childhood.

The reader will pardon so much about the place of my birth, on the score that
it is always a fact of some importance to know where a man is born, if, indeed,
it be important to know anything about him. In regard to the time of my
birth, I cannot be as definite as I have been respecting the place. Nor,
indeed, can I impart much knowledge concerning my parents. Genealogical trees
do not flourish among slaves. A person of some consequence here in the north,
sometimes designated father, is literally abolished in slave law and
slave practice. It is only once in a while that an exception is found to this
statement. I never met with a slave who could tell me how old he was. Few
slave-mothers know anything of the months of the year, nor of the days of the
month. They keep no family records, with marriages, births, and deaths. They
measure the ages of their children by spring time, winter time, harvest time,
planting time, and the like; but these soon become undistinguishable and
forgotten. Like other slaves, I cannot tell how old I am. This destitution was
among my earliest troubles. I learned when I grew up, that my master—and
this is the case with masters generally—allowed no questions to be put to
him, by which a slave might learn his age. Such questions deemed evidence of
impatience, and even of impudent curiosity. From certain events, however, the
dates of which I have since learned, I suppose myself to have been born about
the year 1817.

The first experience of life with me that I now remember—and I remember
it but hazily—began in the family of my grandmother and grandfather.
Betsey and Isaac Baily. They were quite advanced in life, and had long lived on
the spot where they then resided. They were considered old settlers in the
neighborhood, and, from certain circumstances, I infer that my grandmother,
especially, was held in high esteem, far higher than is the lot of most colored
persons in the slave states. She was a good nurse, and a capital hand at making
nets for catching shad and herring; and these nets were in great demand, not
only in Tuckahoe, but at Denton and Hillsboro, neighboring villages. She was
not only good at making the nets, but was also somewhat famous for her good
fortune in taking the fishes referred to. I have known her to be in the water
half the day. Grandmother was likewise more provident than most of her
neighbors in the preservation of seedling sweet potatoes, and it happened to
her—as it will happen to any careful and thrifty person residing in an
ignorant and improvident community—to enjoy the reputation of having been
born to “good luck.” Her “good luck” was owing to the
exceeding care which she took in preventing the succulent root from getting
bruised in the digging, and in placing it beyond the reach of frost, by
actually burying it under the hearth of her cabin during the winter months. In
the time of planting sweet potatoes, “Grandmother Betty,” as she
was familiarly called, was sent for in all directions, simply to place the
seedling potatoes in the hills; for superstition had it, that if
“Grandmamma Betty but touches them at planting, they will be sure to grow
and flourish.” This high reputation was full of advantage to her, and to
the children around her. Though Tuckahoe had but few of the good things of
life, yet of such as it did possess grandmother got a full share, in the way of
presents. If good potato crops came after her planting, she was not forgotten
by those for whom she planted; and as she was remembered by others, so she
remembered the hungry little ones around her.

The dwelling of my grandmother and grandfather had few pretensions. It was a
log hut, or cabin, built of clay, wood, and straw. At a distance it
resembled—though it was smaller, less commodious and less
substantial—the cabins erected in the western states by the first
settlers. To my child’s eye, however, it was a noble structure, admirably
adapted to promote the comforts and conveniences of its inmates. A few rough,
Virginia fence-rails, flung loosely over the rafters above, answered the triple
purpose of floors, ceilings, and bedsteads. To be sure, this upper apartment
was reached only by a ladder—but what in the world for climbing could be
better than a ladder? To me, this ladder was really a high invention, and
possessed a sort of charm as I played with delight upon the rounds of it. In
this little hut there was a large family of children: I dare not say how many.
My grandmother—whether because too old for field service, or because she
had so faithfully discharged the duties of her station in early life, I know
not—enjoyed the high privilege of living in a cabin, separate from the
quarter, with no other burden than her own support, and the necessary care of
the little children, imposed. She evidently esteemed it a great fortune to live
so. The children were not her own, but her grandchildren—the children of
her daughters. She took delight in having them around her, and in attending to
their few wants. The practice of separating children from their mother, and
hiring the latter out at distances too great to admit of their meeting, except
at long intervals, is a marked feature of the cruelty and barbarity of the
slave system. But it is in harmony with the grand aim of slavery, which, always
and everywhere, is to reduce man to a level with the brute. It is a successful
method of obliterating from the mind and heart of the slave, all just ideas of
the sacredness of the family, as an institution.

Most of the children, however, in this instance, being the children of my
grandmother’s daughters, the notions of family, and the reciprocal duties
and benefits of the relation, had a better chance of being understood than
where children are placed—as they often are in the hands of strangers,
who have no care for them, apart from the wishes of their masters. The
daughters of my grandmother were five in number. Their names were JENNY,
ESTHER, MILLY, PRISCILLA, and HARRIET. The daughter last named was my mother,
of whom the reader shall learn more by-and-by.

Living here, with my dear old grandmother and grandfather, it was a long time
before I knew myself to be a slave. I knew many other things before I
knew that. Grandmother and grandfather were the greatest people in the world to
me; and being with them so snugly in their own little cabin—I supposed it
be their own—knowing no higher authority over me or the other children
than the authority of grandmamma, for a time there was nothing to disturb me;
but, as I grew larger and older, I learned by degrees the sad fact, that the
“little hut,” and the lot on which it stood, belonged not to my
dear old grandparents, but to some person who lived a great distance off, and
who was called, by grandmother, “OLD MASTER.” I further learned the
sadder fact, that not only the house and lot, but that grandmother herself,
(grandfather was free,) and all the little children around her, belonged to
this mysterious personage, called by grandmother, with every mark of reverence,
“Old Master.” Thus early did clouds and shadows begin to fall upon
my path. Once on the track—troubles never come singly—I was not
long in finding out another fact, still more grievous to my childish heart. I
was told that this “old master,” whose name seemed ever to be
mentioned with fear and shuddering, only allowed the children to live with
grandmother for a limited time, and that in fact as soon as they were big
enough, they were promptly taken away, to live with the said “old
master.” These were distressing revelations indeed; and though I was
quite too young to comprehend the full import of the intelligence, and mostly
spent my childhood days in gleesome sports with the other children, a shade of
disquiet rested upon me.

The absolute power of this distant “old master” had touched my
young spirit with but the point of its cold, cruel iron, and left me something
to brood over after the play and in moments of repose. Grandmammy was, indeed,
at that time, all the world to me; and the thought of being separated from her,
in any considerable time, was more than an unwelcome intruder. It was
intolerable.

Children have their sorrows as well as men and women; and it would be well to
remember this in our dealings with them. SLAVE-children are children,
and prove no exceptions to the general rule. The liability to be separated from
my grandmother, seldom or never to see her again, haunted me. I dreaded the
thought of going to live with that mysterious “old master,” whose
name I never heard mentioned with affection, but always with fear. I look back
to this as among the heaviest of my childhood’s sorrows. My grandmother!
my grandmother! and the little hut, and the joyous circle under her care, but
especially she, who made us sorry when she left us but for an hour, and
glad on her return,—how could I leave her and the good old home?

But the sorrows of childhood, like the pleasures of after life, are transient.
It is not even within the power of slavery to write indelible sorrow, at
a single dash, over the heart of a child.

The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose—
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush—the flower is dry.

There is, after all, but little difference in the measure of contentment felt
by the slave-child neglected and the slaveholder’s child cared for and
petted. The spirit of the All Just mercifully holds the balance for the young.

The slaveholder, having nothing to fear from impotent childhood, easily affords
to refrain from cruel inflictions; and if cold and hunger do not pierce the
tender frame, the first seven or eight years of the slave-boy’s life are
about as full of sweet content as those of the most favored and petted
white children of the slaveholder. The slave-boy escapes many troubles
which befall and vex his white brother. He seldom has to listen to lectures on
propriety of behavior, or on anything else. He is never chided for handling his
little knife and fork improperly or awkwardly, for he uses none. He is never
reprimanded for soiling the table-cloth, for he takes his meals on the clay
floor. He never has the misfortune, in his games or sports, of soiling or
tearing his clothes, for he has almost none to soil or tear. He is never
expected to act like a nice little gentleman, for he is only a rude little
slave. Thus, freed from all restraint, the slave-boy can be, in his life and
conduct, a genuine boy, doing whatever his boyish nature suggests; enacting, by
turns, all the strange antics and freaks of horses, dogs, pigs, and barn-door
fowls, without in any manner compromising his dignity, or incurring reproach of
any sort. He literally runs wild; has no pretty little verses to learn in the
nursery; no nice little speeches to make for aunts, uncles, or cousins, to show
how smart he is; and, if he can only manage to keep out of the way of the heavy
feet and fists of the older slave boys, he may trot on, in his joyous and
roguish tricks, as happy as any little heathen under the palm trees of Africa.
To be sure, he is occasionally reminded, when he stumbles in the path of his
master—and this he early learns to avoid—that he is eating his
“white bread,” and that he will be made to “see
sights” by-and-by. The threat is soon forgotten; the shadow soon
passes, and our sable boy continues to roll in the dust, or play in the mud, as
bests suits him, and in the veriest freedom. If he feels uncomfortable, from
mud or from dust, the coast is clear; he can plunge into the river or the pond,
without the ceremony of undressing, or the fear of wetting his clothes; his
little tow-linen shirt—for that is all he has on—is easily dried;
and it needed ablution as much as did his skin. His food is of the coarsest
kind, consisting for the most part of cornmeal mush, which often finds it way
from the wooden tray to his mouth in an oyster shell. His days, when the
weather is warm, are spent in the pure, open air, and in the bright sunshine.
He always sleeps in airy apartments; he seldom has to take powders, or to be
paid to swallow pretty little sugar-coated pills, to cleanse his blood, or to
quicken his appetite. He eats no candies; gets no lumps of loaf sugar; always
relishes his food; cries but little, for nobody cares for his crying; learns to
esteem his bruises but slight, because others so esteem them. In a word, he is,
for the most part of the first eight years of his life, a spirited, joyous,
uproarious, and happy boy, upon whom troubles fall only like water on a
duck’s back. And such a boy, so far as I can now remember, was the boy
whose life in slavery I am now narrating.

CHAPTER II. Removed from My First Home

THE NAME “OLD MASTER” A TERROR—COLONEL LLOYD’S
PLANTATION—WYE RIVER—WHENCE ITS NAME—POSITION OF THE
LLOYDS—HOME ATTRACTION—MEET OFFERING—JOURNEY FROM TUCKAHOE TO
WYE RIVER—SCENE ON REACHING OLD MASTER’S—DEPARTURE OF
GRANDMOTHER—STRANGE MEETING OF SISTERS AND BROTHERS—REFUSAL TO BE
COMFORTED—SWEET SLEEP.

That mysterious individual referred to in the first chapter as an object of
terror among the inhabitants of our little cabin, under the ominous title of
“old master,” was really a man of some consequence. He owned
several farms in Tuckahoe; was the chief clerk and butler on the home
plantation of Col. Edward Lloyd; had overseers on his own farms; and gave
directions to overseers on the farms belonging to Col. Lloyd. This plantation
is situated on Wye river—the river receiving its name, doubtless, from
Wales, where the Lloyds originated. They (the Lloyds) are an old and honored
family in Maryland, exceedingly wealthy. The home plantation, where they have
resided, perhaps for a century or more, is one of the largest, most fertile,
and best appointed, in the state.

About this plantation, and about that queer old master—who must be
something more than a man, and something worse than an angel—the reader
will easily imagine that I was not only curious, but eager, to know all that
could be known. Unhappily for me, however, all the information I could get
concerning him increased my great dread of being carried thither—of being
separated from and deprived of the protection of my grandmother and
grandfather. It was, evidently, a great thing to go to Col. Lloyd’s; and
I was not without a little curiosity to see the place; but no amount of coaxing
could induce in me the wish to remain there. The fact is, such was my dread of
leaving the little cabin, that I wished to remain little forever, for I knew
the taller I grew the shorter my stay. The old cabin, with its rail floor and
rail bedsteads upstairs, and its clay floor downstairs, and its dirt chimney,
and windowless sides, and that most curious piece of workmanship dug in front
of the fireplace, beneath which grandmammy placed the sweet potatoes to keep
them from the frost, was MY HOME—the only home I ever had; and I loved
it, and all connected with it. The old fences around it, and the stumps in the
edge of the woods near it, and the squirrels that ran, skipped, and played upon
them, were objects of interest and affection. There, too, right at the side of
the hut, stood the old well, with its stately and skyward-pointing beam, so
aptly placed between the limbs of what had once been a tree, and so nicely
balanced that I could move it up and down with only one hand, and could get a
drink myself without calling for help. Where else in the world could such a
well be found, and where could such another home be met with? Nor were these
all the attractions of the place. Down in a little valley, not far from
grandmammy’s cabin, stood Mr. Lee’s mill, where the people came
often in large numbers to get their corn ground. It was a watermill; and I
never shall be able to tell the many things thought and felt, while I sat on
the bank and watched that mill, and the turning of that ponderous wheel. The
mill-pond, too, had its charms; and with my pinhook, and thread line, I could
get nibbles, if I could catch no fish. But, in all my sports and plays,
and in spite of them, there would, occasionally, come the painful foreboding
that I was not long to remain there, and that I must soon be called away to the
home of old master.

I was A SLAVE—born a slave and though the fact was incomprehensible to
me, it conveyed to my mind a sense of my entire dependence on the will of
somebody I had never seen; and, from some cause or other, I had been
made to fear this somebody above all else on earth. Born for another’s
benefit, as the firstling of the cabin flock I was soon to be selected
as a meet offering to the fearful and inexorable demigod, whose huge
image on so many occasions haunted my childhood’s imagination. When the
time of my departure was decided upon, my grandmother, knowing my fears, and in
pity for them, kindly kept me ignorant of the dreaded event about to transpire.
Up to the morning (a beautiful summer morning) when we were to start, and,
indeed, during the whole journey—a journey which, child as I was, I
remember as well as if it were yesterday—she kept the sad fact hidden
from me. This reserve was necessary; for, could I have known all, I should have
given grandmother some trouble in getting me started. As it was, I was
helpless, and she—dear woman!—led me along by the hand, resisting,
with the reserve and solemnity of a priestess, all my inquiring looks to the
last.

The distance from Tuckahoe to Wye river—where my old master
lived—was full twelve miles, and the walk was quite a severe test of the
endurance of my young legs. The journey would have proved too severe for me,
but that my dear old grandmother—blessings on her memory!—afforded
occasional relief by “toting” me (as Marylanders have it) on her
shoulder. My grandmother, though advanced in years—as was evident from
more than one gray hair, which peeped from between the ample and graceful folds
of her newly-ironed bandana turban—was yet a woman of power and spirit.
She was marvelously straight in figure, elastic, and muscular. I seemed hardly
to be a burden to her. She would have “toted” me farther, but that
I felt myself too much of a man to allow it, and insisted on walking. Releasing
dear grandmamma from carrying me, did not make me altogether independent of
her, when we happened to pass through portions of the somber woods which lay
between Tuckahoe and Wye river. She often found me increasing the energy of my
grip, and holding her clothing, lest something should come out of the woods and
eat me up. Several old logs and stumps imposed upon me, and got themselves
taken for wild beasts. I could see their legs, eyes, and ears, or I could see
something like eyes, legs, and ears, till I got close enough to them to see
that the eyes were knots, washed white with rain, and the legs were broken
limbs, and the ears, only ears owing to the point from which they were seen.
Thus early I learned that the point from which a thing is viewed is of some
importance.

As the day advanced the heat increased; and it was not until the afternoon that
we reached the much dreaded end of the journey. I found myself in the midst of
a group of children of many colors; black, brown, copper colored, and nearly
white. I had not seen so many children before. Great houses loomed up in
different directions, and a great many men and women were at work in the
fields. All this hurry, noise, and singing was very different from the
stillness of Tuckahoe. As a new comer, I was an object of special interest;
and, after laughing and yelling around me, and playing all sorts of wild
tricks, they (the children) asked me to go out and play with them. This I
refused to do, preferring to stay with grandmamma. I could not help feeling
that our being there boded no good to me. Grandmamma looked sad. She was soon
to lose another object of affection, as she had lost many before. I knew she
was unhappy, and the shadow fell from her brow on me, though I knew not the
cause.

All suspense, however, must have an end; and the end of mine, in this instance,
was at hand. Affectionately patting me on the head, and exhorting me to be a
good boy, grandmamma told me to go and play with the little children.
“They are kin to you,” said she; “go and play with
them.” Among a number of cousins were Phil, Tom, Steve, and Jerry, Nance
and Betty.

Grandmother pointed out my brother PERRY, my sister SARAH, and my sister ELIZA,
who stood in the group. I had never seen my brother nor my sisters before; and,
though I had sometimes heard of them, and felt a curious interest in them, I
really did not understand what they were to me, or I to them. We were brothers
and sisters, but what of that? Why should they be attached to me, or I to them?
Brothers and sisters we were by blood; but slavery had made us
strangers. I heard the words brother and sisters, and knew they must mean
something; but slavery had robbed these terms of their true meaning. The
experience through which I was passing, they had passed through before. They
had already been initiated into the mysteries of old master’s domicile,
and they seemed to look upon me with a certain degree of compassion; but my
heart clave to my grandmother. Think it not strange, dear reader, that so
little sympathy of feeling existed between us. The conditions of brotherly and
sisterly feeling were wanting—we had never nestled and played together.
My poor mother, like many other slave-women, had many children, but NO
FAMILY! The domestic hearth, with its holy lessons and precious endearments, is
abolished in the case of a slave-mother and her children. “Little
children, love one another,” are words seldom heard in a slave cabin.

I really wanted to play with my brother and sisters, but they were strangers to
me, and I was full of fear that grandmother might leave without taking me with
her. Entreated to do so, however, and that, too, by my dear grandmother, I went
to the back part of the house, to play with them and the other children.
Play, however, I did not, but stood with my back against the wall,
witnessing the playing of the others. At last, while standing there, one of the
children, who had been in the kitchen, ran up to me, in a sort of roguish glee,
exclaiming, “Fed, Fed! grandmammy gone! grandmammy gone!” I could
not believe it; yet, fearing the worst, I ran into the kitchen, to see for
myself, and found it even so. Grandmammy had indeed gone, and was now far away,
“clean” out of sight. I need not tell all that happened now. Almost
heart-broken at the discovery, I fell upon the ground, and wept a boy’s
bitter tears, refusing to be comforted. My brother and sisters came around me,
and said, “Don’t cry,” and gave me peaches and pears, but I
flung them away, and refused all their kindly advances. I had never been
deceived before; and I felt not only grieved at parting—as I supposed
forever—with my grandmother, but indignant that a trick had been played
upon me in a matter so serious.

It was now late in the afternoon. The day had been an exciting and wearisome
one, and I knew not how or where, but I suppose I sobbed myself to sleep. There
is a healing in the angel wing of sleep, even for the slave-boy; and its balm
was never more welcome to any wounded soul than it was to mine, the first night
I spent at the domicile of old master. The reader may be surprised that I
narrate so minutely an incident apparently so trivial, and which must have
occurred when I was not more than seven years old; but as I wish to give a
faithful history of my experience in slavery, I cannot withhold a circumstance
which, at the time, affected me so deeply. Besides, this was, in fact, my first
introduction to the realities of slavery.

CHAPTER III. Parentage

MY FATHER SHROUDED IN MYSTERY—MY MOTHER—HER PERSONAL
APPEARANCE—INTERFERENCE OF SLAVERY WITH THE NATURAL AFFECTIONS OF MOTHER
AND CHILDREN—SITUATION OF MY MOTHER—HER NIGHTLY VISITS TO HER
BOY—STRIKING INCIDENT—HER DEATH—HER PLACE OF BURIAL.

If the reader will now be kind enough to allow me time to grow bigger, and
afford me an opportunity for my experience to become greater, I will tell him
something, by-and-by, of slave life, as I saw, felt, and heard it, on Col.
Edward Lloyd’s plantation, and at the house of old master, where I had
now, despite of myself, most suddenly, but not unexpectedly, been dropped.
Meanwhile, I will redeem my promise to say something more of my dear mother.

I say nothing of father, for he is shrouded in a mystery I have never
been able to penetrate. Slavery does away with fathers, as it does away with
families. Slavery has no use for either fathers or families, and its laws do
not recognize their existence in the social arrangements of the plantation.
When they do exist, they are not the outgrowths of slavery, but are
antagonistic to that system. The order of civilization is reversed here. The
name of the child is not expected to be that of its father, and his condition
does not necessarily affect that of the child. He may be the slave of Mr.
Tilgman; and his child, when born, may be the slave of Mr. Gross. He may be a
freeman; and yet his child may be a chattel. He may be white,
glorying in the purity of his Anglo-Saxon blood; and his child may be ranked
with the blackest slaves. Indeed, he may be, and often is, master
and father to the same child. He can be father without being a husband, and may
sell his child without incurring reproach, if the child be by a woman in whose
veins courses one thirty-second part of African blood. My father was a white
man, or nearly white. It was sometimes whispered that my master was my father.

But to return, or rather, to begin. My knowledge of my mother is very scanty,
but very distinct. Her personal appearance and bearing are ineffaceably stamped
upon my memory. She was tall, and finely proportioned; of deep black, glossy
complexion; had regular features, and, among the other slaves, was remarkably
sedate in her manners. There is in Prichard’s Natural History of
Man, the head of a figure—on page 157—the features of which so
resemble those of my mother, that I often recur to it with something of the
feeling which I suppose others experience when looking upon the pictures of
dear departed ones.

Yet I cannot say that I was very deeply attached to my mother; certainly not so
deeply as I should have been had our relations in childhood been different. We
were separated, according to the common custom, when I was but an infant, and,
of course, before I knew my mother from any one else.

The germs of affection with which the Almighty, in his wisdom and mercy, arms
the hopeless infant against the ills and vicissitudes of his lot, had been
directed in their growth toward that loving old grandmother, whose gentle hand
and kind deportment it was in the first effort of my infantile understanding to
comprehend and appreciate. Accordingly, the tenderest affection which a
beneficent Father allows, as a partial compensation to the mother for the pains
and lacerations of her heart, incident to the maternal relation, was, in my
case, diverted from its true and natural object, by the envious, greedy, and
treacherous hand of slavery. The slave-mother can be spared long enough from
the field to endure all the bitterness of a mother’s anguish, when it
adds another name to a master’s ledger, but not long enough to
receive the joyous reward afforded by the intelligent smiles of her child. I
never think of this terrible interference of slavery with my infantile
affections, and its diverting them from their natural course, without feelings
to which I can give no adequate expression.

I do not remember to have seen my mother at my grandmother’s at any time.
I remember her only in her visits to me at Col. Lloyd’s plantation, and
in the kitchen of my old master. Her visits to me there were few in number,
brief in duration, and mostly made in the night. The pains she took, and the
toil she endured, to see me, tells me that a true mother’s heart was
hers, and that slavery had difficulty in paralyzing it with unmotherly
indifference.

My mother was hired out to a Mr. Stewart, who lived about twelve miles from old
master’s, and, being a field hand, she seldom had leisure, by day, for
the performance of the journey. The nights and the distance were both obstacles
to her visits. She was obliged to walk, unless chance flung into her way an
opportunity to ride; and the latter was sometimes her good luck. But she always
had to walk one way or the other. It was a greater luxury than slavery could
afford, to allow a black slave-mother a horse or a mule, upon which to travel
twenty-four miles, when she could walk the distance. Besides, it is deemed a
foolish whim for a slave-mother to manifest concern to see her children, and,
in one point of view, the case is made out—she can do nothing for them.
She has no control over them; the master is even more than the mother, in all
matters touching the fate of her child. Why, then, should she give herself any
concern? She has no responsibility. Such is the reasoning, and such the
practice. The iron rule of the plantation, always passionately and violently
enforced in that neighborhood, makes flogging the penalty of failing to be in
the field before sunrise in the morning, unless special permission be given to
the absenting slave. “I went to see my child,” is no excuse to the
ear or heart of the overseer.

One of the visits of my mother to me, while at Col. Lloyd’s, I remember
very vividly, as affording a bright gleam of a mother’s love, and the
earnestness of a mother’s care.

“I had on that day offended “Aunt Katy,” (called
“Aunt” by way of respect,) the cook of old master’s
establishment. I do not now remember the nature of my offense in this instance,
for my offenses were numerous in that quarter, greatly depending, however, upon
the mood of Aunt Katy, as to their heinousness; but she had adopted, that day,
her favorite mode of punishing me, namely, making me go without food all
day—that is, from after breakfast. The first hour or two after dinner, I
succeeded pretty well in keeping up my spirits; but though I made an excellent
stand against the foe, and fought bravely during the afternoon, I knew I must
be conquered at last, unless I got the accustomed reenforcement of a slice of
corn bread, at sundown. Sundown came, but no bread, and, in its stead,
their came the threat, with a scowl well suited to its terrible import, that
she “meant to starve the life out of me!” Brandishing her
knife, she chopped off the heavy slices for the other children, and put the
loaf away, muttering, all the while, her savage designs upon myself. Against
this disappointment, for I was expecting that her heart would relent at last, I
made an extra effort to maintain my dignity; but when I saw all the other
children around me with merry and satisfied faces, I could stand it no longer.
I went out behind the house, and cried like a fine fellow! When tired of this,
I returned to the kitchen, sat by the fire, and brooded over my hard lot. I was
too hungry to sleep. While I sat in the corner, I caught sight of an ear of
Indian corn on an upper shelf of the kitchen. I watched my chance, and got it,
and, shelling off a few grains, I put it back again. The grains in my hand, I
quickly put in some ashes, and covered them with embers, to roast them. All
this I did at the risk of getting a brutual thumping, for Aunt Katy could beat,
as well as starve me. My corn was not long in roasting, and, with my keen
appetite, it did not matter even if the grains were not exactly done. I eagerly
pulled them out, and placed them on my stool, in a clever little pile. Just as
I began to help myself to my very dry meal, in came my dear mother. And now,
dear reader, a scene occurred which was altogether worth beholding, and to me
it was instructive as well as interesting. The friendless and hungry boy, in
his extremest need—and when he did not dare to look for
succor—found himself in the strong, protecting arms of a mother; a mother
who was, at the moment (being endowed with high powers of manner as well as
matter) more than a match for all his enemies. I shall never forget the
indescribable expression of her countenance, when I told her that I had had no
food since morning; and that Aunt Katy said she “meant to starve the life
out of me.” There was pity in her glance at me, and a fiery indignation
at Aunt Katy at the same time; and, while she took the corn from me, and gave
me a large ginger cake, in its stead, she read Aunt Katy a lecture which she
never forgot. My mother threatened her with complaining to old master in my
behalf; for the latter, though harsh and cruel himself, at times, did not
sanction the meanness, injustice, partiality and oppressions enacted by Aunt
Katy in the kitchen. That night I learned the fact, that I was, not only a
child, but somebody’s child. The “sweet cake” my
mother gave me was in the shape of a heart, with a rich, dark ring glazed upon
the edge of it. I was victorious, and well off for the moment; prouder, on my
mother’s knee, than a king upon his throne. But my triumph was short. I
dropped off to sleep, and waked in the morning only to find my mother gone, and
myself left at the mercy of the sable virago, dominant in my old master’s
kitchen, whose fiery wrath was my constant dread.

I do not remember to have seen my mother after this occurrence. Death soon
ended the little communication that had existed between us; and with it, I
believe, a life judging from her weary, sad, down-cast countenance and mute
demeanor—full of heartfelt sorrow. I was not allowed to visit her during
any part of her long illness; nor did I see her for a long time before she was
taken ill and died. The heartless and ghastly form of slavery rises
between mother and child, even at the bed of death. The mother, at the verge of
the grave, may not gather her children, to impart to them her holy admonitions,
and invoke for them her dying benediction. The bond-woman lives as a slave, and
is left to die as a beast; often with fewer attentions than are paid to a
favorite horse. Scenes of sacred tenderness, around the death-bed, never
forgotten, and which often arrest the vicious and confirm the virtuous during
life, must be looked for among the free, though they sometimes occur among the
slaves. It has been a life-long, standing grief to me, that I knew so little of
my mother; and that I was so early separated from her. The counsels of her love
must have been beneficial to me. The side view of her face is imaged on my
memory, and I take few steps in life, without feeling her presence; but the
image is mute, and I have no striking words of her’s treasured up.

I learned, after my mother’s death, that she could read, and that she was
the only one of all the slaves and colored people in Tuckahoe who
enjoyed that advantage. How she acquired this knowledge, I know not, for
Tuckahoe is the last place in the world where she would be apt to find
facilities for learning. I can, therefore, fondly and proudly ascribe to her an
earnest love of knowledge. That a “field hand” should learn to
read, in any slave state, is remarkable; but the achievement of my mother,
considering the place, was very extraordinary; and, in view of that fact, I am
quite willing, and even happy, to attribute any love of letters I possess, and
for which I have got—despite of prejudices only too much credit,
not to my admitted Anglo-Saxon paternity, but to the native genius of my
sable, unprotected, and uncultivated mother—a woman, who belonged
to a race whose mental endowments it is, at present, fashionable to hold in
disparagement and contempt.

Summoned away to her account, with the impassable gulf of slavery between us
during her entire illness, my mother died without leaving me a single
intimation of who my father was. There was a whisper, that my master was
my father; yet it was only a whisper, and I cannot say that I ever gave it
credence. Indeed, I now have reason to think he was not; nevertheless, the fact
remains, in all its glaring odiousness, that, by the laws of slavery, children,
in all cases, are reduced to the condition of their mothers. This arrangement
admits of the greatest license to brutal slaveholders, and their profligate
sons, brothers, relations and friends, and gives to the pleasure of sin, the
additional attraction of profit. A whole volume might be written on this single
feature of slavery, as I have observed it.

One might imagine, that the children of such connections, would fare better, in
the hands of their masters, than other slaves. The rule is quite the other way;
and a very little reflection will satisfy the reader that such is the case. A
man who will enslave his own blood, may not be safely relied on for
magnanimity. Men do not love those who remind them of their sins unless they
have a mind to repent—and the mulatto child’s face is a standing
accusation against him who is master and father to the child. What is still
worse, perhaps, such a child is a constant offense to the wife. She hates its
very presence, and when a slaveholding woman hates, she wants not means to give
that hate telling effect. Women—white women, I mean—are IDOLS at
the south, not WIVES, for the slave women are preferred in many instances; and
if these idols but nod, or lift a finger, woe to the poor victim: kicks,
cuffs and stripes are sure to follow. Masters are frequently compelled to sell
this class of their slaves, out of deference to the feelings of their white
wives; and shocking and scandalous as it may seem for a man to sell his own
blood to the traffickers in human flesh, it is often an act of humanity toward
the slave-child to be thus removed from his merciless tormentors.

It is not within the scope of the design of my simple story, to comment upon
every phase of slavery not within my experience as a slave.

But, I may remark, that, if the lineal descendants of Ham are only to be
enslaved, according to the scriptures, slavery in this country will soon become
an unscriptural institution; for thousands are ushered into the world,
annually, who—like myself—owe their existence to white fathers,
and, most frequently, to their masters, and master’s sons. The
slave-woman is at the mercy of the fathers, sons or brothers of her master. The
thoughtful know the rest.

After what I have now said of the circumstances of my mother, and my relations
to her, the reader will not be surprised, nor be disposed to censure me, when I
tell but the simple truth, viz: that I received the tidings of her death with
no strong emotions of sorrow for her, and with very little regret for myself on
account of her loss. I had to learn the value of my mother long after her
death, and by witnessing the devotion of other mothers to their children.

There is not, beneath the sky, an enemy to filial affection so destructive as
slavery. It had made my brothers and sisters strangers to me; it converted the
mother that bore me, into a myth; it shrouded my father in mystery, and left me
without an intelligible beginning in the world.

My mother died when I could not have been more than eight or nine years old, on
one of old master’s farms in Tuckahoe, in the neighborhood of
Hillsborough. Her grave is, as the grave of the dead at sea, unmarked, and
without stone or stake.

CHAPTER IV. A General Survey of the Slave Plantation

ISOLATION OF LLOYD S PLANTATION—PUBLIC OPINION THERE NO PROTECTION TO THE
SLAVE—ABSOLUTE POWER OF THE OVERSEER—NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL CHARMS
OF THE PLACE—ITS BUSINESS-LIKE APPEARANCE—SUPERSTITION ABOUT THE
BURIAL GROUND—GREAT IDEAS OF COL. LLOYD—ETIQUETTE AMONG
SLAVES—THE COMIC SLAVE DOCTOR—PRAYING AND FLOGGING—OLD MASTER
LOSING ITS TERRORS—HIS BUSINESS—CHARACTER OF AUNT
KATY—SUFFERINGS FROM HUNGER—OLD MASTER’S HOME—JARGON OF
THE PLANTATION—GUINEA SLAVES—MASTER DANIEL—FAMILY OF COL.
LLOYD—FAMILY OF CAPT. ANTHONY—HIS SOCIAL POSITION—NOTIONS OF
RANK AND STATION.

It is generally supposed that slavery, in the state of Maryland, exists in its
mildest form, and that it is totally divested of those harsh and terrible
peculiarities, which mark and characterize the slave system, in the southern
and south-western states of the American union. The argument in favor of this
opinion, is the contiguity of the free states, and the exposed condition of
slavery in Maryland to the moral, religious and humane sentiment of the free
states.

I am not about to refute this argument, so far as it relates to slavery in that
state, generally; on the contrary, I am willing to admit that, to this general
point, the arguments is well grounded. Public opinion is, indeed, an unfailing
restraint upon the cruelty and barbarity of masters, overseers, and
slave-drivers, whenever and wherever it can reach them; but there are certain
secluded and out-of-the-way places, even in the state of Maryland, seldom
visited by a single ray of healthy public sentiment—where slavery, wrapt
in its own congenial, midnight darkness, can, and does, develop
all its malign and shocking characteristics; where it can be indecent without
shame, cruel without shuddering, and murderous without apprehension or fear of
exposure.

Just such a secluded, dark, and out-of-the-way place, is the “home
plantation” of Col. Edward Lloyd, on the Eastern Shore, Maryland. It is
far away from all the great thoroughfares, and is proximate to no town or
village. There is neither school-house, nor town-house in its neighborhood. The
school-house is unnecessary, for there are no children to go to school. The
children and grand-children of Col. Lloyd were taught in the house, by a
private tutor—a Mr. Page a tall, gaunt sapling of a man, who did not
speak a dozen words to a slave in a whole year. The overseers’ children
go off somewhere to school; and they, therefore, bring no foreign or dangerous
influence from abroad, to embarrass the natural operation of the slave system
of the place. Not even the mechanics—through whom there is an occasional
out-burst of honest and telling indignation, at cruelty and wrong on other
plantations—are white men, on this plantation. Its whole public is made
up of, and divided into, three classes—SLAVEHOLDERS, SLAVES and
OVERSEERS. Its blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers, and coopers, are
slaves. Not even commerce, selfish and iron-hearted at it is, and ready, as it
ever is, to side with the strong against the weak—the rich against the
poor—is trusted or permitted within its secluded precincts. Whether with
a view of guarding against the escape of its secrets, I know not, but it is a
fact, the every leaf and grain of the produce of this plantation, and those of
the neighboring farms belonging to Col. Lloyd, are transported to Baltimore in
Col. Lloyd’s own vessels; every man and boy on board of
which—except the captain—are owned by him. In return, everything
brought to the plantation, comes through the same channel. Thus, even the
glimmering and unsteady light of trade, which sometimes exerts a civilizing
influence, is excluded from this “tabooed” spot.

Nearly all the plantations or farms in the vicinity of the “home
plantation” of Col. Lloyd, belong to him; and those which do not, are
owned by personal friends of his, as deeply interested in maintaining the slave
system, in all its rigor, as Col. Lloyd himself. Some of his neighbors are said
to be even more stringent than he. The Skinners, the Peakers, the Tilgmans, the
Lockermans, and the Gipsons, are in the same boat; being slaveholding
neighbors, they may have strengthened each other in their iron rule. They are
on intimate terms, and their interests and tastes are identical.

Public opinion in such a quarter, the reader will see, is not likely to very
efficient in protecting the slave from cruelty. On the contrary, it must
increase and intensify his wrongs. Public opinion seldom differs very widely
from public practice. To be a restraint upon cruelty and vice, public opinion
must emanate from a humane and virtuous community. To no such humane and
virtuous community, is Col. Lloyd’s plantation exposed. That plantation
is a little nation of its own, having its own language, its own rules,
regulations and customs. The laws and institutions of the state, apparently
touch it nowhere. The troubles arising here, are not settled by the civil power
of the state. The overseer is generally accuser, judge, jury, advocate and
executioner. The criminal is always dumb. The overseer attends to all sides of
a case.

There are no conflicting rights of property, for all the people are owned by
one man; and they can themselves own no property. Religion and politics are
alike excluded. One class of the population is too high to be reached by the
preacher; and the other class is too low to be cared for by the preacher. The
poor have the gospel preached to them, in this neighborhood, only when they are
able to pay for it. The slaves, having no money, get no gospel. The politician
keeps away, because the people have no votes, and the preacher keeps away,
because the people have no money. The rich planter can afford to learn politics
in the parlor, and to dispense with religion altogether.

In its isolation, seclusion, and self-reliant independence, Col. Lloyd’s
plantation resembles what the baronial domains were during the middle ages in
Europe. Grim, cold, and unapproachable by all genial influences from
communities without, there it stands; full three hundred years behind
the age, in all that relates to humanity and morals.

This, however, is not the only view that the place presents. Civilization is
shut out, but nature cannot be. Though separated from the rest of the world;
though public opinion, as I have said, seldom gets a chance to penetrate its
dark domain; though the whole place is stamped with its own peculiar, ironlike
individuality; and though crimes, high-handed and atrocious, may there be
committed, with almost as much impunity as upon the deck of a pirate
ship—it is, nevertheless, altogether, to outward seeming, a most
strikingly interesting place, full of life, activity, and spirit; and presents
a very favorable contrast to the indolent monotony and languor of Tuckahoe.
Keen as was my regret and great as was my sorrow at leaving the latter, I was
not long in adapting myself to this, my new home. A man’s troubles are
always half disposed of, when he finds endurance his only remedy. I found
myself here; there was no getting away; and what remained for me, but to make
the best of it? Here were plenty of children to play with, and plenty of places
of pleasant resort for boys of my age, and boys older. The little tendrils of
affection, so rudely and treacherously broken from around the darling objects
of my grandmother’s hut, gradually began to extend, and to entwine about
the new objects by which I now found myself surrounded.

There was a windmill (always a commanding object to a child’s eye) on
Long Point—a tract of land dividing Miles river from the Wye a mile or
more from my old master’s house. There was a creek to swim in, at the
bottom of an open flat space, of twenty acres or more, called “the Long
Green”—a very beautiful play-ground for the children.

In the river, a short distance from the shore, lying quietly at anchor, with
her small boat dancing at her stern, was a large sloop—the Sally Lloyd;
called by that name in honor of a favorite daughter of the colonel. The sloop
and the mill were wondrous things, full of thoughts and ideas. A child cannot
well look at such objects without thinking.

Then here were a great many houses; human habitations, full of the mysteries of
life at every stage of it. There was the little red house, up the road,
occupied by Mr. Sevier, the overseer. A little nearer to my old master’s,
stood a very long, rough, low building, literally alive with slaves, of all
ages, conditions and sizes. This was called “the Longe Quarter.”
Perched upon a hill, across the Long Green, was a very tall, dilapidated, old
brick building—the architectural dimensions of which proclaimed its
erection for a different purpose—now occupied by slaves, in a similar
manner to the Long Quarter. Besides these, there were numerous other slave
houses and huts, scattered around in the neighborhood, every nook and corner of
which was completely occupied. Old master’s house, a long, brick
building, plain, but substantial, stood in the center of the plantation life,
and constituted one independent establishment on the premises of Col. Lloyd.

Besides these dwellings, there were barns, stables, store-houses, and
tobacco-houses; blacksmiths’ shops, wheelwrights’ shops,
coopers’ shops—all objects of interest; but, above all, there stood
the grandest building my eyes had then ever beheld, called, by every one on the
plantation, the “Great House.” This was occupied by Col. Lloyd and
his family. They occupied it; I enjoyed it. The great house was
surrounded by numerous and variously shaped out-buildings. There were kitchens,
wash-houses, dairies, summer-house, green-houses, hen-houses, turkey-houses,
pigeon-houses, and arbors, of many sizes and devices, all neatly painted, and
altogether interspersed with grand old trees, ornamental and primitive, which
afforded delightful shade in summer, and imparted to the scene a high degree of
stately beauty. The great house itself was a large, white, wooden building,
with wings on three sides of it. In front, a large portico, extending the
entire length of the building, and supported by a long range of columns, gave
to the whole establishment an air of solemn grandeur. It was a treat to my
young and gradually opening mind, to behold this elaborate exhibition of
wealth, power, and vanity. The carriage entrance to the house was a large gate,
more than a quarter of a mile distant from it; the intermediate space was a
beautiful lawn, very neatly trimmed, and watched with the greatest care. It was
dotted thickly over with delightful trees, shrubbery, and flowers. The road, or
lane, from the gate to the great house, was richly paved with white pebbles
from the beach, and, in its course, formed a complete circle around the
beautiful lawn. Carriages going in and retiring from the great house, made the
circuit of the lawn, and their passengers were permitted to behold a scene of
almost Eden-like beauty. Outside this select inclosure, were parks, where as
about the residences of the English nobility—rabbits, deer, and other
wild game, might be seen, peering and playing about, with none to molest them
or make them afraid. The tops of the stately poplars were often covered with
the red-winged black-birds, making all nature vocal with the joyous life and
beauty of their wild, warbling notes. These all belonged to me, as well as to
Col. Edward Lloyd, and for a time I greatly enjoyed them.

A short distance from the great house, were the stately mansions of the dead, a
place of somber aspect. Vast tombs, embowered beneath the weeping willow and
the fir tree, told of the antiquities of the Lloyd family, as well as of their
wealth. Superstition was rife among the slaves about this family burying
ground. Strange sights had been seen there by some of the older slaves.
Shrouded ghosts, riding on great black horses, had been seen to enter; balls of
fire had been seen to fly there at midnight, and horrid sounds had been
repeatedly heard. Slaves know enough of the rudiments of theology to believe
that those go to hell who die slaveholders; and they often fancy such persons
wishing themselves back again, to wield the lash. Tales of sights and sounds,
strange and terrible, connected with the huge black tombs, were a very great
security to the grounds about them, for few of the slaves felt like approaching
them even in the day time. It was a dark, gloomy and forbidding place, and it
was difficult to feel that the spirits of the sleeping dust there deposited,
reigned with the blest in the realms of eternal peace.

The business of twenty or thirty farms was transacted at this, called, by way
of eminence, “great house farm.” These farms all belonged to Col.
Lloyd, as did, also, the slaves upon them. Each farm was under the management
of an overseer. As I have said of the overseer of the home plantation, so I may
say of the overseers on the smaller ones; they stand between the slave and all
civil constitutions—their word is law, and is implicitly obeyed.

The colonel, at this time, was reputed to be, and he apparently was, very rich.
His slaves, alone, were an immense fortune. These, small and great, could not
have been fewer than one thousand in number, and though scarcely a month passed
without the sale of one or more lots to the Georgia traders, there was no
apparent diminution in the number of his human stock: the home plantation
merely groaned at a removal of the young increase, or human crop, then
proceeded as lively as ever. Horse-shoeing, cart-mending, plow-repairing,
coopering, grinding, and weaving, for all the neighboring farms, were performed
here, and slaves were employed in all these branches. “Uncle Tony”
was the blacksmith; “Uncle Harry” was the cartwright; “Uncle
Abel” was the shoemaker; and all these had hands to assist them in their
several departments.

These mechanics were called “uncles” by all the younger slaves, not
because they really sustained that relationship to any, but according to
plantation etiquette, as a mark of respect, due from the younger to the
older slaves. Strange, and even ridiculous as it may seem, among a people so
uncultivated, and with so many stern trials to look in the face, there is not
to be found, among any people, a more rigid enforcement of the law of respect
to elders, than they maintain. I set this down as partly constitutional with my
race, and partly conventional. There is no better material in the world for
making a gentleman, than is furnished in the African. He shows to others, and
exacts for himself, all the tokens of respect which he is compelled to manifest
toward his master. A young slave must approach the company of the older with
hat in hand, and woe betide him, if he fails to acknowledge a favor, of any
sort, with the accustomed “tank’ee,” &c. So
uniformly are good manners enforced among slaves, I can easily detect a
“bogus” fugitive by his manners.

Among other slave notabilities of the plantation, was one called by everybody
Uncle Isaac Copper. It is seldom that a slave gets a surname from anybody in
Maryland; and so completely has the south shaped the manners of the north, in
this respect, that even abolitionists make very little of the surname of a
Negro. The only improvement on the “Bills,” “Jacks,”
“Jims,” and “Neds” of the south, observable here is,
that “William,” “John,” “James,”
“Edward,” are substituted. It goes against the grain to treat and
address a Negro precisely as they would treat and address a white man. But,
once in a while, in slavery as in the free states, by some extraordinary
circumstance, the Negro has a surname fastened to him, and holds it against all
conventionalities. This was the case with Uncle Isaac Copper. When the
“uncle” was dropped, he generally had the prefix
“doctor,” in its stead. He was our doctor of medicine, and doctor
of divinity as well. Where he took his degree I am unable to say, for he was
not very communicative to inferiors, and I was emphatically such, being but a
boy seven or eight years old. He was too well established in his profession to
permit questions as to his native skill, or his attainments. One qualification
he undoubtedly had—he was a confirmed cripple; and he could
neither work, nor would he bring anything if offered for sale in the market.
The old man, though lame, was no sluggard. He was a man that made his crutches
do him good service. He was always on the alert, looking up the sick, and all
such as were supposed to need his counsel. His remedial prescriptions embraced
four articles. For diseases of the body, Epsom salts and castor oil; for
those of the soul, the Lord’s Prayer, and hickory switches!

I was not long at Col. Lloyd’s before I was placed under the care of
Doctor Issac Copper. I was sent to him with twenty or thirty other children, to
learn the “Lord’s Prayer.” I found the old gentleman seated
on a huge three-legged oaken stool, armed with several large hickory switches;
and, from his position, he could reach—lame as he was—any boy in
the room. After standing awhile to learn what was expected of us, the old
gentleman, in any other than a devotional tone, commanded us to kneel down.
This done, he commenced telling us to say everything he said. “Our
Father”—this was repeated after him with promptness and uniformity;
“Who art in heaven”—was less promptly and uniformly repeated;
and the old gentleman paused in the prayer, to give us a short lecture upon the
consequences of inattention, both immediate and future, and especially those
more immediate. About these he was absolutely certain, for he held in his right
hand the means of bringing all his predictions and warnings to pass. On he
proceeded with the prayer; and we with our thick tongues and unskilled ears,
followed him to the best of our ability. This, however, was not sufficient to
please the old gentleman. Everybody, in the south, wants the privilege of
whipping somebody else. Uncle Isaac shared the common passion of his country,
and, therefore, seldom found any means of keeping his disciples in order short
of flogging. “Say everything I say;” and bang would come the switch
on some poor boy’s undevotional head. “What you looking at
there”—“Stop that pushing”—and down again
would come the lash.

The whip is all in all. It is supposed to secure obedience to the slaveholder,
and is held as a sovereign remedy among the slaves themselves, for every form
of disobedience, temporal or spiritual. Slaves, as well as slaveholders, use it
with an unsparing hand. Our devotions at Uncle Isaac’s combined too much
of the tragic and comic, to make them very salutary in a spiritual point of
view; and it is due to truth to say, I was often a truant when the time for
attending the praying and flogging of Doctor Isaac Copper came on.

The windmill under the care of Mr. Kinney, a kind hearted old Englishman, was
to me a source of infinite interest and pleasure. The old man always seemed
pleased when he saw a troop of darkey little urchins, with their tow-linen
shirts fluttering in the breeze, approaching to view and admire the whirling
wings of his wondrous machine. From the mill we could see other objects of deep
interest. These were, the vessels from St. Michael’s, on their way to
Baltimore. It was a source of much amusement to view the flowing sails and
complicated rigging, as the little crafts dashed by, and to speculate upon
Baltimore, as to the kind and quality of the place. With so many sources of
interest around me, the reader may be prepared to learn that I began to think
very highly of Col. L.‘s plantation. It was just a place to my boyish
taste. There were fish to be caught in the creek, if one only had a hook and
line; and crabs, clams and oysters were to be caught by wading, digging and
raking for them. Here was a field for industry and enterprise, strongly
inviting; and the reader may be assured that I entered upon it with spirit.

Even the much dreaded old master, whose merciless fiat had brought me from
Tuckahoe, gradually, to my mind, parted with his terrors. Strange enough, his
reverence seemed to take no particular notice of me, nor of my coming. Instead
of leaping out and devouring me, he scarcely seemed conscious of my presence.
The fact is, he was occupied with matters more weighty and important than
either looking after or vexing me. He probably thought as little of my advent,
as he would have thought of the addition of a single pig to his stock!

