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[Illustration: SOLOMON IN HIS PLANTATION SUIT.

Solomon Northup (signed)]




  FIFTH THOUSAND.


  TWELVE YEARS A SLAVE.


  NARRATIVE

  OF

  SOLOMON NORTHUP,

  A CITIZEN OF NEW-YORK,

  KIDNAPPED IN WASHINGTON CITY IN 1841,

  AND

  RESCUED IN 1853,

  FROM A COTTON PLANTATION NEAR THE RED RIVER,
  IN LOUISIANA.


  AUBURN:
  DERBY AND MILLER.

  BUFFALO:
  DERBY, ORTON AND MULLIGAN.

  LONDON:
  SAMPSON LOW, SON & COMPANY, 47 LUDGATE HILL.

  1853.




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight
hundred and fifty-three, by

DERBY AND MILLER,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Northern District
of New-York.


ENTERED IN LONDON AT STATIONERS' HALL.




TO

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE:

WHOSE NAME,

THROUGHOUT THE WORLD, IS IDENTIFIED WITH THE

GREAT REFORM:

THIS NARRATIVE, AFFORDING ANOTHER

Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin,

IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED




  "Such dupes are men to custom, and so prone
  To reverence what is ancient, and can plead
  A course of long observance for its use,
  That even servitude, the worst of ills,
  Because delivered down from sire to son,
  Is kept and guarded as a sacred thing.
  But is it fit, or can it bear the shock
  Of rational discussion, that a man
  Compounded and made up, like other men,
  Of elements tumultuous, in whom lust
  And folly in as ample measure meet,
  As in the bosom of the slave he rules,
  Should be a despot absolute, and boast
  Himself the only freeman of his land?"

                                             COWPER.




CONTENTS.


                                                                  PAGE.

  EDITOR'S PREFACE,                                                  15


  CHAPTER I.

  Introductory--Ancestry--The Northup Family--Birth and
  Parentage--Mintus Northup--Marriage with Anne Hampton--Good
  Resolutions--Champlain Canal--Rafting Excursion to
  Canada--Farming--The Violin--Cooking--Removal to Saratoga--Parker
  and Perry--Slaves and Slavery--The Children--The Beginning of
  Sorrow,                                                            17


  CHAPTER II.

  The two Strangers--The Circus Company--Departure from
  Saratoga--Ventriloquism and Legerdemain--Journey to New-York--Free
  Papers--Brown and Hamilton--The haste to reach the Circus--Arrival
  in Washington--Funeral of Harrison--The Sudden Sickness--The
  Torment of Thirst--The Receding Light--Insensibility--Chains and
  Darkness,                                                          28


  CHAPTER III.

  Painful Meditations--James H. Burch--Williams' Slave Pen in
  Washington--The Lackey, Radburn--Assert my Freedom--The Anger of
  the Trader--The Paddle and Cat-o'-nine-tails--The Whipping--New
  Acquaintances--Ray, Williams, and Randall--Arrival of Little Emily
  and her Mother in the Pen--Maternal Sorrows--The Story of Eliza,
                                                                     40


  CHAPTER IV.

  Eliza's Sorrows--Preparation to Embark--Driven Through the Streets
  of Washington--Hail, Columbia--The Tomb of Washington--Clem
  Ray--The Breakfast on the Steamer--The happy Birds--Aquia
  Creek--Fredericksburgh--Arrival in Richmond--Goodin and his
  Slave Pen--Robert, of Cincinnati--David and his Wife--Mary and
  Lethe--Clem's Return--His subsequent Escape to Canada--The Brig
  Orleans--James H. Burch,                                           54


  CHAPTER V.

  Arrival at Norfolk--Frederick and Maria--Arthur, the
  Freeman--Appointed Steward--Jim, Cuffee, and Jenny--The
  Storm--Bahama Banks--The Calm--The Conspiracy--The Long Boat--The
  Small-Pox--Death of Robert--Manning, the Sailor--The Meeting in
  the Forecastle--The Letter--Arrival at New-Orleans--Arthur's
  Rescue--Theophilus Freeman, the Consignee--Platt--First Night in
  the New-Orleans Slave Pen,                                         65


  CHAPTER VI.

  Freeman's Industry--Cleanliness and Clothes--Exercising
  in the Show Room--The Dance--Bob, the Fiddler--Arrival of
  Customers--Slaves Examined--The Old Gentleman of New-Orleans--Sale
  of David, Caroline, and Lethe--Parting of Randall and
  Eliza--Small-Pox--The Hospital--Recovery and Return to Freeman's
  Slave Pen--The Purchaser of Eliza, Harry, and Platt--Eliza's Agony
  on Parting from Little Emily,                                      78


  CHAPTER VII.

  The Steamboat Rodolph--Departure from New-Orleans--William
  Ford--Arrival at Alexandria, on Red River--Resolutions--The Great
  Pine Woods--Wild Cattle--Martin's Summer Residence--The Texas
  Road--Arrival at Master Ford's--Rose--Mistress Ford--Sally and
  her Children--John, the Cook--Walter, Sam, and Antony--The Mills
  on Indian Creek--Sabbath Days--Sam's Conversion--The Profit of
  Kindness--Rafting--Adam Taydem, the Little White Man--Cascalla
  and his Tribe--The Indian Ball--John M. Tibeats--The Storm
  approaching,                                                       89


  CHAPTER VIII.

  Ford's Embarrassments--The Sale to Tibeats--The Chattel
  Mortgage--Mistress Ford's Plantation on Bayou Boeuf--Description
  of the Latter--Ford's Brother-in-law, Peter Tanner--Meeting
  with Eliza--She still Mourns for her Children--Ford's Overseer,
  Chapin--Tibeats' Abuse--The Keg of Nails--The First Fight with
  Tibeats--His Discomfiture and Castigation--The attempt to Hang
  me--Chapin's Interference and Speech--Unhappy Reflections--Abrupt
  Departure of Tibeats, Cook, and Ramsey--Lawson and the Brown
  Mule--Message to the Pine Woods,                                  105


  CHAPTER IX.

  The Hot Sun--Yet bound--The Cords sink into my Flesh--Chapin's
  Uneasiness--Speculation--Rachel, and her Cup of Water--Suffering
  increases--The Happiness of Slavery--Arrival of Ford--He cuts the
  Cords which bind me, and takes the Rope from my Neck--Misery--The
  gathering of the Slaves in Eliza's Cabin--Their Kindness--Rachel
  Repeats the Occurrences of the Day--Lawson entertains his
  Companions with an Account of his Ride--Chapin's apprehensions
  of Tibeats--Hired to Peter Tanner--Peter expounds the
  Scriptures--Description of the Stocks,                            118


  CHAPTER X.

  Return to Tibeats--Impossibility of pleasing him--He attacks me
  with a Hatchet--The Struggle over the Broad Axe--The Temptation
  to Murder him--Escape across the Plantation--Observations from
  the Fence--Tibeats approaches, followed by the Hounds--They take
  my Track--Their loud Yells--They almost overtake me--I reach the
  Water--The Hounds confused--Moccasin Snakes--Alligators--Night
  in the "Great Pacoudrie Swamp"--The Sounds of Life--North-West
  Course--Emerge into the Pine Woods--Slave and his Young
  Master--Arrival at Ford's--Food and Rest,                         131


  CHAPTER XI.

  The Mistress' Garden--The Crimson and Golden Fruit--Orange and
  Pomegranate Trees--Return to Bayou Boeuf--Master Ford's Remarks on
  the way--The Meeting-with Tibeats--His Account of the Chase--Ford
  censures his Brutality--Arrival at the Plantation--Astonishment
  of the Slaves on seeing me--The anticipated Flogging--Kentucky
  John--Mr. Eldret, the Planter--Eldret's Sam--Trip to the
  "Big Cane Brake"--The Tradition of "Sutton's Field"--Forest
  Trees--Gnats and Mosquitoes--The Arrival of Black Women in the Big
  Cane--Lumber Women--Sudden Appearance of Tibeats--His Provoking
  Treatment--Visit to Bayou Boeuf--The Slave Pass--Southern
  Hospitality--The Last of Eliza--Sale to Edwin Epps,               146


  CHAPTER XII.

  Personal Appearance of Epps--Epps, Drunk and Sober--A Glimpse
  of his History--Cotton Growing--The Mode of Ploughing and
  Preparing Ground--Of Planting, of Hoeing, of Picking, of
  Treating Raw Hands--The difference in Cotton Pickers--Patsey
  a remarkable one--Tasked according to Ability--Beauty of a
  Cotton Field--The Slave's Labors--Fear of Approaching the
  Gin-House--Weighing--"Chores"--Cabin Life--The Corn Mill--The Uses
  of the Gourd--Fear of Oversleeping--Fear continually--Mode of
  Cultivating Corn--Sweet Potatoes--Fertility of the Soil--Fattening
  Hogs--Preserving Bacon--Raising Cattle--Shooting-Matches--Garden
  Products--Flowers and Verdure,                                    162


  CHAPTER XIII.

  The Curious Axe-Helve--Symptoms of approaching Illness--Continue
  to decline--The Whip ineffectual--Confined to the Cabin--Visit by
  Dr. Wines--Partial Recovery--Failure at Cotton Picking--What may
  be heard on Epps' Plantation--Lashes Graduated--Epps in a Whipping
  Mood--Epps in a Dancing Mood--Description of the Dance--Loss of
  Rest no Excuse--Epps' Characteristics--Jim Burns--Removal from
  Huff Power to Bayou Boeuf--Description of Uncle Abram; of Wiley;
  of Aunt Phebe; of Bob, Henry, and Edward; of Patsey; with a
  Genealogical Account of each--Something of their Past History, and
  Peculiar Characteristics-- Jealousy and Lust--Patsey, the Victim,
                                                                    176


  CHAPTER XIV.

  Destruction of the Cotton Crop in 1845--Demand for Laborers
  in St. Mary's Parish--Sent thither in a Drove--The Order
  of the March--The Grand Coteau--Hired to Judge Turner on
  Bayou Salle--Appointed Driver in his Sugar House--Sunday
  Services--Slave Furniture; how obtained--The Party at Yarney's,
  in Centreville--Good Fortune--The Captain of the Steamer--His
  Refusal to Secrete me--Return to Bayou Boeuf--Sight of
  Tibeats--Patsey's Sorrows--Tumult and Contention--Hunting the
  <DW53> and Opossum--The Cunning of the latter--The Lean Condition
  of the Slave--Description of the Fish Trap--The Murder of the
  Man from Natchez--Epps Challenged by Marshall--The Influence of
  Slavery--The Love of Freedom,                                     191


  CHAPTER XV.