As the chief butler on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, his duties were numerous
and perplexing. In almost all important matters he answered in Col.
Lloyd’s stead. The overseers of all the farms were in some sort under
him, and received the law from his mouth. The colonel himself seldom addressed
an overseer, or allowed an overseer to address him. Old master carried the keys
of all store houses; measured out the allowance for each slave at the end of
every month; superintended the storing of all goods brought to the plantation;
dealt out the raw material to all the handicraftsmen; shipped the grain,
tobacco, and all saleable produce of the plantation to market, and had the
general oversight of the coopers’ shop, wheelwrights’ shop,
blacksmiths’ shop, and shoemakers’ shop. Besides the care of these,
he often had business for the plantation which required him to be absent two
and three days.

Thus largely employed, he had little time, and perhaps as little disposition,
to interfere with the children individually. What he was to Col. Lloyd, he made
Aunt Katy to him. When he had anything to say or do about us, it was said or
done in a wholesale manner; disposing of us in classes or sizes, leaving all
minor details to Aunt Katy, a person of whom the reader has already received no
very favorable impression. Aunt Katy was a woman who never allowed herself to
act greatly within the margin of power granted to her, no matter how broad that
authority might be. Ambitious, ill-tempered and cruel, she found in her present
position an ample field for the exercise of her ill-omened qualities. She had a
strong hold on old master she was considered a first rate cook, and she really
was very industrious. She was, therefore, greatly favored by old master, and as
one mark of his favor, she was the only mother who was permitted to retain her
children around her. Even to these children she was often fiendish in her
brutality. She pursued her son Phil, one day, in my presence, with a huge
butcher knife, and dealt a blow with its edge which left a shocking gash on his
arm, near the wrist. For this, old master did sharply rebuke her, and
threatened that if she ever should do the like again, he would take the skin
off her back. Cruel, however, as Aunt Katy was to her own children, at times
she was not destitute of maternal feeling, as I often had occasion to know, in
the bitter pinches of hunger I had to endure. Differing from the practice of
Col. Lloyd, old master, instead of allowing so much for each slave, committed
the allowance for all to the care of Aunt Katy, to be divided after cooking it,
amongst us. The allowance, consisting of coarse corn-meal, was not very
abundant—indeed, it was very slender; and in passing through Aunt
Katy’s hands, it was made more slender still, for some of us. William,
Phil and Jerry were her children, and it is not to accuse her too severely, to
allege that she was often guilty of starving myself and the other children,
while she was literally cramming her own. Want of food was my chief trouble the
first summer at my old master’s. Oysters and clams would do very well,
with an occasional supply of bread, but they soon failed in the absence of
bread. I speak but the simple truth, when I say, I have often been so pinched
with hunger, that I have fought with the dog—“Old
Nep”—for the smallest crumbs that fell from the kitchen table, and
have been glad when I won a single crumb in the combat. Many times have I
followed, with eager step, the waiting-girl when she went out to shake the
table cloth, to get the crumbs and small bones flung out for the cats. The
water, in which meat had been boiled, was as eagerly sought for by me. It was a
great thing to get the privilege of dipping a piece of bread in such water; and
the skin taken from rusty bacon, was a positive luxury. Nevertheless, I
sometimes got full meals and kind words from sympathizing old slaves, who knew
my sufferings, and received the comforting assurance that I should be a man
some day. “Never mind, honey—better day comin’,” was
even then a solace, a cheering consolation to me in my troubles. Nor were all
the kind words I received from slaves. I had a friend in the parlor, as well,
and one to whom I shall be glad to do justice, before I have finished this part
of my story.

I was not long at old master’s, before I learned that his surname was
Anthony, and that he was generally called “Captain Anthony”—a
title which he probably acquired by sailing a craft in the Chesapeake Bay. Col.
Lloyd’s slaves never called Capt. Anthony “old master,” but
always Capt. Anthony; and me they called “Captain Anthony
Fred.” There is not, probably, in the whole south, a plantation where the
English language is more imperfectly spoken than on Col. Lloyd’s. It is a
mixture of Guinea and everything else you please. At the time of which I am now
writing, there were slaves there who had been brought from the coast of Africa.
They never used the “s” in indication of the possessive case.
“Cap’n Ant’ney Tom,” “Lloyd Bill,”
“Aunt Rose Harry,” means “Captain Anthony’s Tom,”
“Lloyd’s Bill,” &c. “Oo you dem long
to?” means, “Whom do you belong to?” “Oo dem got
any peachy?” means, “Have you got any peaches?” I could
scarcely understand them when I first went among them, so broken was their
speech; and I am persuaded that I could not have been dropped anywhere on the
globe, where I could reap less, in the way of knowledge, from my immediate
associates, than on this plantation. Even “MAS’ DANIEL,” by
his association with his father’s slaves, had measurably adopted their
dialect and their ideas, so far as they had ideas to be adopted. The equality
of nature is strongly asserted in childhood, and childhood requires children
for associates. Color makes no difference with a child. Are you a child
with wants, tastes and pursuits common to children, not put on, but natural?
then, were you black as ebony you would be welcome to the child of alabaster
whiteness. The law of compensation holds here, as well as elsewhere. Mas’
Daniel could not associate with ignorance without sharing its shade; and he
could not give his black playmates his company, without giving them his
intelligence, as well. Without knowing this, or caring about it, at the time,
I, for some cause or other, spent much of my time with Mas’ Daniel, in
preference to spending it with most of the other boys.

Mas’ Daniel was the youngest son of Col. Lloyd; his older brothers were
Edward and Murray—both grown up, and fine looking men. Edward was
especially esteemed by the children, and by me among the rest; not that he ever
said anything to us or for us, which could be called especially kind; it was
enough for us, that he never looked nor acted scornfully toward us. There were
also three sisters, all married; one to Edward Winder; a second to Edward
Nicholson; a third to Mr. Lownes.

The family of old master consisted of two sons, Andrew and Richard; his
daughter, Lucretia, and her newly married husband, Capt. Auld. This was the
house family. The kitchen family consisted of Aunt Katy, Aunt Esther, and ten
or a dozen children, most of them older than myself. Capt. Anthony was not
considered a rich slaveholder, but was pretty well off in the world. He owned
about thirty “head” of slaves, and three farms in Tuckahoe.
The most valuable part of his property was his slaves, of whom he could afford
to sell one every year. This crop, therefore, brought him seven or eight
hundred dollars a year, besides his yearly salary, and other revenue from his
farms.

The idea of rank and station was rigidly maintained on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. Our family never visited the great house, and the Lloyds never came
to our home. Equal non-intercourse was observed between Capt. Anthony’s
family and that of Mr. Sevier, the overseer.

Such, kind reader, was the community, and such the place, in which my earliest
and most lasting impressions of slavery, and of slave-life, were received; of
which impressions you will learn more in the coming chapters of this book.

CHAPTER V. Gradual Initiation to the Mysteries of Slavery

GROWING ACQUAINTANCE WITH OLD MASTER—HIS CHARACTER—EVILS OF
UNRESTRAINED PASSION—APPARENT TENDERNESS—OLD MASTER A MAN OF
TROUBLE—CUSTOM OF MUTTERING TO HIMSELF—NECESSITY OF BEING AWARE OF
HIS WORDS—THE SUPPOSED OBTUSENESS OF SLAVE-CHILDREN—BRUTAL
OUTRAGE—DRUNKEN OVERSEER—SLAVEHOLDER’S
IMPATIENCE—WISDOM OF APPEALING TO SUPERIORS—THE SLAVEHOLDER S WRATH
BAD AS THAT OF THE OVERSEER—A BASE AND SELFISH ATTEMPT TO BREAK UP A
COURTSHIP—A HARROWING SCENE.

Although my old master—Capt. Anthony—gave me at first, (as the
reader will have already seen) very little attention, and although that little
was of a remarkably mild and gentle description, a few months only were
sufficient to convince me that mildness and gentleness were not the prevailing
or governing traits of his character. These excellent qualities were displayed
only occasionally. He could, when it suited him, appear to be literally
insensible to the claims of humanity, when appealed to by the helpless against
an aggressor, and he could himself commit outrages, deep, dark and nameless.
Yet he was not by nature worse than other men. Had he been brought up in a free
state, surrounded by the just restraints of free society—restraints which
are necessary to the freedom of all its members, alike and equally—Capt.
Anthony might have been as humane a man, and every way as respectable, as many
who now oppose the slave system; certainly as humane and respectable as are
members of society generally. The slaveholder, as well as the slave, is the
victim of the slave system. A man’s character greatly takes its hue and
shape from the form and color of things about him. Under the whole heavens
there is no relation more unfavorable to the development of honorable
character, than that sustained by the slaveholder to the slave. Reason is
imprisoned here, and passions run wild. Like the fires of the prairie, once
lighted, they are at the mercy of every wind, and must burn, till they have
consumed all that is combustible within their remorseless grasp. Capt. Anthony
could be kind, and, at times, he even showed an affectionate disposition. Could
the reader have seen him gently leading me by the hand—as he sometimes
did—patting me on the head, speaking to me in soft, caressing tones and
calling me his “little Indian boy,” he would have deemed him a kind
old man, and really, almost fatherly. But the pleasant moods of a slaveholder
are remarkably brittle; they are easily snapped; they neither come often, nor
remain long. His temper is subjected to perpetual trials; but, since these
trials are never borne patiently, they add nothing to his natural stock of
patience.

Old master very early impressed me with the idea that he was an unhappy man.
Even to my child’s eye, he wore a troubled, and at times, a haggard
aspect. His strange movements excited my curiosity, and awakened my compassion.
He seldom walked alone without muttering to himself; and he occasionally
stormed about, as if defying an army of invisible foes. “He would do
this, that, and the other; he’d be d—d if he did
not,”—was the usual form of his threats. Most of his leisure was
spent in walking, cursing and gesticulating, like one possessed by a demon.
Most evidently, he was a wretched man, at war with his own soul, and with all
the world around him. To be overheard by the children, disturbed him very
little. He made no more of our presence, than of that of the ducks and geese
which he met on the green. He little thought that the little black urchins
around him, could see, through those vocal crevices, the very secrets of his
heart. Slaveholders ever underrate the intelligence with which they have to
grapple. I really understood the old man’s mutterings, attitudes and
gestures, about as well as he did himself. But slaveholders never encourage
that kind of communication, with the slaves, by which they might learn to
measure the depths of his knowledge. Ignorance is a high virtue in a human
chattel; and as the master studies to keep the slave ignorant, the slave is
cunning enough to make the master think he succeeds. The slave fully
appreciates the saying, “where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be
wise.” When old master’s gestures were violent, ending with a
threatening shake of the head, and a sharp snap of his middle finger and thumb,
I deemed it wise to keep at a respectable distance from him; for, at such
times, trifling faults stood, in his eyes, as momentous offenses; and, having
both the power and the disposition, the victim had only to be near him to catch
the punishment, deserved or undeserved.

One of the first circumstances that opened my eyes to the cruelty and
wickedness of slavery, and the heartlessness of my old master, was the refusal
of the latter to interpose his authority, to protect and shield a young woman,
who had been most cruelly abused and beaten by his overseer in Tuckahoe. This
overseer—a Mr. Plummer—was a man like most of his class, little
better than a human brute; and, in addition to his general profligacy and
repulsive coarseness, the creature was a miserable drunkard. He was, probably,
employed by my old master, less on account of the excellence of his services,
than for the cheap rate at which they could be obtained. He was not fit to have
the management of a drove of mules. In a fit of drunken madness, he committed
the outrage which brought the young woman in question down to my old
master’s for protection. This young woman was the daughter of Milly, an
own aunt of mine. The poor girl, on arriving at our house, presented a pitiable
appearance. She had left in haste, and without preparation; and, probably,
without the knowledge of Mr. Plummer. She had traveled twelve miles,
bare-footed, bare-necked and bare-headed. Her neck and shoulders were covered
with scars, newly made; and not content with marring her neck and shoulders,
with the cowhide, the cowardly brute had dealt her a blow on the head with a
hickory club, which cut a horrible gash, and left her face literally covered
with blood. In this condition, the poor young woman came down, to implore
protection at the hands of my old master. I expected to see him boil over with
rage at the revolting deed, and to hear him fill the air with curses upon the
brutual Plummer; but I was disappointed. He sternly told her, in an angry tone,
he “believed she deserved every bit of it,” and, if she did not go
home instantly, he would himself take the remaining skin from her neck and
back. Thus was the poor girl compelled to return, without redress, and perhaps
to receive an additional flogging for daring to appeal to old master against
the overseer.

Old master seemed furious at the thought of being troubled by such complaints.
I did not, at that time, understand the philosophy of his treatment of my
cousin. It was stern, unnatural, violent. Had the man no bowels of compassion?
Was he dead to all sense of humanity? No. I think I now understand it. This
treatment is a part of the system, rather than a part of the man. Were
slaveholders to listen to complaints of this sort against the overseers, the
luxury of owning large numbers of slaves, would be impossible. It would do away
with the office of overseer, entirely; or, in other words, it would convert the
master himself into an overseer. It would occasion great loss of time and
labor, leaving the overseer in fetters, and without the necessary power to
secure obedience to his orders. A privilege so dangerous as that of appeal, is,
therefore, strictly prohibited; and any one exercising it, runs a fearful
hazard. Nevertheless, when a slave has nerve enough to exercise it, and boldly
approaches his master, with a well-founded complaint against an overseer,
though he may be repulsed, and may even have that of which he complains
repeated at the time, and, though he may be beaten by his master, as well as by
the overseer, for his temerity, in the end the policy of complaining is,
generally, vindicated by the relaxed rigor of the overseer’s treatment.
The latter becomes more careful, and less disposed to use the lash upon such
slaves thereafter. It is with this final result in view, rather than with any
expectation of immediate good, that the outraged slave is induced to meet his
master with a complaint. The overseer very naturally dislikes to have the ear
of the master disturbed by complaints; and, either upon this consideration, or
upon advice and warning privately given him by his employers, he generally
modifies the rigor of his rule, after an outbreak of the kind to which I have
been referring.

Howsoever the slaveholder may allow himself to act toward his slave, and,
whatever cruelty he may deem it wise, for example’s sake, or for the
gratification of his humor, to inflict, he cannot, in the absence of all
provocation, look with pleasure upon the bleeding wounds of a defenseless
slave-woman. When he drives her from his presence without redress, or the hope
of redress, he acts, generally, from motives of policy, rather than from a
hardened nature, or from innate brutality. Yet, let but his own temper be
stirred, his own passions get loose, and the slave-owner will go far
beyond the overseer in cruelty. He will convince the slave that his wrath
is far more terrible and boundless, and vastly more to be dreaded, than that of
the underling overseer. What may have been mechanically and heartlessly done by
the overseer, is now done with a will. The man who now wields the lash is
irresponsible. He may, if he pleases, cripple or kill, without fear of
consequences; except in so far as it may concern profit or loss. To a man of
violent temper—as my old master was—this was but a very slender and
inefficient restraint. I have seen him in a tempest of passion, such as I have
just described—a passion into which entered all the bitter ingredients of
pride, hatred, envy, jealousy, and the thrist(sic) for revenge.

The circumstances which I am about to narrate, and which gave rise to this
fearful tempest of passion, are not singular nor isolated in slave life, but
are common in every slaveholding community in which I have lived. They are
incidental to the relation of master and slave, and exist in all sections of
slave-holding countries.

The reader will have noticed that, in enumerating the names of the slaves who
lived with my old master, Esther is mentioned. This was a young woman
who possessed that which is ever a curse to the slave-girl;
namely—personal beauty. She was tall, well formed, and made a fine
appearance. The daughters of Col. Lloyd could scarcely surpass her in personal
charms. Esther was courted by Ned Roberts, and he was as fine looking a young
man, as she was a woman. He was the son of a favorite slave of Col. Lloyd. Some
slaveholders would have been glad to promote the marriage of two such persons;
but, for some reason or other, my old master took it upon him to break up the
growing intimacy between Esther and Edward. He strictly ordered her to quit the
company of said Roberts, telling her that he would punish her severely if he
ever found her again in Edward’s company. This unnatural and heartless
order was, of course, broken. A woman’s love is not to be annihilated by
the peremptory command of any one, whose breath is in his nostrils. It was
impossible to keep Edward and Esther apart. Meet they would, and meet they did.
Had old master been a man of honor and purity, his motives, in this matter,
might have been viewed more favorably. As it was, his motives were as
abhorrent, as his methods were foolish and contemptible. It was too evident
that he was not concerned for the girl’s welfare. It is one of the
damning characteristics of the slave system, that it robs its victims of every
earthly incentive to a holy life. The fear of God, and the hope of heaven, are
found sufficient to sustain many slave-women, amidst the snares and dangers of
their strange lot; but, this side of God and heaven, a slave-woman is at the
mercy of the power, caprice and passion of her owner. Slavery provides no means
for the honorable continuance of the race. Marriage as imposing obligations on
the parties to it—has no existence here, except in such hearts as are
purer and higher than the standard morality around them. It is one of the
consolations of my life, that I know of many honorable instances of persons who
maintained their honor, where all around was corrupt.

Esther was evidently much attached to Edward, and abhorred—as she had
reason to do—the tyrannical and base behavior of old master. Edward was
young, and fine looking, and he loved and courted her. He might have been her
husband, in the high sense just alluded to; but WHO and what was this
old master? His attentions were plainly brutal and selfish, and it was as
natural that Esther should loathe him, as that she should love Edward. Abhorred
and circumvented as he was, old master, having the power, very easily took
revenge. I happened to see this exhibition of his rage and cruelty toward
Esther. The time selected was singular. It was early in the morning, when all
besides was still, and before any of the family, in the house or kitchen, had
left their beds. I saw but few of the shocking preliminaries, for the cruel
work had begun before I awoke. I was probably awakened by the shrieks and
piteous cries of poor Esther. My sleeping place was on the floor of a little,
rough closet, which opened into the kitchen; and through the cracks of its
unplaned boards, I could distinctly see and hear what was going on, without
being seen by old master. Esther’s wrists were firmly tied, and the
twisted rope was fastened to a strong staple in a heavy wooden joist above,
near the fireplace. Here she stood, on a bench, her arms tightly drawn over her
breast. Her back and shoulders were bare to the waist. Behind her stood old
master, with cowskin in hand, preparing his barbarous work with all manner of
harsh, coarse, and tantalizing epithets. The screams of his victim were most
piercing. He was cruelly deliberate, and protracted the torture, as one who was
delighted with the scene. Again and again he drew the hateful whip through his
hand, adjusting it with a view of dealing the most pain-giving blow. Poor
Esther had never yet been severely whipped, and her shoulders were plump and
tender. Each blow, vigorously laid on, brought screams as well as blood.
“Have mercy; Oh! have mercy” she cried; “I
won’t do so no more;” but her piercing cries seemed only to
increase his fury. His answers to them are too coarse and blasphemous to be
produced here. The whole scene, with all its attendants, was revolting and
shocking, to the last degree; and when the motives of this brutal castigation
are considered,—language has no power to convey a just sense of its awful
criminality. After laying on some thirty or forty stripes, old master untied
his suffering victim, and let her get down. She could scarcely stand, when
untied. From my heart I pitied her, and—child though I was—the
outrage kindled in me a feeling far from peaceful; but I was hushed, terrified,
stunned, and could do nothing, and the fate of Esther might be mine next. The
scene here described was often repeated in the case of poor Esther, and her
life, as I knew it, was one of wretchedness.

CHAPTER VI. Treatment of Slaves on Lloyd’s Plantation

EARLY REFLECTIONS ON SLAVERY—PRESENTIMENT OF ONE DAY BEING A
FREEMAN—COMBAT BETWEEN AN OVERSEER AND A SLAVEWOMAN—THE ADVANTAGES
OF RESISTANCE—ALLOWANCE DAY ON THE HOME PLANTATION—THE SINGING OF
SLAVES—AN EXPLANATION—THE SLAVES FOOD AND CLOTHING—NAKED
CHILDREN—LIFE IN THE QUARTER—DEPRIVATION OF SLEEP—NURSING
CHILDREN CARRIED TO THE FIELD—DESCRIPTION OF THE COWSKIN—THE
ASH-CAKE—MANNER OF MAKING IT—THE DINNER HOUR—THE CONTRAST.

The heart-rending incidents, related in the foregoing chapter, led me, thus
early, to inquire into the nature and history of slavery. Why am I a slave?
Why are some people slaves, and others masters? Was there ever a time this was
not so? How did the relation commence? These were the perplexing questions
which began now to claim my thoughts, and to exercise the weak powers of my
mind, for I was still but a child, and knew less than children of the same age
in the free states. As my questions concerning these things were only put to
children a little older, and little better informed than myself, I was not
rapid in reaching a solid footing. By some means I learned from these inquiries
that “God, up in the sky,” made every body; and that he made
white people to be masters and mistresses, and black people to be
slaves. This did not satisfy me, nor lessen my interest in the subject. I was
told, too, that God was good, and that He knew what was best for me, and best
for everybody. This was less satisfactory than the first statement; because it
came, point blank, against all my notions of goodness. It was not good to let
old master cut the flesh off Esther, and make her cry so. Besides, how did
people know that God made black people to be slaves? Did they go up in the sky
and learn it? or, did He come down and tell them so? All was dark here. It was
some relief to my hard notions of the goodness of God, that, although he made
white men to be slaveholders, he did not make them to be bad
slaveholders, and that, in due time, he would punish the bad slaveholders; that
he would, when they died, send them to the bad place, where they would be
“burnt up.” Nevertheless, I could not reconcile the relation of
slavery with my crude notions of goodness.

Then, too, I found that there were puzzling exceptions to this theory of
slavery on both sides, and in the middle. I knew of blacks who were not
slaves; I knew of whites who were not slaveholders; and I knew of
persons who were nearly white, who were slaves. Color, therefore,
was a very unsatisfactory basis for slavery.

Once, however, engaged in the inquiry, I was not very long in finding out the
true solution of the matter. It was not color, but crime, not
God, but man, that afforded the true explanation of the existence
of slavery; nor was I long in finding out another important truth, viz: what
man can make, man can unmake. The appalling darkness faded away, and I was
master of the subject. There were slaves here, direct from Guinea; and there
were many who could say that their fathers and mothers were stolen from
Africa—forced from their homes, and compelled to serve as slaves. This,
to me, was knowledge; but it was a kind of knowledge which filled me with a
burning hatred of slavery, increased my suffering, and left me without the
means of breaking away from my bondage. Yet it was knowledge quite worth
possessing. I could not have been more than seven or eight years old, when I
began to make this subject my study. It was with me in the woods and fields;
along the shore of the river, and wherever my boyish wanderings led me; and
though I was, at that time, quite ignorant of the existence of the free states,
I distinctly remember being, even then, most strongly impressed with the
idea of being a freeman some day. This cheering assurance was an inborn dream
of my human nature a constant menace to slavery—and one which all the
powers of slavery were unable to silence or extinguish.

Up to the time of the brutal flogging of my Aunt Esther—for she was my
own aunt—and the horrid plight in which I had seen my cousin from
Tuckahoe, who had been so badly beaten by the cruel Mr. Plummer, my attention
had not been called, especially, to the gross features of slavery. I had, of
course, heard of whippings and of savage rencontres between overseers
and slaves, but I had always been out of the way at the times and places of
their occurrence. My plays and sports, most of the time, took me from the corn
and tobacco fields, where the great body of the hands were at work, and where
scenes of cruelty were enacted and witnessed. But, after the whipping of Aunt
Esther, I saw many cases of the same shocking nature, not only in my
master’s house, but on Col. Lloyd’s plantation. One of the first
which I saw, and which greatly agitated me, was the whipping of a woman
belonging to Col. Lloyd, named Nelly. The offense alleged against Nelly, was
one of the commonest and most indefinite in the whole catalogue of offenses
usually laid to the charge of slaves, viz: “impudence.” This may
mean almost anything, or nothing at all, just according to the caprice of the
master or overseer, at the moment. But, whatever it is, or is not, if it gets
the name of “impudence,” the party charged with it is sure of a
flogging. This offense may be committed in various ways; in the tone of an
answer; in answering at all; in not answering; in the expression of
countenance; in the motion of the head; in the gait, manner and bearing of the
slave. In the case under consideration, I can easily believe that, according to
all slaveholding standards, here was a genuine instance of impudence. In Nelly
there were all the necessary conditions for committing the offense. She was a
bright mulatto, the recognized wife of a favorite “hand” on board
Col. Lloyd’s sloop, and the mother of five sprightly children. She was a
vigorous and spirited woman, and one of the most likely, on the plantation, to
be guilty of impudence. My attention was called to the scene, by the noise,
curses and screams that proceeded from it; and, on going a little in that
direction, I came upon the parties engaged in the skirmish. Mr. Siever, the
overseer, had hold of Nelly, when I caught sight of them; he was endeavoring to
drag her toward a tree, which endeavor Nelly was sternly resisting; but to no
purpose, except to retard the progress of the overseer’s plans.
Nelly—as I have said—was the mother of five children; three of them
were present, and though quite small (from seven to ten years old, I should
think) they gallantly came to their mother’s defense, and gave the
overseer an excellent pelting with stones. One of the little fellows ran up,
seized the overseer by the leg and bit him; but the monster was too busily
engaged with Nelly, to pay any attention to the assaults of the children. There
were numerous bloody marks on Mr. Sevier’s face, when I first saw him,
and they increased as the struggle went on. The imprints of Nelly’s
fingers were visible, and I was glad to see them. Amidst the wild screams of
the children—“Let my mammy go”—“let my mammy
go”—there escaped, from between the teeth of the bullet-headed
overseer, a few bitter curses, mingled with threats, that “he would teach
the d—d b—h how to give a white man impudence.” There is no
doubt that Nelly felt herself superior, in some respects, to the slaves around
her. She was a wife and a mother; her husband was a valued and favorite slave.
Besides, he was one of the first hands on board of the sloop, and the sloop
hands—since they had to represent the plantation abroad—were
generally treated tenderly. The overseer never was allowed to whip Harry; why
then should he be allowed to whip Harry’s wife? Thoughts of this kind, no
doubt, influenced her; but, for whatever reason, she nobly resisted, and,
unlike most of the slaves, seemed determined to make her whipping cost Mr.
Sevier as much as possible. The blood on his (and her) face, attested her
skill, as well as her courage and dexterity in using her nails. Maddened by her
resistance, I expected to see Mr. Sevier level her to the ground by a stunning
blow; but no; like a savage bull-dog—which he resembled both in temper
and appearance—he maintained his grip, and steadily dragged his victim
toward the tree, disregarding alike her blows, and the cries of the children
for their mother’s release. He would, doubtless, have knocked her down
with his hickory stick, but that such act might have cost him his place. It is
often deemed advisable to knock a man slave down, in order to tie him,
but it is considered cowardly and inexcusable, in an overseer, thus to deal
with a woman. He is expected to tie her up, and to give her what is
called, in southern parlance, a “genteel flogging,” without any
very great outlay of strength or skill. I watched, with palpitating interest,
the course of the preliminary struggle, and was saddened by every new advantage
gained over her by the ruffian. There were times when she seemed likely to get
the better of the brute, but he finally overpowered her, and succeeded in
getting his rope around her arms, and in firmly tying her to the tree, at which
he had been aiming. This done, and Nelly was at the mercy of his merciless
lash; and now, what followed, I have no heart to describe. The cowardly
creature made good his every threat; and wielded the lash with all the hot zest
of furious revenge. The cries of the woman, while undergoing the terrible
infliction, were mingled with those of the children, sounds which I hope the
reader may never be called upon to hear. When Nelly was untied, her back was
covered with blood. The red stripes were all over her shoulders. She was
whipped—severely whipped; but she was not subdued, for she continued to
denounce the overseer, and to call him every vile name. He had bruised her
flesh, but had left her invincible spirit undaunted. Such floggings are seldom
repeated by the same overseer. They prefer to whip those who are most easily
whipped. The old doctrine that submission is the very best cure for outrage and
wrong, does not hold good on the slave plantation. He is whipped oftenest, who
is whipped easiest; and that slave who has the courage to stand up for himself
against the overseer, although he may have many hard stripes at the first,
becomes, in the end, a freeman, even though he sustain the formal relation of a
slave. “You can shoot me but you can’t whip me,” said a slave
to Rigby Hopkins; and the result was that he was neither whipped nor shot. If
the latter had been his fate, it would have been less deplorable than the
living and lingering death to which cowardly and slavish souls are subjected. I
do not know that Mr. Sevier ever undertook to whip Nelly again. He probably
never did, for it was not long after his attempt to subdue her, that he was
taken sick, and died. The wretched man died as he had lived, unrepentant; and
it was said—with how much truth I know not—that in the very last
hours of his life, his ruling passion showed itself, and that when wrestling
with death, he was uttering horrid oaths, and flourishing the cowskin, as
though he was tearing the flesh off some helpless slave. One thing is certain,
that when he was in health, it was enough to chill the blood, and to stiffen
the hair of an ordinary man, to hear Mr. Sevier talk. Nature, or his cruel
habits, had given to his face an expression of unusual savageness, even for a
slave-driver. Tobacco and rage had worn his teeth short, and nearly every
sentence that escaped their compressed grating, was commenced or concluded with
some outburst of profanity. His presence made the field alike the field of
blood, and of blasphemy. Hated for his cruelty, despised for his cowardice, his
death was deplored by no one outside his own house—if indeed it was
deplored there; it was regarded by the slaves as a merciful interposition of
Providence. Never went there a man to the grave loaded with heavier curses. Mr.
Sevier’s place was promptly taken by a Mr. Hopkins, and the change was
quite a relief, he being a very different man. He was, in all respects, a
better man than his predecessor; as good as any man can be, and yet be an
overseer. His course was characterized by no extraordinary cruelty; and when he
whipped a slave, as he sometimes did, he seemed to take no especial pleasure in
it, but, on the contrary, acted as though he felt it to be a mean business. Mr.
Hopkins stayed but a short time; his place much to the regret of the slaves
generally—was taken by a Mr. Gore, of whom more will be said hereafter.
It is enough, for the present, to say, that he was no improvement on Mr.
Sevier, except that he was less noisy and less profane.

I have already referred to the business-like aspect of Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. This business-like appearance was much increased on the two days at
the end of each month, when the slaves from the different farms came to get
their monthly allowance of meal and meat. These were gala days for the slaves,
and there was much rivalry among them as to who should be elected to go
up to the great house farm for the allowance, and, indeed, to attend to any
business at this (for them) the capital. The beauty and grandeur of the place,
its numerous slave population, and the fact that Harry, Peter and Jake the
sailors of the sloop—almost always kept, privately, little trinkets which
they bought at Baltimore, to sell, made it a privilege to come to the great
house farm. Being selected, too, for this office, was deemed a high honor. It
was taken as a proof of confidence and favor; but, probably, the chief motive
of the competitors for the place, was, a desire to break the dull monotony of
the field, and to get beyond the overseer’s eye and lash. Once on the
road with an ox team, and seated on the tongue of his cart, with no overseer to
look after him, the slave was comparatively free; and, if thoughtful, he had
time to think. Slaves are generally expected to sing as well as to work. A
silent slave is not liked by masters or overseers. “Make a
noise,” “make a noise,” and “bear a
hand,” are the words usually addressed to the slaves when there is
silence amongst them. This may account for the almost constant singing heard in
the southern states. There was, generally, more or less singing among the
teamsters, as it was one means of letting the overseer know where they were,
and that they were moving on with the work. But, on allowance day, those who
visited the great house farm were peculiarly excited and noisy. While on their
way, they would make the dense old woods, for miles around, reverberate with
their wild notes. These were not always merry because they were wild. On the
contrary, they were mostly of a plaintive cast, and told a tale of grief and
sorrow. In the most boisterous outbursts of rapturous sentiment, there was ever
a tinge of deep melancholy. I have never heard any songs like those anywhere
since I left slavery, except when in Ireland. There I heard the same wailing
notes, and was much affected by them. It was during the famine of 1845-6.
In all the songs of the slaves, there was ever some expression in praise of the
great house farm; something which would flatter the pride of the owner, and,
possibly, draw a favorable glance from him.

I am going away to the great house farm,
O yea! O yea! O yea!
My old master is a good old master,
O yea! O yea! O yea!

This they would sing, with other words of their own improvising—jargon to
others, but full of meaning to themselves. I have sometimes thought, that the
mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress truly spiritual-minded men
and women with the soul-crushing and death-dealing character of slavery, than
the reading of whole volumes of its mere physical cruelties. They speak to the
heart and to the soul of the thoughtful. I cannot better express my sense of
them now, than ten years ago, when, in sketching my life, I thus spoke of this
feature of my plantation experience:

I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meanings of those rude, and
apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle, so that I neither
saw or heard as those without might see and hear. They told a tale which was
then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension; they were tones, loud, long and
deep, breathing the prayer and complaint of souls boiling over with the
bitterest anguish. Every tone was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to
God for deliverance from chains. The hearing of those wild notes always
depressed my spirits, and filled my heart with ineffable sadness. The mere
recurrence, even now, afflicts my spirit, and while I am writing these lines,
my tears are falling. To those songs I trace my first glimmering conceptions of
the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can never get rid of that conception.
Those songs still follow me, to deepen my hatred of slavery, and quicken my
sympathies for my brethren in bonds. If any one wishes to be impressed with a
sense of the soul-killing power of slavery, let him go to Col. Lloyd’s
plantation, and, on allowance day, place himself in the deep, pine woods, and
there let him, in silence, thoughtfully analyze the sounds that shall pass
through the chambers of his soul, and if he is not thus impressed, it will only
be because “there is no flesh in his obdurate heart.”

The remark is not unfrequently made, that slaves are the most contended and
happy laborers in the world. They dance and sing, and make all manner of joyful
noises—so they do; but it is a great mistake to suppose them happy
because they sing. The songs of the slave represent the sorrows, rather than
the joys, of his heart; and he is relieved by them, only as an aching heart is
relieved by its tears. Such is the constitution of the human mind, that, when
pressed to extremes, it often avails itself of the most opposite methods.
Extremes meet in mind as in matter. When the slaves on board of the
“Pearl” were overtaken, arrested, and carried to prison—their
hopes for freedom blasted—as they marched in chains they sang, and found
(as Emily Edmunson tells us) a melancholy relief in singing. The singing of a
man cast away on a desolate island, might be as appropriately considered an
evidence of his contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave. Sorrow
and desolation have their songs, as well as joy and peace. Slaves sing more to
make themselves happy, than to express their happiness.

It is the boast of slaveholders, that their slaves enjoy more of the physical
comforts of life than the peasantry of any country in the world. My experience
contradicts this. The men and the women slaves on Col. Lloyd’s farm,
received, as their monthly allowance of food, eight pounds of pickled pork, or
their equivalent in fish. The pork was often tainted, and the fish was of the
poorest quality—herrings, which would bring very little if offered for
sale in any northern market. With their pork or fish, they had one bushel of
Indian meal—unbolted—of which quite fifteen per cent was fit only
to feed pigs. With this, one pint of salt was given; and this was the entire
monthly allowance of a full grown slave, working constantly in the open field,
from morning until night, every day in the month except Sunday, and living on a
fraction more than a quarter of a pound of meat per day, and less than a peck
of corn-meal per week. There is no kind of work that a man can do which
requires a better supply of food to prevent physical exhaustion, than the
field-work of a slave. So much for the slave’s allowance of food; now for
his raiment. The yearly allowance of clothing for the slaves on this
plantation, consisted of two tow-linen shirts—such linen as the coarsest
crash towels are made of; one pair of trowsers of the same material, for
summer, and a pair of trowsers and a jacket of woolen, most slazily put
together, for winter; one pair of yarn stockings, and one pair of shoes of the
coarsest description. The slave’s entire apparel could not have cost more
than eight dollars per year. The allowance of food and clothing for the little
children, was committed to their mothers, or to the older slavewomen having the
care of them. Children who were unable to work in the field, had neither shoes,
stockings, jackets nor trowsers given them. Their clothing consisted of two
coarse tow-linen shirts—already described—per year; and when these
failed them, as they often did, they went naked until the next allowance day.
Flocks of little children from five to ten years old, might be seen on Col.
Lloyd’s plantation, as destitute of clothing as any little heathen on the
west coast of Africa; and this, not merely during the summer months, but during
the frosty weather of March. The little girls were no better off than the boys;
all were nearly in a state of nudity.

As to beds to sleep on, they were known to none of the field hands; nothing but
a coarse blanket—not so good as those used in the north to cover
horses—was given them, and this only to the men and women. The children
stuck themselves in holes and corners, about the quarters; often in the corner
of the huge chimneys, with their feet in the ashes to keep them warm. The want
of beds, however, was not considered a very great privation. Time to sleep was
of far greater importance, for, when the day’s work is done, most of the
slaves have their washing, mending and cooking to do; and, having few or none
of the ordinary facilities for doing such things, very many of their sleeping
hours are consumed in necessary preparations for the duties of the coming day.

The sleeping apartments—if they may be called such—have little
regard to comfort or decency. Old and young, male and female, married and
single, drop down upon the common clay floor, each covering up with his or her
blanket,—the only protection they have from cold or exposure. The night,
however, is shortened at both ends. The slaves work often as long as they can
see, and are late in cooking and mending for the coming day; and, at the first
gray streak of morning, they are summoned to the field by the driver’s
horn.

More slaves are whipped for oversleeping than for any other fault. Neither age
nor sex finds any favor. The overseer stands at the quarter door, armed with
stick and cowskin, ready to whip any who may be a few minutes behind time. When
the horn is blown, there is a rush for the door, and the hindermost one is sure
to get a blow from the overseer. Young mothers who worked in the field, were
allowed an hour, about ten o’clock in the morning, to go home to nurse
their children. Sometimes they were compelled to take their children with them,
and to leave them in the corner of the fences, to prevent loss of time in
nursing them. The overseer generally rides about the field on horseback. A
cowskin and a hickory stick are his constant companions. The cowskin is a kind
of whip seldom seen in the northern states. It is made entirely of untanned,
but dried, ox hide, and is about as hard as a piece of well-seasoned live oak.
It is made of various sizes, but the usual length is about three feet. The part
held in the hand is nearly an inch in thickness; and, from the extreme end of
the butt or handle, the cowskin tapers its whole length to a point. This makes
it quite elastic and springy. A blow with it, on the hardest back, will gash
the flesh, and make the blood start. Cowskins are painted red, blue and green,
and are the favorite slave whip. I think this whip worse than the
“cat-o’nine-tails.” It condenses the whole strength of the
arm to a single point, and comes with a spring that makes the air whistle. It
is a terrible instrument, and is so handy, that the overseer can always have it
on his person, and ready for use. The temptation to use it is ever strong; and
an overseer can, if disposed, always have cause for using it. With him, it is
literally a word and a blow, and, in most cases, the blow comes first.

As a general rule, slaves do not come to the quarters for either breakfast or
dinner, but take their “ash cake” with them, and eat it in the
field. This was so on the home plantation; probably, because the distance from
the quarter to the field, was sometimes two, and even three miles.

The dinner of the slaves consisted of a huge piece of ash cake, and a small
piece of pork, or two salt herrings. Not having ovens, nor any suitable cooking
utensils, the slaves mixed their meal with a little water, to such thickness
that a spoon would stand erect in it; and, after the wood had burned away to
coals and ashes, they would place the dough between oak leaves and lay it
carefully in the ashes, completely covering it; hence, the bread is called ash
cake. The surface of this peculiar bread is covered with ashes, to the depth of
a sixteenth part of an inch, and the ashes, certainly, do not make it very
grateful to the teeth, nor render it very palatable. The bran, or coarse part
of the meal, is baked with the fine, and bright scales run through the bread.
This bread, with its ashes and bran, would disgust and choke a northern man,
but it is quite liked by the slaves. They eat it with avidity, and are more
concerned about the quantity than about the quality. They are far too scantily
provided for, and are worked too steadily, to be much concerned for the quality
of their food. The few minutes allowed them at dinner time, after partaking of
their coarse repast, are variously spent. Some lie down on the “turning
row,” and go to sleep; others draw together, and talk; and others are at
work with needle and thread, mending their tattered garments. Sometimes you may
hear a wild, hoarse laugh arise from a circle, and often a song. Soon, however,
the overseer comes dashing through the field. “Tumble up! Tumble
up, and to work, work,” is the cry; and, now, from twelve
o’clock (mid-day) till dark, the human cattle are in motion, wielding
their clumsy hoes; hurried on by no hope of reward, no sense of gratitude, no
love of children, no prospect of bettering their condition; nothing, save the
dread and terror of the slave-driver’s lash. So goes one day, and so
comes and goes another.

But, let us now leave the rough usage of the field, where vulgar coarseness and
brutal cruelty spread themselves and flourish, rank as weeds in the tropics;
where a vile wretch, in the shape of a man, rides, walks, or struts about,
dealing blows, and leaving gashes on broken-spirited men and helpless women,
for thirty dollars per month—a business so horrible, hardening and
disgraceful, that, rather, than engage in it, a decent man would blow his own
brains out—and let the reader view with me the equally wicked, but less
repulsive aspects of slave life; where pride and pomp roll luxuriously at ease;
where the toil of a thousand men supports a single family in easy idleness and
sin. This is the great house; it is the home of the LLOYDS! Some idea of its
splendor has already been given—and, it is here that we shall find that
height of luxury which is the opposite of that depth of poverty and physical
wretchedness that we have just now been contemplating. But, there is this
difference in the two extremes; viz: that in the case of the slave, the
miseries and hardships of his lot are imposed by others, and, in the
master’s case, they are imposed by himself. The slave is a subject,
subjected by others; the slaveholder is a subject, but he is the author of his
own subjection. There is more truth in the saying, that slavery is a greater
evil to the master than to the slave, than many, who utter it, suppose. The
self-executing laws of eternal justice follow close on the heels of the
evil-doer here, as well as elsewhere; making escape from all its penalties
impossible. But, let others philosophize; it is my province here to relate and
describe; only allowing myself a word or two, occasionally, to assist the
reader in the proper understanding of the facts narrated.

CHAPTER VII. Life in the Great House

COMFORTS AND LUXURIES—ELABORATE EXPENDITURE—HOUSE
SERVANTS—MEN SERVANTS AND MAID SERVANTS—APPEARANCES—SLAVE
ARISTOCRACY—STABLE AND CARRIAGE HOUSE—BOUNDLESS
HOSPITALITY—FRAGRANCE OF RICH DISHES—THE DECEPTIVE CHARACTER OF
SLAVERY—SLAVES SEEM HAPPY—SLAVES AND SLAVEHOLDERS ALIKE
WRETCHED—FRETFUL DISCONTENT OF SLAVEHOLDERS—FAULT-FINDING—OLD
BARNEY—HIS PROFESSION—WHIPPING—HUMILIATING
SPECTACLE—CASE EXCEPTIONAL—WILLIAM WILKS—SUPPOSED SON OF COL.
LLOYD—CURIOUS INCIDENT—SLAVES PREFER RICH MASTERS TO POOR ONES.

The close-fisted stinginess that fed the poor slave on coarse corn-meal and
tainted meat; that clothed him in crashy tow-linen, and hurried him to toil
through the field, in all weathers, with wind and rain beating through his
tattered garments; that scarcely gave even the young slave-mother time to nurse
her hungry infant in the fence corner; wholly vanishes on approaching the
sacred precincts of the great house, the home of the Lloyds. There the
scriptural phrase finds an exact illustration; the highly favored inmates of
this mansion are literally arrayed “in purple and fine linen,” and
fare sumptuously every day! The table groans under the heavy and blood-bought
luxuries gathered with painstaking care, at home and abroad. Fields, forests,
rivers and seas, are made tributary here. Immense wealth, and its lavish
expenditure, fill the great house with all that can please the eye, or tempt
the taste. Here, appetite, not food, is the great desideratum. Fish,
flesh and fowl, are here in profusion. Chickens, of all breeds; ducks, of all
kinds, wild and tame, the common, and the huge Muscovite; Guinea fowls,
turkeys, geese, and pea fowls, are in their several pens, fat and fatting for
the destined vortex. The graceful swan, the mongrels, the black-necked wild
goose; partridges, quails, pheasants and pigeons; choice water fowl, with all
their strange varieties, are caught in this huge family net. Beef, veal, mutton
and venison, of the most select kinds and quality, roll bounteously to this
grand consumer. The teeming riches of the Chesapeake bay, its rock, perch,
drums, crocus, trout, oysters, crabs, and terrapin, are drawn hither to adorn
the glittering table of the great house. The dairy, too, probably the finest on
the Eastern Shore of Maryland—supplied by cattle of the best English
stock, imported for the purpose, pours its rich donations of fragant cheese,
golden butter, and delicious cream, to heighten the attraction of the gorgeous,
unending round of feasting. Nor are the fruits of the earth forgotten or
neglected. The fertile garden, many acres in size, constituting a separate
establishment, distinct from the common farm—with its scientific
gardener, imported from Scotland (a Mr. McDermott) with four men under his
direction, was not behind, either in the abundance or in the delicacy of its
contributions to the same full board. The tender asparagus, the succulent
celery, and the delicate cauliflower; egg plants, beets, lettuce, parsnips,
peas, and French beans, early and late; radishes, cantelopes, melons of all
kinds; the fruits and flowers of all climes and of all descriptions, from the
hardy apple of the north, to the lemon and orange of the south, culminated at
this point. Baltimore gathered figs, raisins, almonds and juicy grapes from
Spain. Wines and brandies from France; teas of various flavor, from China; and
rich, aromatic coffee from Java, all conspired to swell the tide of high life,
where pride and indolence rolled and lounged in magnificence and satiety.

Behind the tall-backed and elaborately wrought chairs, stand the servants, men
and maidens—fifteen in number—discriminately selected, not only
with a view to their industry and faithfulness, but with special regard to
their personal appearance, their graceful agility and captivating address. Some
of these are armed with fans, and are fanning reviving breezes toward the
over-heated brows of the alabaster ladies; others watch with eager eye, and
with fawn-like step anticipate and supply wants before they are sufficiently
formed to be announced by word or sign.

These servants constituted a sort of black aristocracy on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. They resembled the field hands in nothing, except in color, and in
this they held the advantage of a velvet-like glossiness, rich and beautiful.
The hair, too, showed the same advantage. The delicate colored maid rustled in
the scarcely worn silk of her young mistress, while the servant men were
equally well attired from the over-flowing wardrobe of their young masters; so
that, in dress, as well as in form and feature, in manner and speech, in tastes
and habits, the distance between these favored few, and the sorrow and
hunger-smitten multitudes of the quarter and the field, was immense; and this
is seldom passed over.

Let us now glance at the stables and the carriage house, and we shall find the
same evidences of pride and luxurious extravagance. Here are three splendid
coaches, soft within and lustrous without. Here, too, are gigs, phaetons,
barouches, sulkeys and sleighs. Here are saddles and
harnesses—beautifully wrought and silver mounted—kept with every
care. In the stable you will find, kept only for pleasure, full thirty-five
horses, of the most approved blood for speed and beauty. There are two men here
constantly employed in taking care of these horses. One of these men must be
always in the stable, to answer every call from the great house. Over the way
from the stable, is a house built expressly for the hounds—a pack of
twenty-five or thirty—whose fare would have made glad the heart of a
dozen slaves. Horses and hounds are not the only consumers of the slave’s
toil. There was practiced, at the Lloyd’s, a hospitality which would have
astonished and charmed any health-seeking northern divine or merchant, who
might have chanced to share it. Viewed from his own table, and not from
the field, the colonel was a model of generous hospitality. His house was,
literally, a hotel, for weeks during the summer months. At these times,
especially, the air was freighted with the rich fumes of baking, boiling,
roasting and broiling. The odors I shared with the winds; but the meats were
under a more stringent monopoly except that, occasionally, I got a cake from
Mas’ Daniel. In Mas’ Daniel I had a friend at court, from whom I
learned many things which my eager curiosity was excited to know. I always knew
when company was expected, and who they were, although I was an outsider, being
the property, not of Col. Lloyd, but of a servant of the wealthy colonel. On
these occasions, all that pride, taste and money could do, to dazzle and charm,
was done.

Who could say that the servants of Col. Lloyd were not well clad and cared for,
after witnessing one of his magnificent entertainments? Who could say that they
did not seem to glory in being the slaves of such a master? Who, but a fanatic,
could get up any sympathy for persons whose every movement was agile, easy and
graceful, and who evinced a consciousness of high superiority? And who would
ever venture to suspect that Col. Lloyd was subject to the troubles of ordinary
mortals? Master and slave seem alike in their glory here? Can it all be
seeming? Alas! it may only be a sham at last! This immense wealth; this gilded
splendor; this profusion of luxury; this exemption from toil; this life of
ease; this sea of plenty; aye, what of it all? Are the pearly gates of
happiness and sweet content flung open to such suitors? far from it! The
poor slave, on his hard, pine plank, but scantily covered with his thin
blanket, sleeps more soundly than the feverish voluptuary who reclines upon his
feather bed and downy pillow. Food, to the indolent lounger, is poison, not
sustenance. Lurking beneath all their dishes, are invisible spirits of evil,
ready to feed the self-deluded gormandizers which aches, pains, fierce temper,
uncontrolled passions, dyspepsia, rheumatism, lumbago and gout; and of these
the Lloyds got their full share. To the pampered love of ease, there is no
resting place. What is pleasant today, is repulsive tomorrow; what is soft now,
is hard at another time; what is sweet in the morning, is bitter in the
evening. Neither to the wicked, nor to the idler, is there any solid peace:
“Troubled, like the restless sea.”

I had excellent opportunities of witnessing the restless discontent and the
capricious irritation of the Lloyds. My fondness for horses—not peculiar
to me more than to other boys attracted me, much of the time, to the stables.
This establishment was especially under the care of “old” and
“young” Barney—father and son. Old Barney was a fine looking
old man, of a brownish complexion, who was quite portly, and wore a dignified
aspect for a slave. He was, evidently, much devoted to his profession, and held
his office an honorable one. He was a farrier as well as an ostler; he could
bleed, remove lampers from the mouths of the horses, and was well instructed in
horse medicines. No one on the farm knew, so well as Old Barney, what to do
with a sick horse. But his gifts and acquirements were of little advantage to
him. His office was by no means an enviable one. He often got presents, but he
got stripes as well; for in nothing was Col. Lloyd more unreasonable and
exacting, than in respect to the management of his pleasure horses. Any
supposed inattention to these animals were sure to be visited with degrading
punishment. His horses and dogs fared better than his men. Their beds must be
softer and cleaner than those of his human cattle. No excuse could shield Old
Barney, if the colonel only suspected something wrong about his horses; and,
consequently, he was often punished when faultless. It was absolutely painful
to listen to the many unreasonable and fretful scoldings, poured out at the
stable, by Col. Lloyd, his sons and sons-in-law. Of the latter, he had
three—Messrs. Nicholson, Winder and Lownes. These all lived at the great
house a portion of the year, and enjoyed the luxury of whipping the servants
when they pleased, which was by no means unfrequently. A horse was seldom
brought out of the stable to which no objection could be raised. “There
was dust in his hair;” “there was a twist in his reins;”
“his mane did not lie straight;” “he had not been properly
grained;” “his head did not look well;” “his fore-top
was not combed out;” “his fetlocks had not been properly
trimmed;” something was always wrong. Listening to complaints, however
groundless, Barney must stand, hat in hand, lips sealed, never answering a
word. He must make no reply, no explanation; the judgment of the master must be
deemed infallible, for his power is absolute and irresponsible. In a free
state, a master, thus complaining without cause, of his ostler, might be
told—“Sir, I am sorry I cannot please you, but, since I have done
the best I can, your remedy is to dismiss me.” Here, however, the ostler
must stand, listen and tremble. One of the most heart-saddening and humiliating
scenes I ever witnessed, was the whipping of Old Barney, by Col. Lloyd himself.
Here were two men, both advanced in years; there were the silvery locks of Col.
L., and there was the bald and toil-worn brow of Old Barney; master and slave;
superior and inferior here, but equals at the bar of God; and, in the
common course of events, they must both soon meet in another world, in a world
where all distinctions, except those based on obedience and disobedience, are
blotted out forever. “Uncover your head!” said the imperious
master; he was obeyed. “Take off your jacket, you old rascal!” and
off came Barney’s jacket. “Down on your knees!” down knelt
the old man, his shoulders bare, his bald head glistening in the sun, and his
aged knees on the cold, damp ground. In his humble and debasing attitude, the
master—that master to whom he had given the best years and the best
strength of his life—came forward, and laid on thirty lashes, with his
horse whip. The old man bore it patiently, to the last, answering each blow
with a slight shrug of the shoulders, and a groan. I cannot think that Col.
Lloyd succeeded in marring the flesh of Old Barney very seriously, for the whip
was a light, riding whip; but the spectacle of an aged man—a husband and
a father—humbly kneeling before a worm of the dust, surprised and shocked
me at the time; and since I have grown old enough to think on the wickedness of
slavery, few facts have been of more value to me than this, to which I was a
witness. It reveals slavery in its true color, and in its maturity of repulsive
hatefulness. I owe it to truth, however, to say, that this was the first and
the last time I ever saw Old Barney, or any other slave, compelled to kneel to
receive a whipping.

I saw, at the stable, another incident, which I will relate, as it is
illustrative of a phase of slavery to which I have already referred in another
connection. Besides two other coachmen, Col. Lloyd owned one named William,
who, strangely enough, was often called by his surname, Wilks, by white and
colored people on the home plantation. Wilks was a very fine looking man. He
was about as white as anybody on the plantation; and in manliness of form, and
comeliness of features, he bore a very striking resemblance to Mr. Murray
Lloyd. It was whispered, and pretty generally admitted as a fact, that William
Wilks was a son of Col. Lloyd, by a highly favored slave-woman, who was still
on the plantation. There were many reasons for believing this whisper, not only
in William’s appearance, but in the undeniable freedom which he enjoyed
over all others, and his apparent consciousness of being something more than a
slave to his master. It was notorious, too, that William had a deadly enemy in
Murray Lloyd, whom he so much resembled, and that the latter greatly worried
his father with importunities to sell William. Indeed, he gave his father no
rest until he did sell him, to Austin Woldfolk, the great slave-trader at that
time. Before selling him, however, Mr. L. tried what giving William a whipping
would do, toward making things smooth; but this was a failure. It was a
compromise, and defeated itself; for, immediately after the infliction, the
heart-sickened colonel atoned to William for the abuse, by giving him a gold
watch and chain. Another fact, somewhat curious, is, that though sold to the
remorseless Woldfolk, taken in irons to Baltimore and cast into prison,
with a view to being driven to the south, William, by some
means—always a mystery to me—outbid all his purchasers, paid for
himself, and now resides in Baltimore, a FREEMAN. Is there not room to
suspect, that, as the gold watch was presented to atone for the whipping, a
purse of gold was given him by the same hand, with which to effect his
purchase, as an atonement for the indignity involved in selling his own flesh
and blood. All the circumstances of William, on the great house farm, show him
to have occupied a different position from the other slaves, and, certainly,
there is nothing in the supposed hostility of slaveholders to amalgamation, to
forbid the supposition that William Wilks was the son of Edward Lloyd.
Practical amalgamation is common in every neighborhood where I have been
in slavery.

Col. Lloyd was not in the way of knowing much of the real opinions and feelings
of his slaves respecting him. The distance between him and them was far too
great to admit of such knowledge. His slaves were so numerous, that he did not
know them when he saw them. Nor, indeed, did all his slaves know him. In this
respect, he was inconveniently rich. It is reported of him, that, while riding
along the road one day, he met a colored man, and addressed him in the usual
way of speaking to colored people on the public highways of the south:
“Well, boy, who do you belong to?” “To Col. Lloyd,”
replied the slave. “Well, does the colonel treat you well?”
“No, sir,” was the ready reply. “What? does he work you too
hard?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, don’t he give enough to
eat?” “Yes, sir, he gives me enough, such as it is.” The
colonel, after ascertaining where the slave belonged, rode on; the slave also
went on about his business, not dreaming that he had been conversing with his
master. He thought, said and heard nothing more of the matter, until two or
three weeks afterwards. The poor man was then informed by his overseer, that,
for having found fault with his master, he was now to be sold to a Georgia
trader. He was immediately chained and handcuffed; and thus, without a
moment’s warning he was snatched away, and forever sundered from his
family and friends, by a hand more unrelenting than that of death. This
is the penalty of telling the simple truth, in answer to a series of plain
questions. It is partly in consequence of such facts, that slaves, when
inquired of as to their condition and the character of their masters, almost
invariably say they are contented, and that their masters are kind.
Slaveholders have been known to send spies among their slaves, to ascertain, if
possible, their views and feelings in regard to their condition. The frequency
of this had the effect to establish among the slaves the maxim, that a still
tongue makes a wise head. They suppress the truth rather than take the
consequence of telling it, and, in so doing, they prove themselves a part of
the human family. If they have anything to say of their master, it is,
generally, something in his favor, especially when speaking to strangers. I was
frequently asked, while a slave, if I had a kind master, and I do not remember
ever to have given a negative reply. Nor did I, when pursuing this course,
consider myself as uttering what was utterly false; for I always measured the
kindness of my master by the standard of kindness set up by slaveholders around
us. However, slaves are like other people, and imbibe similar prejudices. They
are apt to think their condition better than that of others. Many, under
the influence of this prejudice, think their own masters are better than the
masters of other slaves; and this, too, in some cases, when the very reverse is
true. Indeed, it is not uncommon for slaves even to fall out and quarrel among
themselves about the relative kindness of their masters, contending for the
superior goodness of his own over that of others. At the very same time, they
mutually execrate their masters, when viewed separately. It was so on our
plantation. When Col. Lloyd’s slaves met those of Jacob Jepson, they
seldom parted without a quarrel about their masters; Col. Lloyd’s slaves
contending that he was the richest, and Mr. Jepson’s slaves that he was
the smartest, man of the two. Col. Lloyd’s slaves would boost his ability
to buy and sell Jacob Jepson; Mr. Jepson’s slaves would boast his ability
to whip Col. Lloyd. These quarrels would almost always end in a fight between
the parties; those that beat were supposed to have gained the point at issue.
They seemed to think that the greatness of their masters was transferable to
themselves. To be a SLAVE, was thought to be bad enough; but to be a poor
man’s slave, was deemed a disgrace, indeed.

CHAPTER VIII. A Chapter of Horrors

AUSTIN GORE—A SKETCH OF HIS CHARACTER—OVERSEERS AS A
CLASS—THEIR PECULIAR CHARACTERISTICS—THE MARKED INDIVIDUALITY OF
AUSTIN GORE—HIS SENSE OF DUTY—HOW HE WHIPPED—MURDER OF POOR
DENBY—HOW IT OCCURRED—SENSATION—HOW GORE MADE PEACE WITH COL.
LLOYD—THE MURDER UNPUNISHED—ANOTHER DREADFUL MURDER
NARRATED—NO LAWS FOR THE PROTECTION OF SLAVES CAN BE ENFORCED IN THE
SOUTHERN STATES.

As I have already intimated elsewhere, the slaves on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation, whose hard lot, under Mr. Sevier, the reader has already noticed
and deplored, were not permitted to enjoy the comparatively moderate rule of
Mr. Hopkins. The latter was succeeded by a very different man. The name of the
new overseer was Austin Gore. Upon this individual I would fix particular
attention; for under his rule there was more suffering from violence and
bloodshed than had—according to the older slaves ever been experienced
before on this plantation. I confess, I hardly know how to bring this man fitly
before the reader. He was, it is true, an overseer, and possessed, to a large
extent, the peculiar characteristics of his class; yet, to call him merely an
overseer, would not give the reader a fair notion of the man. I speak of
overseers as a class. They are such. They are as distinct from the slaveholding
gentry of the south, as are the fishwomen of Paris, and the coal-heavers of
London, distinct from other members of society. They constitute a separate
fraternity at the south, not less marked than is the fraternity of Park Lane
bullies in New York. They have been arranged and classified by that great law
of attraction, which determines the spheres and affinities of men; which
ordains, that men, whose malign and brutal propensities predominate over their
moral and intellectual endowments, shall, naturally, fall into those
employments which promise the largest gratification to those predominating
instincts or propensities. The office of overseer takes this raw material of
vulgarity and brutality, and stamps it as a distinct class of southern society.
But, in this class, as in all other classes, there are characters of marked
individuality, even while they bear a general resemblance to the mass. Mr. Gore
was one of those, to whom a general characterization would do no manner of
justice. He was an overseer; but he was something more. With the malign and
tyrannical qualities of an overseer, he combined something of the lawful
master. He had the artfulness and the mean ambition of his class; but he was
wholly free from the disgusting swagger and noisy bravado of his fraternity.
There was an easy air of independence about him; a calm self-possession, and a
sternness of glance, which might well daunt hearts less timid than those of
poor slaves, accustomed from childhood and through life to cower before a
driver’s lash. The home plantation of Col. Lloyd afforded an ample field
for the exercise of the qualifications for overseership, which he possessed in
such an eminent degree.

Mr. Gore was one of those overseers, who could torture the slightest word or
look into impudence; he had the nerve, not only to resent, but to punish,
promptly and severely. He never allowed himself to be answered back, by a
slave. In this, he was as lordly and as imperious as Col. Edward Lloyd,
himself; acting always up to the maxim, practically maintained by slaveholders,
that it is better that a dozen slaves suffer under the lash, without fault,
than that the master or the overseer should seem to have been wrong in
the presence of the slave. Everything must be absolute here. Guilty or
not guilty, it is enough to be accused, to be sure of a flogging. The very
presence of this man Gore was painful, and I shunned him as I would have
shunned a rattlesnake. His piercing, black eyes, and sharp, shrill voice, ever
awakened sensations of terror among the slaves. For so young a man (I describe
him as he was, twenty-five or thirty years ago) Mr. Gore was singularly
reserved and grave in the presence of slaves. He indulged in no jokes, said no
funny things, and kept his own counsels. Other overseers, how brutal soever
they might be, were, at times, inclined to gain favor with the slaves, by
indulging a little pleasantry; but Gore was never known to be guilty of any
such weakness. He was always the cold, distant, unapproachable overseer
of Col. Edward Lloyd’s plantation, and needed no higher pleasure than was
involved in a faithful discharge of the duties of his office. When he whipped,
he seemed to do so from a sense of duty, and feared no consequences. What
Hopkins did reluctantly, Gore did with alacrity. There was a stern will, an
iron-like reality, about this Gore, which would have easily made him the chief
of a band of pirates, had his environments been favorable to such a course of
life. All the coolness, savage barbarity and freedom from moral restraint,
which are necessary in the character of a pirate-chief, centered, I think, in
this man Gore. Among many other deeds of shocking cruelty which he perpetrated,
while I was at Mr. Lloyd’s, was the murder of a young colored man, named
Denby. He was sometimes called Bill Denby, or Demby; (I write from sound, and
the sounds on Lloyd’s plantation are not very certain.) I knew him well.
He was a powerful young man, full of animal spirits, and, so far as I know, he
was among the most valuable of Col. Lloyd’s slaves. In something—I
know not what—he offended this Mr. Austin Gore, and, in accordance with
the custom of the latter, he under took to flog him. He gave Denby but few
stripes; the latter broke away from him and plunged into the creek, and,
standing there to the depth of his neck in water, he refused to come out at the
order of the overseer; whereupon, for this refusal, Gore shot him dead!
It is said that Gore gave Denby three calls, telling him that if he did not
obey the last call, he would shoot him. When the third call was given, Denby
stood his ground firmly; and this raised the question, in the minds of the
by-standing slaves—“Will he dare to shoot?” Mr. Gore, without
further parley, and without making any further effort to induce Denby to come
out of the water, raised his gun deliberately to his face, took deadly aim at
his standing victim, and, in an instant, poor Denby was numbered with the dead.
His mangled body sank out of sight, and only his warm, red blood marked the
place where he had stood.

This devilish outrage, this fiendish murder, produced, as it was well
calculated to do, a tremendous sensation. A thrill of horror flashed through
every soul on the plantation, if I may except the guilty wretch who had
committed the hell-black deed. While the slaves generally were panic-struck,
and howling with alarm, the murderer himself was calm and collected, and
appeared as though nothing unusual had happened. The atrocity roused my old
master, and he spoke out, in reprobation of it; but the whole thing proved to
be less than a nine days’ wonder. Both Col. Lloyd and my old master
arraigned Gore for his cruelty in the matter, but this amounted to nothing. His
reply, or explanation—as I remember to have heard it at the time was,
that the extraordinary expedient was demanded by necessity; that Denby had
become unmanageable; that he had set a dangerous example to the other slaves;
and that, without some such prompt measure as that to which he had resorted,
were adopted, there would be an end to all rule and order on the plantation.
That very convenient covert for all manner of cruelty and outrage that cowardly
alarm-cry, that the slaves would “take the place,” was
pleaded, in extenuation of this revolting crime, just as it had been cited in
defense of a thousand similar ones. He argued, that if one slave refused to be
corrected, and was allowed to escape with his life, when he had been told that
he should lose it if he persisted in his course, the other slaves would soon
copy his example; the result of which would be, the freedom of the slaves, and
the enslavement of the whites. I have every reason to believe that Mr.
Gore’s defense, or explanation, was deemed satisfactory—at least to
Col. Lloyd. He was continued in his office on the plantation. His fame as an
overseer went abroad, and his horrid crime was not even submitted to judicial
investigation. The murder was committed in the presence of slaves, and they, of
course, could neither institute a suit, nor testify against the murderer. His
bare word would go further in a court of law, than the united testimony of ten
thousand black witnesses.

All that Mr. Gore had to do, was to make his peace with Col. Lloyd. This done,
and the guilty perpetrator of one of the most foul murders goes unwhipped of
justice, and uncensured by the community in which he lives. Mr. Gore lived in
St. Michael’s, Talbot county, when I left Maryland; if he is still alive
he probably yet resides there; and I have no reason to doubt that he is now as
highly esteemed, and as greatly respected, as though his guilty soul had never
been stained with innocent blood. I am well aware that what I have now written
will by some be branded as false and malicious. It will be denied, not only
that such a thing ever did transpire, as I have now narrated, but that such a
thing could happen in Maryland. I can only say—believe it or
not—that I have said nothing but the literal truth, gainsay it who may.

I speak advisedly when I say this,—that killing a slave, or any colored
person, in Talbot county, Maryland, is not treated as a crime, either by the
courts or the community. Mr. Thomas Lanman, ship carpenter, of St.
Michael’s, killed two slaves, one of whom he butchered with a hatchet, by
knocking his brains out. He used to boast of the commission of the awful and
bloody deed. I have heard him do so, laughingly, saying, among other things,
that he was the only benefactor of his country in the company, and that when
“others would do as much as he had done, we should be relieved of the
d—d niggers.”

As an evidence of the reckless disregard of human life where the life is that
of a slave I may state the notorious fact, that the wife of Mr. Giles Hicks,
who lived but a short distance from Col. Lloyd’s, with her own hands
murdered my wife’s cousin, a young girl between fifteen and sixteen years
of age—mutilating her person in a most shocking manner. The atrocious
woman, in the paroxysm of her wrath, not content with murdering her victim,
literally mangled her face, and broke her breast bone. Wild, however, and
infuriated as she was, she took the precaution to cause the slave-girl to be
buried; but the facts of the case coming abroad, very speedily led to the
disinterment of the remains of the murdered slave-girl. A coroner’s jury
was assembled, who decided that the girl had come to her death by severe
beating. It was ascertained that the offense for which this girl was thus
hurried out of the world, was this: she had been set that night, and several
preceding nights, to mind Mrs. Hicks’s baby, and having fallen into a
sound sleep, the baby cried, waking Mrs. Hicks, but not the slave-girl. Mrs.
Hicks, becoming infuriated at the girl’s tardiness, after calling several
times, jumped from her bed and seized a piece of fire-wood from the fireplace;
and then, as she lay fast asleep, she deliberately pounded in her skull and
breast-bone, and thus ended her life. I will not say that this most horrid
murder produced no sensation in the community. It did produce a
sensation; but, incredible to tell, the moral sense of the community was
blunted too entirely by the ordinary nature of slavery horrors, to bring the
murderess to punishment. A warrant was issued for her arrest, but, for some
reason or other, that warrant was never served. Thus did Mrs. Hicks not only
escape condign punishment, but even the pain and mortification of being
arraigned before a court of justice.

Whilst I am detailing the bloody deeds that took place during my stay on Col.
Lloyd’s plantation, I will briefly narrate another dark transaction,
which occurred about the same time as the murder of Denby by Mr. Gore.

On the side of the river Wye, opposite from Col. Lloyd’s, there lived a
Mr. Beal Bondley, a wealthy slaveholder. In the direction of his land, and near
the shore, there was an excellent oyster fishing ground, and to this, some of
the slaves of Col. Lloyd occasionally resorted in their little canoes, at
night, with a view to make up the deficiency of their scanty allowance of food,
by the oysters that they could easily get there. This, Mr. Bondley took it into
his head to regard as a trespass, and while an old man belonging to Col. Lloyd
was engaged in catching a few of the many millions of oysters that lined the
bottom of that creek, to satisfy his hunger, the villainous Mr. Bondley, lying
in ambush, without the slightest ceremony, discharged the contents of his
musket into the back and shoulders of the poor old man. As good fortune would
have it, the shot did not prove mortal, and Mr. Bondley came over, the next
day, to see Col. Lloyd—whether to pay him for his property, or to justify
himself for what he had done, I know not; but this I can say, the cruel
and dastardly transaction was speedily hushed up; there was very little said
about it at all, and nothing was publicly done which looked like the
application of the principle of justice to the man whom chance, only,
saved from being an actual murderer. One of the commonest sayings to which my
ears early became accustomed, on Col. Lloyd’s plantation and elsewhere in
Maryland, was, that it was “worth but half a cent to kill a nigger,
and a half a cent to bury him;” and the facts of my experience go far
to justify the practical truth of this strange proverb. Laws for the protection
of the lives of the slaves, are, as they must needs be, utterly incapable of
being enforced, where the very parties who are nominally protected, are not
permitted to give evidence, in courts of law, against the only class of persons
from whom abuse, outrage and murder might be reasonably apprehended. While I
heard of numerous murders committed by slaveholders on the Eastern Shores of
Maryland, I never knew a solitary instance in which a slaveholder was either
hung or imprisoned for having murdered a slave. The usual pretext for killing a
slave is, that the slave has offered resistance. Should a slave, when
assaulted, but raise his hand in self defense, the white assaulting party is
fully justified by southern, or Maryland, public opinion, in shooting the slave
down. Sometimes this is done, simply because it is alleged that the slave has
been saucy. But here I leave this phase of the society of my early childhood,
and will relieve the kind reader of these heart-sickening details.

CHAPTER IX. Personal Treatment

MISS LUCRETIA—HER KINDNESS—HOW IT WAS
MANIFESTED—“IKE”—A BATTLE WITH HIM—THE
CONSEQUENCES THEREOF—MISS LUCRETIA’S BALSAM—BREAD—HOW I
OBTAINED IT—BEAMS OF SUNLIGHT AMIDST THE GENERAL DARKNESS—SUFFERING
FROM COLD—HOW WE TOOK OUR MEALS—ORDERS TO PREPARE FOR
BALTIMORE—OVERJOYED AT THE THOUGHT OF QUITTING THE
PLANTATION—EXTRAORDINARY CLEANSING—COUSIN TOM’S VERSION OF
BALTIMORE—ARRIVAL THERE—KIND RECEPTION GIVEN ME BY MRS. SOPHIA
AULD—LITTLE TOMMY—MY NEW POSITION—MY NEW DUTIES—A
TURNING POINT IN MY HISTORY.

I have nothing cruel or shocking to relate of my own personal experience, while
I remained on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, at the home of my old master. An
occasional cuff from Aunt Katy, and a regular whipping from old master, such as
any heedless and mischievous boy might get from his father, is all that I can
mention of this sort. I was not old enough to work in the field, and, there
being little else than field work to perform, I had much leisure. The most I
had to do, was, to drive up the cows in the evening, to keep the front yard
clean, and to perform small errands for my young mistress, Lucretia Auld. I
have reasons for thinking this lady was very kindly disposed toward me, and,
although I was not often the object of her attention, I constantly regarded her
as my friend, and was always glad when it was my privilege to do her a service.
In a family where there was so much that was harsh, cold and indifferent, the
slightest word or look of kindness passed, with me, for its full value. Miss
Lucretia—as we all continued to call her long after her
marriage—had bestowed upon me such words and looks as taught me that she
pitied me, if she did not love me. In addition to words and looks, she
sometimes gave me a piece of bread and butter; a thing not set down in the bill
of fare, and which must have been an extra ration, planned aside from either
Aunt Katy or old master, solely out of the tender regard and friendship she had
for me. Then, too, I one day got into the wars with Uncle Able’s son,
“Ike,” and had got sadly worsted; in fact, the little rascal had
struck me directly in the forehead with a sharp piece of cinder, fused with
iron, from the old blacksmith’s forge, which made a cross in my forehead
very plainly to be seen now. The gash bled very freely, and I roared very
loudly and betook myself home. The coldhearted Aunt Katy paid no attention
either to my wound or my roaring, except to tell me it served me right; I had
no business with Ike; it was good for me; I would now keep away “from
dem Lloyd niggers.” Miss Lucretia, in this state of the case, came
forward; and, in quite a different spirit from that manifested by Aunt Katy,
she called me into the parlor (an extra privilege of itself) and, without using
toward me any of the hard-hearted and reproachful epithets of my kitchen
tormentor, she quietly acted the good Samaritan. With her own soft hand she
washed the blood from my head and face, fetched her own balsam bottle, and with
the balsam wetted a nice piece of white linen, and bound up my head. The balsam
was not more healing to the wound in my head, than her kindness was healing to
the wounds in my spirit, made by the unfeeling words of Aunt Katy. After this,
Miss Lucretia was my friend. I felt her to be such; and I have no doubt that
the simple act of binding up my head, did much to awaken in her mind an
interest in my welfare. It is quite true, that this interest was never very
marked, and it seldom showed itself in anything more than in giving me a piece
of bread when I was hungry; but this was a great favor on a slave plantation,
and I was the only one of the children to whom such attention was paid. When
very hungry, I would go into the back yard and play under Miss Lucretia’s
window. When pretty severely pinched by hunger, I had a habit of singing, which
the good lady very soon came to understand as a petition for a piece of bread.
When I sung under Miss Lucretia’s window, I was very apt to get well paid
for my music. The reader will see that I now had two friends, both at important
points—Mas’ Daniel at the great house, and Miss Lucretia at home.
From Mas’ Daniel I got protection from the bigger boys; and from Miss
Lucretia I got bread, by singing when I was hungry, and sympathy when I was
abused by that termagant, who had the reins of government in the kitchen. For
such friendship I felt deeply grateful, and bitter as are my recollections of
slavery, I love to recall any instances of kindness, any sunbeams of humane
treatment, which found way to my soul through the iron grating of my house of
bondage. Such beams seem all the brighter from the general darkness into which
they penetrate, and the impression they make is vividly distinct and beautiful.

As I have before intimated, I was seldom whipped—and never
severely—by my old master. I suffered little from the treatment I
received, except from hunger and cold. These were my two great physical
troubles. I could neither get a sufficiency of food nor of clothing; but I
suffered less from hunger than from cold. In hottest summer and coldest winter,
I was kept almost in a state of nudity; no shoes, no stockings, no jacket, no
trowsers; nothing but coarse sackcloth or tow-linen, made into a sort of shirt,
reaching down to my knees. This I wore night and day, changing it once a week.
In the day time I could protect myself pretty well, by keeping on the sunny
side of the house; and in bad weather, in the corner of the kitchen chimney.
The great difficulty was, to keep warm during the night. I had no bed. The pigs
in the pen had leaves, and the horses in the stable had straw, but the children
had no beds. They lodged anywhere in the ample kitchen. I slept, generally, in
a little closet, without even a blanket to cover me. In very cold weather. I
sometimes got down the bag in which corn-meal was usually carried to the mill,
and crawled into that. Sleeping there, with my head in and feet out, I was
partly protected, though not comfortable. My feet have been so cracked with the
frost, that the pen with which I am writing might be laid in the gashes. The
manner of taking our meals at old master’s, indicated but little
refinement. Our corn-meal mush, when sufficiently cooled, was placed in a large
wooden tray, or trough, like those used in making maple sugar here in the
north. This tray was set down, either on the floor of the kitchen, or out of
doors on the ground; and the children were called, like so many pigs; and like
so many pigs they would come, and literally devour the mush—some with
oyster shells, some with pieces of shingles, and none with spoons. He that eat
fastest got most, and he that was strongest got the best place; and few left
the trough really satisfied. I was the most unlucky of any, for Aunt Katy had
no good feeling for me; and if I pushed any of the other children, or if they
told her anything unfavorable of me, she always believed the worst, and was
sure to whip me.

As I grew older and more thoughtful, I was more and more filled with a sense of
my wretchedness. The cruelty of Aunt Katy, the hunger and cold I suffered, and
the terrible reports of wrong and outrage which came to my ear, together with
what I almost daily witnessed, led me, when yet but eight or nine years old, to
wish I had never been born. I used to contrast my condition with the
black-birds, in whose wild and sweet songs I fancied them so happy! Their
apparent joy only deepened the shades of my sorrow. There are thoughtful days
in the lives of children—at least there were in mine when they grapple
with all the great, primary subjects of knowledge, and reach, in a moment,
conclusions which no subsequent experience can shake. I was just as well aware
of the unjust, unnatural and murderous character of slavery, when nine years
old, as I am now. Without any appeal to books, to laws, or to authorities of
any kind, it was enough to accept God as a father, to regard slavery as a
crime.

I was not ten years old when I left Col. Lloyd’s plantation for
Balitmore(sic). I left that plantation with inexpressible joy. I never shall
forget the ecstacy with which I received the intelligence from my friend, Miss
Lucretia, that my old master had determined to let me go to Baltimore to live
with Mr. Hugh Auld, a brother to Mr. Thomas Auld, my old master’s
son-in-law. I received this information about three days before my departure.
They were three of the happiest days of my childhood. I spent the largest part
of these three days in the creek, washing off the plantation scurf, and
preparing for my new home. Mrs. Lucretia took a lively interest in getting me
ready. She told me I must get all the dead skin off my feet and knees, before I
could go to Baltimore, for the people there were very cleanly, and would laugh
at me if I looked dirty; and, besides, she was intending to give me a pair of
trowsers, which I should not put on unless I got all the dirt off. This was a
warning to which I was bound to take heed; for the thought of owning a pair of
trowsers, was great, indeed. It was almost a sufficient motive, not only to
induce me to scrub off the mange (as pig drovers would call it) but the
skin as well. So I went at it in good earnest, working for the first time in
the hope of reward. I was greatly excited, and could hardly consent to sleep,
lest I should be left. The ties that, ordinarily, bind children to their homes,
were all severed, or they never had any existence in my case, at least so far
as the home plantation of Col. L. was concerned. I therefore found no severe
trail at the moment of my departure, such as I had experienced when separated
from my home in Tuckahoe. My home at my old master’s was charmless to me;
it was not home, but a prison to me; on parting from it, I could not feel that
I was leaving anything which I could have enjoyed by staying. My mother was now
long dead; my grandmother was far away, so that I seldom saw her; Aunt Katy was
my unrelenting tormentor; and my two sisters and brothers, owing to our early
separation in life, and the family-destroying power of slavery, were,
comparatively, strangers to me. The fact of our relationship was almost blotted
out. I looked for home elsewhere, and was confident of finding none
which I should relish less than the one I was leaving. If, however, I found in
my new home to which I was going with such blissful
anticipations—hardship, whipping and nakedness, I had the questionable
consolation that I should not have escaped any one of these evils by remaining
under the management of Aunt Katy. Then, too, I thought, since I had endured
much in this line on Lloyd’s plantation, I could endure as much
elsewhere, and especially at Baltimore; for I had something of the feeling
about that city which is expressed in the saying, that being “hanged in
England, is better than dying a natural death in Ireland.” I had the
strongest desire to see Baltimore. My cousin Tom—a boy two or three years
older than I—had been there, and though not fluent (he stuttered
immoderately) in speech, he had inspired me with that desire, by his eloquent
description of the place. Tom was, sometimes, Capt. Auld’s cabin boy; and
when he came from Baltimore, he was always a sort of hero amongst us, at least
till his Baltimore trip was forgotten. I could never tell him of anything, or
point out anything that struck me as beautiful or powerful, but that he had
seen something in Baltimore far surpassing it. Even the great house itself,
with all its pictures within, and pillars without, he had the hardihood to say
“was nothing to Baltimore.” He bought a trumpet (worth six pence)
and brought it home; told what he had seen in the windows of stores; that he
had heard shooting crackers, and seen soldiers; that he had seen a steamboat;
that there were ships in Baltimore that could carry four such sloops as the
“Sally Lloyd.” He said a great deal about the market-house; he
spoke of the bells ringing; and of many other things which roused my curiosity
very much; and, indeed, which heightened my hopes of happiness in my new home.

We sailed out of Miles river for Baltimore early on a Saturday morning. I
remember only the day of the week; for, at that time, I had no knowledge of the
days of the month, nor, indeed, of the months of the year. On setting sail, I
walked aft, and gave to Col. Lloyd’s plantation what I hoped would be the
last look I should ever give to it, or to any place like it. My strong aversion
to the great farm, was not owing to my own personal suffering, but the daily
suffering of others, and to the certainty that I must, sooner or later, be
placed under the barbarous rule of an overseer, such as the accomplished Gore,
or the brutal and drunken Plummer. After taking this last view, I quitted the
quarter deck, made my way to the bow of the sloop, and spent the remainder of
the day in looking ahead; interesting myself in what was in the distance,
rather than what was near by or behind. The vessels, sweeping along the bay,
were very interesting objects. The broad bay opened like a shoreless ocean on
my boyish vision, filling me with wonder and admiration.

Late in the afternoon, we reached Annapolis, the capital of the state, stopping
there not long enough to admit of my going ashore. It was the first large town
I had ever seen; and though it was inferior to many a factory village in New
England, my feelings, on seeing it, were excited to a pitch very little below
that reached by travelers at the first view of Rome. The dome of the state
house was especially imposing, and surpassed in grandeur the appearance of the
great house. The great world was opening upon me very rapidly, and I was
eagerly acquainting myself with its multifarious lessons.

We arrived in Baltimore on Sunday morning, and landed at Smith’s wharf,
not far from Bowly’s wharf. We had on board the sloop a large flock of
sheep, for the Baltimore market; and, after assisting in driving them to the
slaughter house of Mr. Curtis, on Loudon Slater’s Hill, I was speedily
conducted by Rich—one of the hands belonging to the sloop—to my new
home in Alliciana street, near Gardiner’s ship-yard, on Fell’s
Point. Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Auld, my new mistress and master, were both at home,
and met me at the door with their rosy cheeked little son, Thomas, to take care
of whom was to constitute my future occupation. In fact, it was to
“little Tommy,” rather than to his parents, that old master made a
present of me; and though there was no legal form or arrangement entered
into, I have no doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Auld felt that, in due time, I should
be the legal property of their bright-eyed and beloved boy, Tommy. I was struck
with the appearance, especially, of my new mistress. Her face was lighted with
the kindliest emotions; and the reflex influence of her countenance, as well as
the tenderness with which she seemed to regard me, while asking me sundry
little questions, greatly delighted me, and lit up, to my fancy, the pathway of
my future. Miss Lucretia was kind; but my new mistress, “Miss
Sophy,” surpassed her in kindness of manner. Little Thomas was
affectionately told by his mother, that “there was his
Freddy,” and that “Freddy would take care of him;” and I
was told to “be kind to little Tommy”—an injunction I
scarcely needed, for I had already fallen in love with the dear boy; and with
these little ceremonies I was initiated into my new home, and entered upon my
peculiar duties, with not a cloud above the horizon.

I may say here, that I regard my removal from Col. Lloyd’s plantation as
one of the most interesting and fortunate events of my life. Viewing it in the
light of human likelihoods, it is quite probable that, but for the mere
circumstance of being thus removed before the rigors of slavery had fastened
upon me; before my young spirit had been crushed under the iron control of the
slave-driver, instead of being, today, a FREEMAN, I might have been wearing the
galling chains of slavery. I have sometimes felt, however, that there was
something more intelligent than chance, and something more certain than
luck, to be seen in the circumstance. If I have made any progress in
knowledge; if I have cherished any honorable aspirations, or have, in any
manner, worthily discharged the duties of a member of an oppressed people; this
little circumstance must be allowed its due weight in giving my life that
direction. I have ever regarded it as the first plain manifestation of that

Divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will.

I was not the only boy on the plantation that might have been sent to live in
Baltimore. There was a wide margin from which to select. There were boys
younger, boys older, and boys of the same age, belonging to my old master some
at his own house, and some at his farm—but the high privilege fell to my
lot.

I may be deemed superstitious and egotistical, in regarding this event as a
special interposition of Divine Providence in my favor; but the thought is a
part of my history, and I should be false to the earliest and most cherished
sentiments of my soul, if I suppressed, or hesitated to avow that opinion,
although it may be characterized as irrational by the wise, and ridiculous by
the scoffer. From my earliest recollections of serious matters, I date the
entertainment of something like an ineffaceable conviction, that slavery would
not always be able to hold me within its foul embrace; and this conviction,
like a word of living faith, strengthened me through the darkest trials of my
lot. This good spirit was from God; and to him I offer thanksgiving and praise.

CHAPTER X. Life in Baltimore

CITY ANNOYANCES—PLANTATION REGRETS—MY MISTRESS, MISS
SOPHA—HER HISTORY—HER KINDNESS TO ME—MY MASTER, HUGH
AULD—HIS SOURNESS—MY INCREASED SENSITIVENESS—MY
COMFORTS—MY OCCUPATION—THE BANEFUL EFFECTS OF SLAVEHOLDING ON MY
DEAR AND GOOD MISTRESS—HOW SHE COMMENCED TEACHING ME TO READ—WHY
SHE CEASED TEACHING ME—CLOUDS GATHERING OVER MY BRIGHT
PROSPECTS—MASTER AULD’S EXPOSITION OF THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY OF
SLAVERY—CITY SLAVES—PLANTATION SLAVES—THE
CONTRAST—EXCEPTIONS—MR. HAMILTON’S TWO SLAVES, HENRIETTA AND
MARY—MRS. HAMILTON’S CRUEL TREATMENT OF THEM—THE PITEOUS
ASPECT THEY PRESENTED—NO POWER MUST COME BETWEEN THE SLAVE AND THE
SLAVEHOLDER.

Once in Baltimore, with hard brick pavements under my feet, which almost raised
blisters, by their very heat, for it was in the height of summer; walled in on
all sides by towering brick buildings; with troops of hostile boys ready to
pounce upon me at every street corner; with new and strange objects glaring
upon me at every step, and with startling sounds reaching my ears from all
directions, I for a time thought that, after all, the home plantation was a
more desirable place of residence than my home on Alliciana street, in
Baltimore. My country eyes and ears were confused and bewildered here; but the
boys were my chief trouble. They chased me, and called me “Eastern
Shore man,” till really I almost wished myself back on the Eastern
Shore. I had to undergo a sort of moral acclimation, and when that was over, I
did much better. My new mistress happily proved to be all she seemed to
be, when, with her husband, she met me at the door, with a most beaming,
benignant countenance. She was, naturally, of an excellent disposition, kind,
gentle and cheerful. The supercilious contempt for the rights and feelings of
the slave, and the petulance and bad humor which generally characterize
slaveholding ladies, were all quite absent from kind “Miss”
Sophia’s manner and bearing toward me. She had, in truth, never been a
slaveholder, but had—a thing quite unusual in the south—depended
almost entirely upon her own industry for a living. To this fact the dear lady,
no doubt, owed the excellent preservation of her natural goodness of heart, for
slavery can change a saint into a sinner, and an angel into a demon. I hardly
knew how to behave toward “Miss Sopha,” as I used to call Mrs. Hugh
Auld. I had been treated as a pig on the plantation; I was treated as a
child now. I could not even approach her as I had formerly approached
Mrs. Thomas Auld. How could I hang down my head, and speak with bated breath,
when there was no pride to scorn me, no coldness to repel me, and no hatred to
inspire me with fear? I therefore soon learned to regard her as something more
akin to a mother, than a slaveholding mistress. The crouching servility of a
slave, usually so acceptable a quality to the haughty slaveholder, was not
understood nor desired by this gentle woman. So far from deeming it impudent in
a slave to look her straight in the face, as some slaveholding ladies do, she
seemed ever to say, “look up, child; don’t be afraid; see, I am
full of kindness and good will toward you.” The hands belonging to Col.
Lloyd’s sloop, esteemed it a great privilege to be the bearers of parcels
or messages to my new mistress; for whenever they came, they were sure of a
most kind and pleasant reception. If little Thomas was her son, and her most
dearly beloved child, she, for a time, at least, made me something like his
half-brother in her affections. If dear Tommy was exalted to a place on his
mother’s knee, “Feddy” was honored by a place at his
mother’s side. Nor did he lack the caressing strokes of her gentle hand,
to convince him that, though motherless, he was not friendless.
Mrs. Auld was not only a kind-hearted woman, but she was remarkably pious;
frequent in her attendance of public worship, much given to reading the bible,
and to chanting hymns of praise, when alone. Mr. Hugh Auld was altogether a
different character. He cared very little about religion, knew more of the
world, and was more of the world, than his wife. He set out, doubtless to
be—as the world goes—a respectable man, and to get on by becoming a
successful ship builder, in that city of ship building. This was his ambition,
and it fully occupied him. I was, of course, of very little consequence to him,
compared with what I was to good Mrs. Auld; and, when he smiled upon me, as he
sometimes did, the smile was borrowed from his lovely wife, and, like all
borrowed light, was transient, and vanished with the source whence it was
derived. While I must characterize Master Hugh as being a very sour man, and of
forbidding appearance, it is due to him to acknowledge, that he was never very
cruel to me, according to the notion of cruelty in Maryland. The first year or
two which I spent in his house, he left me almost exclusively to the management
of his wife. She was my law-giver. In hands so tender as hers, and in the
absence of the cruelties of the plantation, I became, both physically and
mentally, much more sensitive to good and ill treatment; and, perhaps, suffered
more from a frown from my mistress, than I formerly did from a cuff at the
hands of Aunt Katy. Instead of the cold, damp floor of my old master’s
kitchen, I found myself on carpets; for the corn bag in winter, I now had a
good straw bed, well furnished with covers; for the coarse corn-meal in the
morning, I now had good bread, and mush occasionally; for my poor tow-lien
shirt, reaching to my knees, I had good, clean clothes. I was really well off.
My employment was to run errands, and to take care of Tommy; to prevent his
getting in the way of carriages, and to keep him out of harm’s way
generally. Tommy, and I, and his mother, got on swimmingly together, for a
time. I say for a time, because the fatal poison of irresponsible power,
and the natural influence of slavery customs, were not long in making a
suitable impression on the gentle and loving disposition of my excellent
mistress. At first, Mrs. Auld evidently regarded me simply as a child, like any
other child; she had not come to regard me as property. This latter
thought was a thing of conventional growth. The first was natural and
spontaneous. A noble nature, like hers, could not, instantly, be wholly
perverted; and it took several years to change the natural sweetness of her
temper into fretful bitterness. In her worst estate, however, there were,
during the first seven years I lived with her, occasional returns of her former
kindly disposition.

The frequent hearing of my mistress reading the bible for she often read aloud
when her husband was absent soon awakened my curiosity in respect to this
mystery of reading, and roused in me the desire to learn. Having no fear
of my kind mistress before my eyes, (she had then given me no reason to fear,)
I frankly asked her to teach me to read; and, without hesitation, the dear
woman began the task, and very soon, by her assistance, I was master of the
alphabet, and could spell words of three or four letters. My mistress seemed
almost as proud of my progress, as if I had been her own child; and, supposing
that her husband would be as well pleased, she made no secret of what she was
doing for me. Indeed, she exultingly told him of the aptness of her pupil, of
her intention to persevere in teaching me, and of the duty which she felt it to
teach me, at least to read the bible. Here arose the first cloud over my
Baltimore prospects, the precursor of drenching rains and chilling blasts.

Master Hugh was amazed at the simplicity of his spouse, and, probably for the
first time, he unfolded to her the true philosophy of slavery, and the peculiar
rules necessary to be observed by masters and mistresses, in the management of
their human chattels. Mr. Auld promptly forbade continuance of her instruction;
telling her, in the first place, that the thing itself was unlawful; that it
was also unsafe, and could only lead to mischief. To use his own words,
further, he said, “if you give a nigger an inch, he will take an
ell;” “he should know nothing but the will of his master, and learn
to obey it.” “if you teach that nigger—speaking of
myself—how to read the bible, there will be no keeping him;”
“it would forever unfit him for the duties of a slave;” and
“as to himself, learning would do him no good, but probably, a great deal
of harm—making him disconsolate and unhappy.” “If you learn
him now to read, he’ll want to know how to write; and, this accomplished,
he’ll be running away with himself.” Such was the tenor of Master
Hugh’s oracular exposition of the true philosophy of training a human
chattel; and it must be confessed that he very clearly comprehended the nature
and the requirements of the relation of master and slave. His discourse was the
first decidedly anti-slavery lecture to which it had been my lot to listen.
Mrs. Auld evidently felt the force of his remarks; and, like an obedient wife,
began to shape her course in the direction indicated by her husband. The effect
of his words, on me, was neither slight nor transitory. His iron
sentences—cold and harsh—sunk deep into my heart, and stirred up
not only my feelings into a sort of rebellion, but awakened within me a
slumbering train of vital thought. It was a new and special revelation,
dispelling a painful mystery, against which my youthful understanding had
struggled, and struggled in vain, to wit: the white man’s power to
perpetuate the enslavement of the black man. “Very well,”
thought I; “knowledge unfits a child to be a slave.” I
instinctively assented to the proposition; and from that moment I understood
the direct pathway from slavery to freedom. This was just what I needed; and I
got it at a time, and from a source, whence I least expected it. I was saddened
at the thought of losing the assistance of my kind mistress; but the
information, so instantly derived, to some extent compensated me for the loss I
had sustained in this direction. Wise as Mr. Auld was, he evidently underrated
my comprehension, and had little idea of the use to which I was capable of
putting the impressive lesson he was giving to his wife. He wanted me to
be a slave; I had already voted against that on the home plantation of
Col. Lloyd. That which he most loved I most hated; and the very determination
which he expressed to keep me in ignorance, only rendered me the more resolute
in seeking intelligence. In learning to read, therefore, I am not sure that I
do not owe quite as much to the opposition of my master, as to the kindly
assistance of my amiable mistress. I acknowledge the benefit rendered me by the
one, and by the other; believing, that but for my mistress, I might have grown
up in ignorance.

I had resided but a short time in Baltimore, before I observed a marked
difference in the manner of treating slaves, generally, from which I had
witnessed in that isolated and out-of-the-way part of the country where I began
life. A city slave is almost a free citizen, in Baltimore, compared with a
slave on Col. Lloyd’s plantation. He is much better fed and clothed, is
less dejected in his appearance, and enjoys privileges altogether unknown to
the whip-driven slave on the plantation. Slavery dislikes a dense population,
in which there is a majority of non-slaveholders. The general sense of decency
that must pervade such a population, does much to check and prevent those
outbreaks of atrocious cruelty, and those dark crimes without a name, almost
openly perpetrated on the plantation. He is a desperate slaveholder who will
shock the humanity of his non-slaveholding neighbors, by the cries of the
lacerated slaves; and very few in the city are willing to incur the odium of
being cruel masters. I found, in Baltimore, that no man was more odious to the
white, as well as to the colored people, than he, who had the reputation of
starving his slaves. Work them, flog them, if need be, but don’t starve
them. These are, however, some painful exceptions to this rule. While it is
quite true that most of the slaveholders in Baltimore feed and clothe their
slaves well, there are others who keep up their country cruelties in the city.

An instance of this sort is furnished in the case of a family who lived
directly opposite to our house, and were named Hamilton. Mrs. Hamilton owned
two slaves. Their names were Henrietta and Mary. They had always been house
slaves. One was aged about twenty-two, and the other about fourteen. They were
a fragile couple by nature, and the treatment they received was enough to break
down the constitution of a horse. Of all the dejected, emaciated, mangled and
excoriated creatures I ever saw, those two girls—in the refined, church
going and Christian city of Baltimore were the most deplorable. Of stone must
that heart be made, that could look upon Henrietta and Mary, without being
sickened to the core with sadness. Especially was Mary a heart-sickening
object. Her head, neck and shoulders, were literally cut to pieces. I have
frequently felt her head, and found it nearly covered over with festering
sores, caused by the lash of her cruel mistress. I do not know that her master
ever whipped her, but I have often been an eye witness of the revolting and
brutal inflictions by Mrs. Hamilton; and what lends a deeper shade to this
woman’s conduct, is the fact, that, almost in the very moments of her
shocking outrages of humanity and decency, she would charm you by the sweetness
of her voice and her seeming piety. She used to sit in a large rocking chair,
near the middle of the room, with a heavy cowskin, such as I have elsewhere
described; and I speak within the truth when I say, that these girls seldom
passed that chair, during the day, without a blow from that cowskin, either
upon their bare arms, or upon their shoulders. As they passed her, she would
draw her cowskin and give them a blow, saying, “move faster, you black
jip!” and, again, “take that, you black jip!”
continuing, “if you don’t move faster, I will give you
more.” Then the lady would go on, singing her sweet hymns, as though
her righteous soul were sighing for the holy realms of paradise.

Added to the cruel lashings to which these poor slave-girls were
subjected—enough in themselves to crush the spirit of men—they
were, really, kept nearly half starved; they seldom knew what it was to eat a
full meal, except when they got it in the kitchens of neighbors, less mean and
stingy than the psalm-singing Mrs. Hamilton. I have seen poor Mary contending
for the offal, with the pigs in the street. So much was the poor girl pinched,
kicked, cut and pecked to pieces, that the boys in the street knew her only by
the name of “pecked,” a name derived from the scars and
blotches on her neck, head and shoulders.