  Labors on Sugar Plantations--The Mode of Planting Cane--of
  Hoeing Cane--Cane Ricks--Cutting Cane--Description of the Cane
  Knife--Winrowing--Preparing for Succeeding Crops--Description of
  Hawkins' Sugar Mill on Bayou Boeuf--The Christmas Holidays--The
  Carnival Season of the Children of Bondage--The Christmas
  Supper--Red, the Favorite Color--The Violin, and the Consolation
  it afforded--The Christmas Dance--Lively, the Coquette--Sam
  Roberts, and his Rivals--Slave Songs--Southern Life as it
  is--Three Days in the Year--The System of Marriage--Uncle Abram's
  Contempt of Matrimony,                                            208


  CHAPTER XVI.

  Overseers--How they are Armed and Accompanied--The Homicide--His
  Execution at Marksville--Slave Drivers--Appointed Driver
  on removing to Bayou Boeuf--Practice makes perfect--Epps's
  Attempt to Cut Platt's Throat--The Escape from him--Protected
  by the Mistress--Forbids Reading and Writing--Obtain a Sheet
  of Paper after Nine Years' Effort--The Letter--Armsby, the
  Mean White--Partially confide in him--His Treachery--Epps'
  Suspicions--How they were quieted--Burning the Letter--Armsby
  leaves the Bayou--Disappointment and Despair,                     223


  CHAPTER XVII.

  Wiley disregards the counsels of Aunt Phebe and Uncle Abram,
  and is caught by the Patrollers--The Organization and Duties of
  the latter--Wiley Runs Away--Speculations in regard to him--His
  Unexpected Return--His Capture on the Red River, and Confinement
  in Alexandria Jail--Discovered by Joseph B. Roberts--Subduing
  Dogs in anticipation of Escape--The Fugitives in the Great Pine
  Woods--Captured by Adam Taydem and the Indians--Augustus killed
  by Dogs--Nelly, Eldret's Slave Woman--The Story of Celeste--The
  Concerted Movement--Lew Cheney, the Traitor--The Idea of
  Insurrection,                                                     236


  CHAPTER XVIII.

  O'Niel, the Tanner--Conversation with Aunt Phebe overheard--Epps
  in the Tanning Business--Stabbing of Uncle Abram--The Ugly
  Wound--Epps is Jealous--Patsey is Missing--Her Return from
  Shaw's--Harriet, Shaw's Black Wife--Epps Enraged--Patsey
  denies his Charges--She is Tied Down Naked to Four Stakes--The
  Inhuman Flogging--Flaying of Patsey--The Beauty of the Day--The
  Bucket of Salt Water--The Dress stiff with Blood--Patsey
  grows Melancholy--Her Idea of God and Eternity--Of Heaven and
  Freedom--The Effect of Slave-Whipping--Epps' Oldest Son--"The
  Child is Father to the Man,"                                      250


  CHAPTER XIX.

  Avery, on Bayou Rouge--Peculiarity of Dwellings--Epps builds
  a New House--Bass, the Carpenter--His Noble Qualities--His
  Personal Appearance and Eccentricities--Bass and Epps discuss
  the Question of Slavery--Epps' Opinion of Bass--I make myself
  known to him--Our Conversation--His Surprise--The Midnight
  Meeting on the Bayou Bank--Bass' Assurances--Declares War
  against Slavery--Why I did not Disclose my History--Bass writes
  Letters--Copy of his Letter to Messrs. Parker and Perry--The Fever
  of Suspense--Disappointments--Bass endeavors to cheer me--My Faith
  in him,                                                           263


  CHAPTER XX.

  Bass faithful to his word--His Arrival on Christmas Eve--The
  Difficulty of Obtaining an Interview--The Meeting in the
  Cabin--Non-arrival of the Letter--Bass announces his Intention
  to proceed North--Christmas--Conversation between Epps and
  Bass--Young Mistress McCoy, the Beauty of Bayou Boeuf--The "Ne
  plus ultra" of Dinners--Music and Dancing--Presence of the
  Mistress--Her Exceeding Beauty--The Last Slave Dance--William
  Pierce--Oversleep myself--The Last Whipping--Despondency--Cold
  Morning--Epps' Threats--The Passing Carriage--Strangers
  approaching through the Cotton-Field--Last Hour on Bayou Boeuf,   279


  CHAPTER XXI.

  The Letter reaches Saratoga--Is forwarded to Anne--Is laid
  before Henry B. Northup--The Statute of May 14, 1840--Its
  Provisions--Anne's Memorial to the Governor--The affidavits
  Accompanying it--Senator Soule's Letter--Departure of the Agent
  appointed by the Governor--Arrival at Marksville--The Hon. John
  P. Waddill--The Conversation on New-York Politics--It suggests
  a Fortunate Idea--The Meeting with Bass--The Secret out--Legal
  Proceedings instituted--Departure of Northup and the Sheriff
  from Marksville for Bayou Boeuf--Arrangements on the Way--Reach
  Epps' Plantation--Discover his Slaves in the Cotton-Field--The
  Meeting--The Farewell,                                            289


  CHAPTER XXII.

  Arrival in New-Orleans--Glimpse of Freeman--Genois, the
  Recorder--His Description of Solomon--Reach Charleston Interrupted
  by Custom House Officers--Pass through Richmond--Arrival
  in Washington--Burch Arrested--Shekels and Thorn--Their
  Testimony--Burch Acquitted--Arrest of Solomon--Burch withdraws the
  Complaint--The Higher Tribunal--Departure from Washington--Arrival
  at Sandy Hill--Old Friends and Familiar Scenes--Proceed to Glens
  Falls--Meeting with Anne, Margaret, and Elizabeth--Solomon Northup
  Staunton--Incidents--Conclusion,                                  310


  APPENDIX,                                                         323




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


PORTRAIT OF SOLOMON IN HIS PLANTATION SUIT,

SCENE IN THE SLAVE PEN AT WASHINGTON,

SEPARATION OF ELIZA AND HER LAST CHILD,

CHAPIN RESCUES SOLOMON FROM HANGING,

THE STAKING OUT AND FLOGGING OF THE GIRL PATSEY,

SCENE IN THE COTTON FIELD, AND SOLOMON'S DELIVERY,

ARRIVAL HOME, AND FIRST MEETING WITH HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN,




EDITOR'S PREFACE.


When the editor commenced the preparation of the following narrative,
he did not suppose it would reach the size of this volume. In order,
however, to present all the facts which have been communicated to him,
it has seemed necessary to extend it to its present length.

Many of the statements contained in the following pages are
corroborated by abundant evidence--others rest entirely upon Solomon's
assertion. That he has adhered strictly to the truth, the editor, at
least, who has had an opportunity of detecting any contradiction or
discrepancy in his statements, is well satisfied. He has invariably
repeated the same story without deviating in the slightest particular,
and has also carefully perused the manuscript, dictating an alteration
wherever the most trivial inaccuracy has appeared.

It was Solomon's fortune, during his captivity, to be owned by
several masters. The treatment he received while at the "Pine
Woods" shows that among slaveholders there are men of humanity as
well as of cruelty. Some of them are spoken of with emotions of
gratitude--others in a spirit of bitterness. It is believed that the
following account of his experience on Bayou Boeuf presents a correct
picture of Slavery, in all its lights and shadows, as it now exists
in that locality. Unbiased, as he conceives, by any prepossessions or
prejudices, the only object of the editor has been to give a faithful
history of Solomon Northup's life, as he received it from his lips.

In the accomplishment of that object, he trusts he has succeeded,
notwithstanding the numerous faults of style and of expression it may
be found to contain.

                                               DAVID WILSON.
  WHITEHALL, N. Y., May, 1853.




NARRATIVE OF SOLOMON NORTHUP.




CHAPTER I.

  INTRODUCTORY--ANCESTRY--THE NORTHUP FAMILY--BIRTH AND
  PARENTAGE--MINTUS NORTHUP--MARRIAGE WITH ANNE HAMPTON--GOOD
  RESOLUTIONS--CHAMPLAIN CANAL--RAFTING EXCURSION TO
  CANADA--FARMING--THE VIOLIN--COOKING--REMOVAL TO SARATOGA--PARKER AND
  PERRY--SLAVES AND SLAVERY--THE CHILDREN--THE BEGINNING OF SORROW.


Having been born a freeman, and for more than thirty years enjoyed
the blessings of liberty in a free State--and having at the end of
that time been kidnapped and sold into Slavery, where I remained,
until happily rescued in the month of January, 1853, after a bondage
of twelve years--it has been suggested that an account of my life and
fortunes would not be uninteresting to the public.

Since my return to liberty, I have not failed to perceive the
increasing interest throughout the Northern States, in regard to
the subject of Slavery. Works of fiction, professing to portray
its features in their more pleasing as well as more repugnant
aspects, have been circulated to an extent unprecedented, and, as I
understand, have created a fruitful topic of comment and discussion.

I can speak of Slavery only so far as it came under my own
observation--only so far as I have known and experienced it in my
own person. My object is, to give a candid and truthful statement of
facts: to repeat the story of my life, without exaggeration, leaving
it for others to determine, whether even the pages of fiction present
a picture of more cruel wrong or a severer bondage.

As far back as I have been able to ascertain, my ancestors on the
paternal side were slaves in Rhode Island. They belonged to a family
by the name of Northup, one of whom, removing to the State of
New-York, settled at Hoosic, in Rensselaer county. He brought with him
Mintus Northup, my father. On the death of this gentleman, which must
have occurred some fifty years ago, my father became free, having been
emancipated by a direction in his will.

Henry B. Northup, Esq., of Sandy Hill, a distinguished counselor at
law, and the man to whom, under Providence, I am indebted for my
present liberty, and my return to the society of my wife and children,
is a relative of the family in which my forefathers were thus held to
service, and from which they took the name I bear. To this fact may be
attributed the persevering interest he has taken in my behalf.