It is some relief to this picture of slavery in Baltimore, to say—what is
but the simple truth—that Mrs. Hamilton’s treatment of her slaves
was generally condemned, as disgraceful and shocking; but while I say this, it
must also be remembered, that the very parties who censured the cruelty of Mrs.
Hamilton, would have condemned and promptly punished any attempt to interfere
with Mrs. Hamilton’s right to cut and slash her slaves to pieces.
There must be no force between the slave and the slaveholder, to restrain the
power of the one, and protect the weakness of the other; and the cruelty of
Mrs. Hamilton is as justly chargeable to the upholders of the slave system, as
drunkenness is chargeable on those who, by precept and example, or by
indifference, uphold the drinking system.

CHAPTER XI. “A Change Came O’er the Spirit of My
Dream”

HOW I LEARNED TO READ—MY MISTRESS—HER SLAVEHOLDING
DUTIES—THEIR DEPLORABLE EFFECTS UPON HER ORIGINALLY NOBLE
NATURE—THE CONFLICT IN HER MIND—HER FINAL OPPOSITION TO MY LEARNING
TO READ—TOO LATE—SHE HAD GIVEN ME THE INCH, I WAS RESOLVED TO TAKE
THE ELL—HOW I PURSUED MY EDUCATION—MY TUTORS—HOW I
COMPENSATED THEM—WHAT PROGRESS I MADE—SLAVERY—WHAT I HEARD
SAID ABOUT IT—THIRTEEN YEARS OLD—THE Columbian
Orator—A RICH SCENE—A DIALOGUE—SPEECHES OF CHATHAM,
SHERIDAN, PITT AND FOX—KNOWLEDGE EVER INCREASING—MY EYES
OPENED—LIBERTY—HOW I PINED FOR IT—MY SADNESS—THE
DISSATISFACTION OF MY POOR MISTRESS—MY HATRED OF SLAVERY—ONE UPAS
TREE OVERSHADOWED US BOTH.

I lived in the family of Master Hugh, at Baltimore, seven years, during which
time—as the almanac makers say of the weather—my condition was
variable. The most interesting feature of my history here, was my learning to
read and write, under somewhat marked disadvantages. In attaining this
knowledge, I was compelled to resort to indirections by no means congenial to
my nature, and which were really humiliating to me. My mistress—who, as
the reader has already seen, had begun to teach me was suddenly checked in her
benevolent design, by the strong advice of her husband. In faithful compliance
with this advice, the good lady had not only ceased to instruct me, herself,
but had set her face as a flint against my learning to read by any means. It is
due, however, to my mistress to say, that she did not adopt this course in all
its stringency at the first. She either thought it unnecessary, or she lacked
the depravity indispensable to shutting me up in mental darkness. It was, at
least, necessary for her to have some training, and some hardening, in the
exercise of the slaveholder’s prerogative, to make her equal to
forgetting my human nature and character, and to treating me as a thing
destitute of a moral or an intellectual nature. Mrs. Auld—my
mistress—was, as I have said, a most kind and tender-hearted woman; and,
in the humanity of her heart, and the simplicity of her mind, she set out, when
I first went to live with her, to treat me as she supposed one human being
ought to treat another.

It is easy to see, that, in entering upon the duties of a slaveholder, some
little experience is needed. Nature has done almost nothing to prepare men and
women to be either slaves or slaveholders. Nothing but rigid training, long
persisted in, can perfect the character of the one or the other. One cannot
easily forget to love freedom; and it is as hard to cease to respect that
natural love in our fellow creatures. On entering upon the career of a
slaveholding mistress, Mrs. Auld was singularly deficient; nature, which fits
nobody for such an office, had done less for her than any lady I had known. It
was no easy matter to induce her to think and to feel that the curly-headed
boy, who stood by her side, and even leaned on her lap; who was loved by little
Tommy, and who loved little Tommy in turn; sustained to her only the relation
of a chattel. I was more than that, and she felt me to be more than
that. I could talk and sing; I could laugh and weep; I could reason and
remember; I could love and hate. I was human, and she, dear lady, knew and felt
me to be so. How could she, then, treat me as a brute, without a mighty
struggle with all the noble powers of her own soul. That struggle came, and the
will and power of the husband was victorious. Her noble soul was overthrown;
but, he that overthrew it did not, himself, escape the consequences. He, not
less than the other parties, was injured in his domestic peace by the fall.

When I went into their family, it was the abode of happiness and contentment.
The mistress of the house was a model of affection and tenderness. Her fervent
piety and watchful uprightness made it impossible to see her without thinking
and feeling—“that woman is a Christian.” There was no
sorrow nor suffering for which she had not a tear, and there was no innocent
joy for which she did not a smile. She had bread for the hungry, clothes for
the naked, and comfort for every mourner that came within her reach. Slavery
soon proved its ability to divest her of these excellent qualities, and her
home of its early happiness. Conscience cannot stand much violence. Once
thoroughly broken down, who is he that can repair the damage? It may be
broken toward the slave, on Sunday, and toward the master on Monday. It cannot
endure such shocks. It must stand entire, or it does not stand at all. If my
condition waxed bad, that of the family waxed not better. The first step, in
the wrong direction, was the violence done to nature and to conscience, in
arresting the benevolence that would have enlightened my young mind. In ceasing
to instruct me, she must begin to justify herself to herself; and, once
consenting to take sides in such a debate, she was riveted to her position. One
needs very little knowledge of moral philosophy, to see where my
mistress now landed. She finally became even more violent in her opposition to
my learning to read, than was her husband himself. She was not satisfied with
simply doing as well as her husband had commanded her, but seemed
resolved to better his instruction. Nothing appeared to make my poor
mistress—after her turning toward the downward path—more angry,
than seeing me, seated in some nook or corner, quietly reading a book or a
newspaper. I have had her rush at me, with the utmost fury, and snatch from my
hand such newspaper or book, with something of the wrath and consternation
which a traitor might be supposed to feel on being discovered in a plot by some
dangerous spy.

Mrs. Auld was an apt woman, and the advice of her husband, and her own
experience, soon demonstrated, to her entire satisfaction, that education and
slavery are incompatible with each other. When this conviction was thoroughly
established, I was most narrowly watched in all my movements. If I remained in
a separate room from the family for any considerable length of time, I was sure
to be suspected of having a book, and was at once called upon to give an
account of myself. All this, however, was entirely too late. The first,
and never to be retraced, step had been taken. In teaching me the alphabet, in
the days of her simplicity and kindness, my mistress had given me the
“inch,” and now, no ordinary precaution could prevent me
from taking the “ell.”

Seized with a determination to learn to read, at any cost, I hit upon many
expedients to accomplish the desired end. The plea which I mainly adopted, and
the one by which I was most successful, was that of using my young white
playmates, with whom I met in the streets as teachers. I used to carry, almost
constantly, a copy of Webster’s spelling book in my pocket; and, when
sent of errands, or when play time was allowed me, I would step, with my young
friends, aside, and take a lesson in spelling. I generally paid my tuition
fee to the boys, with bread, which I also carried in my pocket. For a
single biscuit, any of my hungry little comrades would give me a lesson more
valuable to me than bread. Not every one, however, demanded this consideration,
for there were those who took pleasure in teaching me, whenever I had a chance
to be taught by them. I am strongly tempted to give the names of two or three
of those little boys, as a slight testimonial of the gratitude and affection I
bear them, but prudence forbids; not that it would injure me, but it might,
possibly, embarrass them; for it is almost an unpardonable offense to do any
thing, directly or indirectly, to promote a slave’s freedom, in a slave
state. It is enough to say, of my warm-hearted little play fellows, that they
lived on Philpot street, very near Durgin & Bailey’s shipyard.

Although slavery was a delicate subject, and very cautiously talked about among
grown up people in Maryland, I frequently talked about it—and that very
freely—with the white boys. I would, sometimes, say to them, while seated
on a curb stone or a cellar door, “I wish I could be free, as you will be
when you get to be men.” “You will be free, you know, as soon as
you are twenty-one, and can go where you like, but I am a slave for life. Have
I not as good a right to be free as you have?” Words like these, I
observed, always troubled them; and I had no small satisfaction in wringing
from the boys, occasionally, that fresh and bitter condemnation of slavery,
that springs from nature, unseared and unperverted. Of all consciences let me
have those to deal with which have not been bewildered by the cares of life. I
do not remember ever to have met with a boy, while I was in slavery, who
defended the slave system; but I have often had boys to console me, with the
hope that something would yet occur, by which I might be made free. Over and
over again, they have told me, that “they believed I had as good a right
to be free as they had;” and that “they did not believe God
ever made any one to be a slave.” The reader will easily see, that such
little conversations with my play fellows, had no tendency to weaken my love of
liberty, nor to render me contented with my condition as a slave.

When I was about thirteen years old, and had succeeded in learning to read,
every increase of knowledge, especially respecting the FREE STATES, added
something to the almost intolerable burden of the thought—I AM A SLAVE
FOR LIFE. To my bondage I saw no end. It was a terrible reality, and I shall
never be able to tell how sadly that thought chafed my young spirit.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, about this time in my life, I had made enough
money to buy what was then a very popular school book, viz: the Columbian
Orator. I bought this addition to my library, of Mr. Knight, on Thames
street, Fell’s Point, Baltimore, and paid him fifty cents for it. I was
first led to buy this book, by hearing some little boys say they were going to
learn some little pieces out of it for the Exhibition. This volume was, indeed,
a rich treasure, and every opportunity afforded me, for a time, was spent in
diligently perusing it. Among much other interesting matter, that which I had
perused and reperused with unflagging satisfaction, was a short dialogue
between a master and his slave. The slave is represented as having been
recaptured, in a second attempt to run away; and the master opens the dialogue
with an upbraiding speech, charging the slave with ingratitude, and demanding
to know what he has to say in his own defense. Thus upbraided, and thus called
upon to reply, the slave rejoins, that he knows how little anything that he can
say will avail, seeing that he is completely in the hands of his owner; and
with noble resolution, calmly says, “I submit to my fate.” Touched
by the slave’s answer, the master insists upon his further speaking, and
recapitulates the many acts of kindness which he has performed toward the
slave, and tells him he is permitted to speak for himself. Thus invited to the
debate, the quondam slave made a spirited defense of himself, and thereafter
the whole argument, for and against slavery, was brought out. The master was
vanquished at every turn in the argument; and seeing himself to be thus
vanquished, he generously and meekly emancipates the slave, with his best
wishes for his prosperity. It is scarcely neccessary(sic) to say, that a
dialogue, with such an origin, and such an ending—read when the fact of
my being a slave was a constant burden of grief—powerfully affected me;
and I could not help feeling that the day might come, when the well-directed
answers made by the slave to the master, in this instance, would find their
counterpart in myself.

This, however, was not all the fanaticism which I found in this Columbian
Orator. I met there one of Sheridan’s mighty speeches, on the subject
of Catholic Emancipation, Lord Chatham’s speech on the American war, and
speeches by the great William Pitt and by Fox. These were all choice documents
to me, and I read them, over and over again, with an interest that was ever
increasing, because it was ever gaining in intelligence; for the more I read
them, the better I understood them. The reading of these speeches added much to
my limited stock of language, and enabled me to give tongue to many interesting
thoughts, which had frequently flashed through my soul, and died away for want
of utterance. The mighty power and heart-searching directness of truth,
penetrating even the heart of a slaveholder, compelling him to yield up his
earthly interests to the claims of eternal justice, were finely illustrated in
the dialogue, just referred to; and from the speeches of Sheridan, I got a bold
and powerful denunciation of oppression, and a most brilliant vindication of
the rights of man. Here was, indeed, a noble acquisition. If I ever wavered
under the consideration, that the Almighty, in some way, ordained slavery, and
willed my enslavement for his own glory, I wavered no longer. I had now
penetrated the secret of all slavery and oppression, and had ascertained their
true foundation to be in the pride, the power and the avarice of man. The
dialogue and the speeches were all redolent of the principles of liberty, and
poured floods of light on the nature and character of slavery. With a book of
this kind in my hand, my own human nature, and the facts of my experience, to
help me, I was equal to a contest with the religious advocates of slavery,
whether among the whites or among the colored people, for blindness, in this
matter, is not confined to the former. I have met many religious colored
people, at the south, who are under the delusion that God requires them to
submit to slavery, and to wear their chains with meekness and humility. I could
entertain no such nonsense as this; and I almost lost my patience when I found
any colored man weak enough to believe such stuff. Nevertheless, the increase
of knowledge was attended with bitter, as well as sweet results. The more I
read, the more I was led to abhor and detest slavery, and my enslavers.
“Slaveholders,” thought I, “are only a band of successful
robbers, who left their homes and went into Africa for the purpose of stealing
and reducing my people to slavery.” I loathed them as the meanest and the
most wicked of men. As I read, behold! the very discontent so graphically
predicted by Master Hugh, had already come upon me. I was no longer the
light-hearted, gleesome boy, full of mirth and play, as when I landed first at
Baltimore. Knowledge had come; light had penetrated the moral dungeon where I
dwelt; and, behold! there lay the bloody whip, for my back, and here was the
iron chain; and my good, kind master, he was the author of my situation.
The revelation haunted me, stung me, and made me gloomy and miserable. As I
writhed under the sting and torment of this knowledge, I almost envied my
fellow slaves their stupid contentment. This knowledge opened my eyes to the
horrible pit, and revealed the teeth of the frightful dragon that was ready to
pounce upon me, but it opened no way for my escape. I have often wished myself
a beast, or a bird—anything, rather than a slave. I was wretched and
gloomy, beyond my ability to describe. I was too thoughtful to be happy. It was
this everlasting thinking which distressed and tormented me; and yet there was
no getting rid of the subject of my thoughts. All nature was redolent of it.
Once awakened by the silver trump of knowledge, my spirit was roused to eternal
wakefulness. Liberty! the inestimable birthright of every man, had, for me,
converted every object into an asserter of this great right. It was heard in
every sound, and beheld in every object. It was ever present, to torment me
with a sense of my wretched condition. The more beautiful and charming were the
smiles of nature, the more horrible and desolate was my condition. I saw
nothing without seeing it, and I heard nothing without hearing it. I do not
exaggerate, when I say, that it looked from every star, smiled in every calm,
breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.

I have no doubt that my state of mind had something to do with the change in
the treatment adopted, by my once kind mistress toward me. I can easily
believe, that my leaden, downcast, and discontented look, was very offensive to
her. Poor lady! She did not know my trouble, and I dared not tell her. Could I
have freely made her acquainted with the real state of my mind, and given her
the reasons therefor, it might have been well for both of us. Her abuse of me
fell upon me like the blows of the false prophet upon his ass; she did not know
that an angel stood in the way; and—such is the relation of master
and slave I could not tell her. Nature had made us friends; slavery made
us enemies. My interests were in a direction opposite to hers, and we
both had our private thoughts and plans. She aimed to keep me ignorant; and I
resolved to know, although knowledge only increased my discontent. My feelings
were not the result of any marked cruelty in the treatment I received; they
sprung from the consideration of my being a slave at all. It was
slavery—not its mere incidents—that I hated. I had
been cheated. I saw through the attempt to keep me in ignorance; I saw that
slaveholders would have gladly made me believe that they were merely acting
under the authority of God, in making a slave of me, and in making slaves of
others; and I treated them as robbers and deceivers. The feeding and clothing
me well, could not atone for taking my liberty from me. The smiles of my
mistress could not remove the deep sorrow that dwelt in my young bosom. Indeed,
these, in time, came only to deepen my sorrow. She had changed; and the reader
will see that I had changed, too. We were both victims to the same
overshadowing evil—she, as mistress, I, as slave. I will not
censure her harshly; she cannot censure me, for she knows I speak but the
truth, and have acted in my opposition to slavery, just as she herself would
have acted, in a reverse of circumstances.

CHAPTER XII. Religious Nature Awakened

ABOLITIONISTS SPOKEN OF—MY EAGERNESS TO KNOW WHAT THIS WORD
MEANT—MY CONSULTATION OF THE DICTIONARY—INCENDIARY
INFORMATION—HOW AND WHERE DERIVED—THE ENIGMA SOLVED—NATHANIEL
TURNER’S INSURRECTION—THE CHOLERA—RELIGION—FIRST
AWAKENED BY A METHODIST MINISTER NAMED HANSON—MY DEAR AND GOOD OLD
COLORED FRIEND, LAWSON—HIS CHARACTER AND OCCUPATION—HIS INFLUENCE
OVER ME—OUR MUTUAL ATTACHMENT—THE COMFORT I DERIVED FROM HIS
TEACHING—NEW HOPES AND ASPIRATIONS—HEAVENLY LIGHT AMIDST EARTHLY
DARKNESS—THE TWO IRISHMEN ON THE WHARF—THEIR CONVERSATION—HOW
I LEARNED TO WRITE—WHAT WERE MY AIMS.

Whilst in the painful state of mind described in the foregoing chapter, almost
regretting my very existence, because doomed to a life of bondage, so goaded
and so wretched, at times, that I was even tempted to destroy my own life, I
was keenly sensitive and eager to know any, and every thing that transpired,
having any relation to the subject of slavery. I was all ears, all eyes,
whenever the words slave, slavery, dropped from the lips of any white
person, and the occasions were not unfrequent when these words became leading
ones, in high, social debate, at our house. Every little while, I could hear
Master Hugh, or some of his company, speaking with much warmth and excitement
about “abolitionists.” Of who or what these
were, I was totally ignorant. I found, however, that whatever they might be,
they were most cordially hated and soundly abused by slaveholders, of every
grade. I very soon discovered, too, that slavery was, in some sort, under
consideration, whenever the abolitionists were alluded to. This made the term a
very interesting one to me. If a slave, for instance, had made good his escape
from slavery, it was generally alleged, that he had been persuaded and assisted
by the abolitionists. If, also, a slave killed his master—as was
sometimes the case—or struck down his overseer, or set fire to his
master’s dwelling, or committed any violence or crime, out of the common
way, it was certain to be said, that such a crime was the legitimate fruits of
the abolition movement. Hearing such charges often repeated, I, naturally
enough, received the impression that abolition—whatever else it might
be—could not be unfriendly to the slave, nor very friendly to the
slaveholder. I therefore set about finding out, if possible, who and
what the abolitionists were, and why they were so obnoxious to
the slaveholders. The dictionary afforded me very little help. It taught me
that abolition was the “act of abolishing;” but it left me in
ignorance at the very point where I most wanted information—and that was,
as to the thing to be abolished. A city newspaper, the Baltimore
American, gave me the incendiary information denied me by the dictionary.
In its columns I found, that, on a certain day, a vast number of petitions and
memorials had been presented to congress, praying for the abolition of slavery
in the District of Columbia, and for the abolition of the slave trade between
the states of the Union. This was enough. The vindictive bitterness, the marked
caution, the studied reverse, and the cumbrous ambiguity, practiced by our
white folks, when alluding to this subject, was now fully explained. Ever,
after that, when I heard the words “abolition,” or “abolition
movement,” mentioned, I felt the matter one of a personal concern; and I
drew near to listen, when I could do so, without seeming too solicitous and
prying. There was HOPE in those words. Ever and anon, too, I could see some
terrible denunciation of slavery, in our papers—copied from abolition
papers at the north—and the injustice of such denunciation commented on.
These I read with avidity. I had a deep satisfaction in the thought, that the
rascality of slaveholders was not concealed from the eyes of the world, and
that I was not alone in abhorring the cruelty and brutality of slavery. A still
deeper train of thought was stirred. I saw that there was fear, as well
as rage, in the manner of speaking of the abolitionists. The latter,
therefore, I was compelled to regard as having some power in the country; and I
felt that they might, possibly, succeed in their designs. When I met with a
slave to whom I deemed it safe to talk on the subject, I would impart to him so
much of the mystery as I had been able to penetrate. Thus, the light of this
grand movement broke in upon my mind, by degrees; and I must say, that,
ignorant as I then was of the philosophy of that movement, I believe in it from
the first—and I believed in it, partly, because I saw that it alarmed the
consciences of slaveholders. The insurrection of Nathaniel Turner had been
quelled, but the alarm and terror had not subsided. The cholera was on its way,
and the thought was present, that God was angry with the white people because
of their slaveholding wickedness, and, therefore, his judgments were abroad in
the land. It was impossible for me not to hope much from the abolition
movement, when I saw it supported by the Almighty, and armed with DEATH!

Previous to my contemplation of the anti-slavery movement, and its probable
results, my mind had been seriously awakened to the subject of religion. I was
not more than thirteen years old, when I felt the need of God, as a father and
protector. My religious nature was awakened by the preaching of a white
Methodist minister, named Hanson. He thought that all men, great and small,
bond and free, were sinners in the sight of God; that they were, by nature,
rebels against His government; and that they must repent of their sins, and be
reconciled to God, through Christ. I cannot say that I had a very distinct
notion of what was required of me; but one thing I knew very well—I was
wretched, and had no means of making myself otherwise. Moreover, I knew that I
could pray for light. I consulted a good colored man, named Charles Johnson;
and, in tones of holy affection, he told me to pray, and what to pray for. I
was, for weeks, a poor, brokenhearted mourner, traveling through the darkness
and misery of doubts and fears. I finally found that change of heart which
comes by “casting all one’s care” upon God, and by having
faith in Jesus Christ, as the Redeemer, Friend, and Savior of those who
diligently seek Him.

After this, I saw the world in a new light. I seemed to live in a new world,
surrounded by new objects, and to be animated by new hopes and desires. I loved
all mankind—slaveholders not excepted; though I abhorred slavery more
than ever. My great concern was, now, to have the world converted. The desire
for knowledge increased, and especially did I want a thorough acquaintance with
the contents of the bible. I have gathered scattered pages from this holy book,
from the filthy street gutters of Baltimore, and washed and dried them, that in
the moments of my leisure, I might get a word or two of wisdom from them. While
thus religiously seeking knowledge, I became acquainted with a good old colored
man, named Lawson. A more devout man than he, I never saw. He drove a dray for
Mr. James Ramsey, the owner of a rope-walk on Fell’s Point, Baltimore.
This man not only prayed three time a day, but he prayed as he walked through
the streets, at his work—on his dray everywhere. His life was a life of
prayer, and his words (when he spoke to his friends,) were about a better
world. Uncle Lawson lived near Master Hugh’s house; and, becoming deeply
attached to the old man, I went often with him to prayer-meeting, and spent
much of my leisure time with him on Sunday. The old man could read a little,
and I was a great help to him, in making out the hard words, for I was a better
reader than he. I could teach him “the letter,” but he could
teach me “the spirit;” and high, refreshing times we had
together, in singing, praying and glorifying God. These meetings with Uncle
Lawson went on for a long time, without the knowledge of Master Hugh or my
mistress. Both knew, however, that I had become religious, and they seemed to
respect my conscientious piety. My mistress was still a professor of religion,
and belonged to class. Her leader was no less a person than the Rev. Beverly
Waugh, the presiding elder, and now one of the bishops of the Methodist
Episcopal church. Mr. Waugh was then stationed over Wilk street church. I am
careful to state these facts, that the reader may be able to form an idea of
the precise influences which had to do with shaping and directing my mind.

In view of the cares and anxieties incident to the life she was then leading,
and, especially, in view of the separation from religious associations to which
she was subjected, my mistress had, as I have before stated, become lukewarm,
and needed to be looked up by her leader. This brought Mr. Waugh to our house,
and gave me an opportunity to hear him exhort and pray. But my chief
instructor, in matters of religion, was Uncle Lawson. He was my spiritual
father; and I loved him intensely, and was at his house every chance I got.

This pleasure was not long allowed me. Master Hugh became averse to my going to
Father Lawson’s, and threatened to whip me if I ever went there again. I
now felt myself persecuted by a wicked man; and I would go to Father
Lawson’s, notwithstanding the threat. The good old man had told me, that
the “Lord had a great work for me to do;” and I must prepare to do
it; and that he had been shown that I must preach the gospel. His words made a
deep impression on my mind, and I verily felt that some such work was before
me, though I could not see how I should ever engage in its performance.
“The good Lord,” he said, “would bring it to pass in his own
good time,” and that I must go on reading and studying the scriptures.
The advice and the suggestions of Uncle Lawson, were not without their
influence upon my character and destiny. He threw my thoughts into a channel
from which they have never entirely diverged. He fanned my already intense love
of knowledge into a flame, by assuring me that I was to be a useful man in the
world. When I would say to him, “How can these things be and what can
I do?” his simple reply was, “Trust in the
Lord.” When I told him that “I was a slave, and a slave FOR
LIFE,” he said, “the Lord can make you free, my dear. All things
are possible with him, only have faith in God.” “Ask, and it
shall be given.” “If you want liberty,” said the good old
man, “ask the Lord for it, in faith, AND HE WILL GIVE IT TO
YOU.”

Thus assured, and cheered on, under the inspiration of hope, I worked and
prayed with a light heart, believing that my life was under the guidance of a
wisdom higher than my own. With all other blessings sought at the mercy seat, I
always prayed that God would, of His great mercy, and in His own good time,
deliver me from my bondage.

I went, one day, on the wharf of Mr. Waters; and seeing two Irishmen unloading
a large scow of stone, or ballast I went on board, unasked, and helped them.
When we had finished the work, one of the men came to me, aside, and asked me a
number of questions, and among them, if I were a slave. I told him “I was
a slave, and a slave for life.” The good Irishman gave his shoulders a
shrug, and seemed deeply affected by the statement. He said, “it was a
pity so fine a little fellow as myself should be a slave for life.” They
both had much to say about the matter, and expressed the deepest sympathy with
me, and the most decided hatred of slavery. They went so far as to tell me that
I ought to run away, and go to the north; that I should find friends there, and
that I would be as free as anybody. I, however, pretended not to be interested
in what they said, for I feared they might be treacherous. White men have been
known to encourage slaves to escape, and then—to get the
reward—they have kidnapped them, and returned them to their masters. And
while I mainly inclined to the notion that these men were honest and meant me
no ill, I feared it might be otherwise. I nevertheless remembered their words
and their advice, and looked forward to an escape to the north, as a possible
means of gaining the liberty for which my heart panted. It was not my
enslavement, at the then present time, that most affected me; the being a slave
for life, was the saddest thought. I was too young to think of running
away immediately; besides, I wished to learn how to write, before going, as I
might have occasion to write my own pass. I now not only had the hope of
freedom, but a foreshadowing of the means by which I might, some day, gain that
inestimable boon. Meanwhile, I resolved to add to my educational attainments
the art of writing.

After this manner I began to learn to write: I was much in the ship
yard—Master Hugh’s, and that of Durgan & Bailey—and I
observed that the carpenters, after hewing and getting a piece of timber ready
for use, wrote on it the initials of the name of that part of the ship for
which it was intended. When, for instance, a piece of timber was ready for the
starboard side, it was marked with a capital “S.” A piece for the
larboard side was marked “L;” larboard forward, “L.
F.;” larboard aft, was marked “L. A.;” starboard aft,
“S. A.;” and starboard forward “S. F.” I soon learned
these letters, and for what they were placed on the timbers.

My work was now, to keep fire under the steam box, and to watch the ship yard
while the carpenters had gone to dinner. This interval gave me a fine
opportunity for copying the letters named. I soon astonished myself with the
ease with which I made the letters; and the thought was soon present, “if
I can make four, I can make more.” But having made these easily, when I
met boys about Bethel church, or any of our play-grounds, I entered the lists
with them in the art of writing, and would make the letters which I had been so
fortunate as to learn, and ask them to “beat that if they could.”
With playmates for my teachers, fences and pavements for my copy books, and
chalk for my pen and ink, I learned the art of writing. I, however, afterward
adopted various methods of improving my hand. The most successful, was copying
the italics in Webster’s spelling book, until I could make them
all without looking on the book. By this time, my little “Master
Tommy” had grown to be a big boy, and had written over a number of copy
books, and brought them home. They had been shown to the neighbors, had
elicited due praise, and were now laid carefully away. Spending my time between
the ship yard and house, I was as often the lone keeper of the latter as of the
former. When my mistress left me in charge of the house, I had a grand time; I
got Master Tommy’s copy books and a pen and ink, and, in the ample spaces
between the lines, I wrote other lines, as nearly like his as possible. The
process was a tedious one, and I ran the risk of getting a flogging for marring
the highly prized copy books of the oldest son. In addition to those
opportunities, sleeping, as I did, in the kitchen loft—a room seldom
visited by any of the family—I got a flour barrel up there, and a chair;
and upon the head of that barrel I have written (or endeavored to write)
copying from the bible and the Methodist hymn book, and other books which had
accumulated on my hands, till late at night, and when all the family were in
bed and asleep. I was supported in my endeavors by renewed advice, and by holy
promises from the good Father Lawson, with whom I continued to meet, and pray,
and read the scriptures. Although Master Hugh was aware of my going there, I
must say, for his credit, that he never executed his threat to whip me, for
having thus, innocently, employed-my leisure time.

CHAPTER XIII. The Vicissitudes of Slave Life

DEATH OF OLD MASTER’S SON RICHARD, SPEEDILY FOLLOWED BY THAT OF OLD
MASTER—VALUATION AND DIVISION OF ALL THE PROPERTY, INCLUDING THE
SLAVES—MY PRESENCE REQUIRED AT HILLSBOROUGH TO BE APPRAISED AND ALLOTTED
TO A NEW OWNER—MY SAD PROSPECTS AND GRIEF—PARTING—THE UTTER
POWERLESSNESS OF THE SLAVES TO DECIDE THEIR OWN DESTINY—A GENERAL DREAD
OF MASTER ANDREW—HIS WICKEDNESS AND CRUELTY—MISS LUCRETIA MY NEW
OWNER—MY RETURN TO BALTIMORE—JOY UNDER THE ROOF OF MASTER
HUGH—DEATH OF MRS. LUCRETIA—MY POOR OLD GRANDMOTHER—HER SAD
FATE—THE LONE COT IN THE WOODS—MASTER THOMAS AULD’S SECOND
MARRIAGE—AGAIN REMOVED FROM MASTER HUGH’S—REASONS FOR
REGRETTING THE CHANGE—A PLAN OF ESCAPE ENTERTAINED.

I must now ask the reader to go with me a little back in point of time, in my
humble story, and to notice another circumstance that entered into my slavery
experience, and which, doubtless, has had a share in deepening my horror of
slavery, and increasing my hostility toward those men and measures that
practically uphold the slave system.

It has already been observed, that though I was, after my removal from Col.
Lloyd’s plantation, in form the slave of Master Hugh, I was, in
fact, and in law, the slave of my old master, Capt. Anthony. Very
well.

In a very short time after I went to Baltimore, my old master’s youngest
son, Richard, died; and, in three years and six months after his death, my old
master himself died, leaving only his son, Andrew, and his daughter, Lucretia,
to share his estate. The old man died while on a visit to his daughter, in
Hillsborough, where Capt. Auld and Mrs. Lucretia now lived. The former, having
given up the command of Col. Lloyd’s sloop, was now keeping a store in
that town.

Cut off, thus unexpectedly, Capt. Anthony died intestate; and his property must
now be equally divided between his two children, Andrew and Lucretia.

The valuation and the division of slaves, among contending heirs, is an
important incident in slave life. The character and tendencies of the heirs,
are generally well understood among the slaves who are to be divided, and all
have their aversions and preferences. But, neither their aversions nor their
preferences avail them anything.

On the death of old master, I was immediately sent for, to be valued and
divided with the other property. Personally, my concern was, mainly, about my
possible removal from the home of Master Hugh, which, after that of my
grandmother, was the most endeared to me. But, the whole thing, as a feature of
slavery, shocked me. It furnished me anew insight into the unnatural power to
which I was subjected. My detestation of slavery, already great, rose with this
new conception of its enormity.

That was a sad day for me, a sad day for little Tommy, and a sad day for my
dear Baltimore mistress and teacher, when I left for the Eastern Shore, to be
valued and divided. We, all three, wept bitterly that day; for we might be
parting, and we feared we were parting, forever. No one could tell among which
pile of chattels I should be flung. Thus early, I got a foretaste of that
painful uncertainty which slavery brings to the ordinary lot of mortals.
Sickness, adversity and death may interfere with the plans and purposes of all;
but the slave has the added danger of changing homes, changing hands, and of
having separations unknown to other men. Then, too, there was the intensified
degradation of the spectacle. What an assemblage! Men and women, young and old,
married and single; moral and intellectual beings, in open contempt of their
humanity, level at a blow with horses, sheep, horned cattle and swine! Horses
and men—cattle and women—pigs and children—all holding the
same rank in the scale of social existence; and all subjected to the same
narrow inspection, to ascertain their value in gold and silver—the only
standard of worth applied by slaveholders to slaves! How vividly, at that
moment, did the brutalizing power of slavery flash before me! Personality
swallowed up in the sordid idea of property! Manhood lost in chattelhood!

After the valuation, then came the division. This was an hour of high
excitement and distressing anxiety. Our destiny was now to be fixed for
life, and we had no more voice in the decision of the question, than the
oxen and cows that stood chewing at the haymow. One word from the appraisers,
against all preferences or prayers, was enough to sunder all the ties of
friendship and affection, and even to separate husbands and wives, parents and
children. We were all appalled before that power, which, to human seeming,
could bless or blast us in a moment. Added to the dread of separation, most
painful to the majority of the slaves, we all had a decided horror of the
thought of falling into the hands of Master Andrew. He was distinguished for
cruelty and intemperance.

Slaves generally dread to fall into the hands of drunken owners. Master Andrew
was almost a confirmed sot, and had already, by his reckless mismanagement and
profligate dissipation, wasted a large portion of old master’s property.
To fall into his hands, was, therefore, considered merely as the first step
toward being sold away to the far south. He would spend his fortune in a few
years, and his farms and slaves would be sold, we thought, at public outcry;
and we should be hurried away to the cotton fields, and rice swamps, of the
sunny south. This was the cause of deep consternation.

The people of the north, and free people generally, I think, have less
attachment to the places where they are born and brought up, than have the
slaves. Their freedom to go and come, to be here and there, as they list,
prevents any extravagant attachment to any one particular place, in their case.
On the other hand, the slave is a fixture; he has no choice, no goal, no
destination; but is pegged down to a single spot, and must take root here, or
nowhere. The idea of removal elsewhere, comes, generally, in the shape of a
threat, and in punishment of crime. It is, therefore, attended with fear and
dread. A slave seldom thinks of bettering his condition by being sold, and
hence he looks upon separation from his native place, with none of the
enthusiasm which animates the bosoms of young freemen, when they contemplate a
life in the far west, or in some distant country where they intend to rise to
wealth and distinction. Nor can those from whom they separate, give them up
with that cheerfulness with which friends and relations yield each other up,
when they feel that it is for the good of the departing one that he is removed
from his native place. Then, too, there is correspondence, and there is, at
least, the hope of reunion, because reunion is possible. But, with the
slave, all these mitigating circumstances are wanting. There is no improvement
in his condition probable,—no correspondence
possible,—no reunion attainable. His going out into the world, is
like a living man going into the tomb, who, with open eyes, sees himself buried
out of sight and hearing of wife, children and friends of kindred tie.

In contemplating the likelihoods and possibilities of our circumstances, I
probably suffered more than most of my fellow servants. I had known what it was
to experience kind, and even tender treatment; they had known nothing of the
sort. Life, to them, had been rough and thorny, as well as dark. They
had—most of them—lived on my old master’s farm in Tuckahoe,
and had felt the reign of Mr. Plummer’s rule. The overseer had written
his character on the living parchment of most of their backs, and left them
callous; my back (thanks to my early removal from the plantation to Baltimore)
was yet tender. I had left a kind mistress at Baltimore, who was almost a
mother to me. She was in tears when we parted, and the probabilities of ever
seeing her again, trembling in the balance as they did, could not be viewed
without alarm and agony. The thought of leaving that kind mistress forever,
and, worse still, of being the slave of Andrew Anthony—a man who, but a
few days before the division of the property, had, in my presence, seized my
brother Perry by the throat, dashed him on the ground, and with the heel of his
boot stamped him on the head, until the blood gushed from his nose and
ears—was terrible! This fiendish proceeding had no better apology than
the fact, that Perry had gone to play, when Master Andrew wanted him for some
trifling service. This cruelty, too, was of a piece with his general character.
After inflicting his heavy blows on my brother, on observing me looking at him
with intense astonishment, he said, “That is the way I will serve
you, one of these days;” meaning, no doubt, when I should come into his
possession. This threat, the reader may well suppose, was not very
tranquilizing to my feelings. I could see that he really thirsted to get hold
of me. But I was there only for a few days. I had not received any orders, and
had violated none, and there was, therefore, no excuse for flogging me.

At last, the anxiety and suspense were ended; and they ended, thanks to a kind
Providence, in accordance with my wishes. I fell to the portion of Mrs.
Lucretia—the dear lady who bound up my head, when the savage Aunt Katy
was adding to my sufferings her bitterest maledictions.

Capt. Thomas Auld and Mrs. Lucretia at once decided on my return to Baltimore.
They knew how sincerely and warmly Mrs. Hugh Auld was attached to me, and how
delighted Mr. Hugh’s son would be to have me back; and, withal, having no
immediate use for one so young, they willingly let me off to Baltimore.

I need not stop here to narrate my joy on returning to Baltimore, nor that of
little Tommy; nor the tearful joy of his mother; nor the evident
saticfaction(sic) of Master Hugh. I was just one month absent from Baltimore,
before the matter was decided; and the time really seemed full six months.

One trouble over, and on comes another. The slave’s life is full of
uncertainty. I had returned to Baltimore but a short time, when the tidings
reached me, that my friend, Mrs. Lucretia, who was only second in my regard to
Mrs. Hugh Auld, was dead, leaving her husband and only one child—a
daughter, named Amanda.

Shortly after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, strange to say, Master Andrew died,
leaving his wife and one child. Thus, the whole family of Anthonys was swept
away; only two children remained. All this happened within five years of my
leaving Col. Lloyd’s.

No alteration took place in the condition of the slaves, in consequence of
these deaths, yet I could not help feeling less secure, after the death of my
friend, Mrs. Lucretia, than I had done during her life. While she lived, I felt
that I had a strong friend to plead for me in any emergency. Ten years ago,
while speaking of the state of things in our family, after the events just
named, I used this language:

Now all the property of my old master, slaves included, was in the hands of
strangers—strangers who had nothing to do in accumulating it. Not a slave
was left free. All remained slaves, from youngest to oldest. If any one thing
in my experience, more than another, served to deepen my conviction of the
infernal character of slavery, and to fill me with unutterable loathing of
slaveholders, it was their base ingratitude to my poor old grandmother. She had
served my old master faithfully from youth to old age. She had been the source
of all his wealth; she had peopled his plantation with slaves; she had become a
great-grandmother in his service. She had rocked him in infancy, attended him
in childhood, served him through life, and at his death wiped from his icy brow
the cold death-sweat, and closed his eyes forever. She was nevertheless left a
slave—a slave for life—a slave in the hands of strangers; and in
their hands she saw her children, her grandchildren, and her
great-grandchildren, divided, like so many sheep, without being gratified with
the small privilege of a single word, as to their or her own destiny. And, to
cap the climax of their base ingratitude and fiendish barbarity, my
grandmother, who was now very old, having outlived my old master and all his
children, having seen the beginning and end of all of them, and her present
owners finding she was of but little value, her frame already racked with the
pains of old age, and complete helplessness fast stealing over her once active
limbs, they took her to the woods, built her a little hut, put up a little
mud-chimney, and then made her welcome to the privilege of supporting herself
there in perfect loneliness; thus virtually turning her out to die! If my poor
old grandmother now lives, she lives to suffer in utter loneliness; she lives
to remember and mourn over the loss of children, the loss of grandchildren, and
the loss of great-grandchildren. They are, in the language of the slave’s
poet, Whittier—

Gone, gone, sold and gone,
To the rice swamp dank and lone,
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever-demon strews
Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air:—
          Gone, gone, sold and gone
          To the rice swamp dank and lone,
          From Virginia hills and waters—
          Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

The hearth is desolate. The children, the unconscious children, who once sang
and danced in her presence, are gone. She gropes her way, in the darkness of
age, for a drink of water. Instead of the voices of her children, she hears by
day the moans of the dove, and by night the screams of the hideous owl. All is
gloom. The grave is at the door. And now, when weighed down by the pains and
aches of old age, when the head inclines to the feet, when the beginning and
ending of human existence meet, and helpless infancy and painful old age
combine together—at this time, this most needful time, the time for the
exercise of that tenderness and affection which children only can exercise
toward a declining parent—my poor old grandmother, the devoted mother of
twelve children, is left all alone, in yonder little hut, before a few dim
embers.

Two years after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, Master Thomas married his second
wife. Her name was Rowena Hamilton, the eldest daughter of Mr. William
Hamilton, a rich slaveholder on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, who lived about
five miles from St. Michael’s, the then place of my master’s
residence.

Not long after his marriage, Master Thomas had a misunderstanding with Master
Hugh, and, as a means of punishing his brother, he ordered him to send me home.

As the ground of misunderstanding will serve to illustrate the character of
southern chivalry, and humanity, I will relate it.

Among the children of my Aunt Milly, was a daughter, named Henny. When quite a
child, Henny had fallen into the fire, and burnt her hands so bad that they
were of very little use to her. Her fingers were drawn almost into the palms of
her hands. She could make out to do something, but she was considered hardly
worth the having—of little more value than a horse with a broken leg.
This unprofitable piece of human property, ill shapen, and disfigured, Capt.
Auld sent off to Baltimore, making his brother Hugh welcome to her services.

After giving poor Henny a fair trial, Master Hugh and his wife came to the
conclusion, that they had no use for the crippled servant, and they sent her
back to Master Thomas. Thus, the latter took as an act of ingratitude, on the
part of his brother; and, as a mark of his displeasure, he required him to send
me immediately to St. Michael’s, saying, if he cannot keep
“Hen,” he shall not have “Fred.”

Here was another shock to my nerves, another breaking up of my plans, and
another severance of my religious and social alliances. I was now a big boy. I
had become quite useful to several young colored men, who had made me their
teacher. I had taught some of them to read, and was accustomed to spend many of
my leisure hours with them. Our attachment was strong, and I greatly dreaded
the separation. But regrets, especially in a slave, are unavailing. I was only
a slave; my wishes were nothing, and my happiness was the sport of my masters.

My regrets at now leaving Baltimore, were not for the same reasons as when I
before left that city, to be valued and handed over to my proper owner. My home
was not now the pleasant place it had formerly been. A change had taken place,
both in Master Hugh, and in his once pious and affectionate wife. The influence
of brandy and bad company on him, and the influence of slavery and social
isolation upon her, had wrought disastrously upon the characters of both.
Thomas was no longer “little Tommy,” but was a big boy, and had
learned to assume the airs of his class toward me. My condition, therefore, in
the house of Master Hugh, was not, by any means, so comfortable as in former
years. My attachments were now outside of our family. They were felt to those
to whom I imparted instruction, and to those little white boys from whom
I received instruction. There, too, was my dear old father, the pious
Lawson, who was, in christian graces, the very counterpart of
“Uncle” Tom. The resemblance is so perfect, that he might have been
the original of Mrs. Stowe’s christian hero. The thought of leaving these
dear friends, greatly troubled me, for I was going without the hope of ever
returning to Baltimore again; the feud between Master Hugh and his brother
being bitter and irreconcilable, or, at least, supposed to be so.

In addition to thoughts of friends from whom I was parting, as I supposed,
forever, I had the grief of neglected chances of escape to brood over. I
had put off running away, until now I was to be placed where the opportunities
for escaping were much fewer than in a large city like Baltimore.

On my way from Baltimore to St. Michael’s, down the Chesapeake bay, our
sloop—the “Amanda”—was passed by the steamers plying
between that city and Philadelphia, and I watched the course of those steamers,
and, while going to St. Michael’s, I formed a plan to escape from
slavery; of which plan, and matters connected therewith the kind reader shall
learn more hereafter.

CHAPTER XIV. Experience in St. Michael’s

THE VILLAGE—ITS INHABITANTS—THEIR OCCUPATION AND LOW PROPENSITIES
CAPTAN(sic) THOMAS AULD—HIS CHARACTER—HIS SECOND WIFE,
ROWENA—WELL MATCHED—SUFFERINGS FROM HUNGER—OBLIGED TO TAKE
FOOD—MODE OF ARGUMENT IN VINDICATION THEREOF—NO MORAL CODE OF FREE
SOCIETY CAN APPLY TO SLAVE SOCIETY—SOUTHERN CAMP MEETING—WHAT
MASTER THOMAS DID THERE—HOPES—SUSPICIONS ABOUT HIS
CONVERSION—THE RESULT—FAITH AND WORKS ENTIRELY AT
VARIANCE—HIS RISE AND PROGRESS IN THE CHURCH—POOR COUSIN
“HENNY”—HIS TREATMENT OF HER—THE METHODIST
PREACHERS—THEIR UTTER DISREGARD OF US—ONE EXCELLENT
EXCEPTION—REV. GEORGE COOKMAN—SABBATH SCHOOL—HOW BROKEN UP
AND BY WHOM—A FUNERAL PALL CAST OVER ALL MY PROSPECTS—COVEY THE
NEGRO-BREAKER.

St. Michael’s, the village in which was now my new home, compared
favorably with villages in slave states, generally. There were a few
comfortable dwellings in it, but the place, as a whole, wore a dull, slovenly,
enterprise-forsaken aspect. The mass of the buildings were wood; they had never
enjoyed the artificial adornment of paint, and time and storms had worn off the
bright color of the wood, leaving them almost as black as buildings charred by
a conflagration.

St. Michael’s had, in former years, (previous to 1833, for that was the
year I went to reside there,) enjoyed some reputation as a ship building
community, but that business had almost entirely given place to oyster fishing,
for the Baltimore and Philadelphia markets—a course of life highly
unfavorable to morals, industry, and manners. Miles river was broad, and its
oyster fishing grounds were extensive; and the fishermen were out, often, all
day, and a part of the night, during autumn, winter and spring. This exposure
was an excuse for carrying with them, in considerable quanties(sic), spirituous
liquors, the then supposed best antidote for cold. Each canoe was supplied with
its jug of rum; and tippling, among this class of the citizens of St.
Michael’s, became general. This drinking habit, in an ignorant
population, fostered coarseness, vulgarity and an indolent disregard for the
social improvement of the place, so that it was admitted, by the few sober,
thinking people who remained there, that St. Michael’s had become a very
unsaintly, as well as unsightly place, before I went there to reside.

I left Baltimore for St. Michael’s in the month of March, 1833. I know
the year, because it was the one succeeding the first cholera in Baltimore, and
was the year, also, of that strange phenomenon, when the heavens seemed about
to part with its starry train. I witnessed this gorgeous spectacle, and was
awe-struck. The air seemed filled with bright, descending messengers from the
sky. It was about daybreak when I saw this sublime scene. I was not without the
suggestion, at the moment, that it might be the harbinger of the coming of the
Son of Man; and, in my then state of mind, I was prepared to hail Him as my
friend and deliverer. I had read, that the “stars shall fall from
heaven”; and they were now falling. I was suffering much in my mind. It
did seem that every time the young tendrils of my affection became attached,
they were rudely broken by some unnatural outside power; and I was beginning to
look away to heaven for the rest denied me on earth.

But, to my story. It was now more than seven years since I had lived with
Master Thomas Auld, in the family of my old master, on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. We were almost entire strangers to each other; for, when I knew him
at the house of my old master, it was not as a master, but simply as
“Captain Auld,” who had married old master’s daughter. All my
lessons concerning his temper and disposition, and the best methods of pleasing
him, were yet to be learnt. Slaveholders, however, are not very ceremonious in
approaching a slave; and my ignorance of the new material in shape of a master
was but transient. Nor was my mistress long in making known her animus. She was
not a “Miss Lucretia,” traces of whom I yet remembered, and the
more especially, as I saw them shining in the face of little Amanda, her
daughter, now living under a step-mother’s government. I had not
forgotten the soft hand, guided by a tender heart, that bound up with healing
balsam the gash made in my head by Ike, the son of Abel. Thomas and Rowena, I
found to be a well-matched pair. He was stingy, and she was
cruel; and—what was quite natural in such cases—she possessed the
ability to make him as cruel as herself, while she could easily descend to the
level of his meanness. In the house of Master Thomas, I was made—for the
first time in seven years to feel the pinchings of hunger, and this was not
very easy to bear.

For, in all the changes of Master Hugh’s family, there was no change in
the bountifulness with which they supplied me with food. Not to give a slave
enough to eat, is meanness intensified, and it is so recognized among
slaveholders generally, in Maryland. The rule is, no matter how coarse the
food, only let there be enough of it. This is the theory, and—in the part
of Maryland I came from—the general practice accords with this theory.
Lloyd’s plantation was an exception, as was, also, the house of Master
Thomas Auld.