Sometime after my father's liberation, he removed to the town of
Minerva, Essex county, N. Y., where I was born, in the month of July,
1808. How long he remained in the latter place I have not the means
of definitely ascertaining. From thence he removed to Granville,
Washington county, near a place known as Slyborough, where, for some
years, he labored on the farm of Clark Northup, also a relative of his
old master; from thence he removed to the Alden farm, at Moss Street,
a short distance north of the village of Sandy Hill; and from thence
to the farm now owned by Russel Pratt, situated on the road leading
from Fort Edward to Argyle, where he continued to reside until his
death, which took place on the 22d day of November, 1829. He left a
widow and two children--myself, and Joseph, an elder brother. The
latter is still living in the county of Oswego, near the city of that
name; my mother died during the period of my captivity.

Though born a slave, and laboring under the disadvantages to which
my unfortunate race is subjected, my father was a man respected for
his industry and integrity, as many now living, who well remember
him, are ready to testify. His whole life was passed in the peaceful
pursuits of agriculture, never seeking employment in those more menial
positions, which seem to be especially allotted to the children of
Africa. Besides giving us an education surpassing that ordinarily
bestowed upon children in our condition, he acquired, by his diligence
and economy, a sufficient property qualification to entitle him to
the right of suffrage. He was accustomed to speak to us of his early
life; and although at all times cherishing the warmest emotions of
kindness, and even of affection towards the family, in whose house
he had been a bondsman, he nevertheless comprehended the system of
Slavery, and dwelt with sorrow on the degradation of his race. He
endeavored to imbue our minds with sentiments of morality, and to
teach us to place our trust and confidence in Him who regards the
humblest as well as the highest of his creatures. How often since
that time has the recollection of his paternal counsels occurred to
me, while lying in a slave hut in the distant and sickly regions of
Louisiana, smarting with the undeserved wounds which an inhuman master
had inflicted, and longing only for the grave which had covered him,
to shield me also from the lash of the oppressor. In the church-yard
at Sandy Hill, an humble stone marks the spot where he reposes, after
having worthily performed the duties appertaining to the lowly sphere
wherein God had appointed him to walk.

Up to this period I had been principally engaged with my father in the
labors of the farm. The leisure hours allowed me were generally either
employed over my books, or playing on the violin--an amusement which
was the ruling passion of my youth. It has also been the source of
consolation since, affording pleasure to the simple beings with whom
my lot was cast, and beguiling my own thoughts, for many hours, from
the painful contemplation of my fate.

On Christmas day, 1829, I was married to Anne Hampton, a <DW52>
girl then living in the vicinity of our residence. The ceremony was
performed at Fort Edward, by Timothy Eddy, Esq., a magistrate of that
town, and still a prominent citizen of the place. She had resided
a long time at Sandy Hill, with Mr. Baird, proprietor of the Eagle
Tavern, and also in the family of Rev. Alexander Proudfit, of Salem.
This gentleman for many years had presided over the Presbyterian
society at the latter place, and was widely distinguished for his
learning and piety. Anne still holds in grateful remembrance the
exceeding kindness and the excellent counsels of that good man. She
is not able to determine the exact line of her descent, but the blood
of three races mingles in her veins. It is difficult to tell whether
the red, white, or black predominates. The union of them all, however,
in her origin, has given her a singular but pleasing expression, such
as is rarely to be seen. Though somewhat resembling, yet she cannot
properly be styled a quadroon, a class to which, I have omitted to
mention, my mother belonged.

I had just now passed the period of my minority, having reached the
age of twenty-one years in the month of July previous. Deprived of
the advice and assistance of my father, with a wife dependent upon
me for support, I resolved to enter upon a life of industry; and
notwithstanding the obstacle of color, and the consciousness of my
lowly state, indulged in pleasant dreams of a good time coming, when
the possession of some humble habitation, with a few surrounding
acres, should reward my labors, and bring me the means of happiness
and comfort.

From the time of my marriage to this day the love I have borne my
wife has been sincere and unabated; and only those who have felt
the glowing tenderness a father cherishes for his offspring, can
appreciate my affection for the beloved children which have since been
born to us. This much I deem appropriate and necessary to say, in
order that those who read these pages, may comprehend the poignancy of
those sufferings I have been doomed to bear.

Immediately upon our marriage we commenced house-keeping, in the old
yellow building then standing at the southern extremity of Fort Edward
village, and which has since been transformed into a modern mansion,
and lately occupied by Captain Lathrop. It is known as the Fort House.
In this building the courts were sometime held after the organization
of the county. It was also occupied by Burgoyne in 1777, being
situated near the old Fort on the left bank of the Hudson.

During the winter I was employed with others repairing the Champlain
Canal, on that section over which William Van Nortwick was
superintendent. David McEachron had the immediate charge of the men in
whose company I labored. By the time the canal opened in the spring,
I was enabled, from the savings of my wages, to purchase a pair of
horses, and other things necessarily required in the business of
navigation.

Having hired several efficient hands to assist me, I entered into
contracts for the transportation of large rafts of timber from Lake
Champlain to Troy. Dyer Beckwith and a Mr. Bartemy, of Whitehall,
accompanied me on several trips. During the season I became perfectly
familiar with the art and mysteries of rafting--a knowledge which
afterwards enabled me to render profitable service to a worthy master,
and to astonish the simple-witted lumbermen on the banks of the Bayou
Boeuf.

In one of my voyages down Lake Champlain, I was induced to make a
visit to Canada. Repairing to Montreal, I visited the cathedral
and other places of interest in that city, from whence I continued
my excursion to Kingston and other towns, obtaining a knowledge of
localities, which was also of service to me afterwards, as will appear
towards the close of this narrative.

Having completed my contracts on the canal satisfactorily to myself
and to my employer, and not wishing to remain idle, now that the
navigation of the canal was again suspended, I entered into another
contract with Medad Gunn, to cut a large quantity of wood. In this
business I was engaged during the winter of 1831-32.

With the return of spring, Anne and myself conceived the project of
taking a farm in the neighborhood. I had been accustomed from earliest
youth to agricultural labors, and it was an occupation congenial to
my tastes. I accordingly entered into arrangements for a part of the
old Alden farm, on which my father formerly resided. With one cow,
one swine, a yoke of fine oxen I had lately purchased of Lewis Brown,
in Hartford, and other personal property and effects, we proceeded to
our new home in Kingsbury. That year I planted twenty-five acres of
corn, sowed large fields of oats, and commenced farming upon as large
a scale as my utmost means would permit. Anne was diligent about the
house affairs, while I toiled laboriously in the field.

On this place we continued to reside until 1834. In the winter season
I had numerous calls to play on the violin. Wherever the young people
assembled to dance, I was almost invariably there. Throughout the
surrounding villages my fiddle was notorious. Anne, also, during her
long residence at the Eagle Tavern, had become somewhat famous as a
cook. During court weeks, and on public occasions, she was employed at
high wages in the kitchen at Sherrill's Coffee House.

We always returned home from the performance of these services with
money in our pockets; so that, with fiddling, cooking, and farming,
we soon found ourselves in the possession of abundance, and, in fact,
leading a happy and prosperous life. Well, indeed, would it have been
for us had we remained on the farm at Kingsbury; but the time came
when the next step was to be taken towards the cruel destiny that
awaited me.

In March, 1834, we removed to Saratoga Springs. We occupied a house
belonging to Daniel O'Brien, on the north side of Washington street.
At that time Isaac Taylor kept a large boarding house, known as
Washington Hall, at the north end of Broadway. He employed me to drive
a hack, in which capacity I worked for him two years. After this
time I was generally employed through the visiting season, as also
was Anne, in the United States Hotel, and other public houses of the
place. In winter seasons I relied upon my violin, though during the
construction of the Troy and Saratoga railroad, I performed many hard
days' labor upon it.

I was in the habit, at Saratoga, of purchasing articles necessary for
my family at the stores of Mr. Cephas Parker and Mr. William Perry,
gentlemen towards whom, for many acts of kindness, I entertained
feelings of strong regard. It was for this reason that, twelve years
afterwards, I caused to be directed to them the letter, which is
hereinafter inserted, and which was the means, in the hands of Mr.
Northup, of my fortunate deliverance.

While living at the United States Hotel, I frequently met with slaves,
who had accompanied their masters from the South. They were always
well dressed and well provided for, leading apparently an easy life,
with but few of its ordinary troubles to perplex them. Many times they
entered into conversation with me on the subject of Slavery. Almost
uniformly I found they cherished a secret desire for liberty. Some of
them expressed the most ardent anxiety to escape, and consulted me
on the best method of effecting it. The fear of punishment, however,
which they knew was certain to attend their re-capture and return, in
all cases proved sufficient to deter them from the experiment. Having
all my life breathed the free air of the North, and conscious that I
possessed the same feelings and affections that find a place in the
white man's breast; conscious, moreover, of an intelligence equal to
that of some men, at least, with a fairer skin, I was too ignorant,
perhaps too independent, to conceive how any one could be content to
live in the abject condition of a slave. I could not comprehend the
justice of that law, or that religion, which upholds or recognizes the
principle of Slavery; and never once, I am proud to say, did I fail to
counsel any one who came to me, to watch his opportunity, and strike
for freedom.

I continued to reside at Saratoga until the spring of 1841. The
flattering anticipations which, seven years before, had seduced us
from the quiet farm-house, on the east side of the Hudson, had not
been realized. Though always in comfortable circumstances, we had
not prospered. The society and associations at that world-renowned
watering place, were not calculated to preserve the simple habits
of industry and economy to which I had been accustomed, but, on
the contrary, to substitute others in their stead, tending to
shiftlessness and extravagance.

At this time we were the parents of three children--Elizabeth,
Margaret, and Alonzo. Elizabeth, the eldest, was in her tenth year;
Margaret was two years younger, and little Alonzo had just passed his
fifth birth-day. They filled our house with gladness. Their young
voices were music in our ears. Many an airy castle did their mother
and myself build for the little innocents. When not at labor I was
always walking with them, clad in their best attire, through the
streets and groves of Saratoga. Their presence was my delight; and
I clasped them to my bosom with as warm and tender love as if their
clouded skins had been as white as snow.

Thus far the history of my life presents nothing whatever
unusual--nothing but the common hopes, and loves, and labors of an
obscure <DW52> man, making his humble progress in the world. But now
I had reached a turning point in my existence--reached the threshold
of unutterable wrong, and sorrow, and despair. Now had I approached
within the shadow of the cloud, into the thick darkness whereof I was
soon to disappear, thenceforward to be hidden from the eyes of all
my kindred, and shut out from the sweet light of liberty, for many a
weary year.




CHAPTER II.

  THE TWO STRANGERS--THE CIRCUS COMPANY--DEPARTURE FROM
  SARATOGA--VENTRILOQUISM AND LEGERDEMAIN--JOURNEY TO NEW-YORK--FREE
  PAPERS--BROWN AND HAMILTON--THE HASTE TO REACH THE CIRCUS--ARRIVAL IN
  WASHINGTON--FUNERAL OF HARRISON--THE SUDDEN SICKNESS--THE TORMENT OF
  THIRST--THE RECEDING LIGHT--INSENSIBILITY--CHAINS AND DARKNESS.


One morning, towards the latter part of the month of March, 1841,
having at that time no particular business to engage my attention, I
was walking about the village of Saratoga Springs, thinking to myself
where I might obtain some present employment, until the busy season
should arrive. Anne, as was her usual custom, had gone over to Sandy
Hill, a distance of some twenty miles, to take charge of the culinary
department at Sherrill's Coffee House, during the session of the
court. Elizabeth, I think, had accompanied her. Margaret and Alonzo
were with their aunt at Saratoga.

On the corner of Congress street and Broadway, near the tavern,
then, and for aught I know to the contrary, still kept by Mr. Moon,
I was met by two gentlemen of respectable appearance, both of whom
were entirely unknown to me. I have the impression that they were
introduced to me by some one of my acquaintances, but who, I have in
vain endeavored to recall, with the remark that I was an expert player
on the violin.

At any rate, they immediately entered into conversation on that
subject, making numerous inquiries touching my proficiency in that
respect. My responses being to all appearances satisfactory, they
proposed to engage my services for a short period, stating, at the
same time, I was just such a person as their business required. Their
names, as they afterwards gave them to me, were Merrill Brown and
Abram Hamilton, though whether these were their true appellations,
I have strong reasons to doubt. The former was a man apparently
forty years of age, somewhat short and thick-set, with a countenance
indicating shrewdness and intelligence. He wore a black frock coat and
black hat, and said he resided either at Rochester or at Syracuse.
The latter was a young man of fair complexion and light eyes, and, I
should judge, had not passed the age of twenty-five. He was tall and
slender, dressed in a snuff- coat, with glossy hat, and vest of
elegant pattern. His whole apparel was in the extreme of fashion. His
appearance was somewhat effeminate, but prepossessing, and there was
about him an easy air, that showed he had mingled with the world. They
were connected, as they informed me, with a circus company, then in
the city of Washington; that they were on their way thither to rejoin
it, having left it for a short time to make an excursion northward,
for the purpose of seeing the country, and were paying their expenses
by an occasional exhibition. They also remarked that they had found
much difficulty in procuring music for their entertainments, and that
if I would accompany them as far as New-York, they would give me one
dollar for each day's services, and three dollars in addition for
every night I played at their performances, besides sufficient to pay
the expenses of my return from New-York to Saratoga.

I at once accepted the tempting offer, both for the reward it
promised, and from a desire to visit the metropolis. They were anxious
to leave immediately. Thinking my absence would be brief, I did
not deem it necessary to write to Anne whither I had gone; in fact
supposing that my return, perhaps, would be as soon as hers. So taking
a change of linen and my violin, I was ready to depart. The carriage
was brought round--a covered one, drawn by a pair of noble bays,
altogether forming an elegant establishment. Their baggage, consisting
of three large trunks, was fastened on the rack, and mounting to the
driver's seat, while they took their places in the rear, I drove away
from Saratoga on the road to Albany, elated with my new position, and
happy as I had ever been, on any day in all my life.

We passed through Ballston, and striking the ridge road, as it is
called, if my memory correctly serves me, followed it direct to
Albany. We reached that city before dark, and stopped at a hotel
southward from the Museum.

This night I had an opportunity of witnessing one of their
performances--the only one, during the whole period I was with them.
Hamilton was stationed at the door; I formed the orchestra, while
Brown provided the entertainment. It consisted in throwing balls,
dancing on the rope, frying pancakes in a hat, causing invisible pigs
to squeal, and other like feats of ventriloquism and legerdemain.
The audience was extraordinarily sparse, and not of the selectest
character at that, and Hamilton's report of the proceeds presented but
a "beggarly account of empty boxes."

Early next morning we renewed our journey. The burden of their
conversation now was the expression of an anxiety to reach the
circus without delay. They hurried forward, without again stopping
to exhibit, and in due course of time, we reached New-York, taking
lodgings at a house on the west side of the city, in a street running
from Broadway to the river. I supposed my journey was at an end, and
expected in a day or two at least, to return to my friends and family
at Saratoga. Brown and Hamilton, however, began to importune me to
continue with them to Washington. They alleged that immediately on
their arrival, now that the summer season was approaching, the circus
would set out for the north. They promised me a situation and high
wages if I would accompany them. Largely did they expatiate on the
advantages that would result to me, and such were the flattering
representations they made, that I finally concluded to accept the
offer.

The next morning they suggested that, inasmuch as we were about
entering a slave State, it would be well, before leaving New-York, to
procure free papers. The idea struck me as a prudent one, though I
think it would scarcely have occurred to me, had they not proposed it.
We proceeded at once to what I understood to be the Custom House. They
made oath to certain facts showing I was a free man. A paper was drawn
up and handed us, with the direction to take it to the clerk's office.
We did so, and the clerk having added something to it, for which he
was paid six shillings, we returned again to the Custom House. Some
further formalities were gone through with before it was completed,
when, paying the officer two dollars, I placed the papers in my
pocket, and started with my two friends to our hotel. I thought at the
time, I must confess, that the papers were scarcely worth the cost of
obtaining them--the apprehension of danger to my personal safety never
having suggested itself to me in the remotest manner. The clerk, to
whom we were directed, I remember, made a memorandum in a large book,
which, I presume, is in the office yet. A reference to the entries
during the latter part of March, or first of April, 1841, I have no
doubt will satisfy the incredulous, at least so far as this particular
transaction is concerned.

With the evidence of freedom in my possession, the next day after
our arrival in New-York, we crossed the ferry to Jersey City, and
took the road to Philadelphia. Here we remained one night, continuing
our journey towards Baltimore early in the morning. In due time, we
arrived in the latter city, and stopped at a hotel near the railroad
depot, either kept by a Mr. Rathbone, or known as the Rathbone House.
All the way from New-York, their anxiety to reach the circus seemed
to grow more and more intense. We left the carriage at Baltimore, and
entering the cars, proceeded to Washington, at which place we arrived
just at nightfall, the evening previous to the funeral of General
Harrison, and stopped at Gadsby's Hotel, on Pennsylvania Avenue.

After supper they called me to their apartments, and paid me
forty-three dollars, a sum greater than my wages amounted to, which
act of generosity was in consequence, they said, of their not having
exhibited as often as they had given me to anticipate, during our
trip from Saratoga. They moreover informed me that it had been
the intention of the circus company to leave Washington the next
morning, but that on account of the funeral, they had concluded to
remain another day. They were then, as they had been from the time
of our first meeting, extremely kind. No opportunity was omitted of
addressing me in the language of approbation; while, on the other
hand, I was certainly much prepossessed in their favor. I gave them
my confidence without reserve, and would freely have trusted them to
almost any extent. Their constant conversation and manner towards
me--their foresight in suggesting the idea of free papers, and a
hundred other little acts, unnecessary to be repeated--all indicated
that they were friends indeed, sincerely solicitous for my welfare.
I know not but they were. I know not but they were innocent of the
great wickedness of which I now believe them guilty. Whether they were
accessory to my misfortunes--subtle and inhuman monsters in the shape
of men--designedly luring me away from home and family, and liberty,
for the sake of gold--those who read these pages will have the same
means of determining as myself. If they were innocent, my sudden
disappearance must have been unaccountable indeed; but revolving in
my mind all the attending circumstances, I never yet could indulge,
towards them, so charitable a supposition.

After receiving the money from them, of which they appeared to have
an abundance, they advised me not to go into the streets that night,
inasmuch as I was unacquainted with the customs of the city. Promising
to remember their advice, I left them together, and soon after was
shown by a <DW52> servant to a sleeping room in the back part of the
hotel, on the ground floor. I laid down to rest, thinking of home and
wife, and children, and the long distance that stretched between us,
until I fell asleep. But no good angel of pity came to my bedside,
bidding me to fly--no voice of mercy forewarned me in my dreams of the
trials that were just at hand.

The next day there was a great pageant in Washington. The roar of
cannon and the tolling of bells filled the air, while many houses
were shrouded with crape, and the streets were black with people. As
the day advanced, the procession made its appearance, coming slowly
through the Avenue, carriage after carriage, in long succession, while
thousands upon thousands followed on foot--all moving to the sound of
melancholy music. They were bearing the dead body of Harrison to the
grave.

From early in the morning, I was constantly in the company of Hamilton
and Brown. They were the only persons I knew in Washington. We stood
together as the funeral pomp passed by. I remember distinctly how the
window glass would break and rattle to the ground, after each report
of the cannon they were firing in the burial ground. We went to the
Capitol, and walked a long time about the grounds. In the afternoon,
they strolled towards the President's House, all the time keeping me
near to them, and pointing out various places of interest. As yet,
I had seen nothing of the circus. In fact, I had thought of it but
little, if at all, amidst the excitement of the day.

My friends, several times during the afternoon, entered drinking
saloons, and called for liquor. They were by no means in the habit,
however, so far as I knew them, of indulging to excess. On these
occasions, after serving themselves, they would pour out a glass and
hand it to me. I did not become intoxicated, as may be inferred from
what subsequently occurred. Towards evening, and soon after partaking
of one of these potations, I began to experience most unpleasant
sensations. I felt extremely ill. My head commenced aching--a dull,
heavy pain, inexpressibly disagreeable. At the supper table, I was
without appetite; the sight and flavor of food was nauseous. About
dark the same servant conducted me to the room I had occupied the
previous night. Brown and Hamilton advised me to retire, commiserating
me kindly, and expressing hopes that I would be better in the morning.
Divesting myself of coat and boots merely, I threw myself upon the
bed. It was impossible to sleep. The pain in my head continued to
increase, until it became almost unbearable. In a short time I became
thirsty. My lips were parched. I could think of nothing but water--of
lakes and flowing rivers, of brooks where I had stooped to drink, and
of the dripping bucket, rising with its cool and overflowing nectar,
from the bottom of the well. Towards midnight, as near as I could
judge, I arose, unable longer to bear such intensity of thirst. I was
a stranger in the house, and knew nothing of its apartments. There was
no one up, as I could observe. Groping about at random, I knew not
where, I found the way at last to a kitchen in the basement. Two or
three <DW52> servants were moving through it, one of whom, a woman,
gave me two glasses of water. It afforded momentary relief, but by the
time I had reached my room again, the same burning desire of drink,
the same tormenting thirst, had again returned. It was even more
torturing than before, as was also the wild pain in my head, if such a
thing could be. I was in sore distress--in most excruciating agony! I
seemed to stand on the brink of madness! The memory of that night of
horrible suffering will follow me to the grave.