All know the lightness of Indian corn-meal, as an article of food, and can
easily judge from the following facts whether the statements I have made of the
stinginess of Master Thomas, are borne out. There were four slaves of us in the
kitchen, and four whites in the great house Thomas Auld, Mrs. Auld, Hadaway
Auld (brother of Thomas Auld) and little Amanda. The names of the slaves in the
kitchen, were Eliza, my sister; Priscilla, my aunt; Henny, my cousin; and
myself. There were eight persons in the family. There was, each week, one half
bushel of corn-meal brought from the mill; and in the kitchen, corn-meal was
almost our exclusive food, for very little else was allowed us. Out of this
bushel of corn-meal, the family in the great house had a small loaf every
morning; thus leaving us, in the kitchen, with not quite a half a peck per
week, apiece. This allowance was less than half the allowance of food on
Lloyd’s plantation. It was not enough to subsist upon; and we were,
therefore, reduced to the wretched necessity of living at the expense of our
neighbors. We were compelled either to beg, or to steal, and we did both. I
frankly confess, that while I hated everything like stealing, as such, I
nevertheless did not hesitate to take food, when I was hungry, wherever I could
find it. Nor was this practice the mere result of an unreasoning instinct; it
was, in my case, the result of a clear apprehension of the claims of morality.
I weighed and considered the matter closely, before I ventured to satisfy my
hunger by such means. Considering that my labor and person were the property of
Master Thomas, and that I was by him deprived of the necessaries of life
necessaries obtained by my own labor—it was easy to deduce the right to
supply myself with what was my own. It was simply appropriating what was my own
to the use of my master, since the health and strength derived from such food
were exerted in his service. To be sure, this was stealing, according to
the law and gospel I heard from St. Michael’s pulpit; but I had already
begun to attach less importance to what dropped from that quarter, on that
point, while, as yet, I retained my reverence for religion. It was not always
convenient to steal from master, and the same reason why I might, innocently,
steal from him, did not seem to justify me in stealing from others. In the case
of my master, it was only a question of removal—the taking his
meat out of one tub, and putting it into another; the ownership of the meat was
not affected by the transaction. At first, he owned it in the tub, and
last, he owned it in me. His meat house was not always open. There was a
strict watch kept on that point, and the key was on a large bunch in
Rowena’s pocket. A great many times have we, poor creatures, been
severely pinched with hunger, when meat and bread have been moulding under the
lock, while the key was in the pocket of our mistress. This had been so when
she knew we were nearly half starved; and yet, that mistress, with
saintly air, would kneel with her husband, and pray each morning that a
merciful God would bless them in basket and in store, and save them, at last,
in his kingdom. But I proceed with the argument.

It was necessary that right to steal from others should be established;
and this could only rest upon a wider range of generalization than that which
supposed the right to steal from my master.

It was sometime before I arrived at this clear right. The reader will get some
idea of my train of reasoning, by a brief statement of the case. “I
am,” thought I, “not only the slave of Thomas, but I am the slave
of society at large. Society at large has bound itself, in form and in fact, to
assist Master Thomas in robbing me of my rightful liberty, and of the just
reward of my labor; therefore, whatever rights I have against Master Thomas, I
have, equally, against those confederated with him in robbing me of liberty. As
society has marked me out as privileged plunder, on the principle of
self-preservation I am justified in plundering in turn. Since each slave
belongs to all; all must, therefore, belong to each.”

I shall here make a profession of faith which may shock some, offend others,
and be dissented from by all. It is this: Within the bounds of his just
earnings, I hold that the slave is fully justified in helping himself to the
gold and silver, and the best apparel of his master, or that of any other
slaveholder; and that such taking is not stealing in any just sense of that
word.

The morality of free society can have no application to slave
society. Slaveholders have made it almost impossible for the slave to commit
any crime, known either to the laws of God or to the laws of man. If he steals,
he takes his own; if he kills his master, he imitates only the heroes of the
revolution. Slaveholders I hold to be individually and collectively responsible
for all the evils which grow out of the horrid relation, and I believe they
will be so held at the judgment, in the sight of a just God. Make a man a
slave, and you rob him of moral responsibility. Freedom of choice is the
essence of all accountability. But my kind readers are, probably, less
concerned about my opinions, than about that which more nearly touches my
personal experience; albeit, my opinions have, in some sort, been formed by
that experience.

Bad as slaveholders are, I have seldom met with one so entirely destitute of
every element of character capable of inspiring respect, as was my present
master, Capt. Thomas Auld.

When I lived with him, I thought him incapable of a noble action. The leading
trait in his character was intense selfishness. I think he was fully aware of
this fact himself, and often tried to conceal it. Capt. Auld was not a
born slaveholder—not a birthright member of the slaveholding
oligarchy. He was only a slaveholder by marriage-right; and, of all
slaveholders, these latter are, by far, the most exacting. There was in
him all the love of domination, the pride of mastery, and the swagger of
authority, but his rule lacked the vital element of consistency. He could be
cruel; but his methods of showing it were cowardly, and evinced his meanness
rather than his spirit. His commands were strong, his enforcement weak.

Slaves are not insensible to the whole-souled characteristics of a generous,
dashing slaveholder, who is fearless of consequences; and they prefer a master
of this bold and daring kind—even with the risk of being shot down for
impudence to the fretful, little soul, who never uses the lash but at the
suggestion of a love of gain.

Slaves, too, readily distinguish between the birthright bearing of the original
slaveholder and the assumed attitudes of the accidental slaveholder; and while
they cannot respect either, they certainly despise the latter more than the
former.

The luxury of having slaves wait upon him was something new to Master Thomas;
and for it he was wholly unprepared. He was a slaveholder, without the ability
to hold or manage his slaves. We seldom called him “master,” but
generally addressed him by his “bay craft”
title—“Capt. Auld.” It is easy to see that such
conduct might do much to make him appear awkward, and, consequently, fretful.
His wife was especially solicitous to have us call her husband
“master.” Is your master at the
store?”—“Where is your master?”—“Go
and tell your master”—“I will make your master
acquainted with your conduct”—she would say; but we were inapt
scholars. Especially were I and my sister Eliza inapt in this particular. Aunt
Priscilla was less stubborn and defiant in her spirit than Eliza and myself;
and, I think, her road was less rough than ours.

In the month of August, 1833, when I had almost become desperate under the
treatment of Master Thomas, and when I entertained more strongly than ever the
oft-repeated determination to run away, a circumstance occurred which seemed to
promise brighter and better days for us all. At a Methodist camp-meeting, held
in the Bay Side (a famous place for campmeetings) about eight miles from St.
Michael’s, Master Thomas came out with a profession of religion. He had
long been an object of interest to the church, and to the ministers, as I had
seen by the repeated visits and lengthy exhortations of the latter. He was a
fish quite worth catching, for he had money and standing. In the community of
St. Michael’s he was equal to the best citizen. He was strictly
temperate; perhaps, from principle, but most likely, from interest.
There was very little to do for him, to give him the appearance of piety, and
to make him a pillar in the church. Well, the camp-meeting continued a week;
people gathered from all parts of the county, and two steamboat loads came from
Baltimore. The ground was happily chosen; seats were arranged; a stand erected;
a rude altar fenced in, fronting the preachers’ stand, with straw in it
for the accommodation of mourners. This latter would hold at least one hundred
persons. In front, and on the sides of the preachers’ stand, and outside
the long rows of seats, rose the first class of stately tents, each vieing with
the other in strength, neatness, and capacity for accommodating its inmates.
Behind this first circle of tents was another, less imposing, which reached
round the camp-ground to the speakers’ stand. Outside this second class
of tents were covered wagons, ox carts, and vehicles of every shape and size.
These served as tents to their owners. Outside of these, huge fires were
burning, in all directions, where roasting, and boiling, and frying, were going
on, for the benefit of those who were attending to their own spiritual welfare
within the circle. Behind the preachers’ stand, a narrow space was
marked out for the use of the colored people. There were no seats provided for
this class of persons; the preachers addressed them, “over the
left,” if they addressed them at all. After the preaching was over,
at every service, an invitation was given to mourners to come into the pen;
and, in some cases, ministers went out to persuade men and women to come in. By
one of these ministers, Master Thomas Auld was persuaded to go inside the pen.
I was deeply interested in that matter, and followed; and, though colored
people were not allowed either in the pen or in front of the preachers’
stand, I ventured to take my stand at a sort of half-way place between the
blacks and whites, where I could distinctly see the movements of mourners, and
especially the progress of Master Thomas.

“If he has got religion,” thought I, “he will emancipate his
slaves; and if he should not do so much as this, he will, at any rate, behave
toward us more kindly, and feed us more generously than he has heretofore
done.” Appealing to my own religious experience, and judging my master by
what was true in my own case, I could not regard him as soundly converted,
unless some such good results followed his profession of religion.

But in my expectations I was doubly disappointed; Master Thomas was Master
Thomas still. The fruits of his righteousness were to show themselves in no
such way as I had anticipated. His conversion was not to change his relation
toward men—at any rate not toward BLACK men—but toward God. My
faith, I confess, was not great. There was something in his appearance that, in
my mind, cast a doubt over his conversion. Standing where I did, I could see
his every movement. I watched narrowly while he remained in the little pen; and
although I saw that his face was extremely red, and his hair disheveled, and
though I heard him groan, and saw a stray tear halting on his cheek, as if
inquiring “which way shall I go?”—I could not wholly confide
in the genuineness of his conversion. The hesitating behavior of that tear-drop
and its loneliness, distressed me, and cast a doubt upon the whole transaction,
of which it was a part. But people said, “Capt. Auld had come
through,” and it was for me to hope for the best. I was bound to do
this, in charity, for I, too, was religious, and had been in the church full
three years, although now I was not more than sixteen years old. Slaveholders
may, sometimes, have confidence in the piety of some of their slaves; but the
slaves seldom have confidence in the piety of their masters. “He cant
go to heaven with our blood in his skirts,” is a settled point in the
creed of every slave; rising superior to all teaching to the contrary, and
standing forever as a fixed fact. The highest evidence the slaveholder can give
the slave of his acceptance with God, is the emancipation of his slaves. This
is proof that he is willing to give up all to God, and for the sake of God. Not
to do this, was, in my estimation, and in the opinion of all the slaves, an
evidence of half-heartedness, and wholly inconsistent with the idea of genuine
conversion. I had read, also, somewhere in the Methodist Discipline, the
following question and answer:

“Question. What shall be done for the extirpation of slavery?

“Answer. We declare that we are much as ever convinced of the
great evil of slavery; therefore, no slaveholder shall be eligible to any
official station in our church.”

These words sounded in my ears for a long time, and encouraged me to hope. But,
as I have before said, I was doomed to disappointment. Master Thomas seemed to
be aware of my hopes and expectations concerning him. I have thought, before
now, that he looked at me in answer to my glances, as much as to say, “I
will teach you, young man, that, though I have parted with my sins, I have not
parted with my sense. I shall hold my slaves, and go to heaven too.”

Possibly, to convince us that we must not presume too much upon his
recent conversion, he became rather more rigid and stringent in his exactions.
There always was a scarcity of good nature about the man; but now his whole
countenance was soured over with the seemings of piety. His religion,
therefore, neither made him emancipate his slaves, nor caused him to treat them
with greater humanity. If religion had any effect on his character at all, it
made him more cruel and hateful in all his ways. The natural wickedness of his
heart had not been removed, but only reinforced, by the profession of religion.
Do I judge him harshly? God forbid. Facts are facts. Capt. Auld made the
greatest profession of piety. His house was, literally, a house of prayer. In
the morning, and in the evening, loud prayers and hymns were heard there, in
which both himself and his wife joined; yet, no more meal was brought
from the mill, no more attention was paid to the moral welfare of the
kitchen; and nothing was done to make us feel that the heart of Master Thomas
was one whit better than it was before he went into the little pen, opposite to
the preachers’ stand, on the camp ground.

Our hopes (founded on the discipline) soon vanished; for the authorities let
him into the church at once, and before he was out of his term of
probation, I heard of his leading class! He distinguished himself
greatly among the brethren, and was soon an exhorter. His progress was almost
as rapid as the growth of the fabled vine of Jack’s bean. No man was more
active than he, in revivals. He would go many miles to assist in carrying them
on, and in getting outsiders interested in religion. His house being one of the
holiest, if not the happiest in St. Michael’s, became the
“preachers’ home.” These preachers evidently liked to share
Master Thomas’s hospitality; for while he starved us, he
stuffed them. Three or four of these ambassadors of the
gospel—according to slavery—have been there at a time; all living
on the fat of the land, while we, in the kitchen, were nearly starving. Not
often did we get a smile of recognition from these holy men. They seemed almost
as unconcerned about our getting to heaven, as they were about our getting out
of slavery. To this general charge there was one exception—the Rev.
GEORGE COOKMAN. Unlike Rev. Messrs. Storks, Ewry, Hickey, Humphrey and Cooper
(all whom were on the St. Michael’s circuit) he kindly took an interest
in our temporal and spiritual welfare. Our souls and our bodies were all alike
sacred in his sight; and he really had a good deal of genuine anti-slavery
feeling mingled with his colonization ideas. There was not a slave in our
neighborhood that did not love, and almost venerate, Mr. Cookman. It was pretty
generally believed that he had been chiefly instrumental in bringing one of the
largest slaveholders—Mr. Samuel Harrison—in that neighborhood, to
emancipate all his slaves, and, indeed, the general impression was, that Mr.
Cookman had labored faithfully with slaveholders, whenever he met them, to
induce them to emancipate their bondmen, and that he did this as a religious
duty. When this good man was at our house, we were all sure to be called in to
prayers in the morning; and he was not slow in making inquiries as to the state
of our minds, nor in giving us a word of exhortation and of encouragement.
Great was the sorrow of all the slaves, when this faithful preacher of the
gospel was removed from the Talbot county circuit. He was an eloquent preacher,
and possessed what few ministers, south of Mason Dixon’s line, possess,
or dare to show, viz: a warm and philanthropic heart. The Mr. Cookman,
of whom I speak, was an Englishman by birth, and perished while on his way to
England, on board the ill-fated “President”. Could the thousands of
slaves in Maryland know the fate of the good man, to whose words of comfort
they were so largely indebted, they would thank me for dropping a tear on this
page, in memory of their favorite preacher, friend and benefactor.

But, let me return to Master Thomas, and to my experience, after his
conversion. In Baltimore, I could, occasionally, get into a Sabbath school,
among the free children, and receive lessons, with the rest; but, having
already learned both to read and to write, I was more of a teacher than a
pupil, even there. When, however, I went back to the Eastern Shore, and was at
the house of Master Thomas, I was neither allowed to teach, nor to be taught.
The whole community—with but a single exception, among the
whites—frowned upon everything like imparting instruction either to
slaves or to free colored persons. That single exception, a pious young man,
named Wilson, asked me, one day, if I would like to assist him in teaching a
little Sabbath school, at the house of a free colored man in St.
Michael’s, named James Mitchell. The idea was to me a delightful one, and
I told him I would gladly devote as much of my Sabbath as I could command, to
that most laudable work. Mr. Wilson soon mustered up a dozen old spelling
books, and a few testaments; and we commenced operations, with some twenty
scholars, in our Sunday school. Here, thought I, is something worth living for;
here is an excellent chance for usefulness; and I shall soon have a company of
young friends, lovers of knowledge, like some of my Baltimore friends, from
whom I now felt parted forever.

Our first Sabbath passed delightfully, and I spent the week after very
joyously. I could not go to Baltimore, but I could make a little Baltimore
here. At our second meeting, I learned that there was some objection to the
existence of the Sabbath school; and, sure enough, we had scarcely got at
work—good work, simply teaching a few colored children how to read
the gospel of the Son of God—when in rushed a mob, headed by Mr. Wright
Fairbanks and Mr. Garrison West—two class-leaders—and Master
Thomas; who, armed with sticks and other missiles, drove us off, and commanded
us never to meet for such a purpose again. One of this pious crew told me, that
as for my part, I wanted to be another Nat Turner; and if I did not look out, I
should get as many balls into me, as Nat did into him. Thus ended the infant
Sabbath school, in the town of St. Michael’s. The reader will not be
surprised when I say, that the breaking up of my Sabbath school, by these
class-leaders, and professedly holy men, did not serve to strengthen my
religious convictions. The cloud over my St. Michael’s home grew heavier
and blacker than ever.

It was not merely the agency of Master Thomas, in breaking up and destroying my
Sabbath school, that shook my confidence in the power of southern religion to
make men wiser or better; but I saw in him all the cruelty and meanness,
after his conversion, which he had exhibited before he made a profession
of religion. His cruelty and meanness were especially displayed in his
treatment of my unfortunate cousin, Henny, whose lameness made her a burden to
him. I have no extraordinary personal hard usage toward myself to complain of,
against him, but I have seen him tie up the lame and maimed woman, and whip her
in a manner most brutal, and shocking; and then, with blood-chilling blasphemy,
he would quote the passage of scripture, “That servant which knew his
lord’s will, and prepared not himself, neither did according to his will,
shall be beaten with many stripes.” Master would keep this lacerated
woman tied up by her wrists, to a bolt in the joist, three, four and five hours
at a time. He would tie her up early in the morning, whip her with a cowskin
before breakfast; leave her tied up; go to his store, and, returning to his
dinner, repeat the castigation; laying on the rugged lash, on flesh already
made raw by repeated blows. He seemed desirous to get the poor girl out of
existence, or, at any rate, off his hands. In proof of this, he afterwards gave
her away to his sister Sarah (Mrs. Cline) but, as in the case of Master Hugh,
Henny was soon returned on his hands. Finally, upon a pretense that he could do
nothing with her (I use his own words) he “set her adrift, to take care
of herself.” Here was a recently converted man, holding, with tight
grasp, the well-framed, and able bodied slaves left him by old master—the
persons, who, in freedom, could have taken care of themselves; yet, turning
loose the only cripple among them, virtually to starve and die.

No doubt, had Master Thomas been asked, by some pious northern brother,
why he continued to sustain the relation of a slaveholder, to those whom
he retained, his answer would have been precisely the same as many other
religious slaveholders have returned to that inquiry, viz: “I hold my
slaves for their own good.”

Bad as my condition was when I lived with Master Thomas, I was soon to
experience a life far more goading and bitter. The many differences springing
up between myself and Master Thomas, owing to the clear perception I had of his
character, and the boldness with which I defended myself against his capricious
complaints, led him to declare that I was unsuited to his wants; that my city
life had affected me perniciously; that, in fact, it had almost ruined me for
every good purpose, and had fitted me for everything that was bad. One of my
greatest faults, or offenses, was that of letting his horse get away, and go
down to the farm belonging to his father-in-law. The animal had a liking for
that farm, with which I fully sympathized. Whenever I let it out, it would go
dashing down the road to Mr. Hamilton’s, as if going on a grand frolic.
My horse gone, of course I must go after it. The explanation of our mutual
attachment to the place is the same; the horse found there good pasturage, and
I found there plenty of bread. Mr. Hamilton had his faults, but starving his
slaves was not among them. He gave food, in abundance, and that, too, of an
excellent quality. In Mr. Hamilton’s cook—Aunt Mary—I found a
most generous and considerate friend. She never allowed me to go there without
giving me bread enough to make good the deficiencies of a day or two. Master
Thomas at last resolved to endure my behavior no longer; he could neither keep
me, nor his horse, we liked so well to be at his father-in-law’s farm. I
had now lived with him nearly nine months, and he had given me a number of
severe whippings, without any visible improvement in my character, or my
conduct; and now he was resolved to put me out—as he
said—“to be broken.”

There was, in the Bay Side, very near the camp ground, where my master got his
religious impressions, a man named Edward Covey, who enjoyed the execrated
reputation, of being a first rate hand at breaking young Negroes. This Covey
was a poor man, a farm renter; and this reputation (hateful as it was to the
slaves and to all good men) was, at the same time, of immense advantage to him.
It enabled him to get his farm tilled with very little expense, compared with
what it would have cost him without this most extraordinary reputation. Some
slaveholders thought it an advantage to let Mr. Covey have the government of
their slaves a year or two, almost free of charge, for the sake of the
excellent training such slaves got under his happy management! Like some horse
breakers, noted for their skill, who ride the best horses in the country
without expense, Mr. Covey could have under him, the most fiery bloods of the
neighborhood, for the simple reward of returning them to their owners, well
broken. Added to the natural fitness of Mr. Covey for the duties of his
profession, he was said to “enjoy religion,” and was as strict in
the cultivation of piety, as he was in the cultivation of his farm. I was made
aware of his character by some who had been under his hand; and while I could
not look forward to going to him with any pleasure, I was glad to get away from
St. Michael’s. I was sure of getting enough to eat at Covey’s, even
if I suffered in other respects. This, to a hungry man, is not a
prospect to be regarded with indifference.

CHAPTER XV. Covey, the Negro Breaker

JOURNEY TO MY NEW MASTER’S—MEDITATIONS BY THE WAY—VIEW OF
COVEY’S RESIDENCE—THE FAMILY—MY AWKWARDNESS AS A FIELD
HAND—A CRUEL BEATING—WHY IT WAS GIVEN—DESCRIPTION OF
COVEY—FIRST ADVENTURE AT OX DRIVING—HAIR BREADTH ESCAPES—OX
AND MAN ALIKE PROPERTY—COVEY’S MANNER OF PROCEEDING TO
WHIP—HARD LABOR BETTER THAN THE WHIP FOR BREAKING DOWN THE
SPIRIT—CUNNING AND TRICKERY OF COVEY—FAMILY WORSHIP—SHOCKING
CONTEMPT FOR CHASTITY—I AM BROKEN DOWN—GREAT MENTAL AGITATION IN
CONTRASTING THE FREEDOM OF THE SHIPS WITH HIS OWN SLAVERY—ANGUISH BEYOND
DESCRIPTION.

The morning of the first of January, 1834, with its chilling wind and pinching
frost, quite in harmony with the winter in my own mind, found me, with my
little bundle of clothing on the end of a stick, swung across my shoulder, on
the main road, bending my way toward Covey’s, whither I had been
imperiously ordered by Master Thomas. The latter had been as good as his word,
and had committed me, without reserve, to the mastery of Mr. Edward Covey.
Eight or ten years had now passed since I had been taken from my
grandmother’s cabin, in Tuckahoe; and these years, for the most part, I
had spent in Baltimore, where—as the reader has already seen—I was
treated with comparative tenderness. I was now about to sound profounder depths
in slave life. The rigors of a field, less tolerable than the field of battle,
awaited me. My new master was notorious for his fierce and savage disposition,
and my only consolation in going to live with him was, the certainty of finding
him precisely as represented by common fame. There was neither joy in my heart,
nor elasticity in my step, as I started in search of the tyrant’s home.
Starvation made me glad to leave Thomas Auld’s, and the cruel lash made
me dread to go to Covey’s. Escape was impossible; so, heavy and sad, I
paced the seven miles, which separated Covey’s house from St.
Michael’s—thinking much by the solitary way—averse to my
condition; but thinking was all I could do. Like a fish in a net,
allowed to play for a time, I was now drawn rapidly to the shore, secured at
all points. “I am,” thought I, “but the sport of a power
which makes no account, either of my welfare or of my happiness. By a law which
I can clearly comprehend, but cannot evade nor resist, I am ruthlessly snatched
from the hearth of a fond grandmother, and hurried away to the home of a
mysterious ‘old master;’ again I am removed from there, to a master
in Baltimore; thence am I snatched away to the Eastern Shore, to be valued with
the beasts of the field, and, with them, divided and set apart for a possessor;
then I am sent back to Baltimore; and by the time I have formed new
attachments, and have begun to hope that no more rude shocks shall touch me, a
difference arises between brothers, and I am again broken up, and sent to St.
Michael’s; and now, from the latter place, I am footing my way to the
home of a new master, where, I am given to understand, that, like a wild young
working animal, I am to be broken to the yoke of a bitter and life-long
bondage.”

With thoughts and reflections like these, I came in sight of a small
wood-colored building, about a mile from the main road, which, from the
description I had received, at starting, I easily recognized as my new home.
The Chesapeake bay—upon the jutting banks of which the little
wood-colored house was standing—white with foam, raised by the heavy
north-west wind; Poplar Island, covered with a thick, black pine forest,
standing out amid this half ocean; and Kent Point, stretching its sandy,
desert-like shores out into the foam-cested bay—were all in sight, and
deepened the wild and desolate aspect of my new home.

The good clothes I had brought with me from Baltimore were now worn thin, and
had not been replaced; for Master Thomas was as little careful to provide us
against cold, as against hunger. Met here by a north wind, sweeping through an
open space of forty miles, I was glad to make any port; and, therefore, I
speedily pressed on to the little wood-colored house. The family consisted of
Mr. and Mrs. Covey; Miss Kemp (a broken-backed woman) a sister of Mrs. Covey;
William Hughes, cousin to Edward Covey; Caroline, the cook; Bill Smith, a hired
man; and myself. Bill Smith, Bill Hughes, and myself, were the working force of
the farm, which consisted of three or four hundred acres. I was now, for the
first time in my life, to be a field hand; and in my new employment I found
myself even more awkward than a green country boy may be supposed to be, upon
his first entrance into the bewildering scenes of city life; and my awkwardness
gave me much trouble. Strange and unnatural as it may seem, I had been at my
new home but three days, before Mr. Covey (my brother in the Methodist church)
gave me a bitter foretaste of what was in reserve for me. I presume he thought,
that since he had but a single year in which to complete his work, the sooner
he began, the better. Perhaps he thought that by coming to blows at once, we
should mutually better understand our relations. But to whatever motive, direct
or indirect, the cause may be referred, I had not been in his possession three
whole days, before he subjected me to a most brutal chastisement. Under his
heavy blows, blood flowed freely, and wales were left on my back as large as my
little finger. The sores on my back, from this flogging, continued for weeks,
for they were kept open by the rough and coarse cloth which I wore for
shirting. The occasion and details of this first chapter of my experience as a
field hand, must be told, that the reader may see how unreasonable, as well as
how cruel, my new master, Covey, was. The whole thing I found to be
characteristic of the man; and I was probably treated no worse by him than
scores of lads who had previously been committed to him, for reasons similar to
those which induced my master to place me with him. But, here are the facts
connected with the affair, precisely as they occurred.

On one of the coldest days of the whole month of January, 1834, I was ordered,
at day break, to get a load of wood, from a forest about two miles from the
house. In order to perform this work, Mr. Covey gave me a pair of unbroken
oxen, for, it seems, his breaking abilities had not been turned in this
direction; and I may remark, in passing, that working animals in the south, are
seldom so well trained as in the north. In due form, and with all proper
ceremony, I was introduced to this huge yoke of unbroken oxen, and was
carefully told which was “Buck,” and which was
“Darby”—which was the “in hand,” and which was
the “off hand” ox. The master of this important ceremony was no
less a person than Mr. Covey, himself; and the introduction was the first of
the kind I had ever had. My life, hitherto, had led me away from horned cattle,
and I had no knowledge of the art of managing them. What was meant by the
“in ox,” as against the “off ox,” when both were
equally fastened to one cart, and under one yoke, I could not very easily
divine; and the difference, implied by the names, and the peculiar duties of
each, were alike Greek to me. Why was not the “off ox”
called the “in ox?” Where and what is the reason for this
distinction in names, when there is none in the things themselves? After
initiating me into the “woa,” “back”
“gee,” “hither”—the entire spoken language
between oxen and driver—Mr. Covey took a rope, about ten feet long and
one inch thick, and placed one end of it around the horns of the “in hand
ox,” and gave the other end to me, telling me that if the oxen started to
run away, as the scamp knew they would, I must hold on to the rope and stop
them. I need not tell any one who is acquainted with either the strength of the
disposition of an untamed ox, that this order was about as unreasonable as a
command to shoulder a mad bull! I had never driven oxen before, and I was as
awkward, as a driver, as it is possible to conceive. It did not answer for me
to plead ignorance, to Mr. Covey; there was something in his manner that quite
forbade that. He was a man to whom a slave seldom felt any disposition to
speak. Cold, distant, morose, with a face wearing all the marks of captious
pride and malicious sternness, he repelled all advances. Covey was not a large
man; he was only about five feet ten inches in height, I should think; short
necked, round shoulders; of quick and wiry motion, of thin and wolfish visage;
with a pair of small, greenish-gray eyes, set well back under a forehead
without dignity, and constantly in motion, and floating his passions, rather
than his thoughts, in sight, but denying them utterance in words. The creature
presented an appearance altogether ferocious and sinister, disagreeable and
forbidding, in the extreme. When he spoke, it was from the corner of his mouth,
and in a sort of light growl, like a dog, when an attempt is made to take a
bone from him. The fellow had already made me believe him even worse
than he had been presented. With his directions, and without stopping to
question, I started for the woods, quite anxious to perform my first exploit in
driving, in a creditable manner. The distance from the house to the woods gate
a full mile, I should think—was passed over with very little difficulty;
for although the animals ran, I was fleet enough, in the open field, to keep
pace with them; especially as they pulled me along at the end of the rope; but,
on reaching the woods, I was speedily thrown into a distressing plight. The
animals took fright, and started off ferociously into the woods, carrying the
cart, full tilt, against trees, over stumps, and dashing from side to side, in
a manner altogether frightful. As I held the rope, I expected every moment to
be crushed between the cart and the huge trees, among which they were so
furiously dashing. After running thus for several minutes, my oxen were,
finally, brought to a stand, by a tree, against which they dashed themselves
with great violence, upsetting the cart, and entangling themselves among sundry
young saplings. By the shock, the body of the cart was flung in one direction,
and the wheels and tongue in another, and all in the greatest confusion. There
I was, all alone, in a thick wood, to which I was a stranger; my cart upset and
shattered; my oxen entangled, wild, and enraged; and I, poor soul! but a green
hand, to set all this disorder right. I knew no more of oxen than the ox driver
is supposed to know of wisdom. After standing a few moments surveying the
damage and disorder, and not without a presentiment that this trouble would
draw after it others, even more distressing, I took one end of the cart body,
and, by an extra outlay of strength, I lifted it toward the axle-tree, from
which it had been violently flung; and after much pulling and straining, I
succeeded in getting the body of the cart in its place. This was an important
step out of the difficulty, and its performance increased my courage for the
work which remained to be done. The cart was provided with an ax, a tool with
which I had become pretty well acquainted in the ship yard at Baltimore. With
this, I cut down the saplings by which my oxen were entangled, and again
pursued my journey, with my heart in my mouth, lest the oxen should again take
it into their senseless heads to cut up a caper. My fears were groundless.
Their spree was over for the present, and the rascals now moved off as soberly
as though their behavior had been natural and exemplary. On reaching the part
of the forest where I had been, the day before, chopping wood, I filled the
cart with a heavy load, as a security against another running away. But, the
neck of an ox is equal in strength to iron. It defies all ordinary burdens,
when excited. Tame and docile to a proverb, when well trained, the ox is
the most sullen and intractable of animals when but half broken to the yoke.

I now saw, in my situation, several points of similarity with that of the oxen.
They were property, so was I; they were to be broken, so was I. Covey was to
break me, I was to break them; break and be broken—such is life.

Half the day already gone, and my face not yet homeward! It required only two
day’s experience and observation to teach me, that such apparent waste of
time would not be lightly overlooked by Covey. I therefore hurried toward home;
but, on reaching the lane gate, I met with the crowning disaster for the day.
This gate was a fair specimen of southern handicraft. There were two huge
posts, eighteen inches in diameter, rough hewed and square, and the heavy gate
was so hung on one of these, that it opened only about half the proper
distance. On arriving here, it was necessary for me to let go the end of the
rope on the horns of the “in hand ox;” and now as soon as the gate
was open, and I let go of it to get the rope, again, off went my
oxen—making nothing of their load—full tilt; and in doing so they
caught the huge gate between the wheel and the cart body, literally crushing it
to splinters, and coming only within a few inches of subjecting me to a similar
crushing, for I was just in advance of the wheel when it struck the left gate
post. With these two hair-breadth escape, I thought I could sucessfully(sic)
explain to Mr. Covey the delay, and avert apprehended punishment. I was not
without a faint hope of being commended for the stern resolution which I had
displayed in accomplishing the difficult task—a task which, I afterwards
learned, even Covey himself would not have undertaken, without first driving
the oxen for some time in the open field, preparatory to their going into the
woods. But, in this I was disappointed. On coming to him, his countenance
assumed an aspect of rigid displeasure, and, as I gave him a history of the
casualties of my trip, his wolfish face, with his greenish eyes, became
intensely ferocious. “Go back to the woods again,” he said,
muttering something else about wasting time. I hastily obeyed; but I had not
gone far on my way, when I saw him coming after me. My oxen now behaved
themselves with singular propriety, opposing their present conduct to my
representation of their former antics. I almost wished, now that Covey was
coming, they would do something in keeping with the character I had given them;
but no, they had already had their spree, and they could afford now to be extra
good, readily obeying my orders, and seeming to understand them quite as well
as I did myself. On reaching the woods, my tormentor—who seemed all the
way to be remarking upon the good behavior of his oxen—came up to me, and
ordered me to stop the cart, accompanying the same with the threat that he
would now teach me how to break gates, and idle away my time, when he sent me
to the woods. Suiting the action to the word, Covey paced off, in his own wiry
fashion, to a large, black gum tree, the young shoots of which are generally
used for ox goads, they being exceedingly tough. Three of these
goads, from four to six feet long, he cut off, and trimmed up, with his
large jack-knife. This done, he ordered me to take off my clothes. To this
unreasonable order I made no reply, but sternly refused to take off my
clothing. “If you will beat me,” thought I, “you shall do so
over my clothes.” After many threats, which made no impression on me, he
rushed at me with something of the savage fierceness of a wolf, tore off the
few and thinly worn clothes I had on, and proceeded to wear out, on my back,
the heavy goads which he had cut from the gum tree. This flogging was the first
of a series of floggings; and though very severe, it was less so than many
which came after it, and these, for offenses far lighter than the gate
breaking.

I remained with Mr. Covey one year (I cannot say I lived with him) and
during the first six months that I was there, I was whipped, either with sticks
or cowskins, every week. Aching bones and a sore back were my constant
companions. Frequent as the lash was used, Mr. Covey thought less of it, as a
means of breaking down my spirit, than that of hard and long continued labor.
He worked me steadily, up to the point of my powers of endurance. From the dawn
of day in the morning, till the darkness was complete in the evening, I was
kept at hard work, in the field or the woods. At certain seasons of the year,
we were all kept in the field till eleven and twelve o’clock at night. At
these times, Covey would attend us in the field, and urge us on with words or
blows, as it seemed best to him. He had, in his life, been an overseer, and he
well understood the business of slave driving. There was no deceiving him. He
knew just what a man or boy could do, and he held both to strict account. When
he pleased, he would work himself, like a very Turk, making everything fly
before him. It was, however, scarcely necessary for Mr. Covey to be really
present in the field, to have his work go on industriously. He had the faculty
of making us feel that he was always present. By a series of adroitly managed
surprises, which he practiced, I was prepared to expect him at any moment. His
plan was, never to approach the spot where his hands were at work, in an open,
manly and direct manner. No thief was ever more artful in his devices than this
man Covey. He would creep and crawl, in ditches and gullies; hide behind stumps
and bushes, and practice so much of the cunning of the serpent, that Bill Smith
and I—between ourselves—never called him by any other name than
“the snake.” We fancied that in his eyes and his gait we
could see a snakish resemblance. One half of his proficiency in the art of
Negro breaking, consisted, I should think, in this species of cunning. We were
never secure. He could see or hear us nearly all the time. He was, to us,
behind every stump, tree, bush and fence on the plantation. He carried this
kind of trickery so far, that he would sometimes mount his horse, and make
believe he was going to St. Michael’s; and, in thirty minutes afterward,
you might find his horse tied in the woods, and the snake-like Covey lying flat
in the ditch, with his head lifted above its edge, or in a fence corner,
watching every movement of the slaves! I have known him walk up to us and give
us special orders, as to our work, in advance, as if he were leaving home with
a view to being absent several days; and before he got half way to the house,
he would avail himself of our inattention to his movements, to turn short on
his heels, conceal himself behind a fence corner or a tree, and watch us until
the going down of the sun. Mean and contemptible as is all this, it is in
keeping with the character which the life of a slaveholder is calculated to
produce. There is no earthly inducement, in the slave’s condition, to
incite him to labor faithfully. The fear of punishment is the sole motive for
any sort of industry, with him. Knowing this fact, as the slaveholder does, and
judging the slave by himself, he naturally concludes the slave will be idle
whenever the cause for this fear is absent. Hence, all sorts of petty
deceptions are practiced, to inspire this fear.

But, with Mr. Covey, trickery was natural. Everything in the shape of learning
or religion, which he possessed, was made to conform to this semi-lying
propensity. He did not seem conscious that the practice had anything unmanly,
base or contemptible about it. It was a part of an important system, with him,
essential to the relation of master and slave. I thought I saw, in his very
religious devotions, this controlling element of his character. A long prayer
at night made up for the short prayer in the morning; and few men could seem
more devotional than he, when he had nothing else to do.

Mr. Covey was not content with the cold style of family worship, adopted in
these cold latitudes, which begin and end with a simple prayer. No! the voice
of praise, as well as of prayer, must be heard in his house, night and morning.
At first, I was called upon to bear some part in these exercises; but the
repeated flogging given me by Covey, turned the whole thing into mockery. He
was a poor singer, and mainly relied on me for raising the hymn for the family,
and when I failed to do so, he was thrown into much confusion. I do not think
that he ever abused me on account of these vexations. His religion was a thing
altogether apart from his worldly concerns. He knew nothing of it as a holy
principle, directing and controlling his daily life, making the latter conform
to the requirements of the gospel. One or two facts will illustrate his
character better than a volume of generalties(sic).

I have already said, or implied, that Mr. Edward Covey was a poor man. He was,
in fact, just commencing to lay the foundation of his fortune, as fortune is
regarded in a slave state. The first condition of wealth and respectability
there, being the ownership of human property, every nerve is strained, by the
poor man, to obtain it, and very little regard is had to the manner of
obtaining it. In pursuit of this object, pious as Mr. Covey was, he proved
himself to be as unscrupulous and base as the worst of his neighbors. In the
beginning, he was only able—as he said—“to buy one
slave;” and, scandalous and shocking as is the fact, he boasted that he
bought her simply “as a breeder.” But the worst is not told
in this naked statement. This young woman (Caroline was her name) was virtually
compelled by Mr. Covey to abandon herself to the object for which he had
purchased her; and the result was, the birth of twins at the end of the year.
At this addition to his human stock, both Edward Covey and his wife, Susan,
were ecstatic with joy. No one dreamed of reproaching the woman, or of finding
fault with the hired man—Bill Smith—the father of the children, for
Mr. Covey himself had locked the two up together every night, thus inviting the
result.

But I will pursue this revolting subject no further. No better illustration of
the unchaste and demoralizing character of slavery can be found, than is
furnished in the fact that this professedly Christian slaveholder, amidst all
his prayers and hymns, was shamelessly and boastfully encouraging, and actually
compelling, in his own house, undisguised and unmitigated fornication, as a
means of increasing his human stock. I may remark here, that, while this fact
will be read with disgust and shame at the north, it will be laughed at,
as smart and praiseworthy in Mr. Covey, at the south; for a man is no more
condemned there for buying a woman and devoting her to this life of dishonor,
than for buying a cow, and raising stock from her. The same rules are observed,
with a view to increasing the number and quality of the former, as of the
latter.

I will here reproduce what I said of my own experience in this wretched place,
more than ten years ago:

If at any one time of my life, more than another, I was made to drink the
bitterest dregs of slavery, that time was during the first six months of my
stay with Mr. Covey. We were worked all weathers. It was never too hot or too
cold; it could never rain, blow, snow, or hail too hard for us to work in the
field. Work, work, work, was scarcely more the order of the day than the night.
The longest days were too short for him, and the shortest nights were too long
for him. I was somewhat unmanageable when I first went there; but a few months
of his discipline tamed me. Mr. Covey succeeded in breaking me. I was broken in
body, soul and spirit. My natural elasticity was crushed; my intellect
languished; the disposition to read departed; the cheerful spark that lingered
about my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed in upon me; and behold a
man transformed into a brute!

Sunday was my only leisure time. I spent this in a sort of beast-like stupor,
between sleep and wake, under some large tree. At times, I would rise up, a
flash of energetic freedom would dart through my soul, accompanied with a faint
beam of hope, flickered for a moment, and then vanished. I sank down again,
mourning over my wretched condition. I was sometimes prompted to take my life,
and that of Covey, but was prevented by a combination of hope and fear. My
sufferings on this plantation seem now like a dream rather than a stern
reality.

Our house stood within a few rods of the Chesapeake bay, whose broad bosom was
ever white with sails from every quarter of the habitable globe. Those
beautiful vessels, robed in purest white, so delightful to the eye of freemen,
were to me so many shrouded ghosts, to terrify and torment me with thoughts of
my wretched condition. I have often, in the deep stillness of a summer’s
Sabbath, stood all alone upon the banks of that noble bay, and traced, with
saddened heart and tearful eye, the countless number of sails moving off to the
mighty ocean. The sight of these always affected me powerfully. My thoughts
would compel utterance; and there, with no audience but the Almighty, I would
pour out my soul’s complaint in my rude way, with an apostrophe to the
moving multitude of ships:

“You are loosed from your moorings, and free; I am fast in my chains, and
am a slave! You move merrily before the gentle gale, and I sadly before the
bloody whip! You are freedom’s swift-winged angels, that fly around the
world; I am confined in bands of iron! O, that I were free! O, that I were on
one of your gallant decks, and under your protecting wing! Alas! betwixt me and
you the turbid waters roll. Go on, go on. O that I could also go! Could I but
swim! If I could fly! O, why was I born a man, of whom to make a brute! The
glad ship is gone; she hides in the dim distance. I am left in the hottest hell
of unending slavery. O God, save me! God, deliver me! Let me be free! Is there
any God? Why am I a slave? I will run away. I will not stand it. Get caught, or
get clear, I’ll try it. I had as well die with ague as with fever. I have
only one life to lose. I had as well be killed running as die standing. Only
think of it; one hundred miles straight north, and I am free! Try it? Yes! God
helping me, I will. It cannot be that I shall live and die a slave. I will take
to the water. This very bay shall yet bear me into freedom. The steamboats
steered in a north-east coast from North Point. I will do the same; and when I
get to the head of the bay, I will turn my canoe adrift, and walk straight
through Delaware into Pennsylvania. When I get there, I shall not be required
to have a pass; I will travel without being disturbed. Let but the first
opportunity offer, and come what will, I am off. Meanwhile, I will try to bear
up under the yoke. I am not the only slave in the world. Why should I fret? I
can bear as much as any of them. Besides, I am but a boy, and all boys are
bound to some one. It may be that my misery in slavery will only increase my
happiness when I get free. There is a better day coming.”

I shall never be able to narrate the mental experience through which it was my
lot to pass during my stay at Covey’s. I was completely wrecked, changed
and bewildered; goaded almost to madness at one time, and at another
reconciling myself to my wretched condition. Everything in the way of kindness,
which I had experienced at Baltimore; all my former hopes and aspirations for
usefulness in the world, and the happy moments spent in the exercises of
religion, contrasted with my then present lot, but increased my anguish.

I suffered bodily as well as mentally. I had neither sufficient time in which
to eat or to sleep, except on Sundays. The overwork, and the brutal
chastisements of which I was the victim, combined with that ever-gnawing and
soul-devouring thought—“I am a slave—a slave for
life—a slave with no rational ground to hope for
freedom”—rendered me a living embodiment of mental and physical
wretchedness.

CHAPTER XVI. Another Pressure of the Tyrant’s Vice

EXPERIENCE AT COVEY’S SUMMED UP—FIRST SIX MONTHS SEVERER THAN THE
SECOND—PRELIMINARIES TO THE CHANCE—REASONS FOR NARRATING THE
CIRCUMSTANCES—SCENE IN TREADING YARD—TAKEN ILL—UNUSUAL
BRUTALITY OF COVEY—ESCAPE TO ST. MICHAEL’S—THE
PURSUIT—SUFFERING IN THE WOODS—DRIVEN BACK AGAIN TO
COVEY’S—BEARING OF MASTER THOMAS—THE SLAVE IS NEVER
SICK—NATURAL TO EXPECT SLAVES TO FEIGN SICKNESS—LAZINESS OF
SLAVEHOLDERS.

The foregoing chapter, with all its horrid incidents and shocking features, may
be taken as a fair representation of the first six months of my life at
Covey’s. The reader has but to repeat, in his own mind, once a week, the
scene in the woods, where Covey subjected me to his merciless lash, to have a
true idea of my bitter experience there, during the first period of the
breaking process through which Mr. Covey carried me. I have no heart to repeat
each separate transaction, in which I was victim of his violence and brutality.
Such a narration would fill a volume much larger than the present one. I aim
only to give the reader a truthful impression of my slave life, without
unnecessarily affecting him with harrowing details.

As I have elsewhere intimated that my hardships were much greater during the
first six months of my stay at Covey’s, than during the remainder of the
year, and as the change in my condition was owing to causes which may help the
reader to a better understanding of human nature, when subjected to the
terrible extremities of slavery, I will narrate the circumstances of this
change, although I may seem thereby to applaud my own courage. You have, dear
reader, seen me humbled, degraded, broken down, enslaved, and brutalized, and
you understand how it was done; now let us see the converse of all this, and
how it was brought about; and this will take us through the year 1834.

On one of the hottest days of the month of August, of the year just mentioned,
had the reader been passing through Covey’s farm, he might have seen me
at work, in what is there called the “treading yard”—a yard
upon which wheat is trodden out from the straw, by the horses’ feet. I
was there, at work, feeding the “fan,” or rather bringing wheat to
the fan, while Bill Smith was feeding. Our force consisted of Bill Hughes, Bill
Smith, and a slave by the name of Eli; the latter having been hired for this
occasion. The work was simple, and required strength and activity, rather than
any skill or intelligence, and yet, to one entirely unused to such work, it
came very hard. The heat was intense and overpowering, and there was much hurry
to get the wheat, trodden out that day, through the fan; since, if that work
was done an hour before sundown, the hands would have, according to a promise
of Covey, that hour added to their night’s rest. I was not behind any of
them in the wish to complete the day’s work before sundown, and, hence, I
struggled with all my might to get the work forward. The promise of one
hour’s repose on a week day, was sufficient to quicken my pace, and to
spur me on to extra endeavor. Besides, we had all planned to go fishing, and I
certainly wished to have a hand in that. But I was disappointed, and the day
turned out to be one of the bitterest I ever experienced. About three
o’clock, while the sun was pouring down his burning rays, and not a
breeze was stirring, I broke down; my strength failed me; I was seized with a
violent aching of the head, attended with extreme dizziness, and trembling in
every limb. Finding what was coming, and feeling it would never do to stop
work, I nerved myself up, and staggered on until I fell by the side of the
wheat fan, feeling that the earth had fallen upon me. This brought the entire
work to a dead stand. There was work for four; each one had his part to
perform, and each part depended on the other, so that when one stopped, all
were compelled to stop. Covey, who had now become my dread, as well as my
tormentor, was at the house, about a hundred yards from where I was fanning,
and instantly, upon hearing the fan stop, he came down to the treading yard, to
inquire into the cause of our stopping. Bill Smith told him I was sick, and
that I was unable longer to bring wheat to the fan.