In the course of an hour or more after my return from the kitchen,
I was conscious of some one entering my room. There seemed to be
several--a mingling of various voices,--but how many, or who they
were, I cannot tell. Whether Brown and Hamilton were among them, is
a mere matter of conjecture. I only remember, with any degree of
distinctness, that I was told it was necessary to go to a physician
and procure medicine, and that pulling on my boots, without coat
or hat, I followed them through a long passage-way, or alley, into
the open street. It ran out at right angles from Pennsylvania
Avenue. On the opposite side there was a light burning in a window.
My impression is there were then three persons with me, but it is
altogether indefinite and vague, and like the memory of a painful
dream. Going towards the light, which I imagined proceeded from a
physician's office, and which seemed to recede as I advanced, is the
last glimmering recollection I can now recall. From that moment I was
insensible. How long I remained in that condition--whether only that
night, or many days and nights--I do not know; but when consciousness
returned, I found myself alone, in utter darkness, and in chains.

The pain in my head had subsided in a measure, but I was very faint
and weak. I was sitting upon a low bench, made of rough boards, and
without coat or hat. I was hand-cuffed. Around my ankles also were
a pair of heavy fetters. One end of a chain was fastened to a large
ring in the floor, the other to the fetters on my ankles. I tried in
vain to stand upon my feet. Waking from such a painful trance, it
was some time before I could collect my thoughts. Where was I? What
was the meaning of these chains? Where were Brown and Hamilton? What
had I done to deserve imprisonment in such a dungeon? I could not
comprehend. There was a blank of some indefinite period, preceding
my awakening in that lonely place, the events of which the utmost
stretch of memory was unable to recall. I listened intently for some
sign or sound of life, but nothing broke the oppressive silence, save
the clinking of my chains, whenever I chanced to move. I spoke aloud,
but the sound of my voice startled me. I felt of my pockets, so far
as the fetters would allow--far enough, indeed, to ascertain that I
had not only been robbed of liberty, but that my money and free papers
were also gone! Then did the idea begin to break upon my mind, at
first dim and confused, that I had been kidnapped. But that I thought
was incredible. There must have been some misapprehension--some
unfortunate mistake. It could not be that a free citizen of New-York,
who had wronged no man, nor violated any law, should be dealt with
thus inhumanly. The more I contemplated my situation, however, the
more I became confirmed in my suspicions. It was a desolate thought,
indeed. I felt there was no trust or mercy in unfeeling man; and
commending myself to the God of the oppressed, bowed my head upon my
fettered hands, and wept most bitterly.




CHAPTER III.

  PAINFUL MEDITATIONS--JAMES H. BURCH--WILLIAMS' SLAVE PEN IN
  WASHINGTON--THE LACKEY, RADBURN--ASSERT MY FREEDOM--THE ANGER OF
  THE TRADER--THE PADDLE AND CAT-O'-NINETAILS--THE WHIPPING--NEW
  ACQUAINTANCES--RAY, WILLIAMS, AND RANDALL--ARRIVAL OF LITTLE EMILY
  AND HER MOTHER IN THE PEN--MATERNAL SORROWS--THE STORY OF ELIZA.


Some three hours elapsed, during which time I remained seated on the
low bench, absorbed in painful meditations. At length I heard the
crowing of a cock, and soon a distant rumbling sound, as of carriages
hurrying through the streets, came to my ears, and I knew that it
was day. No ray of light, however, penetrated my prison. Finally,
I heard footsteps immediately overhead, as of some one walking to
and fro. It occurred to me then that I must be in an underground
apartment, and the damp, mouldy odors of the place confirmed the
supposition. The noise above continued for at least an hour, when,
at last, I heard footsteps approaching from without. A key rattled
in the lock--a strong door swung back upon its hinges, admitting a
flood of light, and two men entered and stood before me. One of them
was a large, powerful man, forty years of age, perhaps, with dark,
chestnut- hair, slightly interspersed with gray. His face was
full, his complexion flush, his features grossly coarse, expressive
of nothing but cruelty and cunning. He was about five feet ten inches
high, of full habit, and, without prejudice, I must be allowed to say,
was a man whose whole appearance was sinister and repugnant. His name
was James H. Burch, as I learned afterwards--a well-known slave-dealer
in Washington; and then, or lately, connected in business, as a
partner, with Theophilus Freeman, of New-Orleans. The person who
accompanied him was a simple lackey, named Ebenezer Radburn, who acted
merely in the capacity of turnkey. Both of these men still live in
Washington, or did, at the time of my return through that city from
slavery in January last.

The light admitted through the open door enabled me to observe the
room in which I was confined. It was about twelve feet square--the
walls of solid masonry. The floor was of heavy plank. There was one
small window, crossed with great iron bars, with an outside shutter,
securely fastened.

An iron-bound door led into an adjoining cell, or vault, wholly
destitute of windows, or any means of admitting light. The furniture
of the room in which I was, consisted of the wooden bench on which
I sat, an old-fashioned, dirty box stove, and besides these, in
either cell, there was neither bed, nor blanket, nor any other thing
whatever. The door, through which Burch and Radburn entered, led
through a small passage, up a flight of steps into a yard, surrounded
by a brick wall ten or twelve feet high, immediately in rear of a
building of the same width as itself. The yard extended rearward from
the house about thirty feet. In one part of the wall there was a
strongly ironed door, opening into a narrow, covered passage, leading
along one side of the house into the street. The doom of the <DW52>
man, upon whom the door leading out of that narrow passage closed,
was sealed. The top of the wall supported one end of a roof, which
ascended inwards, forming a kind of open shed. Underneath the roof
there was a crazy loft all round, where slaves, if so disposed, might
sleep at night, or in inclement weather seek shelter from the storm.
It was like a farmer's barnyard in most respects, save it was so
constructed that the outside world could never see the human cattle
that were herded there.

The building to which the yard was attached, was two stories high,
fronting on one of the public streets of Washington. Its outside
presented only the appearance of a quiet private residence. A stranger
looking at it, would never have dreamed of its execrable uses. Strange
as it may seem, within plain sight of this same house, looking down
from its commanding height upon it, was the Capitol. The voices of
patriotic representatives boasting of freedom and equality, and the
rattling of the poor slave's chains, almost commingled. A slave pen
within the very shadow of the Capitol!

       *       *       *       *       *

Such is a correct description as it was in 1841, of Williams' slave
pen in Washington, in one of the cellars of which I found myself so
unaccountably confined.

"Well, my boy, how do you feel now?" said Burch, as he entered through
the open door. I replied that I was sick, and inquired the cause of my
imprisonment. He answered that I was his slave--that he had bought me,
and that he was about to send me to New-Orleans. I asserted, aloud and
boldly, that I was a free man--a resident of Saratoga, where I had a
wife and children, who were also free, and that my name was Northup.
I complained bitterly of the strange treatment I had received, and
threatened, upon my liberation, to have satisfaction for the wrong.
He denied that I was free, and with an emphatic oath, declared that I
came from Georgia. Again and again I asserted I was no man's slave,
and insisted upon his taking off my chains at once. He endeavored to
hush me, as if he feared my voice would be overheard. But I would not
be silent, and denounced the authors of my imprisonment, whoever they
might be, as unmitigated villains. Finding he could not quiet me, he
flew into a towering passion. With blasphemous oaths, he called me
a black liar, a runaway from Georgia, and every other profane and
vulgar epithet that the most indecent fancy could conceive.

During this time Radburn was standing silently by. His business was,
to oversee this human, or rather inhuman stable, receiving slaves,
feeding and whipping them, at the rate of two shillings a head per
day. Turning to him, Burch ordered the paddle and cat-o'-ninetails
to be brought in. He disappeared, and in a few moments returned
with these instruments of torture. The paddle, as it is termed in
slave-beating parlance, or at least the one with which I first became
acquainted, and of which I now speak, was a piece of hard-wood
board, eighteen or twenty inches long, moulded to the shape of an
old-fashioned pudding stick, or ordinary oar. The flattened portion,
which was about the size in circumference of two open hands, was bored
with a small auger in numerous places. The cat was a large rope of
many strands--the strands unraveled, and a knot tied at the extremity
of each.

As soon as these formidable whips appeared, I was seized by both
of them, and roughly divested of my clothing. My feet, as has been
stated, were fastened to the floor. Drawing me over the bench, face
downwards, Radburn placed his heavy foot upon the fetters, between my
wrists, holding them painfully to the floor. With the paddle, Burch
commenced beating me. Blow after blow was inflicted upon my naked
body. When his unrelenting arm grew tired, he stopped and asked
if I still insisted I was a free man. I did insist upon it, and then
the blows were renewed, faster and more energetically, if possible,
than before. When again tired, he would repeat the same question, and
receiving the same answer, continue his cruel labor. All this time,
the incarnate devil was uttering most fiendish oaths. At length the
paddle broke, leaving the useless handle in his hand. Still I would
not yield. All his brutal blows could not force from my lips the foul
lie that I was a slave. Casting madly on the floor the handle of the
broken paddle, he seized the rope. This was far more painful than the
other. I struggled with all my power, but it was in vain. I prayed
for mercy, but my prayer was only answered with imprecations and with
stripes. I thought I must die beneath the lashes of the accursed
brute. Even now the flesh crawls upon my bones, as I recall the scene.
I was all on fire. My sufferings I can compare to nothing else than
the burning agonies of hell!

[Illustration: SCENE IN THE SLAVE PEN AT WASHINGTON.]

At last I became silent to his repeated questions. I would make no
reply. In fact, I was becoming almost unable to speak. Still he plied
the lash without stint upon my poor body, until it seemed that the
lacerated flesh was stripped from my bones at every stroke. A man with
a particle of mercy in his soul would not have beaten even a dog so
cruelly. At length Radburn said that it was useless to whip me any
more--that I would be sore enough. Thereupon, Burch desisted, saying,
with an admonitory shake of his fist in my face, and hissing the
words through his firm-set teeth, that if ever I dared to utter again
that I was entitled to my freedom, that I had been kidnapped, or any
thing whatever of the kind, the castigation I had just received was
nothing in comparison with what would follow. He swore that he would
either conquer or kill me. With these consolatory words, the fetters
were taken from my wrists, my feet still remaining fastened to the
ring; the shutter of the little barred window, which had been opened,
was again closed, and going out, locking the great door behind them, I
was left in darkness as before.

In an hour, perhaps two, my heart leaped to my throat, as the key
rattled in the door again. I, who had been so lonely, and who had
longed so ardently to see some one, I cared not who, now shuddered
at the thought of man's approach. A human face was fearful to me,
especially a white one. Radburn entered, bringing with him, on a tin
plate, a piece of shriveled fried pork, a slice of bread and a cup
of water. He asked me how I felt, and remarked that I had received a
pretty severe flogging. He remonstrated with me against the propriety
of asserting my freedom. In rather a patronizing and confidential
manner, he gave it to me as his advice, that the less I said on that
subject the better it would be for me. The man evidently endeavored
to appear kind--whether touched at the sight of my sad condition, or
with the view of silencing, on my part, any further expression of
my rights, it is not necessary now to conjecture. He unlocked the
fetters from my ankles, opened the shutters of the little window, and
departed, leaving me again alone.

By this time I had become stiff and sore; my body was covered with
blisters, and it was with great pain and difficulty that I could
move. From the window I could observe nothing but the roof resting on
the adjacent wall. At night I laid down upon the damp, hard floor,
without any pillow or covering whatever. Punctually, twice a day,
Radburn came in, with his pork, and bread, and water. I had but
little appetite, though I was tormented with continual thirst. My
wounds would not permit me to remain but a few minutes in any one
position; so, sitting, or standing, or moving slowly round, I passed
the days and nights. I was heart sick and discouraged. Thoughts of
my family, of my wife and children, continually occupied my mind.
When sleep overpowered me I dreamed of them--dreamed I was again in
Saratoga--that I could see their faces, and hear their voices calling
me. Awakening from the pleasant phantasms of sleep to the bitter
realities around me, I could but groan and weep. Still my spirit was
not broken. I indulged the anticipation of escape, and that speedily.
It was impossible, I reasoned, that men could be so unjust as to
detain me as a slave, when the truth of my case was known. Burch,
ascertaining I was no runaway from Georgia, would certainly let me
go. Though suspicions of Brown and Hamilton were not unfrequent, I
could not reconcile myself to the idea that they were instrumental to
my imprisonment. Surely they would seek me out--they would deliver
me from thraldom. Alas! I had not then learned the measure of "man's
inhumanity to man," nor to what limitless extent of wickedness he will
go for the love of gain.

In the course of several days the outer door was thrown open, allowing
me the liberty of the yard. There I found three slaves--one of
them a lad of ten years, the others young men of about twenty and
twenty-five. I was not long in forming an acquaintance, and learning
their names and the particulars of their history.

The eldest was a <DW52> man named Clemens Ray. He had lived in
Washington; had driven a hack, and worked in a livery stable there
for a long time. He was very intelligent, and fully comprehended his
situation. The thought of going south overwhelmed him with grief.
Burch had purchased him a few days before, and had placed him there
until such time as he was ready to send him to the New-Orleans market.
From him I learned for the first time that I was in William's Slave
Pen, a place I had never heard of previously. He described to me the
uses for which it was designed. I repeated to him the particulars of
my unhappy story, but he could only give me the consolation of his
sympathy. He also advised me to be silent henceforth on the subject
of my freedom; for, knowing the character of Burch, he assured me
that it would only be attended with renewed whipping. The next
eldest was named John Williams. He was raised in Virginia, not far
from Washington. Burch had taken him in payment of a debt, and he
constantly entertained the hope that his master would redeem him--a
hope that was subsequently realized. The lad was a sprightly child,
that answered to the name of Randall. Most of the time he was playing
about the yard, but occasionally would cry, calling for his mother,
and wondering when she would come. His mother's absence seemed to be
the great and only grief in his little heart. He was too young to
realize his condition, and when the memory of his mother was not in
his mind, he amused us with his pleasant pranks.

At night, Ray, Williams, and the boy, slept in the loft of the shed,
while I was locked in the cell. Finally we were each provided with
blankets, such as are used upon horses--the only bedding I was allowed
to have for twelve years afterwards. Ray and Williams asked me many
questions about New-York--how <DW52> people were treated there; how
they could have homes and families of their own, with none to disturb
and oppress them; and Ray, especially, sighed continually for freedom.
Such conversations, however, were not in the hearing of Burch, or the
keeper Radburn. Aspirations such as these would have brought down the
lash upon our backs.

It is necessary in this narrative, in order to present a full and
truthful statement of all the principal events in the history of my
life, and to portray the institution of Slavery as I have seen and
known it, to speak of well-known places, and of many persons who are
yet living. I am, and always was, an entire stranger in Washington
and its vicinity--aside from Burch and Radburn, knowing no man there,
except as I have heard of them through my enslaved companions. What I
am about to say, if false, can be easily contradicted.

I remained in Williams' slave pen about two weeks. The night previous
to my departure a woman was brought in, weeping bitterly, and
leading by the hand a little child. They were Randall's mother and
half-sister. On meeting them he was overjoyed, clinging to her dress,
kissing the child, and exhibiting every demonstration of delight. The
mother also clasped him in her arms, embraced him tenderly, and gazed
at him fondly through her tears, calling him by many an endearing name.

Emily, the child, was seven or eight years old, of light complexion,
and with a face of admirable beauty. Her hair fell in curls around her
neck, while the style and richness of her dress, and the neatness of
her whole appearance indicated she had been brought up in the midst
of wealth. She was a sweet child indeed. The woman also was arrayed
in silk, with rings upon her fingers, and golden ornaments suspended
from her ears. Her air and manners, the correctness and propriety
of her language--all showed, evidently, that she had sometime stood
above the common level of a slave. She seemed to be amazed at
finding herself in such a place as that. It was plainly a sudden and
unexpected turn of fortune that had brought her there. Filling the air
with her complainings, she was hustled, with the children and myself,
into the cell. Language can convey but an inadequate impression of the
lamentations to which she gave incessant utterance. Throwing herself
upon the floor, and encircling the children in her arms, she poured
forth such touching words as only maternal love and kindness can
suggest. They nestled closely to her, as if _there_ only was there any
safety or protection. At last they slept, their heads resting upon
her lap. While they slumbered, she smoothed the hair back from their
little foreheads, and talked to them all night long. She called them
her darlings--her sweet babes--poor innocent things, that knew not the
misery they were destined to endure. Soon they would have no mother
to comfort them--they would be taken from her. What would become of
them? Oh! she could not live away from her little Emmy and her dear
boy. They had always been good children, and had such loving ways. It
would break her heart, God knew, she said, if they were taken from
her; and yet she knew they meant to sell them, and, may be, they would
be separated, and could never see each other any more. It was enough
to melt a heart of stone to listen to the pitiful expressions of that
desolate and distracted mother. Her name was Eliza; and this was the
story of her life, as she afterwards related it:

She was the slave of Elisha Berry, a rich man, living in the
neighborhood of Washington. She was born, I think she said, on his
plantation. Years before, he had fallen into dissipated habits, and
quarreled with his wife. In fact, soon after the birth of Randall,
they separated. Leaving his wife and daughter in the house they had
always occupied, he erected a new one near by, on the estate. Into
this house he brought Eliza; and, on condition of her living with
him, she and her children were to be emancipated. She resided with
him there nine years, with servants to attend upon her, and provided
with every comfort and luxury of life. Emily was his child! Finally,
her young mistress, who had always remained with her mother at the
homestead, married a Mr. Jacob Brooks. At length, for some cause, (as
I gathered from her relation,) beyond Berry's control, a division of
his property was made. She and her children fell to the share of Mr.
Brooks. During the nine years she had lived with Berry, in consequence
of the position she was compelled to occupy, she and Emily had become
the object of Mrs. Berry and her daughter's hatred and dislike. Berry
himself she represented as a man of naturally a kind heart, who always
promised her that she should have her freedom, and who, she had no
doubt, would grant it to her then, if it were only in his power.
As soon as they thus came into the possession and control of the
daughter, it became very manifest they would not live long together.
The sight of Eliza seemed to be odious to Mrs. Brooks; neither could
she bear to look upon the child, half-sister, and beautiful as she was!

The day she was led into the pen, Brooks had brought her from the
estate into the city, under pretence that the time had come when
her free papers were to be executed, in fulfillment of her master's
promise. Elated at the prospect of immediate liberty, she decked
herself and little Emmy in their best apparel, and accompanied him
with a joyful heart. On their arrival in the city, instead of being
baptized into the family of freemen, she was delivered to the trader
Burch. The paper that was executed was a bill of sale. The hope of
years was blasted in a moment. From the height of most exulting
happiness to the utmost depths of wretchedness, she had that day
descended. No wonder that she wept, and filled the pen with wailings
and expressions of heart-rending woe.

Eliza is now dead. Far up the Red River, where it pours its waters
sluggishly through the unhealthy low lands of Louisiana, she rests
in the grave at last--the only resting place of the poor slave! How
all her fears were realized--how she mourned day and night, and never
would be comforted--how, as she predicted, her heart did indeed break,
with the burden of maternal sorrow, will be seen as the narrative
proceeds.




CHAPTER IV.

  ELIZA'S SORROWS--PREPARATION TO EMBARK--DRIVEN THROUGH THE STREETS
  OF WASHINGTON--HAIL, COLUMBIA--THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON--CLEM
  RAY--THE BREAKFAST ON THE STEAMER--THE HAPPY BIRDS--AQUIA
  CREEK--FREDERICKSBURGH--ARRIVAL IN RICHMOND--GOODIN AND HIS
  SLAVE PEN--ROBERT, OF CINCINNATI--DAVID AND HIS WIFE--MARY AND
  LETHE--CLEM'S RETURN--HIS SUBSEQUENT ESCAPE TO CANADA--THE BRIG
  ORLEANS--JAMES H. BURCH.