I had, by this time, crawled away, under the side of a post-and-rail fence, in
the shade, and was exceeding ill. The intense heat of the sun, the heavy dust
rising from the fan, the stooping, to take up the wheat from the yard, together
with the hurrying, to get through, had caused a rush of blood to my head. In
this condition, Covey finding out where I was, came to me; and, after standing
over me a while, he asked me what the matter was. I told him as well as I
could, for it was with difficulty that I could speak. He then gave me a savage
kick in the side, which jarred my whole frame, and commanded me to get up. The
man had obtained complete control over me; and if he had commanded me to do any
possible thing, I should, in my then state of mind, have endeavored to comply.
I made an effort to rise, but fell back in the attempt, before gaining my feet.
The brute now gave me another heavy kick, and again told me to rise. I again
tried to rise, and succeeded in gaining my feet; but upon stooping to get the
tub with which I was feeding the fan, I again staggered and fell to the ground;
and I must have so fallen, had I been sure that a hundred bullets would have
pierced me, as the consequence. While down, in this sad condition, and
perfectly helpless, the merciless Negro breaker took up the hickory slab, with
which Hughes had been striking off the wheat to a level with the sides of the
half bushel measure (a very hard weapon) and with the sharp edge of it, he
dealt me a heavy blow on my head which made a large gash, and caused the blood
to run freely, saying, at the same time, “If you have got the
headache, I’ll cure you.” This done, he ordered me again to
rise, but I made no effort to do so; for I had made up my mind that it was
useless, and that the heartless monster might now do his worst; he could but
kill me, and that might put me out of my misery. Finding me unable to rise, or
rather despairing of my doing so, Covey left me, with a view to getting on with
the work without me. I was bleeding very freely, and my face was soon covered
with my warm blood. Cruel and merciless as was the motive that dealt that blow,
dear reader, the wound was fortunate for me. Bleeding was never more
efficacious. The pain in my head speedily abated, and I was soon able to rise.
Covey had, as I have said, now left me to my fate; and the question was, shall
I return to my work, or shall I find my way to St. Michael’s, and make
Capt. Auld acquainted with the atrocious cruelty of his brother Covey, and
beseech him to get me another master? Remembering the object he had in view, in
placing me under the management of Covey, and further, his cruel treatment of
my poor crippled cousin, Henny, and his meanness in the matter of feeding and
clothing his slaves, there was little ground to hope for a favorable reception
at the hands of Capt. Thomas Auld. Nevertheless, I resolved to go straight to
Capt. Auld, thinking that, if not animated by motives of humanity, he might be
induced to interfere on my behalf from selfish considerations. “He
cannot,” thought I, “allow his property to be thus bruised and
battered, marred and defaced; and I will go to him, and tell him the simple
truth about the matter.” In order to get to St. Michael’s, by the
most favorable and direct road, I must walk seven miles; and this, in my sad
condition, was no easy performance. I had already lost much blood; I was
exhausted by over exertion; my sides were sore from the heavy blows planted
there by the stout boots of Mr. Covey; and I was, in every way, in an
unfavorable plight for the journey. I however watched my chance, while the
cruel and cunning Covey was looking in an opposite direction, and started off,
across the field, for St. Michael’s. This was a daring step; if it
failed, it would only exasperate Covey, and increase the rigors of my bondage,
during the remainder of my term of service under him; but the step was taken,
and I must go forward. I succeeded in getting nearly half way across the broad
field, toward the woods, before Mr. Covey observed me. I was still bleeding,
and the exertion of running had started the blood afresh. “Come back!
Come back!” vociferated Covey, with threats of what he would do if I
did not return instantly. But, disregarding his calls and his threats, I
pressed on toward the woods as fast as my feeble state would allow. Seeing no
signs of my stopping, Covey caused his horse to be brought out and saddled, as
if he intended to pursue me. The race was now to be an unequal one; and,
thinking I might be overhauled by him, if I kept the main road, I walked nearly
the whole distance in the woods, keeping far enough from the road to avoid
detection and pursuit. But, I had not gone far, before my little strength again
failed me, and I laid down. The blood was still oozing from the wound in my
head; and, for a time, I suffered more than I can describe. There I was, in the
deep woods, sick and emaciated, pursued by a wretch whose character for
revolting cruelty beggars all opprobrious speech—bleeding, and almost
bloodless. I was not without the fear of bleeding to death. The thought of
dying in the woods, all alone, and of being torn to pieces by the buzzards, had
not yet been rendered tolerable by my many troubles and hardships, and I was
glad when the shade of the trees, and the cool evening breeze, combined with my
matted hair to stop the flow of blood. After lying there about three quarters
of an hour, brooding over the singular and mournful lot to which I was doomed,
my mind passing over the whole scale or circle of belief and unbelief, from
faith in the overruling providence of God, to the blackest atheism, I again
took up my journey toward St. Michael’s, more weary and sad than in the
morning when I left Thomas Auld’s for the home of Mr. Covey. I was
bare-footed and bare-headed, and in my shirt sleeves. The way was through bogs
and briers, and I tore my feet often during the journey. I was full five hours
in going the seven or eight miles; partly, because of the difficulties of the
way, and partly, because of the feebleness induced by my illness, bruises and
loss of blood. On gaining my master’s store, I presented an appearance of
wretchedness and woe, fitted to move any but a heart of stone. From the crown
of my head to the sole of my feet, there were marks of blood. My hair was all
clotted with dust and blood, and the back of my shirt was literally stiff with
the same. Briers and thorns had scarred and torn my feet and legs, leaving
blood marks there. Had I escaped from a den of tigers, I could not have looked
worse than I did on reaching St. Michael’s. In this unhappy plight, I
appeared before my professedly Christian master, humbly to invoke the
interposition of his power and authority, to protect me from further abuse and
violence. I had begun to hope, during the latter part of my tedious journey
toward St. Michael’s, that Capt. Auld would now show himself in a nobler
light than I had ever before seen him. I was disappointed. I had jumped from a
sinking ship into the sea; I had fled from the tiger to something worse. I told
him all the circumstances, as well as I could; how I was endeavoring to please
Covey; how hard I was at work in the present instance; how unwilling I sunk
down under the heat, toil and pain; the brutal manner in which Covey had kicked
me in the side; the gash cut in my head; my hesitation about troubling him
(Capt. Auld) with complaints; but, that now I felt it would not be best longer
to conceal from him the outrages committed on me from time to time by Covey. At
first, master Thomas seemed somewhat affected by the story of my wrongs, but he
soon repressed his feelings and became cold as iron. It was impossible—as
I stood before him at the first—for him to seem indifferent. I distinctly
saw his human nature asserting its conviction against the slave system, which
made cases like mine possible; but, as I have said, humanity fell before
the systematic tyranny of slavery. He first walked the floor, apparently much
agitated by my story, and the sad spectacle I presented; but, presently, it was
his turn to talk. He began moderately, by finding excuses for Covey, and
ending with a full justification of him, and a passionate condemnation of me.
“He had no doubt I deserved the flogging. He did not believe I was sick;
I was only endeavoring to get rid of work. My dizziness was laziness, and Covey
did right to flog me, as he had done.” After thus fairly annihilating me,
and rousing himself by his own eloquence, he fiercely demanded what I wished
him to do in the case!

With such a complete knock-down to all my hopes, as he had given me, and
feeling, as I did, my entire subjection to his power, I had very little heart
to reply. I must not affirm my innocence of the allegations which he had piled
up against me; for that would be impudence, and would probably call down fresh
violence as well as wrath upon me. The guilt of a slave is always, and
everywhere, presumed; and the innocence of the slaveholder or the slave
employer, is always asserted. The word of the slave, against this presumption,
is generally treated as impudence, worthy of punishment. “Do you
contradict me, you rascal?” is a final silencer of counter statements
from the lips of a slave.

Calming down a little in view of my silence and hesitation, and, perhaps, from
a rapid glance at the picture of misery I presented, he inquired again,
“what I would have him do?” Thus invited a second time, I told
Master Thomas I wished him to allow me to get a new home and to find a new
master; that, as sure as I went back to live with Mr. Covey again, I should be
killed by him; that he would never forgive my coming to him (Capt. Auld) with a
complaint against him (Covey); that, since I had lived with him, he almost
crushed my spirit, and I believed that he would ruin me for future service;
that my life was not safe in his hands. This, Master Thomas (my brother in
the church) regarded as “nonsence(sic).” “There was no
danger of Mr. Covey’s killing me; he was a good man, industrious and
religious, and he would not think of removing me from that home;
besides,” said he and this I found was the most distressing thought of
all to him—“if you should leave Covey now, that your year has but
half expired, I should lose your wages for the entire year. You belong to Mr.
Covey for one year, and you must go back to him, come what will. You
must not trouble me with any more stories about Mr. Covey; and if you do not go
immediately home, I will get hold of you myself.” This was just what I
expected, when I found he had prejudged the case against me. “But,
Sir,” I said, “I am sick and tired, and I cannot get home
to-night.” At this, he again relented, and finally he allowed me to
remain all night at St. Michael’s; but said I must be off early in the
morning, and concluded his directions by making me swallow a huge dose of
epsom salts—about the only medicine ever administered to slaves.

It was quite natural for Master Thomas to presume I was feigning sickness to
escape work, for he probably thought that were he in the place of a
slave with no wages for his work, no praise for well doing, no motive for toil
but the lash—he would try every possible scheme by which to escape labor.
I say I have no doubt of this; the reason is, that there are not, under the
whole heavens, a set of men who cultivate such an intense dread of labor as do
the slaveholders. The charge of laziness against the slave is ever on their
lips, and is the standing apology for every species of cruelty and brutality.
These men literally “bind heavy burdens, grievous to be borne, and lay
them on men’s shoulders; but they, themselves, will not move them with
one of their fingers.”

My kind readers shall have, in the next chapter—what they were led,
perhaps, to expect to find in this—namely: an account of my partial
disenthrallment from the tyranny of Covey, and the marked change which it
brought about.

CHAPTER XVII. The Last Flogging

A SLEEPLESS NIGHT—RETURN TO COVEY’S—PURSUED BY
COVEY—THE CHASE DEFEATED—VENGEANCE POSTPONED—MUSINGS IN THE
WOODS—THE ALTERNATIVE—DEPLORABLE SPECTACLE—NIGHT IN THE
WOODS—EXPECTED ATTACK—ACCOSTED BY SANDY, A FRIEND, NOT A
HUNTER—SANDY’S HOSPITALITY—THE “ASH CAKE”
SUPPER—THE INTERVIEW WITH SANDY—HIS ADVICE—SANDY A CONJURER
AS WELL AS A CHRISTIAN—THE MAGIC ROOT—STRANGE MEETING WITH
COVEY—HIS MANNER—COVEY’S SUNDAY FACE—MY DEFENSIVE
RESOLVE—THE FIGHT—THE VICTORY, AND ITS RESULTS.

Sleep itself does not always come to the relief of the weary in body, and the
broken in spirit; especially when past troubles only foreshadow coming
disasters. The last hope had been extinguished. My master, who I did not
venture to hope would protect me as a man, had even now refused to
protect me as his property; and had cast me back, covered with
reproaches and bruises, into the hands of a stranger to that mercy which was
the soul of the religion he professed. May the reader never spend such a night
as that allotted to me, previous to the morning which was to herald my return
to the den of horrors from which I had made a temporary escape.

I remained all night—sleep I did not—at St. Michael’s; and in
the morning (Saturday) I started off, according to the order of Master Thomas,
feeling that I had no friend on earth, and doubting if I had one in heaven. I
reached Covey’s about nine o’clock; and just as I stepped into the
field, before I had reached the house, Covey, true to his snakish habits,
darted out at me from a fence corner, in which he had secreted himself, for the
purpose of securing me. He was amply provided with a cowskin and a rope; and he
evidently intended to tie me up, and to wreak his vengeance on me to the
fullest extent. I should have been an easy prey, had he succeeded in getting
his hands upon me, for I had taken no refreshment since noon on Friday; and
this, together with the pelting, excitement, and the loss of blood, had reduced
my strength. I, however, darted back into the woods, before the ferocious hound
could get hold of me, and buried myself in a thicket, where he lost sight of
me. The corn-field afforded me cover, in getting to the woods. But for the tall
corn, Covey would have overtaken me, and made me his captive. He seemed very
much chagrined that he did not catch me, and gave up the chase, very
reluctantly; for I could see his angry movements, toward the house from which
he had sallied, on his foray.

Well, now I am clear of Covey, and of his wrathful lash, for present. I am in
the wood, buried in its somber gloom, and hushed in its solemn silence; hid
from all human eyes; shut in with nature and nature’s God, and absent
from all human contrivances. Here was a good place to pray; to pray for help
for deliverance—a prayer I had often made before. But how could I pray?
Covey could pray—Capt. Auld could pray—I would fain pray; but
doubts (arising partly from my own neglect of the means of grace, and partly
from the sham religion which everywhere prevailed, cast in my mind a doubt upon
all religion, and led me to the conviction that prayers were unavailing and
delusive) prevented my embracing the opportunity, as a religious one. Life, in
itself, had almost become burdensome to me. All my outward relations were
against me; I must stay here and starve (I was already hungry) or go home to
Covey’s, and have my flesh torn to pieces, and my spirit humbled under
the cruel lash of Covey. This was the painful alternative presented to me. The
day was long and irksome. My physical condition was deplorable. I was weak,
from the toils of the previous day, and from the want of food and rest; and had
been so little concerned about my appearance, that I had not yet washed the
blood from my garments. I was an object of horror, even to myself. Life, in
Baltimore, when most oppressive, was a paradise to this. What had I done, what
had my parents done, that such a life as this should be mine? That day, in the
woods, I would have exchanged my manhood for the brutehood of an ox.

Night came. I was still in the woods, unresolved what to do. Hunger had not yet
pinched me to the point of going home, and I laid myself down in the leaves to
rest; for I had been watching for hunters all day, but not being molested
during the day, I expected no disturbance during the night. I had come to the
conclusion that Covey relied upon hunger to drive me home; and in this I was
quite correct—the facts showed that he had made no effort to catch me,
since morning.

During the night, I heard the step of a man in the woods. He was coming toward
the place where I lay. A person lying still has the advantage over one walking
in the woods, in the day time, and this advantage is much greater at night. I
was not able to engage in a physical struggle, and I had recourse to the common
resort of the weak. I hid myself in the leaves to prevent discovery. But, as
the night rambler in the woods drew nearer, I found him to be a friend,
not an enemy; it was a slave of Mr. William Groomes, of Easton, a kind hearted
fellow, named “Sandy.” Sandy lived with Mr. Kemp that year, about
four miles from St. Michael’s. He, like myself had been hired out by the
year; but, unlike myself, had not been hired out to be broken. Sandy was the
husband of a free woman, who lived in the lower part of “Potpie
Neck,” and he was now on his way through the woods, to see her, and
to spend the Sabbath with her.

As soon as I had ascertained that the disturber of my solitude was not an
enemy, but the good-hearted Sandy—a man as famous among the slaves of the
neighborhood for his good nature, as for his good sense I came out from my
hiding place, and made myself known to him. I explained the circumstances of
the past two days, which had driven me to the woods, and he deeply
compassionated my distress. It was a bold thing for him to shelter me, and I
could not ask him to do so; for, had I been found in his hut, he would have
suffered the penalty of thirty-nine lashes on his bare back, if not something
worse. But Sandy was too generous to permit the fear of punishment to prevent
his relieving a brother bondman from hunger and exposure; and, therefore, on
his own motion, I accompanied him to his home, or rather to the home of his
wife—for the house and lot were hers. His wife was called up—for it
was now about midnight—a fire was made, some Indian meal was soon mixed
with salt and water, and an ash cake was baked in a hurry to relieve my hunger.
Sandy’s wife was not behind him in kindness—both seemed to esteem
it a privilege to succor me; for, although I was hated by Covey and by my
master, I was loved by the colored people, because they thought I was
hated for my knowledge, and persecuted because I was feared. I was the
only slave now in that region who could read and write. There had
been one other man, belonging to Mr. Hugh Hamilton, who could read (his name
was “Jim”), but he, poor fellow, had, shortly after my coming into
the neighborhood, been sold off to the far south. I saw Jim ironed, in the
cart, to be carried to Easton for sale—pinioned like a yearling for the
slaughter. My knowledge was now the pride of my brother slaves; and, no doubt,
Sandy felt something of the general interest in me on that account. The supper
was soon ready, and though I have feasted since, with honorables, lord mayors
and aldermen, over the sea, my supper on ash cake and cold water, with Sandy,
was the meal, of all my life, most sweet to my taste, and now most vivid in my
memory.

Supper over, Sandy and I went into a discussion of what was possible for
me, under the perils and hardships which now overshadowed my path. The question
was, must I go back to Covey, or must I now tempt to run away? Upon a careful
survey, the latter was found to be impossible; for I was on a narrow neck of
land, every avenue from which would bring me in sight of pursuers. There was
the Chesapeake bay to the right, and “Pot-pie” river to the left,
and St. Michael’s and its neighborhood occupying the only space through
which there was any retreat.

I found Sandy an old advisor. He was not only a religious man, but he professed
to believe in a system for which I have no name. He was a genuine African, and
had inherited some of the so-called magical powers, said to be possessed by
African and eastern nations. He told me that he could help me; that, in those
very woods, there was an herb, which in the morning might be found, possessing
all the powers required for my protection (I put his thoughts in my own
language); and that, if I would take his advice, he would procure me the root
of the herb of which he spoke. He told me further, that if I would take that
root and wear it on my right side, it would be impossible for Covey to strike
me a blow; that with this root about my person, no white man could whip me. He
said he had carried it for years, and that he had fully tested its virtues. He
had never received a blow from a slaveholder since he carried it; and he never
expected to receive one, for he always meant to carry that root as a
protection. He knew Covey well, for Mrs. Covey was the daughter of Mr. Kemp;
and he (Sandy) had heard of the barbarous treatment to which I was subjected,
and he wanted to do something for me.

Now all this talk about the root, was to me, very absurd and ridiculous, if not
positively sinful. I at first rejected the idea that the simple carrying a root
on my right side (a root, by the way, over which I walked every time I went
into the woods) could possess any such magic power as he ascribed to it, and I
was, therefore, not disposed to cumber my pocket with it. I had a positive
aversion to all pretenders to “divination.” It was beneath
one of my intelligence to countenance such dealings with the devil, as this
power implied. But, with all my learning—it was really precious
little—Sandy was more than a match for me. “My book
learning,” he said, “had not kept Covey off me” (a powerful
argument just then) and he entreated me, with flashing eyes, to try this. If it
did me no good, it could do me no harm, and it would cost me nothing, any way.
Sandy was so earnest, and so confident of the good qualities of this weed,
that, to please him, rather than from any conviction of its excellence, I was
induced to take it. He had been to me the good Samaritan, and had, almost
providentially, found me, and helped me when I could not help myself; how did I
know but that the hand of the Lord was in it? With thoughts of this sort, I
took the roots from Sandy, and put them in my right hand pocket.

This was, of course, Sunday morning. Sandy now urged me to go home, with all
speed, and to walk up bravely to the house, as though nothing had happened. I
saw in Sandy too deep an insight into human nature, with all his superstition,
not to have some respect for his advice; and perhaps, too, a slight gleam or
shadow of his superstition had fallen upon me. At any rate, I started off
toward Covey’s, as directed by Sandy. Having, the previous night, poured
my griefs into Sandy’s ears, and got him enlisted in my behalf, having
made his wife a sharer in my sorrows, and having, also, become well refreshed
by sleep and food, I moved off, quite courageously, toward the much dreaded
Covey’s. Singularly enough, just as I entered his yard gate, I met him
and his wife, dressed in their Sunday best—looking as smiling as
angels—on their way to church. The manner of Covey astonished me. There
was something really benignant in his countenance. He spoke to me as never
before; told me that the pigs had got into the lot, and he wished me to drive
them out; inquired how I was, and seemed an altered man. This extraordinary
conduct of Covey, really made me begin to think that Sandy’s herb had
more virtue in it than I, in my pride, had been willing to allow; and, had the
day been other than Sunday, I should have attributed Covey’s altered
manner solely to the magic power of the root. I suspected, however, that the
Sabbath, and not the root, was the real explanation of
Covey’s manner. His religion hindered him from breaking the Sabbath, but
not from breaking my skin. He had more respect for the day than for the
man, for whom the day was mercifully given; for while he would cut and
slash my body during the week, he would not hesitate, on Sunday, to teach me
the value of my soul, or the way of life and salvation by Jesus Christ.

All went well with me till Monday morning; and then, whether the root had lost
its virtue, or whether my tormentor had gone deeper into the black art than
myself (as was sometimes said of him), or whether he had obtained a special
indulgence, for his faithful Sabbath day’s worship, it is not necessary
for me to know, or to inform the reader; but, this I may say—the
pious and benignant smile which graced Covey’s face on Sunday,
wholly disappeared on Monday. Long before daylight, I was called up to
go and feed, rub, and curry the horses. I obeyed the call, and would have so
obeyed it, had it been made at an earilier(sic) hour, for I had brought my mind
to a firm resolve, during that Sunday’s reflection, viz: to obey every
order, however unreasonable, if it were possible, and, if Mr. Covey should then
undertake to beat me, to defend and protect myself to the best of my ability.
My religious views on the subject of resisting my master, had suffered a
serious shock, by the savage persecution to which I had been subjected, and my
hands were no longer tied by my religion. Master Thomas’s indifference
had served the last link. I had now to this extent “backslidden”
from this point in the slave’s religious creed; and I soon had occasion
to make my fallen state known to my Sunday-pious brother, Covey.

Whilst I was obeying his order to feed and get the horses ready for the field,
and when in the act of going up the stable loft for the purpose of throwing
down some blades, Covey sneaked into the stable, in his peculiar snake-like
way, and seizing me suddenly by the leg, he brought me to the stable floor,
giving my newly mended body a fearful jar. I now forgot my roots, and
remembered my pledge to stand up in my own defense. The brute was
endeavoring skillfully to get a slip-knot on my legs, before I could draw up my
feet. As soon as I found what he was up to, I gave a sudden spring (my two
day’s rest had been of much service to me,) and by that means, no doubt,
he was able to bring me to the floor so heavily. He was defeated in his plan of
tying me. While down, he seemed to think he had me very securely in his power.
He little thought he was—as the rowdies say—“in” for a
“rough and tumble” fight; but such was the fact. Whence came the
daring spirit necessary to grapple with a man who, eight-and-forty hours
before, could, with his slightest word have made me tremble like a leaf in a
storm, I do not know; at any rate, I was resolved to fight, and, what
was better still, I was actually hard at it. The fighting madness had come upon
me, and I found my strong fingers firmly attached to the throat of my cowardly
tormentor; as heedless of consequences, at the moment, as though we stood as
equals before the law. The very color of the man was forgotten. I felt as
supple as a cat, and was ready for the snakish creature at every turn. Every
blow of his was parried, though I dealt no blows in turn. I was strictly on the
defensive, preventing him from injuring me, rather than trying to injure
him. I flung him on the ground several times, when he meant to have hurled me
there. I held him so firmly by the throat, that his blood followed my nails. He
held me, and I held him.

All was fair, thus far, and the contest was about equal. My resistance was
entirely unexpected, and Covey was taken all aback by it, for he trembled in
every limb. “Are you going to resist, you scoundrel?” said
he. To which, I returned a polite “Yes sir;” steadily gazing
my interrogator in the eye, to meet the first approach or dawning of the blow,
which I expected my answer would call forth. But, the conflict did not long
remain thus equal. Covey soon cried out lustily for help; not that I was
obtaining any marked advantage over him, or was injuring him, but because he
was gaining none over me, and was not able, single handed, to conquer me. He
called for his cousin Hughs, to come to his assistance, and now the scene was
changed. I was compelled to give blows, as well as to parry them; and, since I
was, in any case, to suffer for resistance, I felt (as the musty proverb goes)
that “I might as well be hanged for an old sheep as a lamb.” I was
still defensive toward Covey, but aggressive toward Hughs; and,
at the first approach of the latter, I dealt a blow, in my desperation, which
fairly sickened my youthful assailant. He went off, bending over with pain, and
manifesting no disposition to come within my reach again. The poor fellow was
in the act of trying to catch and tie my right hand, and while flattering
himself with success, I gave him the kick which sent him staggering away in
pain, at the same time that I held Covey with a firm hand.

Taken completely by surprise, Covey seemed to have lost his usual strength and
coolness. He was frightened, and stood puffing and blowing, seemingly unable to
command words or blows. When he saw that poor Hughes was standing half bent
with pain—his courage quite gone the cowardly tyrant asked if I
“meant to persist in my resistance.” I told him “I did
mean to resist, come what might;” that I had been by him treated like
a brute, during the last six months; and that I should stand it no
longer. With that, he gave me a shake, and attempted to drag me toward a
stick of wood, that was lying just outside the stable door. He meant to knock
me down with it; but, just as he leaned over to get the stick, I seized him
with both hands by the collar, and, with a vigorous and sudden snatch, I
brought my assailant harmlessly, his full length, on the not overclean
ground—for we were now in the cow yard. He had selected the place for the
fight, and it was but right that he should have all the advantges(sic) of his
own selection.

By this time, Bill, the hiredman, came home. He had been to Mr.
Hemsley’s, to spend the Sunday with his nominal wife, and was coming home
on Monday morning, to go to work. Covey and I had been skirmishing from before
daybreak, till now, that the sun was almost shooting his beams over the eastern
woods, and we were still at it. I could not see where the matter was to
terminate. He evidently was afraid to let me go, lest I should again make off
to the woods; otherwise, he would probably have obtained arms from the house,
to frighten me. Holding me, Covey called upon Bill for assistance. The scene
here, had something comic about it. “Bill,” who knew
precisely what Covey wished him to do, affected ignorance, and pretended
he did not know what to do. “What shall I do, Mr. Covey,” said
Bill. “Take hold of him—take hold of him!” said Covey. With a
toss of his head, peculiar to Bill, he said, “indeed, Mr. Covey I want to
go to work.” “This is your work,” said Covey;
“take hold of him.” Bill replied, with spirit, “My master
hired me here, to work, and not to help you whip Frederick.” It
was now my turn to speak. “Bill,” said I, “don’t put
your hands on me.” To which he replied, “My GOD! Frederick, I
ain’t goin’ to tech ye,” and Bill walked off, leaving Covey
and myself to settle our matters as best we might.

But, my present advantage was threatened when I saw Caroline (the slave-woman
of Covey) coming to the cow yard to milk, for she was a powerful woman, and
could have mastered me very easily, exhausted as I now was. As soon as she came
into the yard, Covey attempted to rally her to his aid. Strangely—and, I
may add, fortunately—Caroline was in no humor to take a hand in any such
sport. We were all in open rebellion, that morning. Caroline answered the
command of her master to “take hold of me,” precisely as
Bill had answered, but in her, it was at greater peril so to answer; she
was the slave of Covey, and he could do what he pleased with her. It was
not so with Bill, and Bill knew it. Samuel Harris, to whom Bill
belonged, did not allow his slaves to be beaten, unless they were guilty of
some crime which the law would punish. But, poor Caroline, like myself, was at
the mercy of the merciless Covey; nor did she escape the dire effects of her
refusal. He gave her several sharp blows.

Covey at length (two hours had elapsed) gave up the contest. Letting me go, he
said—puffing and blowing at a great rate—“Now, you scoundrel,
go to your work; I would not have whipped you half so much as I have had you
not resisted.” The fact was, he had not whipped me at all. He had
not, in all the scuffle, drawn a single drop of blood from me. I had drawn
blood from him; and, even without this satisfaction, I should have been
victorious, because my aim had not been to injure him, but to prevent his
injuring me.

During the whole six months that I lived with Covey, after this transaction, he
never laid on me the weight of his finger in anger. He would, occasionally, say
he did not want to have to get hold of me again—a declaration which I had
no difficulty in believing; and I had a secret feeling, which answered,
“You need not wish to get hold of me again, for you will be likely to
come off worse in a second fight than you did in the first.”

Well, my dear reader, this battle with Mr. Covey—undignified as it was,
and as I fear my narration of it is—was the turning point in my
“life as a slave.” It rekindled in my breast the smouldering
embers of liberty; it brought up my Baltimore dreams, and revived a sense of my
own manhood. I was a changed being after that fight. I was nothing
before; I WAS A MAN NOW. It recalled to life my crushed self-respect and my
self-confidence, and inspired me with a renewed determination to be A FREEMAN.
A man, without force, is without the essential dignity of humanity. Human
nature is so constituted, that it cannot honor a helpless man, although
it can pity him; and even this it cannot do long, if the signs of power
do not arise.

He can only understand the effect of this combat on my spirit, who has himself
incurred something, hazarded something, in repelling the unjust and cruel
aggressions of a tyrant. Covey was a tyrant, and a cowardly one, withal. After
resisting him, I felt as I had never felt before. It was a resurrection from
the dark and pestiferous tomb of slavery, to the heaven of comparative freedom.
I was no longer a servile coward, trembling under the frown of a brother worm
of the dust, but, my long-cowed spirit was roused to an attitude of manly
independence. I had reached the point, at which I was not afraid to die.
This spirit made me a freeman in fact, while I remained a slave in
form. When a slave cannot be flogged he is more than half free. He has a
domain as broad as his own manly heart to defend, and he is really “a
power on earth.” While slaves prefer their lives, with flogging, to
instant death, they will always find Christians enough, like unto Covey, to
accommodate that preference. From this time, until that of my escape from
slavery, I was never fairly whipped. Several attempts were made to whip me, but
they were always unsuccessful. Bruises I did get, as I shall hereafter inform
the reader; but the case I have been describing, was the end of the
brutification to which slavery had subjected me.

The reader will be glad to know why, after I had so grievously offended Mr.
Covey, he did not have me taken in hand by the authorities; indeed, why the law
of Maryland, which assigns hanging to the slave who resists his master, was not
put in force against me; at any rate, why I was not taken up, as is usual in
such cases, and publicly whipped, for an example to other slaves, and as a
means of deterring me from committing the same offense again. I confess, that
the easy manner in which I got off, for a long time, a surprise to me, and I
cannot, even now, fully explain the cause.

The only explanation I can venture to suggest, is the fact, that Covey was,
probably, ashamed to have it known and confessed that he had been mastered by a
boy of sixteen. Mr. Covey enjoyed the unbounded and very valuable reputation,
of being a first rate overseer and Negro breaker. By means of this
reputation, he was able to procure his hands for very trifling
compensation, and with very great ease. His interest and his pride mutually
suggested the wisdom of passing the matter by, in silence. The story that he
had undertaken to whip a lad, and had been resisted, was, of itself, sufficient
to damage him; for his bearing should, in the estimation of slaveholders, be of
that imperial order that should make such an occurrence impossible. I
judge from these circumstances, that Covey deemed it best to give me the go-by.
It is, perhaps, not altogether creditable to my natural temper, that, after
this conflict with Mr. Covey, I did, at times, purposely aim to provoke him to
an attack, by refusing to keep with the other hands in the field, but I could
never bully him to another battle. I had made up my mind to do him serious
damage, if he ever again attempted to lay violent hands on me.

Hereditary bondmen, know ye not
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?

CHAPTER XVIII. New Relations and Duties

CHANGE OF MASTERS—BENEFITS DERIVED BY THE CHANGE—FAME OF THE FIGHT
WITH COVEY—RECKLESS UNCONCERN—MY ABHORRENCE OF
SLAVERY—ABILITY TO READ A CAUSE OF PREJUDICE—THE HOLIDAYS—HOW
SPENT—SHARP HIT AT SLAVERY—EFFECTS OF HOLIDAYS—A DEVICE OF
SLAVERY—DIFFERENCE BETWEEN COVEY AND FREELAND—AN IRRELIGIOUS MASTER
PREFERRED TO A RELIGIOUS ONE—CATALOGUE OF FLOGGABLE OFFENSES—HARD
LIFE AT COVEY’S USEFUL—IMPROVED CONDITION NOT FOLLOWED BY
CONTENTMENT—CONGENIAL SOCIETY AT FREELAND’S—SABBATH SCHOOL
INSTITUTED—SECRECY NECESSARY—AFFECTIONATE RELATIONS OF TUTOR AND
PUPILS—CONFIDENCE AND FRIENDSHIP AMONG SLAVES—I DECLINE PUBLISHING
PARTICULARS OF CONVERSATIONS WITH MY FRIENDS—SLAVERY THE INVITER OF
VENGEANCE.

My term of actual service to Mr. Edward Covey ended on Christmas day, 1834. I
gladly left the snakish Covey, although he was now as gentle as a lamb. My home
for the year 1835 was already secured—my next master was already
selected. There is always more or less excitement about the matter of changing
hands, but I had become somewhat reckless. I cared very little into whose hands
I fell—I meant to fight my way. Despite of Covey, too, the report got
abroad, that I was hard to whip; that I was guilty of kicking back; that though
generally a good tempered Negro, I sometimes “got the devil in
me.” These sayings were rife in Talbot county, and they distinguished
me among my servile brethren. Slaves, generally, will fight each other, and die
at each other’s hands; but there are few who are not held in awe by a
white man. Trained from the cradle up, to think and feel that their masters are
superior, and invested with a sort of sacredness, there are few who can outgrow
or rise above the control which that sentiment exercises. I had now got free
from it, and the thing was known. One bad sheep will spoil a whole flock. Among
the slaves, I was a bad sheep. I hated slavery, slaveholders, and all
pertaining to them; and I did not fail to inspire others with the same feeling,
wherever and whenever opportunity was presented. This made me a marked lad
among the slaves, and a suspected one among the slaveholders. A knowledge of my
ability to read and write, got pretty widely spread, which was very much
against me.

The days between Christmas day and New Year’s, are allowed the slaves as
holidays. During these days, all regular work was suspended, and there was
nothing to do but to keep fires, and look after the stock. This time was
regarded as our own, by the grace of our masters, and we, therefore used it, or
abused it, as we pleased. Those who had families at a distance, were now
expected to visit them, and to spend with them the entire week. The younger
slaves, or the unmarried ones, were expected to see to the cattle, and attend
to incidental duties at home. The holidays were variously spent. The sober,
thinking and industrious ones of our number, would employ themselves in
manufacturing corn brooms, mats, horse collars and baskets, and some of these
were very well made. Another class spent their time in hunting opossums, coons,
rabbits, and other game. But the majority spent the holidays in sports, ball
playing, wrestling, boxing, running foot races, dancing, and drinking whisky;
and this latter mode of spending the time was generally most agreeable to their
masters. A slave who would work during the holidays, was thought, by his
master, undeserving of holidays. Such an one had rejected the favor of his
master. There was, in this simple act of continued work, an accusation against
slaves; and a slave could not help thinking, that if he made three dollars
during the holidays, he might make three hundred during the year. Not to be
drunk during the holidays, was disgraceful; and he was esteemed a lazy and
improvident man, who could not afford to drink whisky during Christmas.

The fiddling, dancing and “jubilee beating,” was going on in
all directions. This latter performance is strictly southern. It supplies the
place of a violin, or of other musical instruments, and is played so easily,
that almost every farm has its “Juba” beater. The performer
improvises as he beats, and sings his merry songs, so ordering the words as to
have them fall pat with the movement of his hands. Among a mass of nonsense and
wild frolic, once in a while a sharp hit is given to the meanness of
slaveholders. Take the following, for an example:

We raise de wheat,
Dey gib us de corn;
We bake de bread,
Dey gib us de cruss;
We sif de meal,
Dey gib us de huss;
We peal de meat,
Dey gib us de skin,
And dat’s de way
Dey takes us in.
We skim de pot,
Dey gib us the liquor,
And say dat’s good enough for nigger.
          Walk over! walk over!
Tom butter and de fat;
          Poor nigger you can’t get over dat;
                              Walk over!

This is not a bad summary of the palpable injustice and fraud of slavery,
giving—as it does—to the lazy and idle, the comforts which God
designed should be given solely to the honest laborer. But to the
holiday’s.

Judging from my own observation and experience, I believe these holidays to be
among the most effective means, in the hands of slaveholders, of keeping down
the spirit of insurrection among the slaves.

To enslave men, successfully and safely, it is necessary to have their minds
occupied with thoughts and aspirations short of the liberty of which they are
deprived. A certain degree of attainable good must be kept before them. These
holidays serve the purpose of keeping the minds of the slaves occupied with
prospective pleasure, within the limits of slavery. The young man can go
wooing; the married man can visit his wife; the father and mother can see their
children; the industrious and money loving can make a few dollars; the great
wrestler can win laurels; the young people can meet, and enjoy each
other’s society; the drunken man can get plenty of whisky; and the
religious man can hold prayer meetings, preach, pray and exhort during the
holidays. Before the holidays, these are pleasures in prospect; after the
holidays, they become pleasures of memory, and they serve to keep out thoughts
and wishes of a more dangerous character. Were slaveholders at once to abandon
the practice of allowing their slaves these liberties, periodically, and to
keep them, the year round, closely confined to the narrow circle of their
homes, I doubt not that the south would blaze with insurrections. These
holidays are conductors or safety valves to carry off the explosive elements
inseparable from the human mind, when reduced to the condition of slavery. But
for these, the rigors of bondage would become too severe for endurance, and the
slave would be forced up to dangerous desperation. Woe to the slaveholder when
he undertakes to hinder or to prevent the operation of these electric
conductors. A succession of earthquakes would be less destructive, than the
insurrectionary fires which would be sure to burst forth in different parts of
the south, from such interference.

Thus, the holidays, became part and parcel of the gross fraud, wrongs and
inhumanity of slavery. Ostensibly, they are institutions of benevolence,
designed to mitigate the rigors of slave life, but, practically, they are a
fraud, instituted by human selfishness, the better to secure the ends of
injustice and oppression. The slave’s happiness is not the end sought,
but, rather, the master’s safety. It is not from a generous unconcern for
the slave’s labor that this cessation from labor is allowed, but from a
prudent regard to the safety of the slave system. I am strengthened in this
opinion, by the fact, that most slaveholders like to have their slaves spend
the holidays in such a manner as to be of no real benefit to the slaves. It is
plain, that everything like rational enjoyment among the slaves, is frowned
upon; and only those wild and low sports, peculiar to semi-civilized people,
are encouraged. All the license allowed, appears to have no other object than
to disgust the slaves with their temporary freedom, and to make them as glad to
return to their work, as they were to leave it. By plunging them into
exhausting depths of drunkenness and dissipation, this effect is almost certain
to follow. I have known slaveholders resort to cunning tricks, with a view of
getting their slaves deplorably drunk. A usual plan is, to make bets on a
slave, that he can drink more whisky than any other; and so to induce a rivalry
among them, for the mastery in this degradation. The scenes, brought about in
this way, were often scandalous and loathsome in the extreme. Whole multitudes
might be found stretched out in brutal drunkenness, at once helpless and
disgusting. Thus, when the slave asks for a few hours of virtuous freedom, his
cunning master takes advantage of his ignorance, and cheers him with a dose of
vicious and revolting dissipation, artfully labeled with the name of LIBERTY.
We were induced to drink, I among the rest, and when the holidays were over, we
all staggered up from our filth and wallowing, took a long breath, and went
away to our various fields of work; feeling, upon the whole, rather glad to go
from that which our masters artfully deceived us into the belief was freedom,
back again to the arms of slavery. It was not what we had taken it to be, nor
what it might have been, had it not been abused by us. It was about as well to
be a slave to master, as to be a slave to rum and whisky.

I am the more induced to take this view of the holiday system, adopted by
slaveholders, from what I know of their treatment of slaves, in regard to other
things. It is the commonest thing for them to try to disgust their slaves with
what they do not want them to have, or to enjoy. A slave, for instance, likes
molasses; he steals some; to cure him of the taste for it, his master, in many
cases, will go away to town, and buy a large quantity of the poorest
quality, and set it before his slave, and, with whip in hand, compel him to eat
it, until the poor fellow is made to sicken at the very thought of molasses.
The same course is often adopted to cure slaves of the disagreeable and
inconvenient practice of asking for more food, when their allowance has failed
them. The same disgusting process works well, too, in other things, but I need
not cite them. When a slave is drunk, the slaveholder has no fear that he will
plan an insurrection; no fear that he will escape to the north. It is the
sober, thinking slave who is dangerous, and needs the vigilance of his master,
to keep him a slave. But, to proceed with my narrative.

On the first of January, 1835, I proceeded from St. Michael’s to Mr.
William Freeland’s, my new home. Mr. Freeland lived only three miles from
St. Michael’s, on an old worn out farm, which required much labor to
restore it to anything like a self-supporting establishment.

I was not long in finding Mr. Freeland to be a very different man from Mr.
Covey. Though not rich, Mr. Freeland was what may be called a well-bred
southern gentleman, as different from Covey, as a well-trained and hardened
Negro breaker is from the best specimen of the first families of the south.
Though Freeland was a slaveholder, and shared many of the vices of his class,
he seemed alive to the sentiment of honor. He had some sense of justice, and
some feelings of humanity. He was fretful, impulsive and passionate, but I must
do him the justice to say, he was free from the mean and selfish
characteristics which distinguished the creature from which I had now, happily,
escaped. He was open, frank, imperative, and practiced no concealments,
disdaining to play the spy. In all this, he was the opposite of the crafty
Covey.

Among the many advantages gained in my change from Covey’s to
Freeland’s—startling as the statement may be—was the fact
that the latter gentleman made no profession of religion. I assert most
unhesitatingly, that the religion of the south—as I have observed it
and proved it—is a mere covering for the most horrid crimes; the
justifier of the most appalling barbarity; a sanctifier of the most hateful
frauds; and a secure shelter, under which the darkest, foulest, grossest, and
most infernal abominations fester and flourish. Were I again to be reduced to
the condition of a slave, next to that calamity, I should regard the
fact of being the slave of a religious slaveholder, the greatest that could
befall me. For all slaveholders with whom I have ever met, religious
slaveholders are the worst. I have found them, almost invariably, the vilest,
meanest and basest of their class. Exceptions there may be, but this is true of
religious slaveholders, as a class. It is not for me to explain the
fact. Others may do that; I simply state it as a fact, and leave the
theological, and psychological inquiry, which it raises, to be decided by
others more competent than myself. Religious slaveholders, like religious
persecutors, are ever extreme in their malice and violence. Very near my new
home, on an adjoining farm, there lived the Rev. Daniel Weeden, who was both
pious and cruel after the real Covey pattern. Mr. Weeden was a local preacher
of the Protestant Methodist persuasion, and a most zealous supporter of the
ordinances of religion, generally. This Weeden owned a woman called
“Ceal,” who was a standing proof of his mercilessness. Poor
Ceal’s back, always scantily clothed, was kept literally raw, by the lash
of this religious man and gospel minister. The most notoriously wicked
man—so called in distinction from church members—could hire hands
more easily than this brute. When sent out to find a home, a slave would never
enter the gates of the preacher Weeden, while a sinful sinner needed a hand. Be
have ill, or behave well, it was the known maxim of Weeden, that it is the duty
of a master to use the lash. If, for no other reason, he contended that this
was essential to remind a slave of his condition, and of his master’s
authority. The good slave must be whipped, to be kept good, and the bad
slave must be whipped, to be made good. Such was Weeden’s theory,
and such was his practice. The back of his slave-woman will, in the judgment,
be the swiftest witness against him.

While I am stating particular cases, I might as well immortalize another of my
neighbors, by calling him by name, and putting him in print. He did not think
that a “chiel” was near, “taking notes,” and will,
doubtless, feel quite angry at having his character touched off in the ragged
style of a slave’s pen. I beg to introduce the reader to REV. RIGBY
HOPKINS. Mr. Hopkins resides between Easton and St. Michael’s, in Talbot
county, Maryland. The severity of this man made him a perfect terror to the
slaves of his neighborhood. The peculiar feature of his government, was, his
system of whipping slaves, as he said, in advance of deserving it. He
always managed to have one or two slaves to whip on Monday morning, so as to
start his hands to their work, under the inspiration of a new assurance on
Monday, that his preaching about kindness, mercy, brotherly love, and the like,
on Sunday, did not interfere with, or prevent him from establishing his
authority, by the cowskin. He seemed to wish to assure them, that his tears
over poor, lost and ruined sinners, and his pity for them, did not reach to the
blacks who tilled his fields. This saintly Hopkins used to boast, that he was
the best hand to manage a Negro in the county. He whipped for the smallest
offenses, by way of preventing the commission of large ones.

The reader might imagine a difficulty in finding faults enough for such
frequent whipping. But this is because you have no idea how easy a matter it is
to offend a man who is on the look-out for offenses. The man, unaccustomed to
slaveholding, would be astonished to observe how many foggable offenses
there are in the slaveholder’s catalogue of crimes; and how easy it is to
commit any one of them, even when the slave least intends it. A slaveholder,
bent on finding fault, will hatch up a dozen a day, if he chooses to do so, and
each one of these shall be of a punishable description. A mere look, word, or
motion, a mistake, accident, or want of power, are all matters for which a
slave may be whipped at any time. Does a slave look dissatisfied with his
condition? It is said, that he has the devil in him, and it must be whipped
out. Does he answer loudly, when spoken to by his master, with an air of
self-consciousness? Then, must he be taken down a button-hole lower, by the
lash, well laid on. Does he forget, and omit to pull off his hat, when
approaching a white person? Then, he must, or may be, whipped for his bad
manners. Does he ever venture to vindicate his conduct, when harshly and
unjustly accused? Then, he is guilty of impudence, one of the greatest crimes
in the social catalogue of southern society. To allow a slave to escape
punishment, who has impudently attempted to exculpate himself from unjust
charges, preferred against him by some white person, is to be guilty of great
dereliction of duty. Does a slave ever venture to suggest a better way of doing
a thing, no matter what? He is, altogether, too officious—wise above what
is written—and he deserves, even if he does not get, a flogging for his
presumption. Does he, while plowing, break a plow, or while hoeing, break a
hoe, or while chopping, break an ax? No matter what were the imperfections of
the implement broken, or the natural liabilities for breaking, the slave can be
whipped for carelessness. The reverend slaveholder could always find
something of this sort, to justify him in using the lash several times during
the week. Hopkins—like Covey and Weeden—were shunned by slaves who
had the privilege (as many had) of finding their own masters at the end of each
year; and yet, there was not a man in all that section of country, who made a
louder profession of religion, than did MR. RIGBY HOPKINS.

But, to continue the thread of my story, through my experience when at Mr.
William Freeland’s.

My poor, weather-beaten bark now reached smoother water, and gentler breezes.
My stormy life at Covey’s had been of service to me. The things that
would have seemed very hard, had I gone direct to Mr. Freeland’s, from
the home of Master Thomas, were now (after the hardships at Covey’s)
“trifles light as air.” I was still a field hand, and had come to
prefer the severe labor of the field, to the enervating duties of a house
servant. I had become large and strong; and had begun to take pride in the
fact, that I could do as much hard work as some of the older men. There is much
rivalry among slaves, at times, as to which can do the most work, and masters
generally seek to promote such rivalry. But some of us were too wise to race
with each other very long. Such racing, we had the sagacity to see, was not
likely to pay. We had our times for measuring each other’s strength, but
we knew too much to keep up the competition so long as to produce an
extraordinary day’s work. We knew that if, by extraordinary exertion, a
large quantity of work was done in one day, the fact, becoming known to the
master, might lead him to require the same amount every day. This thought was
enough to bring us to a dead halt when over so much excited for the race.

At Mr. Freeland’s, my condition was every way improved. I was no longer
the poor scape-goat that I was when at Covey’s, where every wrong thing
done was saddled upon me, and where other slaves were whipped over my
shoulders. Mr. Freeland was too just a man thus to impose upon me, or upon any
one else.

It is quite usual to make one slave the object of especial abuse, and to beat
him often, with a view to its effect upon others, rather than with any
expectation that the slave whipped will be improved by it, but the man with
whom I now was, could descend to no such meanness and wickedness. Every man
here was held individually responsible for his own conduct.

This was a vast improvement on the rule at Covey’s. There, I was the
general pack horse. Bill Smith was protected, by a positive prohibition made by
his rich master, and the command of the rich slaveholder is LAW to the poor
one; Hughes was favored, because of his relationship to Covey; and the hands
hired temporarily, escaped flogging, except as they got it over my poor
shoulders. Of course, this comparison refers to the time when Covey
could whip me.

Mr. Freeland, like Mr. Covey, gave his hands enough to eat, but, unlike Mr.
Covey, he gave them time to take their meals; he worked us hard during the day,
but gave us the night for rest—another advantage to be set to the credit
of the sinner, as against that of the saint. We were seldom in the field after
dark in the evening, or before sunrise in the morning. Our implements of
husbandry were of the most improved pattern, and much superior to those used at
Covey’s.

Nothwithstanding the improved condition which was now mine, and the many
advantages I had gained by my new home, and my new master, I was still restless
and discontented. I was about as hard to please by a master, as a master is by
slave. The freedom from bodily torture and unceasing labor, had given my mind
an increased sensibility, and imparted to it greater activity. I was not yet
exactly in right relations. “How be it, that was not first which is
spiritual, but that which is natural, and afterward that which is
spiritual.” When entombed at Covey’s, shrouded in darkness and
physical wretchedness, temporal wellbeing was the grand desideratum;
but, temporal wants supplied, the spirit puts in its claims. Beat and cuff your
slave, keep him hungry and spiritless, and he will follow the chain of his
master like a dog; but, feed and clothe him well—work him
moderately—surround him with physical comfort—and dreams of freedom
intrude. Give him a bad master, and he aspires to a good master;
give him a good master, and he wishes to become his own master. Such is
human nature. You may hurl a man so low, beneath the level of his kind, that he
loses all just ideas of his natural position; but elevate him a little, and the
clear conception of rights arises to life and power, and leads him onward. Thus
elevated, a little, at Freeland’s, the dreams called into being by that
good man, Father Lawson, when in Baltimore, began to visit me; and shoots from
the tree of liberty began to put forth tender buds, and dim hopes of the future
began to dawn.

I found myself in congenial society, at Mr. Freeland’s. There were Henry
Harris, John Harris, Handy Caldwell, and Sandy Jenkins. 6

Henry and John were brothers, and belonged to Mr. Freeland. They were both
remarkably bright and intelligent, though neither of them could read. Now for
mischief! I had not been long at Freeland’s before I was up to my old
tricks. I early began to address my companions on the subject of education, and
the advantages of intelligence over ignorance, and, as far as I dared, I tried
to show the agency of ignorance in keeping men in slavery. Webster’s
spelling book and the Columbian Orator were looked into again. As summer
came on, and the long Sabbath days stretched themselves over our idleness, I
became uneasy, and wanted a Sabbath school, in which to exercise my gifts, and
to impart the little knowledge of letters which I possessed, to my brother
slaves. A house was hardly necessary in the summer time; I could hold my school
under the shade of an old oak tree, as well as any where else. The thing was,
to get the scholars, and to have them thoroughly imbued with the desire to
learn. Two such boys were quickly secured, in Henry and John, and from them the
contagion spread. I was not long bringing around me twenty or thirty young men,
who enrolled themselves, gladly, in my Sabbath school, and were willing to meet
me regularly, under the trees or elsewhere, for the purpose of learning to
read. It was surprising with what ease they provided themselves with spelling
books. These were mostly the cast off books of their young masters or
mistresses. I taught, at first, on our own farm. All were impressed with the
necessity of keeping the matter as private as possible, for the fate of the St.
Michael’s attempt was notorious, and fresh in the minds of all. Our pious
masters, at St. Michael’s, must not know that a few of their dusky
brothers were learning to read the word of God, lest they should come down upon
us with the lash and chain. We might have met to drink whisky, to wrestle,
fight, and to do other unseemly things, with no fear of interruption from the
saints or sinners of St. Michael’s.