At intervals during the first night of Eliza's incarceration in the
pen, she complained bitterly of Jacob Brooks, her young mistress'
husband. She declared that had she been aware of the deception he
intended to practice upon her, he never would have brought her there
alive. They had chosen the opportunity of getting her away when
Master Berry was absent from the plantation. He had always been kind
to her. She wished that she could see him; but she knew that even
he was unable now to rescue her. Then would she commence weeping
again--kissing the sleeping children--talking first to one, then to
the other, as they lay in their unconscious slumbers, with their
heads upon her lap. So wore the long night away; and when the morning
dawned, and night had come again, still she kept mourning on, and
would not be consoled.

About midnight following, the cell door opened, and Burch and Radburn
entered, with lanterns in their hands. Burch, with an oath, ordered us
to roll up our blankets without delay, and get ready to go on board
the boat. He swore we would be left unless we hurried fast. He aroused
the children from their slumbers with a rough shake, and said they
were d--d sleepy, it appeared. Going out into the yard, he called Clem
Ray, ordering him to leave the loft and come into the cell, and bring
his blanket with him. When Clem appeared, he placed us side by side,
and fastened us together with hand-cuffs--my left hand to his right.
John Williams had been taken out a day or two before, his master
having redeemed him, greatly to his delight. Clem and I were ordered
to march, Eliza and the children following. We were conducted into
the yard, from thence into the covered passage, and up a flight of
steps through a side door into the upper room, where I had heard the
walking to and fro. Its furniture was a stove, a few old chairs, and a
long table, covered with papers. It was a white-washed room, without
any carpet on the floor, and seemed a sort of office. By one of the
windows, I remember, hung a rusty sword, which attracted my attention.
Burch's trunk was there. In obedience to his orders, I took hold of
one of its handles with my unfettered hand, while he taking hold of
the other, we proceeded out of the front door into the street in the
same order as we had left the cell.

It was a dark night. All was quiet. I could see lights, or the
reflection of them, over towards Pennsylvania Avenue, but there was
no one, not even a straggler, to be seen. I was almost resolved to
attempt to break away. Had I not been hand-cuffed the attempt would
certainly have been made, whatever consequence might have followed.
Radburn was in the rear, carrying a large stick, and hurrying up
the children as fast as the little ones could walk. So we passed,
hand-cuffed and in silence, through the streets of Washington--through
the Capital of a nation, whose theory of government, we are told,
rests on the foundation of man's inalienable right to life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness! Hail! Columbia, happy land, indeed!

Reaching the steamboat, we were quickly hustled into the hold, among
barrels and boxes of freight. A <DW52> servant brought a light, the
bell rung, and soon the vessel started down the Potomac, carrying
us we knew not where. The bell tolled as we passed the tomb of
Washington! Burch, no doubt, with uncovered head, bowed reverently
before the sacred ashes of the man who devoted his illustrious life to
the liberty of his country.

None of us slept that night but Randall and little Emmy. For the first
time Clem Ray was wholly overcome. To him the idea of going south was
terrible in the extreme. He was leaving the friends and associations
of his youth--every thing that was dear and precious to his heart--in
all probability never to return. He and Eliza mingled their tears
together, bemoaning their cruel fate. For my own part, difficult as
it was, I endeavored to keep up my spirits. I resolved in my mind a
hundred plans of escape, and fully determined to make the attempt
the first desperate chance that offered. I had by this time become
satisfied, however, that my true policy was to say nothing further on
the subject of my having been born a freeman. It would but expose me
to mal-treatment, and diminish the chances of liberation.

After sunrise in the morning we were called up on deck to breakfast.
Burch took our hand-cuffs off, and we sat down to table. He asked
Eliza if she would take a dram. She declined, thanking him politely.
During the meal we were all silent--not a word passed between us. A
mulatto woman who served at table seemed to take an interest in our
behalf--told us to cheer up, and not to be so cast down. Breakfast
over, the hand-cuffs were restored, and Burch ordered us out on the
stern deck. We sat down together on some boxes, still saying nothing
in Burch's presence. Occasionally a passenger would walk out to where
we were, look at us for a while, then silently return.

It was a very pleasant morning. The fields along the river were
covered with verdure, far in advance of what I had been accustomed to
see at that season of the year. The sun shone out warmly; the birds
were singing in the trees. The happy birds--I envied them. I wished
for wings like them, that I might cleave the air to where my birdlings
waited vainly for their father's coming, in the cooler region of the
North.

In the forenoon the steamer reached Aquia Creek. There the passengers
took stages--Burch and his five slaves occupying one exclusively. He
laughed with the children, and at one stopping place went so far as to
purchase them a piece of gingerbread. He told me to hold up my head
and look smart. That I might, perhaps, get a good master if I behaved
myself. I made him no reply. His face was hateful to me, and I could
not bear to look upon it. I sat in the corner, cherishing in my heart
the hope, not yet extinct, of some day meeting the tyrant on the soil
of my native State.

At Fredericksburgh we were transferred from the stage coach to a car,
and before dark arrived in Richmond, the chief city of Virginia. At
this city we were taken from the cars, and driven through the street
to a slave pen, between the railroad depot and the river, kept by a
Mr. Goodin. This pen is similar to Williams' in Washington, except it
is somewhat larger; and besides, there were two small houses standing
at opposite corners within the yard. These houses are usually found
within slave yards, being used as rooms for the examination of human
chattels by purchasers before concluding a bargain. Unsoundness in a
slave, as well as in a horse, detracts materially from his value. If
no warranty is given, a close examination is a matter of particular
importance to the <DW64> jockey.

We were met at the door of Goodin's yard by that gentleman himself--a
short, fat man, with a round, plump face, black hair and whiskers,
and a complexion almost as dark as some of his own <DW64>s. He had a
hard, stern look, and was perhaps about fifty years of age. Burch and
he met with great cordiality. They were evidently old friends. Shaking
each other warmly by the hand, Burch remarked he had brought some
company, inquired at what time the brig would leave, and was answered
that it would probably leave the next day at such an hour. Goodin then
turned to me, took hold of my arm, turned me partly round, looked at
me sharply with the air of one who considered himself a good judge of
property, and as if estimating in his own mind about how much I was
worth.

"Well, boy, where did you come from?"

Forgetting myself, for a moment, I answered, "From New-York."

"New-York! H--l! what have you been doing up there?" was his
astonished interrogatory.

Observing Burch at this moment looking at me with an angry expression
that conveyed a meaning it was not difficult to understand, I
immediately said, "O, I have only been up that way a piece," in a
manner intended to imply that although I might have been as far as
New-York, yet I wished it distinctly understood that I did not belong
to that free State, nor to any other.

Goodin then turned to Clem, and then to Eliza and the children,
examining them severally, and asking various questions. He was pleased
with Emily, as was every one who saw the child's sweet countenance.
She was not as tidy as when I first beheld her; her hair was now
somewhat disheveled; but through its unkempt and soft profusion
there still beamed a little face of most surpassing loveliness.
"Altogether we were a fair lot--a devilish good lot," he said,
enforcing that opinion with more than one emphatic adjective not
found in the Christian vocabulary. Thereupon we passed into the yard.
Quite a number of slaves, as many as thirty I should say, were moving
about, or sitting on benches under the shed. They were all cleanly
dressed--the men with hats, the women with handkerchiefs tied about
their heads.

Burch and Goodin, after separating from us, walked up the steps at the
back part of the main building, and sat down upon the door sill. They
entered into conversation, but the subject of it I could not hear.
Presently Burch came down into the yard, unfettered me, and led me
into one of the small houses.

"You told that man you came from New-York," said he.

I replied, "I told him I had been up as far as New-York, to be sure,
but did not tell him I belonged there, nor that I was a freeman. I
meant no harm at all, Master Burch. I would not have said it had I
thought."

He looked at me a moment as if he was ready to devour me, then turning
round went out. In a few minutes he returned. "If ever I hear you say
a word about New-York, or about your freedom, I will be the death of
you--I will kill you; you may rely on that," he ejaculated fiercely.

I doubt not he understood then better than I did, the danger and the
penalty of selling a free man into slavery. He felt the necessity
of closing my mouth against the crime he knew he was committing. Of
course, my life would not have weighed a feather, in any emergency
requiring such a sacrifice. Undoubtedly, he meant precisely what he
said.

Under the shed on one side of the yard, there was constructed a rough
table, while overhead were sleeping lofts--the same as in the pen
at Washington. After partaking at this table of our supper of pork
and bread, I was hand-cuffed to a large yellow man, quite stout and
fleshy, with a countenance expressive of the utmost melancholy. He was
a man of intelligence and information. Chained together, it was not
long before we became acquainted with each other's history. His name
was Robert. Like myself, he had been born free, and had a wife and
two children in Cincinnati. He said he had come south with two men,
who had hired him in the city of his residence. Without free papers,
he had been seized at Fredericksburgh, placed in confinement, and
beaten until he had learned, as I had, the necessity and the policy
of silence. He had been in Goodin's pen about three weeks. To this
man I became much attached. We could sympathize with, and understand
each other. It was with tears and a heavy heart, not many days
subsequently, that I saw him die, and looked for the last time upon
his lifeless form!

Robert and myself, with Clem, Eliza and her children, slept that night
upon our blankets, in one of the small houses in the yard. There were
four others, all from the same plantation, who had been sold, and
were now on their way south, who also occupied it with us. David and
his wife, Caroline, both mulattoes, were exceedingly affected. They
dreaded the thought of being put into the cane and cotton fields;
but their greatest source of anxiety was the apprehension of being
separated. Mary, a tall, lithe girl, of a most jetty black, was
listless and apparently indifferent. Like many of the class, she
scarcely knew there was such a word as freedom. Brought up in the
ignorance of a brute, she possessed but little more than a brute's
intelligence. She was one of those, and there are very many, who fear
nothing but their master's lash, and know no further duty than to
obey his voice. The other was Lethe. She was of an entirely different
character. She had long, straight hair, and bore more the appearance
of an Indian than a <DW64> woman. She had sharp and spiteful eyes, and
continually gave utterance to the language of hatred and revenge.
Her husband had been sold. She knew not where she was. An exchange
of masters, she was sure, could not be for the worse. She cared not
whither they might carry her. Pointing to the scars upon her face, the
desperate creature wished that she might see the day when she could
wipe them off in some man's blood!