But, to meet for the purpose of improving the mind and heart, by learning to
read the sacred scriptures, was esteemed a most dangerous nuisance, to be
instantly stopped. The slaveholders of St. Michael’s, like slaveholders
elsewhere, would always prefer to see the slaves engaged in degrading sports,
rather than to see them acting like moral and accountable beings.

Had any one asked a religious white man, in St. Michael’s, twenty years
ago, the names of three men in that town, whose lives were most after the
pattern of our Lord and Master, Jesus Christ, the first three would have been
as follows:

GARRISON WEST, Class Leader.
WRIGHT FAIRBANKS, Class Leader.
THOMAS AULD, Class Leader.

And yet, these were men who ferociously rushed in upon my Sabbath school, at
St. Michael’s, armed with mob-like missiles, and I must say, I thought
him a Christian, until he took part in bloody by the lash. This same Garrison
West was my class leader, and I must say, I thought him a Christian, until he
took part in breaking up my school. He led me no more after that. The plea for
this outrage was then, as it is now and at all times—the danger to good
order. If the slaves learnt to read, they would learn something else, and
something worse. The peace of slavery would be disturbed; slave rule would be
endangered. I leave the reader to characterize a system which is endangered by
such causes. I do not dispute the soundness of the reasoning. It is perfectly
sound; and, if slavery be right, Sabbath schools for teaching slaves to
read the bible are wrong, and ought to be put down. These Christian
class leaders were, to this extent, consistent. They had settled the question,
that slavery is right, and, by that standard, they determined that
Sabbath schools are wrong. To be sure, they were Protestant, and held to the
great Protestant right of every man to “search the
scriptures” for himself; but, then, to all general rules, there are
exceptions. How convenient! What crimes may not be committed under the
doctrine of the last remark. But, my dear, class leading Methodist brethren,
did not condescend to give me a reason for breaking up the Sabbath school at
St. Michael’s; it was enough that they had determined upon its
destruction. I am, however, digressing.

After getting the school cleverly into operation, the second time holding it in
the woods, behind the barn, and in the shade of trees—I succeeded in
inducing a free colored man, who lived several miles from our house, to permit
me to hold my school in a room at his house. He, very kindly, gave me this
liberty; but he incurred much peril in doing so, for the assemblage was an
unlawful one. I shall not mention, here, the name of this man; for it might,
even now, subject him to persecution, although the offenses were committed more
than twenty years ago. I had, at one time, more than forty scholars, all of the
right sort; and many of them succeeded in learning to read. I have met several
slaves from Maryland, who were once my scholars; and who obtained their
freedom, I doubt not, partly in consequence of the ideas imparted to them in
that school. I have had various employments during my short life; but I look
back to none with more satisfaction, than to that afforded by my Sunday
school. An attachment, deep and lasting, sprung up between me and my persecuted
pupils, which made parting from them intensely grievous; and, when I think that
most of these dear souls are yet shut up in this abject thralldom, I am
overwhelmed with grief.

Besides my Sunday school, I devoted three evenings a week to my fellow slaves,
during the winter. Let the reader reflect upon the fact, that, in this
christian country, men and women are hiding from professors of religion, in
barns, in the woods and fields, in order to learn to read the holy
bible. Those dear souls, who came to my Sabbath school, came not
because it was popular or reputable to attend such a place, for they came under
the liability of having forty stripes laid on their naked backs. Every moment
they spend in my school, they were under this terrible liability; and, in this
respect, I was sharer with them. Their minds had been cramped and starved by
their cruel masters; the light of education had been completely excluded; and
their hard earnings had been taken to educate their master’s children. I
felt a delight in circumventing the tyrants, and in blessing the victims of
their curses.

The year at Mr. Freeland’s passed off very smoothly, to outward seeming.
Not a blow was given me during the whole year. To the credit of Mr.
Freeland—irreligious though he was—it must be stated, that he was
the best master I ever had, until I became my own master, and assumed for
myself, as I had a right to do, the responsibility of my own existence and the
exercise of my own powers. For much of the happiness—or absence of
misery—with which I passed this year with Mr. Freeland, I am indebted to
the genial temper and ardent friendship of my brother slaves. They were, every
one of them, manly, generous and brave, yes; I say they were brave, and I will
add, fine looking. It is seldom the lot of mortals to have truer and better
friends than were the slaves on this farm. It is not uncommon to charge slaves
with great treachery toward each other, and to believe them incapable of
confiding in each other; but I must say, that I never loved, esteemed, or
confided in men, more than I did in these. They were as true as steel, and no
band of brothers could have been more loving. There were no mean advantages
taken of each other, as is sometimes the case where slaves are situated as we
were; no tattling; no giving each other bad names to Mr. Freeland; and no
elevating one at the expense of the other. We never undertook to do any thing,
of any importance, which was likely to affect each other, without mutual
consultation. We were generally a unit, and moved together. Thoughts and
sentiments were exchanged between us, which might well be called very
incendiary, by oppressors and tyrants; and perhaps the time has not even now
come, when it is safe to unfold all the flying suggestions which arise in the
minds of intelligent slaves. Several of my friends and brothers, if yet alive,
are still in some part of the house of bondage; and though twenty years have
passed away, the suspicious malice of slavery might punish them for even
listening to my thoughts.

The slaveholder, kind or cruel, is a slaveholder still—the every hour
violator of the just and inalienable rights of man; and he is, therefore, every
hour silently whetting the knife of vengeance for his own throat. He never
lisps a syllable in commendation of the fathers of this republic, nor denounces
any attempted oppression of himself, without inviting the knife to his own
throat, and asserting the rights of rebellion for his own slaves.

The year is ended, and we are now in the midst of the Christmas holidays, which
are kept this year as last, according to the general description previously
given.

CHAPTER XIX. The Run-Away Plot

NEW YEAR’S THOUGHTS AND MEDITATIONS—AGAIN BOUGHT BY
FREELAND—NO AMBITION TO BE A SLAVE—KINDNESS NO COMPENSATION FOR
SLAVERY—INCIPIENT STEPS TOWARD ESCAPE—CONSIDERATIONS LEADING
THERETO—IRRECONCILABLE HOSTILITY TO SLAVERY—SOLEMN VOW
TAKEN—PLAN DIVULGED TO THE SLAVES—Columbian
Orator—SCHEME GAINS FAVOR, DESPITE PRO-SLAVERY PREACHING—DANGER
OF DISCOVERY—SKILL OF SLAVEHOLDERS IN READING THE MINDS OF THEIR
SLAVES—SUSPICION AND COERCION—HYMNS WITH DOUBLE
MEANING—VALUE, IN DOLLARS, OF OUR COMPANY—PRELIMINARY
CONSULTATION—PASS-WORD—CONFLICTS OF HOPE AND
FEAR—DIFFICULTIES TO BE OVERCOME—IGNORANCE OF
GEOGRAPHY—SURVEY OF IMAGINARY DIFFICULTIES—EFFECT ON OUR
MINDS—PATRICK HENRY—SANDY BECOMES A DREAMER—ROUTE TO THE
NORTH LAID OUT—OBJECTIONS CONSIDERED—FRAUDS PRACTICED ON
FREEMEN—PASSES WRITTEN—ANXIETIES AS THE TIME DREW NEAR—DREAD
OF FAILURE—APPEALS TO COMRADES—STRANGE
PRESENTIMENT—COINCIDENCE—THE BETRAYAL DISCOVERED—THE MANNER
OF ARRESTING US—RESISTANCE MADE BY HENRY HARRIS—ITS
EFFECT—THE UNIQUE SPEECH OF MRS. FREELAND—OUR SAD PROCESSION TO
PRISON—BRUTAL JEERS BY THE MULTITUDE ALONG THE ROAD—PASSES
EATEN—THE DENIAL—SANDY TOO WELL LOVED TO BE SUSPECTED—DRAGGED
BEHIND HORSES—THE JAIL A RELIEF—A NEW SET OF
TORMENTORS—SLAVE-TRADERS—JOHN, CHARLES AND HENRY
RELEASED—ALONE IN PRISON—I AM TAKEN OUT, AND SENT TO BALTIMORE.

I am now at the beginning of the year 1836, a time favorable for serious
thoughts. The mind naturally occupies itself with the mysteries of life in all
its phases—the ideal, the real and the actual. Sober people look both
ways at the beginning of the year, surveying the errors of the past, and
providing against possible errors of the future. I, too, was thus exercised. I
had little pleasure in retrospect, and the prospect was not very brilliant.
“Notwithstanding,” thought I, “the many resolutions and
prayers I have made, in behalf of freedom, I am, this first day of the year
1836, still a slave, still wandering in the depths of spirit-devouring
thralldom. My faculties and powers of body and soul are not my own, but are the
property of a fellow mortal, in no sense superior to me, except that he has the
physical power to compel me to be owned and controlled by him. By the combined
physical force of the community, I am his slave—a slave for life.”
With thoughts like these, I was perplexed and chafed; they rendered me gloomy
and disconsolate. The anguish of my mind may not be written.

At the close of the year 1835, Mr. Freeland, my temporary master, had bought me
of Capt. Thomas Auld, for the year 1836. His promptness in securing my
services, would have been flattering to my vanity, had I been ambitious to win
the reputation of being a valuable slave. Even as it was, I felt a slight
degree of complacency at the circumstance. It showed he was as well pleased
with me as a slave, as I was with him as a master. I have already intimated my
regard for Mr. Freeland, and I may say here, in addressing northern
readers—where is no selfish motive for speaking in praise of a
slaveholder—that Mr. Freeland was a man of many excellent qualities, and
to me quite preferable to any master I ever had.

But the kindness of the slavemaster only gilds the chain of slavery, and
detracts nothing from its weight or power. The thought that men are made for
other and better uses than slavery, thrives best under the gentle treatment of
a kind master. But the grim visage of slavery can assume no smiles which can
fascinate the partially enlightened slave, into a forgetfulness of his bondage,
nor of the desirableness of liberty.

I was not through the first month of this, my second year with the kind and
gentlemanly Mr. Freeland, before I was earnestly considering and advising plans
for gaining that freedom, which, when I was but a mere child, I had ascertained
to be the natural and inborn right of every member of the human family. The
desire for this freedom had been benumbed, while I was under the brutalizing
dominion of Covey; and it had been postponed, and rendered inoperative, by my
truly pleasant Sunday school engagements with my friends, during the year 1835,
at Mr. Freeland’s. It had, however, never entirely subsided. I hated
slavery, always, and the desire for freedom only needed a favorable breeze, to
fan it into a blaze, at any moment. The thought of only being a creature of the
present and the past, troubled me, and I longed to have a
future—a future with hope in it. To be shut up entirely to the
past and present, is abhorrent to the human mind; it is to the soul—whose
life and happiness is unceasing progress—what the prison is to the body;
a blight and mildew, a hell of horrors. The dawning of this, another year,
awakened me from my temporary slumber, and roused into life my latent, but long
cherished aspirations for freedom. I was now not only ashamed to be contented
in slavery, but ashamed to seem to be contented, and in my present
favorable condition, under the mild rule of Mr. F., I am not sure that some
kind reader will not condemn me for being over ambitious, and greatly wanting
in proper humility, when I say the truth, that I now drove from me all thoughts
of making the best of my lot, and welcomed only such thoughts as led me away
from the house of bondage. The intense desires, now felt, to be free,
quickened by my present favorable circumstances, brought me to the
determination to act, as well as to think and speak. Accordingly, at the
beginning of this year 1836, I took upon me a solemn vow, that the year which
had now dawned upon me should not close, without witnessing an earnest attempt,
on my part, to gain my liberty. This vow only bound me to make my escape
individually; but the year spent with Mr. Freeland had attached me, as with
“hooks of steel,” to my brother slaves. The most affectionate and
confiding friendship existed between us; and I felt it my duty to give them an
opportunity to share in my virtuous determination by frankly disclosing to them
my plans and purposes. Toward Henry and John Harris, I felt a friendship as
strong as one man can feel for another; for I could have died with and for
them. To them, therefore, with a suitable degree of caution, I began to
disclose my sentiments and plans; sounding them, the while on the subject of
running away, provided a good chance should offer. I scarcely need tell the
reader, that I did my very best to imbue the minds of my dear friends
with my own views and feelings. Thoroughly awakened, now, and with a definite
vow upon me, all my little reading, which had any bearing on the subject of
human rights, was rendered available in my communications with my friends. That
(to me) gem of a book, the Columbian Orator, with its eloquent orations
and spicy dialogues, denouncing oppression and slavery—telling of what
had been dared, done and suffered by men, to obtain the inestimable boon of
liberty—was still fresh in my memory, and whirled into the ranks of my
speech with the aptitude of well trained soldiers, going through the drill. The
fact is, I here began my public speaking. I canvassed, with Henry and John, the
subject of slavery, and dashed against it the condemning brand of God’s
eternal justice, which it every hour violates. My fellow servants were neither
indifferent, dull, nor inapt. Our feelings were more alike than our opinions.
All, however, were ready to act, when a feasible plan should be proposed.
“Show us how the thing is to be done,” said they, “and
all is clear.”

We were all, except Sandy, quite free from slaveholding priestcraft. It was in
vain that we had been taught from the pulpit at St. Michael’s, the duty
of obedience to our masters; to recognize God as the author of our enslavement;
to regard running away an offense, alike against God and man; to deem our
enslavement a merciful and beneficial arrangement; to esteem our condition, in
this country, a paradise to that from which we had been snatched in Africa; to
consider our hard hands and dark color as God’s mark of displeasure, and
as pointing us out as the proper subjects of slavery; that the relation of
master and slave was one of reciprocal benefits; that our work was not more
serviceable to our masters, than our master’s thinking was serviceable to
us. I say, it was in vain that the pulpit of St. Michael’s had constantly
inculcated these plausible doctrine. Nature laughed them to scorn. For my own
part, I had now become altogether too big for my chains. Father Lawson’s
solemn words, of what I ought to be, and might be, in the providence of God,
had not fallen dead on my soul. I was fast verging toward manhood, and the
prophecies of my childhood were still unfulfilled. The thought, that year after
year had passed away, and my resolutions to run away had failed and
faded—that I was still a slave, and a slave, too, with chances for
gaining my freedom diminished and still diminishing—was not a matter to
be slept over easily; nor did I easily sleep over it.

But here came a new trouble. Thoughts and purposes so incendiary as those I now
cherished, could not agitate the mind long, without danger of making themselves
manifest to scrutinizing and unfriendly beholders. I had reason to fear that my
sable face might prove altogether too transparent for the safe concealment of
my hazardous enterprise. Plans of greater moment have leaked through stone
walls, and revealed their projectors. But, here was no stone wall to hide my
purpose. I would have given my poor, tell tale face for the immoveable
countenance of an Indian, for it was far from being proof against the daily,
searching glances of those with whom I met.

It is the interest and business of slaveholders to study human nature, with a
view to practical results, and many of them attain astonishing proficiency in
discerning the thoughts and emotions of slaves. They have to deal not with
earth, wood, or stone, but with men; and, by every regard they have for
their safety and prosperity, they must study to know the material on which they
are at work. So much intellect as the slaveholder has around him, requires
watching. Their safety depends upon their vigilance. Conscious of the injustice
and wrong they are every hour perpetrating, and knowing what they themselves
would do if made the victims of such wrongs, they are looking out for the first
signs of the dread retribution of justice. They watch, therefore, with skilled
and practiced eyes, and have learned to read, with great accuracy, the state of
mind and heart of the slaves, through his sable face. These uneasy sinners are
quick to inquire into the matter, where the slave is concerned. Unusual
sobriety, apparent abstraction, sullenness and indifference—indeed, any
mood out of the common way—afford ground for suspicion and inquiry. Often
relying on their superior position and wisdom, they hector and torture the
slave into a confession, by affecting to know the truth of their accusations.
“You have got the devil in you,” say they, “and we will whip
him out of you.” I have often been put thus to the torture, on bare
suspicion. This system has its disadvantages as well as their opposite. The
slave is sometimes whipped into the confession of offenses which he never
committed. The reader will see that the good old rule—“a man is to
be held innocent until proved to be guilty”—does not hold good on
the slave plantation. Suspicion and torture are the approved methods of getting
at the truth, here. It was necessary for me, therefore, to keep a watch over my
deportment, lest the enemy should get the better of me.

But with all our caution and studied reserve, I am not sure that Mr. Freeland
did not suspect that all was not right with us. It did seem that he
watched us more narrowly, after the plan of escape had been conceived and
discussed amongst us. Men seldom see themselves as others see them; and while,
to ourselves, everything connected with our contemplated escape appeared
concealed, Mr. Freeland may have, with the peculiar prescience of a
slaveholder, mastered the huge thought which was disturbing our peace in
slavery.

I am the more inclined to think that he suspected us, because, prudent as we
were, as I now look back, I can see that we did many silly things, very well
calculated to awaken suspicion. We were, at times, remarkably buoyant, singing
hymns and making joyous exclamations, almost as triumphant in their tone as if
we reached a land of freedom and safety. A keen observer might have detected in
our repeated singing of

O Canaan, sweet Canaan,
I am bound for the land of Canaan,

something more than a hope of reaching heaven. We meant to reach the
north—and the north was our Canaan.

I thought I heard them say,
There were lions in the way,
I don’t expect to Star
          Much longer here.

Run to Jesus—shun the danger—
I don’t expect to stay
          Much longer here.

was a favorite air, and had a double meaning. In the lips of some, it meant the
expectation of a speedy summons to a world of spirits; but, in the lips of
our company, it simply meant, a speedy pilgrimage toward a free state,
and deliverance from all the evils and dangers of slavery.

I had succeeded in winning to my (what slaveholders would call wicked) scheme,
a company of five young men, the very flower of the neighborhood, each one of
whom would have commanded one thousand dollars in the home market. At New
Orleans, they would have brought fifteen hundred dollars a piece, and, perhaps,
more. The names of our party were as follows: Henry Harris; John Harris,
brother to Henry; Sandy Jenkins, of root memory; Charles Roberts, and Henry
Bailey. I was the youngest, but one, of the party. I had, however, the
advantage of them all, in experience, and in a knowledge of letters. This gave
me great influence over them. Perhaps not one of them, left to himself, would
have dreamed of escape as a possible thing. Not one of them was self-moved in
the matter. They all wanted to be free; but the serious thought of running
away, had not entered into their minds, until I won them to the undertaking.
They all were tolerably well off—for slaves—and had dim hopes of
being set free, some day, by their masters. If any one is to blame for
disturbing the quiet of the slaves and slave-masters of the neighborhood of St.
Michael’s, I am the man. I claim to be the instigator of the high
crime (as the slaveholders regard it) and I kept life in it, until life could
be kept in it no longer.

Pending the time of our contemplated departure out of our Egypt, we met often
by night, and on every Sunday. At these meetings we talked the matter over;
told our hopes and fears, and the difficulties discovered or imagined; and,
like men of sense, we counted the cost of the enterprise to which we were
committing ourselves.

These meetings must have resembled, on a small scale, the meetings of
revolutionary conspirators, in their primary condition. We were plotting
against our (so called) lawful rulers; with this difference that we sought our
own good, and not the harm of our enemies. We did not seek to overthrow them,
but to escape from them. As for Mr. Freeland, we all liked him, and would have
gladly remained with him, as freeman. LIBERTY was our aim; and we had
now come to think that we had a right to liberty, against every obstacle even
against the lives of our enslavers.

We had several words, expressive of things, important to us, which we
understood, but which, even if distinctly heard by an outsider, would convey no
certain meaning. I have reasons for suppressing these pass-words, which
the reader will easily divine. I hated the secrecy; but where slavery is
powerful, and liberty is weak, the latter is driven to concealment or to
destruction.

The prospect was not always a bright one. At times, we were almost tempted to
abandon the enterprise, and to get back to that comparative peace of mind,
which even a man under the gallows might feel, when all hope of escape had
vanished. Quiet bondage was felt to be better than the doubts, fears and
uncertainties, which now so sadly perplexed and disturbed us.

The infirmities of humanity, generally, were represented in our little band. We
were confident, bold and determined, at times; and, again, doubting, timid and
wavering; whistling, like the boy in the graveyard, to keep away the spirits.

To look at the map, and observe the proximity of Eastern Shore, Maryland, to
Delaware and Pennsylvania, it may seem to the reader quite absurd, to regard
the proposed escape as a formidable undertaking. But to understand, some
one has said a man must stand under. The real distance was great enough,
but the imagined distance was, to our ignorance, even greater. Every
slaveholder seeks to impress his slave with a belief in the boundlessness of
slave territory, and of his own almost illimitable power. We all had vague and
indistinct notions of the geography of the country.

The distance, however, is not the chief trouble. The nearer are the lines of a
slave state and the borders of a free one, the greater the peril. Hired
kidnappers infest these borders. Then, too, we knew that merely reaching a free
state did not free us; that, wherever caught, we could be returned to slavery.
We could see no spot on this side the ocean, where we could be free. We had
heard of Canada, the real Canaan of the American bondmen, simply as a country
to which the wild goose and the swan repaired at the end of winter, to escape
the heat of summer, but not as the home of man. I knew something of theology,
but nothing of geography. I really did not, at that time, know that there was a
state of New York, or a state of Massachusetts. I had heard of Pennsylvania,
Delaware and New Jersey, and all the southern states, but was ignorant of the
free states, generally. New York city was our northern limit, and to go there,
and be forever harassed with the liability of being hunted down and returned to
slavery—with the certainty of being treated ten times worse than we had
ever been treated before was a prospect far from delightful, and it might well
cause some hesitation about engaging in the enterprise. The case, sometimes, to
our excited visions, stood thus: At every gate through which we had to pass, we
saw a watchman; at every ferry, a guard; on every bridge, a sentinel; and in
every wood, a patrol or slave-hunter. We were hemmed in on every side. The good
to be sought, and the evil to be shunned, were flung in the balance, and
weighed against each other. On the one hand, there stood slavery; a stern
reality, glaring frightfully upon us, with the blood of millions in his
polluted skirts—terrible to behold—greedily devouring our hard
earnings and feeding himself upon our flesh. Here was the evil from which to
escape. On the other hand, far away, back in the hazy distance, where all forms
seemed but shadows, under the flickering light of the north star—behind
some craggy hill or snow-covered mountain—stood a doubtful freedom, half
frozen, beckoning us to her icy domain. This was the good to be sought. The
inequality was as great as that between certainty and uncertainty. This, in
itself, was enough to stagger us; but when we came to survey the untrodden
road, and conjecture the many possible difficulties, we were appalled, and at
times, as I have said, were upon the point of giving over the struggle
altogether.

The reader can have little idea of the phantoms of trouble which flit, in such
circumstances, before the uneducated mind of the slave. Upon either side, we
saw grim death assuming a variety of horrid shapes. Now, it was starvation,
causing us, in a strange and friendless land, to eat our own flesh. Now, we
were contending with the waves (for our journey was in part by water) and were
drowned. Now, we were hunted by dogs, and overtaken and torn to pieces by their
merciless fangs. We were stung by scorpions—chased by wild
beasts—bitten by snakes; and, worst of all, after having succeeded in
swimming rivers—encountering wild beasts—sleeping in the
woods—suffering hunger, cold, heat and nakedness—we supposed
ourselves to be overtaken by hired kidnappers, who, in the name of the law, and
for their thrice accursed reward, would, perchance, fire upon us—kill
some, wound others, and capture all. This dark picture, drawn by ignorance and
fear, at times greatly shook our determination, and not unfrequently caused us
to

Rather bear those ills we had
Than fly to others which we knew not of.

I am not disposed to magnify this circumstance in my experience, and yet I
think I shall seem to be so disposed, to the reader. No man can tell the
intense agony which is felt by the slave, when wavering on the point of making
his escape. All that he has is at stake; and even that which he has not, is at
stake, also. The life which he has, may be lost, and the liberty which he
seeks, may not be gained.

Patrick Henry, to a listening senate, thrilled by his magic eloquence, and
ready to stand by him in his boldest flights, could say, GIVE ME LIBERTY OR
GIVE ME DEATH, and this saying was a sublime one, even for a freeman; but,
incomparably more sublime, is the same sentiment, when practically
asserted by men accustomed to the lash and chain—men whose sensibilities
must have become more or less deadened by their bondage. With us it was a
doubtful liberty, at best, that we sought; and a certain, lingering
death in the rice swamps and sugar fields, if we failed. Life is not lightly
regarded by men of sane minds. It is precious, alike to the pauper and to the
prince—to the slave, and to his master; and yet, I believe there was not
one among us, who would not rather have been shot down, than pass away life in
hopeless bondage.

In the progress of our preparations, Sandy, the root man, became troubled. He
began to have dreams, and some of them were very distressing. One of these,
which happened on a Friday night, was, to him, of great significance; and I am
quite ready to confess, that I felt somewhat damped by it myself. He said,
“I dreamed, last night, that I was roused from sleep, by strange noises,
like the voices of a swarm of angry birds, that caused a roar as they passed,
which fell upon my ear like a coming gale over the tops of the trees. Looking
up to see what it could mean,” said Sandy, “I saw you, Frederick,
in the claws of a huge bird, surrounded by a large number of birds, of all
colors and sizes. These were all picking at you, while you, with your arms,
seemed to be trying to protect your eyes. Passing over me, the birds flew in a
south-westerly direction, and I watched them until they were clean out of
sight. Now, I saw this as plainly as I now see you; and furder, honey, watch de
Friday night dream; dare is sumpon in it, shose you born; dare is, indeed,
honey.”

I confess I did not like this dream; but I threw off concern about it, by
attributing it to the general excitement and perturbation consequent upon our
contemplated plan of escape. I could not, however, shake off its effect at
once. I felt that it boded me no good. Sandy was unusually emphatic and
oracular, and his manner had much to do with the impression made upon me.

The plan of escape which I recommended, and to which my comrades assented, was
to take a large canoe, owned by Mr. Hamilton, and, on the Saturday night
previous to the Easter holidays, launch out into the Chesapeake bay, and paddle
for its head—a distance of seventy miles with all our might. Our course,
on reaching this point, was, to turn the canoe adrift, and bend our steps
toward the north star, till we reached a free state.

There were several objections to this plan. One was, the danger from gales on
the bay. In rough weather, the waters of the Chesapeake are much agitated, and
there is danger, in a canoe, of being swamped by the waves. Another objection
was, that the canoe would soon be missed; the absent persons would, at once, be
suspected of having taken it; and we should be pursued by some of the fast
sailing bay craft out of St. Michael’s. Then, again, if we reached the
head of the bay, and turned the canoe adrift, she might prove a guide to our
track, and bring the land hunters after us.

These and other objections were set aside, by the stronger ones which could be
urged against every other plan that could then be suggested. On the water, we
had a chance of being regarded as fishermen, in the service of a master. On the
other hand, by taking the land route, through the counties adjoining Delaware,
we should be subjected to all manner of interruptions, and many very
disagreeable questions, which might give us serious trouble. Any white man is
authorized to stop a man of color, on any road, and examine him, and arrest
him, if he so desires.

By this arrangement, many abuses (considered such even by slaveholders) occur.
Cases have been known, where freemen have been called upon to show their free
papers, by a pack of ruffians—and, on the presentation of the papers, the
ruffians have torn them up, and seized their victim, and sold him to a life of
endless bondage.

The week before our intended start, I wrote a pass for each of our party,
giving them permission to visit Baltimore, during the Easter holidays. The pass
ran after this manner:

This is to certify, that I, the undersigned, have given the bearer, my servant,
John, full liberty to go to Baltimore, to spend the Easter holidays.

W.H.
Near St. Michael’s, Talbot county, Maryland

Although we were not going to Baltimore, and were intending to land east of
North Point, in the direction where I had seen the Philadelphia steamers go,
these passes might be made useful to us in the lower part of the bay, while
steering toward Baltimore. These were not, however, to be shown by us, until
all other answers failed to satisfy the inquirer. We were all fully alive to
the importance of being calm and self-possessed, when accosted, if accosted we
should be; and we more times than one rehearsed to each other how we should
behave in the hour of trial.

These were long, tedious days and nights. The suspense was painful, in the
extreme. To balance probabilities, where life and liberty hang on the result,
requires steady nerves. I panted for action, and was glad when the day, at the
close of which we were to start, dawned upon us. Sleeping, the night before,
was out of the question. I probably felt more deeply than any of my companions,
because I was the instigator of the movement. The responsibility of the whole
enterprise rested on my shoulders. The glory of success, and the shame and
confusion of failure, could not be matters of indifference to me. Our food was
prepared; our clothes were packed up; we were all ready to go, and impatient
for Saturday morning—considering that the last morning of our bondage.

I cannot describe the tempest and tumult of my brain, that morning. The reader
will please to bear in mind, that, in a slave state, an unsuccessful runaway is
not only subjected to cruel torture, and sold away to the far south, but he is
frequently execrated by the other slaves. He is charged with making the
condition of the other slaves intolerable, by laying them all under the
suspicion of their masters—subjecting them to greater vigilance, and
imposing greater limitations on their privileges. I dreaded murmurs from this
quarter. It is difficult, too, for a slavemaster to believe that slaves
escaping have not been aided in their flight by some one of their fellow
slaves. When, therefore, a slave is missing, every slave on the place is
closely examined as to his knowledge of the undertaking; and they are sometimes
even tortured, to make them disclose what they are suspected of knowing of such
escape.

Our anxiety grew more and more intense, as the time of our intended departure
for the north drew nigh. It was truly felt to be a matter of life and death
with us; and we fully intended to fight as well as run, if
necessity should occur for that extremity. But the trial hour was not yet to
come. It was easy to resolve, but not so easy to act. I expected there might be
some drawing back, at the last. It was natural that there should be; therefore,
during the intervening time, I lost no opportunity to explain away
difficulties, to remove doubts, to dispel fears, and to inspire all with
firmness. It was too late to look back; and now was the time to go
forward. Like most other men, we had done the talking part of our work, long
and well; and the time had come to act as if we were in earnest, and
meant to be as true in action as in words. I did not forget to appeal to the
pride of my comrades, by telling them that, if after having solemnly promised
to go, as they had done, they now failed to make the attempt, they would, in
effect, brand themselves with cowardice, and might as well sit down, fold their
arms, and acknowledge themselves as fit only to be slaves. This
detestable character, all were unwilling to assume. Every man except Sandy (he,
much to our regret, withdrew) stood firm; and at our last meeting we pledged
ourselves afresh, and in the most solemn manner, that, at the time appointed,
we would certainly start on our long journey for a free country. This
meeting was in the middle of the week, at the end of which we were to start.

Early that morning we went, as usual, to the field, but with hearts that beat
quickly and anxiously. Any one intimately acquainted with us, might have seen
that all was not well with us, and that some monster lingered in our thoughts.
Our work that morning was the same as it had been for several days
past—drawing out and spreading manure. While thus engaged, I had a sudden
presentiment, which flashed upon me like lightning in a dark night, revealing
to the lonely traveler the gulf before, and the enemy behind. I instantly
turned to Sandy Jenkins, who was near me, and said to him, “Sandy, we
are betrayed; something has just told me so.” I felt as sure of it,
as if the officers were there in sight. Sandy said, “Man, dat is strange;
but I feel just as you do.” If my mother—then long in her
grave—had appeared before me, and told me that we were betrayed, I could
not, at that moment, have felt more certain of the fact.

In a few minutes after this, the long, low and distant notes of the horn
summoned us from the field to breakfast. I felt as one may be supposed to feel
before being led forth to be executed for some great offense. I wanted no
breakfast; but I went with the other slaves toward the house, for form’s
sake. My feelings were not disturbed as to the right of running away; on that
point I had no trouble, whatever. My anxiety arose from a sense of the
consequences of failure.

In thirty minutes after that vivid presentiment came the apprehended crash. On
reaching the house, for breakfast, and glancing my eye toward the lane gate,
the worst was at once made known. The lane gate off Mr. Freeland’s house,
is nearly a half mile from the door, and shaded by the heavy wood which
bordered the main road. I was, however, able to descry four white men, and two
colored men, approaching. The white men were on horseback, and the colored men
were walking behind, and seemed to be tied. “It is all over with
us,” thought I, “we are surely betrayed.” I now
became composed, or at least comparatively so, and calmly awaited the result. I
watched the ill-omened company, till I saw them enter the gate. Successful
flight was impossible, and I made up my mind to stand, and meet the evil,
whatever it might be; for I was not without a slight hope that things might
turn differently from what I at first expected. In a few moments, in came Mr.
William Hamilton, riding very rapidly, and evidently much excited. He was in
the habit of riding very slowly, and was seldom known to gallop his horse. This
time, his horse was nearly at full speed, causing the dust to roll thick behind
him. Mr. Hamilton, though one of the most resolute men in the whole
neighborhood, was, nevertheless, a remarkably mild spoken man; and, even when
greatly excited, his language was cool and circumspect. He came to the door,
and inquired if Mr. Freeland was in. I told him that Mr. Freeland was at the
barn. Off the old gentleman rode, toward the barn, with unwonted speed. Mary,
the cook, was at a loss to know what was the matter, and I did not profess any
skill in making her understand. I knew she would have united, as readily as any
one, in cursing me for bringing trouble into the family; so I held my peace,
leaving matters to develop themselves, without my assistance. In a few moments,
Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Freeland came down from the barn to the house; and, just
as they made their appearance in the front yard, three men (who proved to be
constables) came dashing into the lane, on horseback, as if summoned by a sign
requiring quick work. A few seconds brought them into the front yard, where
they hastily dismounted, and tied their horses. This done, they joined Mr.
Freeland and Mr. Hamilton, who were standing a short distance from the kitchen.
A few moments were spent, as if in consulting how to proceed, and then the
whole party walked up to the kitchen door. There was now no one in the kitchen
but myself and John Harris. Henry and Sandy were yet at the barn. Mr. Freeland
came inside the kitchen door, and with an agitated voice, called me by name,
and told me to come forward; that there was some gentlemen who wished to see
me. I stepped toward them, at the door, and asked what they wanted, when the
constables grabbed me, and told me that I had better not resist; that I had
been in a scrape, or was said to have been in one; that they were merely going
to take me where I could be examined; that they were going to carry me to St.
Michael’s, to have me brought before my master. They further said, that,
in case the evidence against me was not true, I should be acquitted. I was now
firmly tied, and completely at the mercy of my captors. Resistance was idle.
They were five in number, armed to the very teeth. When they had secured me,
they next turned to John Harris, and, in a few moments, succeeded in tying him
as firmly as they had already tied me. They next turned toward Henry Harris,
who had now returned from the barn. “Cross your hands,” said the
constables, to Henry. “I won’t” said Henry, in a voice so
firm and clear, and in a manner so determined, as for a moment to arrest all
proceedings. “Won’t you cross your hands?” said Tom Graham,
the constable. “No I won’t,” said Henry, with
increasing emphasis. Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Freeland, and the officers, now came
near to Henry. Two of the constables drew out their shining pistols, and swore
by the name of God, that he should cross his hands, or they would shoot him
down. Each of these hired ruffians now cocked their pistols, and, with fingers
apparently on the triggers, presented their deadly weapons to the breast of the
unarmed slave, saying, at the same time, if he did not cross his hands, they
would “blow his d—d heart out of him.”

“Shoot! shoot me!” said Henry. “You can’t
kill me but once. Shoot!—shoot! and be d—d. I won’t be
tied.” This, the brave fellow said in a voice as defiant and heroic
in its tone, as was the language itself; and, at the moment of saying this,
with the pistols at his very breast, he quickly raised his arms, and dashed
them from the puny hands of his assassins, the weapons flying in opposite
directions. Now came the struggle. All hands was now rushed upon the brave
fellow, and, after beating him for some time, they succeeded in overpowering
and tying him. Henry put me to shame; he fought, and fought bravely. John and I
had made no resistance. The fact is, I never see much use in fighting, unless
there is a reasonable probability of whipping somebody. Yet there was something
almost providential in the resistance made by the gallant Henry. But for that
resistance, every soul of us would have been hurried off to the far south. Just
a moment previous to the trouble with Henry, Mr. Hamilton mildly
said—and this gave me the unmistakable clue to the cause of our
arrest—“Perhaps we had now better make a search for those
protections, which we understand Frederick has written for himself and the
rest.” Had these passes been found, they would have been point blank
proof against us, and would have confirmed all the statements of our betrayer.
Thanks to the resistance of Henry, the excitement produced by the scuffle drew
all attention in that direction, and I succeeded in flinging my pass,
unobserved, into the fire. The confusion attendant upon the scuffle, and the
apprehension of further trouble, perhaps, led our captors to forego, for the
present, any search for “those protections” which Frederick was
said to have written for his companions; so we were not yet convicted of
the purpose to run away; and it was evident that there was some doubt, on the
part of all, whether we had been guilty of such a purpose.

Just as we were all completely tied, and about ready to start toward St.
Michael’s, and thence to jail, Mrs. Betsey Freeland (mother to William,
who was very much attached—after the southern fashion—to Henry and
John, they having been reared from childhood in her house) came to the kitchen
door, with her hands full of biscuits—for we had not had time to take our
breakfast that morning—and divided them between Henry and John. This
done, the lady made the following parting address to me, looking and pointing
her bony finger at me. “You devil! you yellow devil! It was you that put
it into the heads of Henry and John to run away. But for you, you
long legged yellow devil, Henry and John would never have thought of
running away.” I gave the lady a look, which called forth a scream of
mingled wrath and terror, as she slammed the kitchen door, and went in, leaving
me, with the rest, in hands as harsh as her own broken voice.

Could the kind reader have been quietly riding along the main road to or from
Easton, that morning, his eye would have met a painful sight. He would have
seen five young men, guilty of no crime, save that of preferring liberty
to a life of bondage, drawn along the public highway—firmly bound
together—tramping through dust and heat, bare-footed and
bare-headed—fastened to three strong horses, whose riders were armed to
the teeth, with pistols and daggers—on their way to prison, like felons,
and suffering every possible insult from the crowds of idle, vulgar people, who
clustered around, and heartlessly made their failure the occasion for all
manner of ribaldry and sport. As I looked upon this crowd of vile persons, and
saw myself and friends thus assailed and persecuted, I could not help seeing
the fulfillment of Sandy’s dream. I was in the hands of moral vultures,
and firmly held in their sharp talons, and was hurried away toward Easton, in a
south-easterly direction, amid the jeers of new birds of the same feather,
through every neighborhood we passed. It seemed to me (and this shows the good
understanding between the slaveholders and their allies) that every body we met
knew the cause of our arrest, and were out, awaiting our passing by, to feast
their vindictive eyes on our misery and to gloat over our ruin. Some said, I
ought to be hanged, and others, I ought to be burnt, others, I ought
to have the “hide” taken from my back; while no one gave us
a kind word or sympathizing look, except the poor slaves, who were lifting
their heavy hoes, and who cautiously glanced at us through the post-and-rail
fences, behind which they were at work. Our sufferings, that morning, can be
more easily imagined than described. Our hopes were all blasted, at a blow. The
cruel injustice, the victorious crime, and the helplessness of innocence, led
me to ask, in my ignorance and weakness “Where now is the God of justice
and mercy? And why have these wicked men the power thus to trample upon our
rights, and to insult our feelings?” And yet, in the next moment, came
the consoling thought, “The day of oppressor will come at
last.” Of one thing I could be glad—not one of my dear friends,
upon whom I had brought this great calamity, either by word or look, reproached
me for having led them into it. We were a band of brothers, and never dearer to
each other than now. The thought which gave us the most pain, was the probable
separation which would now take place, in case we were sold off to the far
south, as we were likely to be. While the constables were looking forward,
Henry and I, being fastened together, could occasionally exchange a word,
without being observed by the kidnappers who had us in charge. “What
shall I do with my pass?” said Henry. “Eat it with your
biscuit,” said I; “it won’t do to tear it up.” We were
now near St. Michael’s. The direction concerning the passes was passed
around, and executed. “Own nothing!” said I. “Own
nothing!” was passed around and enjoined, and assented to. Our
confidence in each other was unshaken; and we were quite resolved to succeed or
fail together—as much after the calamity which had befallen us, as
before.

On reaching St. Michael’s, we underwent a sort of examination at my
master’s store, and it was evident to my mind, that Master Thomas
suspected the truthfulness of the evidence upon which they had acted in
arresting us; and that he only affected, to some extent, the positiveness with
which he asserted our guilt. There was nothing said by any of our company,
which could, in any manner, prejudice our cause; and there was hope, yet, that
we should be able to return to our homes—if for nothing else, at least to
find out the guilty man or woman who had betrayed us.

To this end, we all denied that we had been guilty of intended flight. Master
Thomas said that the evidence he had of our intention to run away, was strong
enough to hang us, in a case of murder. “But,” said I, “the
cases are not equal. If murder were committed, some one must have committed
it—the thing is done! In our case, nothing has been done! We have not run
away. Where is the evidence against us? We were quietly at our work.” I
talked thus, with unusual freedom, to bring out the evidence against us, for we
all wanted, above all things, to know the guilty wretch who had betrayed us,
that we might have something tangible upon which to pour the execrations. From
something which dropped, in the course of the talk, it appeared that there was
but one witness against us—and that that witness could not be produced.
Master Thomas would not tell us who his informant was; but we suspected,
and suspected one person only. Several circumstances seemed to
point SANDY out, as our betrayer. His entire knowledge of our plans his
participation in them—his withdrawal from us—his dream, and his
simultaneous presentiment that we were betrayed—the taking us, and the
leaving him—were calculated to turn suspicion toward him; and yet, we
could not suspect him. We all loved him too well to think it possible
that he could have betrayed us. So we rolled the guilt on other shoulders.

We were literally dragged, that morning, behind horses, a distance of fifteen
miles, and placed in the Easton jail. We were glad to reach the end of our
journey, for our pathway had been the scene of insult and mortification. Such
is the power of public opinion, that it is hard, even for the innocent, to feel
the happy consolations of innocence, when they fall under the maledictions of
this power. How could we regard ourselves as in the right, when all about us
denounced us as criminals, and had the power and the disposition to treat us as
such.

In jail, we were placed under the care of Mr. Joseph Graham, the sheriff of the
county. Henry, and John, and myself, were placed in one room, and Henry Baily
and Charles Roberts, in another, by themselves. This separation was intended to
deprive us of the advantage of concert, and to prevent trouble in jail.

Once shut up, a new set of tormentors came upon us. A swarm of imps, in human
shape the slave-traders, deputy slave-traders, and agents of
slave-traders—that gather in every country town of the state, watching
for chances to buy human flesh (as buzzards to eat carrion) flocked in upon us,
to ascertain if our masters had placed us in jail to be sold. Such a set of
debased and villainous creatures, I never saw before, and hope never to see
again. I felt myself surrounded as by a pack of fiends, fresh from
perdition. They laughed, leered, and grinned at us; saying, “Ah!
boys, we’ve got you, havn’t we? So you were about to make your
escape? Where were you going to?” After taunting us, and peering at us,
as long as they liked, they one by one subjected us to an examination, with a
view to ascertain our value; feeling our arms and legs, and shaking us by the
shoulders to see if we were sound and healthy; impudently asking us, “how
we would like to have them for masters?” To such questions, we were, very
much to their annoyance, quite dumb, disdaining to answer them. For one, I
detested the whisky-bloated gamblers in human flesh; and I believe I was as
much detested by them in turn. One fellow told me, “if he had me, he
would cut the devil out of me pretty quick.”

These Negro buyers are very offensive to the genteel southern Christian public.
They are looked upon, in respectable Maryland society, as necessary, but
detestable characters. As a class, they are hardened ruffians, made such by
nature and by occupation. Their ears are made quite familiar with the agonizing
cry of outraged and woe-smitted humanity. Their eyes are forever open to human
misery. They walk amid desecrated affections, insulted virtue, and blasted
hopes. They have grown intimate with vice and blood; they gloat over the
wildest illustrations of their soul-damning and earth-polluting business, and
are moral pests. Yes; they are a legitimate fruit of slavery; and it is a
puzzle to make out a case of greater villainy for them, than for the
slaveholders, who make such a class possible. They are mere hucksters of
the surplus slave produce of Maryland and Virginia coarse, cruel, and
swaggering bullies, whose very breathing is of blasphemy and blood.

Aside from these slave-buyers, who infested the prison, from time to time, our
quarters were much more comfortable than we had any right to expect they would
be. Our allowance of food was small and coarse, but our room was the best in
the jail—neat and spacious, and with nothing about it necessarily
reminding us of being in prison, but its heavy locks and bolts and the black,
iron lattice-work at the windows. We were prisoners of state, compared with
most slaves who are put into that Easton jail. But the place was not one of
contentment. Bolts, bars and grated windows are not acceptable to
freedom-loving people of any color. The suspense, too, was painful. Every step
on the stairway was listened to, in the hope that the comer would cast a ray of
light on our fate. We would have given the hair off our heads for half a dozen
words with one of the waiters in Sol. Lowe’s hotel. Such waiters were in
the way of hearing, at the table, the probable course of things. We could see
them flitting about in their white jackets in front of this hotel, but could
speak to none of them.

Soon after the holidays were over, contrary to all our expectations, Messrs.
Hamilton and Freeland came up to Easton; not to make a bargain with the
“Georgia traders,” nor to send us up to Austin Woldfolk, as is
usual in the case of run-away slaves, but to release Charles, Henry Harris,
Henry Baily and John Harris, from prison, and this, too, without the infliction
of a single blow. I was now left entirely alone in prison. The innocent had
been taken, and the guilty left. My friends were separated from me, and
apparently forever. This circumstance caused me more pain than any other
incident connected with our capture and imprisonment. Thirty-nine lashes on my
naked and bleeding back, would have been joyfully borne, in preference to this
separation from these, the friends of my youth. And yet, I could not but feel
that I was the victim of something like justice. Why should these young men,
who were led into this scheme by me, suffer as much as the instigator? I felt
glad that they were leased from prison, and from the dread prospect of a life
(or death I should rather say) in the rice swamps. It is due to the noble
Henry, to say, that he seemed almost as reluctant to leave the prison with me
in it, as he was to be tied and dragged to prison. But he and the rest knew
that we should, in all the likelihoods of the case, be separated, in the event
of being sold; and since we were now completely in the hands of our owners, we
all concluded it would be best to go peaceably home.

Not until this last separation, dear reader, had I touched those profounder
depths of desolation, which it is the lot of slaves often to reach. I was
solitary in the world, and alone within the walls of a stone prison, left to a
fate of life-long misery. I had hoped and expected much, for months before, but
my hopes and expectations were now withered and blasted. The ever dreaded slave
life in Georgia, Louisiana and Alabama—from which escape is next to
impossible now, in my loneliness, stared me in the face. The possibility of
ever becoming anything but an abject slave, a mere machine in the hands of an
owner, had now fled, and it seemed to me it had fled forever. A life of living
death, beset with the innumerable horrors of the cotton field, and the sugar
plantation, seemed to be my doom. The fiends, who rushed into the prison when
we were first put there, continued to visit me, and to ply me with questions
and with their tantalizing remarks. I was insulted, but helpless; keenly alive
to the demands of justice and liberty, but with no means of asserting them. To
talk to those imps about justice and mercy, would have been as absurd as to
reason with bears and tigers. Lead and steel are the only arguments that they
understand.

After remaining in this life of misery and despair about a week, which, by the
way, seemed a month, Master Thomas, very much to my surprise, and greatly to my
relief, came to the prison, and took me out, for the purpose, as he said, of
sending me to Alabama, with a friend of his, who would emancipate me at the end
of eight years. I was glad enough to get out of prison; but I had no faith in
the story that this friend of Capt. Auld would emancipate me, at the end of the
time indicated. Besides, I never had heard of his having a friend in Alabama,
and I took the announcement, simply as an easy and comfortable method of
shipping me off to the far south. There was a little scandal, too, connected
with the idea of one Christian selling another to the Georgia traders, while it
was deemed every way proper for them to sell to others. I thought this friend
in Alabama was an invention, to meet this difficulty, for Master Thomas was
quite jealous of his Christian reputation, however unconcerned he might be
about his real Christian character. In these remarks, however, it is possible
that I do Master Thomas Auld injustice. He certainly did not exhaust his power
upon me, in the case, but acted, upon the whole, very generously, considering
the nature of my offense. He had the power and the provocation to send me,
without reserve, into the very everglades of Florida, beyond the remotest hope
of emancipation; and his refusal to exercise that power, must be set down to
his credit.

After lingering about St. Michael’s a few days, and no friend from
Alabama making his appearance, to take me there, Master Thomas decided to send
me back again to Baltimore, to live with his brother Hugh, with whom he was now
at peace; possibly he became so by his profession of religion, at the
camp-meeting in the Bay Side. Master Thomas told me that he wished me to go to
Baltimore, and learn a trade; and that, if I behaved myself properly, he would
emancipate me at twenty-five! Thanks for this one beam of hope in the
future. The promise had but one fault; it seemed too good to be true.

CHAPTER XX. Apprenticeship Life

NOTHING LOST BY THE ATTEMPT TO RUN AWAY—COMRADES IN THEIR OLD
HOMES—REASONS FOR SENDING ME AWAY—RETURN TO
BALTIMORE—CONTRAST BETWEEN TOMMY AND THAT OF HIS COLORED
COMPANION—TRIALS IN GARDINER’S SHIP YARD—DESPERATE
FIGHT—ITS CAUSES—CONFLICT BETWEEN WHITE AND BLACK
LABOR—DESCRIPTION OF THE OUTRAGE—COLORED TESTIMONY
NOTHING—CONDUCT OF MASTER HUGH—SPIRIT OF SLAVERY IN
BALTIMORE—MY CONDITION IMPROVES—NEW
ASSOCIATIONS—SLAVEHOLDER’S RIGHT TO TAKE HIS WAGES—HOW TO
MAKE A CONTENTED SLAVE.

Well! dear reader, I am not, as you may have already inferred, a loser by the
general upstir, described in the foregoing chapter. The little domestic
revolution, notwithstanding the sudden snub it got by the treachery of
somebody—I dare not say or think who—did not, after all, end so
disastrously, as when in the iron cage at Easton, I conceived it would. The
prospect, from that point, did look about as dark as any that ever cast its
gloom over the vision of the anxious, out-looking, human spirit. “All is
well that ends well.” My affectionate comrades, Henry and John Harris,
are still with Mr. William Freeland. Charles Roberts and Henry Baily are safe
at their homes. I have not, therefore, any thing to regret on their account.
Their masters have mercifully forgiven them, probably on the ground suggested
in the spirited little speech of Mrs. Freeland, made to me just before leaving
for the jail—namely: that they had been allured into the wicked scheme of
making their escape, by me; and that, but for me, they would never have dreamed
of a thing so shocking! My friends had nothing to regret, either; for while
they were watched more closely on account of what had happened, they were,
doubtless, treated more kindly than before, and got new assurances that they
would be legally emancipated, some day, provided their behavior should make
them deserving, from that time forward. Not a blow, as I learned, was struck
any one of them. As for Master William Freeland, good, unsuspecting soul, he
did not believe that we were intending to run away at all. Having
given—as he thought—no occasion to his boys to leave him, he could
not think it probable that they had entertained a design so grievous. This,
however, was not the view taken of the matter by “Mas’
Billy,” as we used to call the soft spoken, but crafty and resolute Mr.
William Hamilton. He had no doubt that the crime had been meditated; and
regarding me as the instigator of it, he frankly told Master Thomas that he
must remove me from that neighborhood, or he would shoot me down. He would not
have one so dangerous as “Frederick” tampering with his slaves.
William Hamilton was not a man whose threat might be safely disregarded. I have
no doubt that he would have proved as good as his word, had the warning given
not been promptly taken. He was furious at the thought of such a piece of
high-handed theft, as we were about to perpetrate the stealing of our
own bodies and souls! The feasibility of the plan, too, could the first steps
have been taken, was marvelously plain. Besides, this was a new idea,
this use of the bay. Slaves escaping, until now, had taken to the woods; they
had never dreamed of profaning and abusing the waters of the noble Chesapeake,
by making them the highway from slavery to freedom. Here was a broad road of
destruction to slavery, which, before, had been looked upon as a wall of
security by slaveholders. But Master Billy could not get Mr. Freeland to see
matters precisely as he did; nor could he get Master Thomas so excited as he
was himself. The latter—I must say it to his credit—showed much
humane feeling in his part of the transaction, and atoned for much that had
been harsh, cruel and unreasonable in his former treatment of me and others.
His clemency was quite unusual and unlooked for. “Cousin Tom” told
me that while I was in jail, Master Thomas was very unhappy; and that the night
before his going up to release me, he had walked the floor nearly all night,
evincing great distress; that very tempting offers had been made to him, by the
Negro-traders, but he had rejected them all, saying that money could not
tempt him to sell me to the far south. All this I can easily believe, for
he seemed quite reluctant to send me away, at all. He told me that he only
consented to do so, because of the very strong prejudice against me in the
neighborhood, and that he feared for my safety if I remained there.

Thus, after three years spent in the country, roughing it in the field, and
experiencing all sorts of hardships, I was again permitted to return to
Baltimore, the very place, of all others, short of a free state, where I most
desired to live. The three years spent in the country, had made some difference
in me, and in the household of Master Hugh. “Little Tommy” was no
longer little Tommy; and I was not the slender lad who had left for the
Eastern Shore just three years before. The loving relations between me and
Mas’ Tommy were broken up. He was no longer dependent on me for
protection, but felt himself a man, with other and more suitable
associates. In childhood, he scarcely considered me inferior to himself
certainly, as good as any other boy with whom he played; but the time had come
when his friend must become his slave. So we were cold, and we
parted. It was a sad thing to me, that, loving each other as we had done, we
must now take different roads. To him, a thousand avenues were open. Education
had made him acquainted with all the treasures of the world, and liberty had
flung open the gates thereunto; but I, who had attended him seven years, and
had watched over him with the care of a big brother, fighting his battles in
the street, and shielding him from harm, to an extent which had induced his
mother to say, “Oh! Tommy is always safe, when he is with Freddy,”
must be confined to a single condition. He could grow, and become a MAN; I
could grow, though I could not become a man, but must remain, all my
life, a minor—a mere boy. Thomas Auld, Junior, obtained a situation on
board the brig “Tweed,” and went to sea. I know not what has become
of him; he certainly has my good wishes for his welfare and prosperity. There
were few persons to whom I was more sincerely attached than to him, and there
are few in the world I would be more pleased to meet.

Very soon after I went to Baltimore to live, Master Hugh succeeded in getting
me hired to Mr. William Gardiner, an extensive ship builder on Fell’s
Point. I was placed here to learn to calk, a trade of which I already had some
knowledge, gained while in Mr. Hugh Auld’s ship-yard, when he was a
master builder. Gardiner’s, however, proved a very unfavorable place for
the accomplishment of that object. Mr. Gardiner was, that season, engaged in
building two large man-of-war vessels, professedly for the Mexican government.
These vessels were to be launched in the month of July, of that year, and, in
failure thereof, Mr. G. would forfeit a very considerable sum of money. So,
when I entered the ship-yard, all was hurry and driving. There were in the yard
about one hundred men; of these about seventy or eighty were regular
carpenters—privileged men. Speaking of my condition here I wrote, years
ago—and I have now no reason to vary the picture as follows:

There was no time to learn any thing. Every man had to do that which he knew
how to do. In entering the ship-yard, my orders from Mr. Gardiner were, to do
whatever the carpenters commanded me to do. This was placing me at the beck and
call of about seventy-five men. I was to regard all these as masters. Their
word was to be my law. My situation was a most trying one. At times I needed a
dozen pair of hands. I was called a dozen ways in the space of a single minute.
Three or four voices would strike my ear at the same moment. It
was—“Fred., come help me to cant this timber here.”
“Fred., come carry this timber yonder.”—“Fred., bring
that roller here.”—“Fred., go get a fresh can of
water.”—“Fred., come help saw off the end of this
timber.”—“Fred., go quick and get the crow
bar.”—“Fred., hold on the end of this
fall.”—“Fred., go to the blacksmith’s shop, and get a
new punch.”—

“Hurra, Fred.! run and bring me a cold chisel.”—“I say,
Fred., bear a hand, and get up a fire as quick as lightning under that
steam-box.”—“Halloo, nigger! come, turn this
grindstone.”—“Come, come! move, move! and bowse this
timber forward.”—“I say, darkey, blast your eyes, why
don’t you heat up some pitch?”—“Halloo! halloo!
halloo!” (Three voices at the same time.) “Come here!—Go
there!—Hold on where you are! D—n you, if you move, I’ll
knock your brains out!”

Such, dear reader, is a glance at the school which was mine, during, the first
eight months of my stay at Baltimore. At the end of the eight months, Master
Hugh refused longer to allow me to remain with Mr. Gardiner. The circumstance
which led to his taking me away, was a brutal outrage, committed upon me by the
white apprentices of the ship-yard. The fight was a desperate one, and I came
out of it most shockingly mangled. I was cut and bruised in sundry places, and
my left eye was nearly knocked out of its socket. The facts, leading to this
barbarous outrage upon me, illustrate a phase of slavery destined to become an
important element in the overthrow of the slave system, and I may, therefore
state them with some minuteness. That phase is this: the conflict of slavery
with the interests of the white mechanics and laborers of the south. In the
country, this conflict is not so apparent; but, in cities, such as Baltimore,
Richmond, New Orleans, Mobile, &c., it is seen pretty clearly. The
slaveholders, with a craftiness peculiar to themselves, by encouraging the
enmity of the poor, laboring white man against the blacks, succeeds in making
the said white man almost as much a slave as the black slave himself. The
difference between the white slave, and the black slave, is this: the latter
belongs to one slaveholder, and the former belongs to all the
slaveholders, collectively. The white slave has taken from him, by indirection,
what the black slave has taken from him, directly, and without ceremony. Both
are plundered, and by the same plunderers. The slave is robbed, by his master,
of all his earnings, above what is required for his bare physical necessities;
and the white man is robbed by the slave system, of the just results of his
labor, because he is flung into competition with a class of laborers who work
without wages. The competition, and its injurious consequences, will, one day,
array the nonslaveholding white people of the slave states, against the slave
system, and make them the most effective workers against the great evil. At
present, the slaveholders blind them to this competition, by keeping alive
their prejudice against the slaves, as men—not against them as
slaves. They appeal to their pride, often denouncing emancipation, as
tending to place the white man, on an equality with Negroes, and, by this
means, they succeed in drawing off the minds of the poor whites from the real
fact, that, by the rich slave-master, they are already regarded as but a single
remove from equality with the slave. The impression is cunningly made, that
slavery is the only power that can prevent the laboring white man from falling
to the level of the slave’s poverty and degradation. To make this enmity
deep and broad, between the slave and the poor white man, the latter is allowed
to abuse and whip the former, without hinderance. But—as I have
suggested—this state of facts prevails mostly in the country. In
the city of Baltimore, there are not unfrequent murmurs, that educating the
slaves to be mechanics may, in the end, give slavemasters power to dispense
with the services of the poor white man altogether. But, with characteristic
dread of offending the slaveholders, these poor, white mechanics in Mr.
Gardiner’s ship-yard—instead of applying the natural, honest remedy
for the apprehended evil, and objecting at once to work there by the side of
slaves—made a cowardly attack upon the free colored mechanics, saying
they were eating the bread which should be eaten by American freemen,
and swearing that they would not work with them. The feeling was,
really, against having their labor brought into competition with that of
the colored people at all; but it was too much to strike directly at the
interest of the slaveholders; and, therefore proving their servility and
cowardice they dealt their blows on the poor, colored freeman, and aimed to
prevent him from serving himself, in the evening of life, with the trade
with which he had served his master, during the more vigorous portion of his
days. Had they succeeded in driving the black freemen out of the ship-yard,
they would have determined also upon the removal of the black slaves. The
feeling was very bitter toward all colored people in Baltimore, about this time
(1836), and they—free and slave suffered all manner of insult and wrong.

Until a very little before I went there, white and black ship carpenters worked
side by side, in the ship yards of Mr. Gardiner, Mr. Duncan, Mr. Walter Price,
and Mr. Robb. Nobody seemed to see any impropriety in it. To outward seeming,
all hands were well satisfied. Some of the blacks were first rate workmen, and
were given jobs requiring highest skill. All at once, however, the white
carpenters knocked off, and swore that they would no longer work on the same
stage with free Negroes. Taking advantage of the heavy contract resting upon
Mr. Gardiner, to have the war vessels for Mexico ready to launch in July, and
of the difficulty of getting other hands at that season of the year, they swore
they would not strike another blow for him, unless he would discharge his free
colored workmen.

Now, although this movement did not extend to me, in form, it did reach
me, in fact. The spirit which it awakened was one of malice and
bitterness, toward colored people generally, and I suffered with the
rest, and suffered severely. My fellow apprentices very soon began to feel it
to be degrading to work with me. They began to put on high looks, and to talk
contemptuously and maliciously of “the Niggers;” saying,
that “they would take the country,” that “they ought to be
killed.” Encouraged by the cowardly workmen, who, knowing me to be a
slave, made no issue with Mr. Gardiner about my being there, these young men
did their utmost to make it impossible for me to stay. They seldom called me to
do any thing, without coupling the call with a curse, and Edward North, the
biggest in every thing, rascality included, ventured to strike me, whereupon I
picked him up, and threw him into the dock. Whenever any of them struck me, I
struck back again, regardless of consequences. I could manage any of them
singly, and, while I could keep them from combining, I succeeded very
well. In the conflict which ended my stay at Mr. Gardiner’s, I was beset
by four of them at once—Ned North, Ned Hays, Bill Stewart, and Tom
Humphreys. Two of them were as large as myself, and they came near killing me,
in broad day light. The attack was made suddenly, and simultaneously. One came
in front, armed with a brick; there was one at each side, and one behind, and
they closed up around me. I was struck on all sides; and, while I was attending
to those in front, I received a blow on my head, from behind, dealt with a
heavy hand-spike. I was completely stunned by the blow, and fell, heavily, on
the ground, among the timbers. Taking advantage of my fall, they rushed upon
me, and began to pound me with their fists. I let them lay on, for a while,
after I came to myself, with a view of gaining strength. They did me little
damage, so far; but, finally, getting tired of that sport, I gave a sudden
surge, and, despite their weight, I rose to my hands and knees. Just as I did
this, one of their number (I know not which) planted a blow with his boot in my
left eye, which, for a time, seemed to have burst my eyeball. When they saw my
eye completely closed, my face covered with blood, and I staggering under the
stunning blows they had given me, they left me. As soon as I gathered
sufficient strength, I picked up the hand-spike, and, madly enough, attempted
to pursue them; but here the carpenters interfered, and compelled me to give up
my frenzied pursuit. It was impossible to stand against so many.

Dear reader, you can hardly believe the statement, but it is true, and,
therefore, I write it down: not fewer than fifty white men stood by, and saw
this brutal and shameless outrage committed, and not a man of them all
interposed a single word of mercy. There were four against one, and that
one’s face was beaten and battered most horribly, and no one said,
“that is enough;” but some cried out, “Kill him—kill
him—kill the d—d nigger! knock his brains out—he struck a
white person.” I mention this inhuman outcry, to show the character of
the men, and the spirit of the times, at Gardiner’s ship yard, and,
indeed, in Baltimore generally, in 1836. As I look back to this period, I am
almost amazed that I was not murdered outright, in that ship yard, so murderous
was the spirit which prevailed there. On two occasions, while there, I came
near losing my life. I was driving bolts in the hold, through the keelson, with
Hays. In its course, the bolt bent. Hays cursed me, and said that it was my
blow which bent the bolt. I denied this, and charged it upon him. In a fit of
rage he seized an adze, and darted toward me. I met him with a maul, and
parried his blow, or I should have then lost my life. A son of old Tom Lanman
(the latter’s double murder I have elsewhere charged upon him), in the
spirit of his miserable father, made an assault upon me, but the blow with his
maul missed me. After the united assault of North, Stewart, Hays and Humphreys,
finding that the carpenters were as bitter toward me as the apprentices, and
that the latter were probably set on by the former, I found my only chances for
life was in flight. I succeeded in getting away, without an additional blow. To
strike a white man, was death, by Lynch law, in Gardiner’s ship yard; nor
was there much of any other law toward colored people, at that time, in any
other part of Maryland. The whole sentiment of Baltimore was murderous.

After making my escape from the ship yard, I went straight home, and related
the story of the outrage to Master Hugh Auld; and it is due to him to say, that
his conduct—though he was not a religious man—was every way more
humane than that of his brother, Thomas, when I went to the latter in a
somewhat similar plight, from the hands of “Brother Edward
Covey.” He listened attentively to my narration of the circumstances
leading to the ruffianly outrage, and gave many proofs of his strong
indignation at what was done. Hugh was a rough, but manly-hearted fellow, and,
at this time, his best nature showed itself.

The heart of my once almost over-kind mistress, Sophia, was again melted in
pity toward me. My puffed-out eye, and my scarred and blood-covered face, moved
the dear lady to tears. She kindly drew a chair by me, and with friendly,
consoling words, she took water, and washed the blood from my face. No
mother’s hand could have been more tender than hers. She bound up my
head, and covered my wounded eye with a lean piece of fresh beef. It was almost
compensation for the murderous assault, and my suffering, that it furnished and
occasion for the manifestation, once more, of the orignally(sic) characteristic
kindness of my mistress. Her affectionate heart was not yet dead, though much
hardened by time and by circumstances.

As for Master Hugh’s part, as I have said, he was furious about it; and
he gave expression to his fury in the usual forms of speech in that locality.
He poured curses on the heads of the whole ship yard company, and swore that he
would have satisfaction for the outrage. His indignation was really strong and
healthy; but, unfortunately, it resulted from the thought that his rights of
property, in my person, had not been respected, more than from any sense of the
outrage committed on me as a man. I inferred as much as this, from the
fact that he could, himself, beat and mangle when it suited him to do so. Bent
on having satisfaction, as he said, just as soon as I got a little the better
of my bruises, Master Hugh took me to Esquire Watson’s office, on Bond
street, Fell’s Point, with a view to procuring the arrest of those who
had assaulted me. He related the outrage to the magistrate, as I had related it
to him, and seemed to expect that a warrant would, at once, be issued for the
arrest of the lawless ruffians.

Mr. Watson heard it all, and instead of drawing up his warrant, he
inquired.—

“Mr. Auld, who saw this assault of which you speak?”

“It was done, sir, in the presence of a ship yard full of hands.”

“Sir,” said Watson, “I am sorry, but I cannot move in this
matter except upon the oath of white witnesses.”

“But here’s the boy; look at his head and face,” said the
excited Master Hugh; “they show what has been done.”

But Watson insisted that he was not authorized to do anything, unless
white witnesses of the transaction would come forward, and testify to
what had taken place. He could issue no warrant on my word, against white
persons; and, if I had been killed in the presence of a thousand blacks,
their testimony, combined would have been insufficient to arrest a single
murderer. Master Hugh, for once, was compelled to say, that this state of
things was too bad; and he left the office of the magistrate, disgusted.

Of course, it was impossible to get any white man to testify against my
assailants. The carpenters saw what was done; but the actors were but the
agents of their malice, and only what the carpenters sanctioned. They had
cried, with one accord, “Kill the nigger!” “Kill the
nigger!” Even those who may have pitied me, if any such were among
them, lacked the moral courage to come and volunteer their evidence. The
slightest manifestation of sympathy or justice toward a person of color, was
denounced as abolitionism; and the name of abolitionist, subjected its bearer
to frightful liabilities. “D—n abolitionists,” and
“Kill the niggers,” were the watch-words of the foul-mouthed
ruffians of those days. Nothing was done, and probably there would not have
been any thing done, had I been killed in the affray. The laws and the morals
of the Christian city of Baltimore, afforded no protection to the sable
denizens of that city.

Master Hugh, on finding he could get no redress for the cruel wrong, withdrew
me from the employment of Mr. Gardiner, and took me into his own family, Mrs.
Auld kindly taking care of me, and dressing my wounds, until they were healed,
and I was ready to go again to work.

While I was on the Eastern Shore, Master Hugh had met with reverses, which
overthrew his business; and he had given up ship building in his own yard, on
the City Block, and was now acting as foreman of Mr. Walter Price. The best he
could now do for me, was to take me into Mr. Price’s yard, and afford me
the facilities there, for completing the trade which I had began to learn at
Gardiner’s. Here I rapidly became expert in the use of my calking tools;
and, in the course of a single year, I was able to command the highest wages
paid to journeymen calkers in Baltimore.

The reader will observe that I was now of some pecuniary value to my master.
During the busy season, I was bringing six and seven dollars per week. I have,
sometimes, brought him as much as nine dollars a week, for the wages were a
dollar and a half per day.

After learning to calk, I sought my own employment, made my own contracts, and
collected my own earnings; giving Master Hugh no trouble in any part of the
transactions to which I was a party.

Here, then, were better days for the Eastern Shore slave. I was now free
from the vexatious assalts(sic) of the apprentices at Mr. Gardiner’s; and
free from the perils of plantation life, and once more in a favorable condition
to increase my little stock of education, which had been at a dead stand since
my removal from Baltimore. I had, on the Eastern Shore, been only a teacher,
when in company with other slaves, but now there were colored persons who could
instruct me. Many of the young calkers could read, write and cipher. Some of
them had high notions about mental improvement; and the free ones, on
Fell’s Point, organized what they called the “East Baltimore
Mental Improvement Society.” To this society, notwithstanding it was
intended that only free persons should attach themselves, I was admitted, and
was, several times, assigned a prominent part in its debates. I owe much to the
society of these young men.

The reader already knows enough of the ill effects of good treatment on
a slave, to anticipate what was now the case in my improved condition. It was
not long before I began to show signs of disquiet with slavery, and to look
around for means to get out of that condition by the shortest route. I was
living among free men; and was, in all respects, equal to them by nature
and by attainments. Why should I be a slave? There was no reason
why I should be the thrall of any man.

Besides, I was now getting—as I have said—a dollar and fifty cents
per day. I contracted for it, worked for it, earned it, collected it; it was
paid to me, and it was rightfully my own; and yet, upon every returning
Saturday night, this money—my own hard earnings, every cent of
it—was demanded of me, and taken from me by Master Hugh. He did not earn
it; he had no hand in earning it; why, then, should he have it? I owed him
nothing. He had given me no schooling, and I had received from him only my food
and raiment; and for these, my services were supposed to pay, from the first.
The right to take my earnings, was the right of the robber. He had the power to
compel me to give him the fruits of my labor, and this power was his only right
in the case. I became more and more dissatisfied with this state of things;
and, in so becoming, I only gave proof of the same human nature which every
reader of this chapter in my life—slaveholder, or nonslaveholder—is
conscious of possessing.

To make a contented slave, you must make a thoughtless one. It is necessary to
darken his moral and mental vision, and, as far as possible, to annihilate his
power of reason. He must be able to detect no inconsistencies in slavery. The
man that takes his earnings, must be able to convince him that he has a perfect
right to do so. It must not depend upon mere force; the slave must know no
Higher Law than his master’s will. The whole relationship must not only
demonstrate, to his mind, its necessity, but its absolute rightfulness. If
there be one crevice through which a single drop can fall, it will certainly
rust off the slave’s chain.

CHAPTER XXI. My Escape from Slavery

CLOSING INCIDENTS OF “MY LIFE AS A SLAVE”—REASONS WHY FULL
PARTICULARS OF THE MANNER OF MY ESCAPE WILL NOT BE GIVEN—CRAFTINESS AND
MALICE OF SLAVEHOLDERS—SUSPICION OF AIDING A SLAVE’S ESCAPE ABOUT
AS DANGEROUS AS POSITIVE EVIDENCE—WANT OF WISDOM SHOWN IN PUBLISHING
DETAILS OF THE ESCAPE OF THE FUGITIVES—PUBLISHED ACCOUNTS REACH THE
MASTERS, NOT THE SLAVES—SLAVEHOLDERS STIMULATED TO GREATER
WATCHFULNESS—MY CONDITION—DISCONTENT—SUSPICIONS IMPLIED BY
MASTER HUGH’S MANNER, WHEN RECEIVING MY WAGES—HIS OCCASIONAL
GENEROSITY!—DIFFICULTIES IN THE WAY OF ESCAPE—EVERY AVENUE
GUARDED—PLAN TO OBTAIN MONEY—I AM ALLOWED TO HIRE MY TIME—A
GLEAM OF HOPE—ATTENDS CAMP-MEETING, WITHOUT PERMISSION—ANGER OF
MASTER HUGH THEREAT—THE RESULT—MY PLANS OF ESCAPE ACCELERATED
THERBY—THE DAY FOR MY DEPARTURE FIXED—HARASSED BY DOUBTS AND
FEARS—PAINFUL THOUGHTS OF SEPARATION FROM FRIENDS—THE ATTEMPT
MADE—ITS SUCCESS.

I will now make the kind reader acquainted with the closing incidents of my
“Life as a Slave,” having already trenched upon the limit allotted
to my “Life as a Freeman.” Before, however, proceeding with this
narration, it is, perhaps, proper that I should frankly state, in advance, my
intention to withhold a part of the(sic) connected with my escape from slavery.
There are reasons for this suppression, which I trust the reader will deem
altogether valid. It may be easily conceived, that a full and complete
statement of all facts pertaining to the flight of a bondman, might implicate
and embarrass some who may have, wittingly or unwittingly, assisted him; and no
one can wish me to involve any man or woman who has befriended me, even in the
liability of embarrassment or trouble.

Keen is the scent of the slaveholder; like the fangs of the rattlesnake, his
malice retains its poison long; and, although it is now nearly seventeen years
since I made my escape, it is well to be careful, in dealing with the
circumstances relating to it. Were I to give but a shadowy outline of the
process adopted, with characteristic aptitude, the crafty and malicious among
the slaveholders might, possibly, hit upon the track I pursued, and involve
some one in suspicion which, in a slave state, is about as bad as positive
evidence. The colored man, there, must not only shun evil, but shun the very
appearance of evil, or be condemned as a criminal. A slaveholding
community has a peculiar taste for ferreting out offenses against the slave
system, justice there being more sensitive in its regard for the peculiar
rights of this system, than for any other interest or institution. By stringing
together a train of events and circumstances, even if I were not very explicit,
the means of escape might be ascertained, and, possibly, those means be
rendered, thereafter, no longer available to the liberty-seeking children of
bondage I have left behind me. No antislavery man can wish me to do anything
favoring such results, and no slaveholding reader has any right to expect the
impartment of such information.

While, therefore, it would afford me pleasure, and perhaps would materially add
to the interest of my story, were I at liberty to gratify a curiosity which I
know to exist in the minds of many, as to the manner of my escape, I must
deprive myself of this pleasure, and the curious of the gratification, which
such a statement of facts would afford. I would allow myself to suffer under
the greatest imputations that evil minded men might suggest, rather than
exculpate myself by explanation, and thereby run the hazards of closing the
slightest avenue by which a brother in suffering might clear himself of the
chains and fetters of slavery.

The practice of publishing every new invention by which a slave is known to
have escaped from slavery, has neither wisdom nor necessity to sustain it. Had
not Henry Box Brown and his friends attracted slaveholding attention to the
manner of his escape, we might have had a thousand Box Browns per annum.
The singularly original plan adopted by William and Ellen Crafts, perished with
the first using, because every slaveholder in the land was apprised of it. The
salt water slave who hung in the guards of a steamer, being washed three
days and three nights—like another Jonah—by the waves of the sea,
has, by the publicity given to the circumstance, set a spy on the guards of
every steamer departing from southern ports.

I have never approved of the very public manner, in which some of our western
friends have conducted what they call the “Under-ground
Railroad,” but which, I think, by their open declarations, has been
made, most emphatically, the “Upper-ground Railroad.” Its
stations are far better known to the slaveholders than to the slaves. I honor
those good men and women for their noble daring, in willingly subjecting
themselves to persecution, by openly avowing their participation in the escape
of slaves; nevertheless, the good resulting from such avowals, is of a very
questionable character. It may kindle an enthusiasm, very pleasant to inhale;
but that is of no practical benefit to themselves, nor to the slaves escaping.
Nothing is more evident, than that such disclosures are a positive evil to the
slaves remaining, and seeking to escape. In publishing such accounts, the
anti-slavery man addresses the slaveholder, not the slave; he stimulates
the former to greater watchfulness, and adds to his facilities for capturing
his slave. We owe something to the slaves, south of Mason and Dixon’s
line, as well as to those north of it; and, in discharging the duty of aiding
the latter, on their way to freedom, we should be careful to do nothing which
would be likely to hinder the former, in making their escape from slavery. Such
is my detestation of slavery, that I would keep the merciless slaveholder
profoundly ignorant of the means of flight adopted by the slave. He should be
left to imagine himself surrounded by myriads of invisible tormentors, ever
ready to snatch, from his infernal grasp, his trembling prey. In pursuing his
victim, let him be left to feel his way in the dark; let shades of darkness,
commensurate with his crime, shut every ray of light from his pathway; and let
him be made to feel, that, at every step he takes, with the hellish purpose of
reducing a brother man to slavery, he is running the frightful risk of having
his hot brains dashed out by an invisible hand.

But, enough of this. I will now proceed to the statement of those facts,
connected with my escape, for which I am alone responsible, and for which no
one can be made to suffer but myself.

My condition in the year (1838) of my escape, was, comparatively, a free and
easy one, so far, at least, as the wants of the physical man were concerned;
but the reader will bear in mind, that my troubles from the beginning, have
been less physical than mental, and he will thus be prepared to find, after
what is narrated in the previous chapters, that slave life was adding nothing
to its charms for me, as I grew older, and became better acquainted with it.
The practice, from week to week, of openly robbing me of all my earnings, kept
the nature and character of slavery constantly before me. I could be robbed by
indirection, but this was too open and barefaced to be endured. I
could see no reason why I should, at the end of each week, pour the reward of
my honest toil into the purse of any man. The thought itself vexed me, and the
manner in which Master Hugh received my wages, vexed me more than the original
wrong. Carefully counting the money and rolling it out, dollar by dollar, he
would look me in the face, as if he would search my heart as well as my pocket,
and reproachfully ask me, “Is that all?”—implying that
I had, perhaps, kept back part of my wages; or, if not so, the demand was made,
possibly, to make me feel, that, after all, I was an “unprofitable
servant.” Draining me of the last cent of my hard earnings, he would,
however, occasionally—when I brought home an extra large sum—dole
out to me a sixpence or a shilling, with a view, perhaps, of kindling up my
gratitude; but this practice had the opposite effect—it was an admission
of my right to the whole sum. The fact, that he gave me any part of my
wages, was proof that he suspected that I had a right to the whole of
them. I always felt uncomfortable, after having received anything in this
way, for I feared that the giving me a few cents, might, possibly, ease his
conscience, and make him feel himself a pretty honorable robber, after all!

Held to a strict account, and kept under a close watch—the old suspicion
of my running away not having been entirely removed—escape from slavery,
even in Baltimore, was very difficult. The railroad from Baltimore to
Philadelphia was under regulations so stringent, that even free colored
travelers were almost excluded. They must have free papers; they must be
measured and carefully examined, before they were allowed to enter the cars;
they only went in the day time, even when so examined. The steamboats were
under regulations equally stringent. All the great turnpikes, leading
northward, were beset with kidnappers, a class of men who watched the
newspapers for advertisements for runaway slaves, making their living by the
accursed reward of slave hunting.

My discontent grew upon me, and I was on the look-out for means of escape. With
money, I could easily have managed the matter, and, therefore, I hit upon the
plan of soliciting the privilege of hiring my time. It is quite common, in
Baltimore, to allow slaves this privilege, and it is the practice, also, in New
Orleans. A slave who is considered trustworthy, can, by paying his master a
definite sum regularly, at the end of each week, dispose of his time as he
likes. It so happened that I was not in very good odor, and I was far from
being a trustworthy slave. Nevertheless, I watched my opportunity when Master
Thomas came to Baltimore (for I was still his property, Hugh only acted as his
agent) in the spring of 1838, to purchase his spring supply of goods, and
applied to him, directly, for the much-coveted privilege of hiring my time.
This request Master Thomas unhesitatingly refused to grant; and he charged me,
with some sternness, with inventing this stratagem to make my escape. He told
me, “I could go nowhere but he could catch me; and, in the event
of my running away, I might be assured he should spare no pains in his efforts
to recapture me.” He recounted, with a good deal of eloquence, the many
kind offices he had done me, and exhorted me to be contented and obedient.
“Lay out no plans for the future,” said he. “If you behave
yourself properly, I will take care of you.” Now, kind and considerate as
this offer was, it failed to soothe me into repose. In spite of Master Thomas,
and, I may say, in spite of myself, also, I continued to think, and worse
still, to think almost exclusively about the injustice and wickedness of
slavery. No effort of mine or of his could silence this trouble-giving thought,
or change my purpose to run away.

About two months after applying to Master Thomas for the privilege of hiring my
time, I applied to Master Hugh for the same liberty, supposing him to be
unacquainted with the fact that I had made a similar application to Master
Thomas, and had been refused. My boldness in making this request, fairly
astounded him at the first. He gazed at me in amazement. But I had many good
reasons for pressing the matter; and, after listening to them awhile, he did
not absolutely refuse, but told me he would think of it. Here, then, was a
gleam of hope. Once master of my own time, I felt sure that I could make, over
and above my obligation to him, a dollar or two every week. Some slaves have
made enough, in this way, to purchase their freedom. It is a sharp spur to
industry; and some of the most enterprising colored men in Baltimore hire
themselves in this way. After mature reflection—as I must suppose it was
Master Hugh granted me the privilege in question, on the following terms: I was
to be allowed all my time; to make all bargains for work; to find my own
employment, and to collect my own wages; and, in return for this liberty, I was
required, or obliged, to pay him three dollars at the end of each week, and to
board and clothe myself, and buy my own calking tools. A failure in any of
these particulars would put an end to my privilege. This was a hard bargain.
The wear and tear of clothing, the losing and breaking of tools, and the
expense of board, made it necessary for me to earn at least six dollars per
week, to keep even with the world. All who are acquainted with calking, know
how uncertain and irregular that employment is. It can be done to advantage
only in dry weather, for it is useless to put wet oakum into a seam. Rain or
shine, however, work or no work, at the end of each week the money must be
forthcoming.

Master Hugh seemed to be very much pleased, for a time, with this arrangement;
and well he might be, for it was decidedly in his favor. It relieved him of all
anxiety concerning me. His money was sure. He had armed my love of liberty with
a lash and a driver, far more efficient than any I had before known; and, while
he derived all the benefits of slaveholding by the arrangement, without its
evils, I endured all the evils of being a slave, and yet suffered all the care
and anxiety of a responsible freeman. “Nevertheless,” thought I,
“it is a valuable privilege another step in my career toward
freedom.” It was something even to be permitted to stagger under the
disadvantages of liberty, and I was determined to hold on to the newly gained
footing, by all proper industry. I was ready to work by night as well as by
day; and being in the enjoyment of excellent health, I was able not only to
meet my current expenses, but also to lay by a small sum at the end of each
week. All went on thus, from the month of May till August; then—for
reasons which will become apparent as I proceed—my much valued liberty
was wrested from me.

During the week previous to this (to me) calamitous event, I had made
arrangements with a few young friends, to accompany them, on Saturday night, to
a camp-meeting, held about twelve miles from Baltimore. On the evening of our
intended start for the camp-ground, something occurred in the ship yard where I
was at work, which detained me unusually late, and compelled me either to
disappoint my young friends, or to neglect carrying my weekly dues to Master
Hugh. Knowing that I had the money, and could hand it to him on another day, I
decided to go to camp-meeting, and to pay him the three dollars, for the past
week, on my return. Once on the camp-ground, I was induced to remain one day
longer than I had intended, when I left home. But, as soon as I returned, I
went straight to his house on Fell street, to hand him his (my) money.
Unhappily, the fatal mistake had been committed. I found him exceedingly angry.
He exhibited all the signs of apprehension and wrath, which a slaveholder may
be surmised to exhibit on the supposed escape of a favorite slave. “You
rascal! I have a great mind to give you a severe whipping. How dare you go out
of the city without first asking and obtaining my permission?”
“Sir,” said I, “I hired my time and paid you the price you
asked for it. I did not know that it was any part of the bargain that I should
ask you when or where I should go.”

“You did not know, you rascal! You are bound to show yourself here every
Saturday night.” After reflecting, a few moments, he became somewhat
cooled down; but, evidently greatly troubled, he said, “Now, you
scoundrel! you have done for yourself; you shall hire your time no longer. The
next thing I shall hear of, will be your running away. Bring home your tools
and your clothes, at once. I’ll teach you how to go off in this
way.”

Thus ended my partial freedom. I could hire my time no longer; and I obeyed my
master’s orders at once. The little taste of liberty which I had
had—although as the reader will have seen, it was far from being
unalloyed—by no means enhanced my contentment with slavery. Punished thus
by Master Hugh, it was now my turn to punish him. “Since,” thought
I, “you will make a slave of me, I will await your orders in all
things;” and, instead of going to look for work on Monday morning, as I
had formerly done, I remained at home during the entire week, without the
performance of a single stroke of work. Saturday night came, and he called upon
me, as usual, for my wages. I, of course, told him I had done no work, and had
no wages. Here we were at the point of coming to blows. His wrath had been
accumulating during the whole week; for he evidently saw that I was making no
effort to get work, but was most aggravatingly awaiting his orders, in all
things. As I look back to this behavior of mine, I scarcely know what possessed
me, thus to trifle with those who had such unlimited power to bless or to blast
me. Master Hugh raved and swore his determination to “get hold of
me;” but, wisely for him, and happily for me, his wrath
only employed those very harmless, impalpable missiles, which roll from a
limber tongue. In my desperation, I had fully made up my mind to measure
strength with Master Hugh, in case he should undertake to execute his threats.
I am glad there was no necessity for this; for resistance to him could not have
ended so happily for me, as it did in the case of Covey. He was not a man to be
safely resisted by a slave; and I freely own, that in my conduct toward him, in
this instance, there was more folly than wisdom. Master Hugh closed his
reproofs, by telling me that, hereafter, I need give myself no uneasiness about
getting work; that he “would, himself, see to getting work for me, and
enough of it, at that.” This threat I confess had some terror in it; and,
on thinking the matter over, during the Sunday, I resolved, not only to save
him the trouble of getting me work, but that, upon the third day of September,
I would attempt to make my escape from slavery. The refusal to allow me to hire
my time, therefore, hastened the period of flight. I had three weeks, now, in
which to prepare for my journey.

Once resolved, I felt a certain degree of repose, and on Monday, instead of
waiting for Master Hugh to seek employment for me, I was up by break of day,
and off to the ship yard of Mr. Butler, on the City Block, near the
draw-bridge. I was a favorite with Mr. B., and, young as I was, I had served as
his foreman on the float stage, at calking. Of course, I easily obtained work,
and, at the end of the week—which by the way was exceedingly fine I
brought Master Hugh nearly nine dollars. The effect of this mark of returning
good sense, on my part, was excellent. He was very much pleased; he took the
money, commended me, and told me I might have done the same thing the week
before. It is a blessed thing that the tyrant may not always know the thoughts
and purposes of his victim. Master Hugh little knew what my plans were. The
going to camp-meeting without asking his permission—the insolent answers
made to his reproaches—the sulky deportment the week after being deprived
of the privilege of hiring my time—had awakened in him the suspicion that
I might be cherishing disloyal purposes. My object, therefore, in working
steadily, was to remove suspicion, and in this I succeeded admirably. He
probably thought I was never better satisfied with my condition, than at the
very time I was planning my escape. The second week passed, and again I carried
him my full week’s wages—nine dollars; and so well pleased
was he, that he gave me TWENTY-FIVE CENTS! and “bade me make good use of
it!” I told him I would, for one of the uses to which I meant to put it,
was to pay my fare on the underground railroad.

Things without went on as usual; but I was passing through the same internal
excitement and anxiety which I had experienced two years and a half before. The
failure, in that instance, was not calculated to increase my confidence in the
success of this, my second attempt; and I knew that a second failure could not
leave me where my first did—I must either get to the far north, or
be sent to the far south. Besides the exercise of mind from this state
of facts, I had the painful sensation of being about to separate from a circle
of honest and warm hearted friends, in Baltimore. The thought of such a
separation, where the hope of ever meeting again is excluded, and where there
can be no correspondence, is very painful. It is my opinion, that thousands
would escape from slavery who now remain there, but for the strong cords of
affection that bind them to their families, relatives and friends. The daughter
is hindered from escaping, by the love she bears her mother, and the father, by
the love he bears his children; and so, to the end of the chapter. I had no
relations in Baltimore, and I saw no probability of ever living in the
neighborhood of sisters and brothers; but the thought of leaving my friends,
was among the strongest obstacles to my running away. The last two days of the
week—Friday and Saturday—were spent mostly in collecting my things
together, for my journey. Having worked four days that week, for my master, I
handed him six dollars, on Saturday night. I seldom spent my Sundays at home;
and, for fear that something might be discovered in my conduct, I kept up my
custom, and absented myself all day. On Monday, the third day of September,
1838, in accordance with my resolution, I bade farewell to the city of
Baltimore, and to that slavery which had been my abhorrence from childhood.

How I got away—in what direction I traveled—whether by land or by
water; whether with or without assistance—must, for reasons already
mentioned, remain unexplained.

LIFE as a FREEMAN

CHAPTER XXII. Liberty Attained

TRANSITION FROM SLAVERY TO FREEDOM—A WANDERER IN NEW YORK—FEELINGS
ON REACHING THAT CITY—AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE MET—UNFAVORABLE
IMPRESSIONS—LONELINESS AND INSECURITY—APOLOGY FOR SLAVES WHO RETURN
TO THEIR MASTERS—COMPELLED TO TELL MY CONDITION—SUCCORED BY A
SAILOR—DAVID RUGGLES—THE UNDERGROUND
RAILROAD—MARRIAGE—BAGGAGE TAKEN FROM ME—KINDNESS OF NATHAN
JOHNSON—MY CHANGE OF NAME—DARK NOTIONS OF NORTHERN
CIVILIZATION—THE CONTRAST—COLORED PEOPLE IN NEW BEDFORD—AN
INCIDENT ILLUSTRATING THEIR SPIRIT—A COMMON LABORER—DENIED WORK AT
MY TRADE—THE FIRST WINTER AT THE NORTH—REPULSE AT THE DOORS OF THE
CHURCH—SANCTIFIED HATE—THE Liberator AND ITS EDITOR.

There is no necessity for any extended notice of the incidents of this part of
my life. There is nothing very striking or peculiar about my career as a
freeman, when viewed apart from my life as a slave. The relation subsisting
between my early experience and that which I am now about to narrate, is,
perhaps, my best apology for adding another chapter to this book.

Disappearing from the kind reader, in a flying cloud or balloon (pardon the
figure), driven by the wind, and knowing not where I should land—whether
in slavery or in freedom—it is proper that I should remove, at once, all
anxiety, by frankly making known where I alighted. The flight was a bold and
perilous one; but here I am, in the great city of New York, safe and sound,
without loss of blood or bone. In less than a week after leaving Baltimore, I
was walking amid the hurrying throng, and gazing upon the dazzling wonders of
Broadway. The dreams of my childhood and the purposes of my manhood were now
fulfilled. A free state around me, and a free earth under my feet! What a
moment was this to me! A whole year was pressed into a single day. A new world
burst upon my agitated vision. I have often been asked, by kind friends to whom
I have told my story, how I felt when first I found myself beyond the limits of
slavery; and I must say here, as I have often said to them, there is scarcely
anything about which I could not give a more satisfactory answer. It was a
moment of joyous excitement, which no words can describe. In a letter to a
friend, written soon after reaching New York. I said I felt as one might be
supposed to feel, on escaping from a den of hungry lions. But, in a moment like
that, sensations are too intense and too rapid for words. Anguish and grief,
like darkness and rain, may be described, but joy and gladness, like the
rainbow of promise, defy alike the pen and pencil.

For ten or fifteen years I had been dragging a heavy chain, with a huge block
attached to it, cumbering my every motion. I had felt myself doomed to drag
this chain and this block through life. All efforts, before, to separate myself
from the hateful encumbrance, had only seemed to rivet me the more firmly to
it. Baffled and discouraged at times, I had asked myself the question, May not
this, after all, be God’s work? May He not, for wise ends, have doomed me
to this lot? A contest had been going on in my mind for years, between the
clear consciousness of right and the plausible errors of superstition; between
the wisdom of manly courage, and the foolish weakness of timidity. The contest
was now ended; the chain was severed; God and right stood vindicated. I was A
FREEMAN, and the voice of peace and joy thrilled my heart.

Free and joyous, however, as I was, joy was not the only sensation I
experienced. It was like the quick blaze, beautiful at the first, but which
subsiding, leaves the building charred and desolate. I was soon taught that I
was still in an enemy’s land. A sense of loneliness and insecurity
oppressed me sadly. I had been but a few hours in New York, before I was met in
the streets by a fugitive slave, well known to me, and the information I got
from him respecting New York, did nothing to lessen my apprehension of danger.
The fugitive in question was “Allender’s Jake,” in Baltimore;
but, said he, I am “WILLIAM DIXON,” in New York! I knew Jake well,
and knew when Tolly Allender and Mr. Price (for the latter employed Master Hugh
as his foreman, in his shipyard on Fell’s Point) made an attempt to
recapture Jake, and failed. Jake told me all about his circumstances, and how
narrowly he escaped being taken back to slavery; that the city was now full of
southerners, returning from the springs; that the black people in New York were
not to be trusted; that there were hired men on the lookout for fugitives from
slavery, and who, for a few dollars, would betray me into the hands of the
slave-catchers; that I must trust no man with my secret; that I must not think
of going either on the wharves to work, or to a boarding-house to board; and,
worse still, this same Jake told me it was not in his power to help me. He
seemed, even while cautioning me, to be fearing lest, after all, I might be a
party to a second attempt to recapture him. Under the inspiration of this
thought, I must suppose it was, he gave signs of a wish to get rid of me, and
soon left me his whitewash brush in hand—as he said, for his work. He was
soon lost to sight among the throng, and I was alone again, an easy prey to the
kidnappers, if any should happen to be on my track.

New York, seventeen years ago, was less a place of safety for a runaway slave
than now, and all know how unsafe it now is, under the new fugitive slave bill.
I was much troubled. I had very little money enough to buy me a few loaves of
bread, but not enough to pay board, outside a lumber yard. I saw the wisdom of
keeping away from the ship yards, for if Master Hugh pursued me, he would
naturally expect to find me looking for work among the calkers. For a time,
every door seemed closed against me. A sense of my loneliness and helplessness
crept over me, and covered me with something bordering on despair. In the midst
of thousands of my fellowmen, and yet a perfect stranger! In the midst of human
brothers, and yet more fearful of them than of hungry wolves! I was without
home, without friends, without work, without money, and without any definite
knowledge of which way to go, or where to look for succor.

Some apology can easily be made for the few slaves who have, after making good
their escape, turned back to slavery, preferring the actual rule of their
masters, to the life of loneliness, apprehension, hunger, and anxiety, which
meets them on their first arrival in a free state. It is difficult for a
freeman to enter into the feelings of such fugitives. He cannot see things in
the same light with the slave, because he does not, and cannot, look from the
same point from which the slave does. “Why do you tremble,” he says
to the slave “you are in a free state;” but the difficulty is, in
realizing that he is in a free state, the slave might reply. A freeman cannot
understand why the slave-master’s shadow is bigger, to the slave, than
the might and majesty of a free state; but when he reflects that the slave
knows more about the slavery of his master than he does of the might and
majesty of the free state, he has the explanation. The slave has been all his
life learning the power of his master—being trained to dread his
approach—and only a few hours learning the power of the state. The master
is to him a stern and flinty reality, but the state is little more than a
dream. He has been accustomed to regard every white man as the friend of his
master, and every colored man as more or less under the control of his
master’s friends—the white people. It takes stout nerves to stand
up, in such circumstances. A man, homeless, shelterless, breadless, friendless,
and moneyless, is not in a condition to assume a very proud or joyous tone; and
in just this condition was I, while wandering about the streets of New York
city and lodging, at least one night, among the barrels on one of its wharves.
I was not only free from slavery, but I was free from home, as well. The reader
will easily see that I had something more than the simple fact of being free to
think of, in this extremity.

I kept my secret as long as I could, and at last was forced to go in search of
an honest man—a man sufficiently human not to betray me into the
hands of slave-catchers. I was not a bad reader of the human face, nor long in
selecting the right man, when once compelled to disclose the facts of my
condition to some one.

I found my man in the person of one who said his name was Stewart. He was a
sailor, warm-hearted and generous, and he listened to my story with a
brother’s interest. I told him I was running for my freedom—knew
not where to go—money almost gone—was hungry—thought it
unsafe to go the shipyards for work, and needed a friend. Stewart promptly put
me in the way of getting out of my trouble. He took me to his house, and went
in search of the late David Ruggles, who was then the secretary of the New York
Vigilance Committee, and a very active man in all anti-slavery works. Once in
the hands of Mr. Ruggles, I was comparatively safe. I was hidden with Mr.
Ruggles several days. In the meantime, my intended wife, Anna, came on from
Baltimore—to whom I had written, informing her of my safe arrival at New
York—and, in the presence of Mrs. Mitchell and Mr. Ruggles, we were
married, by Rev. James W. C. Pennington.