While we were thus learning the history of each other's wretchedness,
Eliza was seated in a corner by herself, singing hymns and praying
for her children. Wearied from the loss of so much sleep, I could
no longer bear up against the advances of that "sweet restorer,"
and laying down by the side of Robert, on the floor, soon forgot my
troubles, and slept until the dawn of day.

In the morning, having swept the yard, and washed ourselves, under
Goodin's superintendence, we were ordered to roll up our blankets, and
make ready for the continuance of our journey. Clem Ray was informed
that he would go no further, Burch, for some cause, having concluded
to carry him back to Washington. He was much rejoiced. Shaking hands,
we parted in the slave pen at Richmond, and I have not seen him
since. But, much to my surprise, since my return, I learned that he
had escaped from bondage, and on his way to the free soil of Canada,
lodged one night at the house of my brother-in-law in Saratoga,
informing my family of the place and the condition in which he left me.

In the afternoon we were drawn up, two abreast, Robert and myself in
advance, and in this order, driven by Burch and Goodin from the yard,
through the streets of Richmond to the brig Orleans. She was a vessel
of respectable size, full rigged, and freighted principally with
tobacco. We were all on board by five o'clock. Burch brought us each
a tin cup and a spoon. There were forty of us in the brig, being all,
except Clem, that were in the pen.

With a small pocket knife that had not been taken from me, I began
cutting the initials of my name upon the tin cup. The others
immediately flocked round me, requesting me to mark theirs in a
similar manner. In time, I gratified them all, of which they did not
appear to be forgetful.

We were all stowed away in the hold at night, and the hatch barred
down. We laid on boxes, or where-ever there was room enough to stretch
our blankets on the floor.

Burch accompanied us no farther than Richmond, returning from that
point to the capital with Clem. Not until the lapse of almost twelve
years, to wit, in January last, in the Washington police office, did I
set my eyes upon his face again.

James H. Burch was a slave-trader--buying men, women and children
at low prices, and selling them at an advance. He was a speculator
in human flesh--a disreputable calling--and so considered at the
South. For the present he disappears from the scenes recorded in
this narrative, but he will appear again before its close, not in
the character of a man-whipping tyrant, but as an arrested, cringing
criminal in a court of law, that failed to do him justice.




CHAPTER V.

  ARRIVAL AT NORFOLK--FREDERICK AND MARIA--ARTHUR, THE
  FREEMAN--APPOINTED STEWARD--JIM, CUFFEE, AND JENNY--THE STORM--BAHAMA
  BANKS--THE CALM--THE CONSPIRACY--THE LONG BOAT--THE SMALL-POX--DEATH
  OF ROBERT--MANNING, THE SAILOR--THE MEETING IN THE FORECASTLE--THE
  LETTER--ARRIVAL AT NEW-ORLEANS--ARTHUR'S RESCUE--THEOPHILUS FREEMAN,
  THE CONSIGNEE--PLATT--FIRST NIGHT IN THE NEW-ORLEANS SLAVE PEN.


After we were all on board, the brig Orleans proceeded down James
River. Passing into Chesapeake Bay, we arrived next day opposite the
city of Norfolk. While lying at anchor, a lighter approached us from
the town, bringing four more slaves. Frederick, a boy of eighteen,
had been born a slave, as also had Henry, who was some years older.
They had both been house servants in the city. Maria was a rather
genteel looking <DW52> girl, with a faultless form, but ignorant
and extremely vain. The idea of going to New-Orleans was pleasing
to her. She entertained an extravagantly high opinion of her own
attractions. Assuming a haughty mien, she declared to her companions,
that immediately on our arrival in New-Orleans, she had no doubt, some
wealthy single gentleman of good taste would purchase her at once!

But the most prominent of the four, was a man named Arthur. As the
lighter approached, he struggled stoutly with his keepers. It was
with main force that he was dragged aboard the brig. He protested, in
a loud voice, against the treatment he was receiving, and demanded
to be released. His face was swollen, and covered with wounds and
bruises, and, indeed, one side of it was a complete raw sore. He was
forced, with all haste, down the hatchway into the hold. I caught
an outline of his story as he was borne struggling along, of which
he afterwards gave me a more full relation, and it was as follows:
He had long resided in the city of Norfolk, and was a free man. He
had a family living there, and was a mason by trade. Having been
unusually detained, he was returning late one night to his house in
the suburbs of the city, when he was attacked by a gang of persons
in an unfrequented street. He fought until his strength failed him.
Overpowered at last, he was gagged and bound with ropes, and beaten,
until he became insensible. For several days they secreted him in the
slave pen at Norfolk--a very common establishment, it appears, in
the cities of the South. The night before, he had been taken out and
put on board the lighter, which, pushing out from shore, had awaited
our arrival. For some time he continued his protestations, and was
altogether irreconcilable. At length, however, he became silent. He
sank into a gloomy and thoughtful mood, and appeared to be counseling
with himself. There was in the man's determined face, something that
suggested the thought of desperation.

After leaving Norfolk the hand-cuffs were taken off, and during the
day we were allowed to remain on deck. The captain selected Robert as
his waiter, and I was appointed to superintend the cooking department,
and the distribution of food and water. I had three assistants, Jim,
Cuffee and Jenny. Jenny's business was to prepare the coffee, which
consisted of corn meal scorched in a kettle, boiled and sweetened with
molasses. Jim and Cuffee baked the hoe-cake and boiled the bacon.

Standing by a table, formed of a wide board resting on the heads of
the barrels, I cut and handed to each a slice of meat and a "dodger"
of the bread, and from Jenny's kettle also dipped out for each a
cup of the coffee. The use of plates was dispensed with, and their
sable fingers took the place of knives and forks. Jim and Cuffee were
very demure and attentive to business, somewhat inflated with their
situation as second cooks, and without doubt feeling that there was
a great responsibility resting on them. I was called steward--a name
given me by the captain.

The slaves were fed twice a day, at ten and five o'clock--always
receiving the same kind and quantity of fare, and in the same manner
as above described. At night we were driven into the hold, and
securely fastened down.

Scarcely were we out of sight of land before we were overtaken by
a violent storm. The brig rolled and plunged until we feared she
would go down. Some were sea-sick, others on their knees praying,
while some were fast holding to each other, paralyzed with fear. The
sea-sickness rendered the place of our confinement loathsome and
disgusting. It would have been a happy thing for most of us--it would
have saved the agony of many hundred lashes, and miserable deaths at
last--had the compassionate sea snatched us that day from the clutches
of remorseless men. The thought of Randall and little Emmy sinking
down among the monsters of the deep, is a more pleasant contemplation
than to think of them as they are now, perhaps, dragging out lives of
unrequited toil.

When in sight of the Bahama Banks, at a place called Old Point
Compass, or the Hole in the Wall, we were becalmed three days. There
was scarcely a breath of air. The waters of the gulf presented a
singularly white appearance, like lime water.

In the order of events, I come now to the relation of an occurrence,
which I never call to mind but with sensations of regret. I thank God,
who has since permitted me to escape from the thralldom of slavery,
that through his merciful interposition I was prevented from imbruing
my hands in the blood of his creatures. Let not those who have never
been placed in like circumstances, judge me harshly. Until they have
been chained and beaten--until they find themselves in the situation I
was, borne away from home and family towards a land of bondage--let
them refrain from saying what they would not do for liberty. How
far I should have been justified in the sight of God and man, it is
unnecessary now to speculate upon. It is enough to say that I am able
to congratulate myself upon the harmless termination of an affair
which threatened, for a time, to be attended with serious results.

Towards evening, on the first day of the calm, Arthur and myself were
in the bow of the vessel, seated on the windlass. We were conversing
together of the probable destiny that awaited us, and mourning
together over our misfortunes. Arthur said, and I agreed with him,
that death was far less terrible than the living prospect that was
before us. For a long time we talked of our children, our past lives,
and of the probabilities of escape. Obtaining possession of the brig
was suggested by one of us. We discussed the possibility of our being
able, in such an event, to make our way to the harbor of New-York. I
knew little of the compass; but the idea of risking the experiment was
eagerly entertained. The chances, for and against us, in an encounter
with the crew, was canvassed. Who could be relied upon, and who could
not, the proper time and manner of the attack, were all talked over
and over again. From the moment the plot suggested itself I began
to hope. I revolved it constantly in my mind. As difficulty after
difficulty arose, some ready conceit was at hand, demonstrating how
it could be overcome. While others slept, Arthur and I were maturing
our plans. At length, with much caution, Robert was gradually made
acquainted with our intentions. He approved of them at once, and
entered into the conspiracy with a zealous spirit. There was not
another slave we dared to trust. Brought up in fear and ignorance as
they are, it can scarcely be conceived how servilely they will cringe
before a white man's look. It was not safe to deposit so bold a secret
with any of them, and finally we three resolved to take upon ourselves
alone the fearful responsibility of the attempt.

At night, as has been said, we were driven into the hold, and the
hatch barred down. How to reach the deck was the first difficulty that
presented itself. On the bow of the brig, however, I had observed the
small boat lying bottom upwards. It occurred to me that by secreting
ourselves underneath it, we would not be missed from the crowd, as
they were hurried down into the hold at night. I was selected to make
the experiment, in order to satisfy ourselves of its feasibility. The
next evening, accordingly, after supper, watching my opportunity,
I hastily concealed myself beneath it. Lying close upon the deck,
I could see what was going on around me, while wholly unperceived
myself. In the morning, as they came up, I slipped from my hiding
place without being observed. The result was entirely satisfactory.

The captain and mate slept in the cabin of the former. From Robert,
who had frequent occasion, in his capacity of waiter, to make
observations in that quarter, we ascertained the exact position of
their respective berths. He further informed us that there were always
two pistols and a cutlass lying on the table. The crew's cook slept in
the cook galley on deck, a sort of vehicle on wheels, that could be
moved about as convenience required, while the sailors, numbering only
six, either slept in the forecastle, or in hammocks swung among the
rigging.

Finally our arrangements were all completed. Arthur and I were to
steal silently to the captain's cabin, seize the pistols and cutlass,
and as quickly as possible despatch him and the mate. Robert,
with a club, was to stand by the door leading from the deck down
into the cabin, and, in case of necessity, beat back the sailors,
until we could hurry to his assistance. We were to proceed then as
circumstances might require. Should the attack be so sudden and
successful as to prevent resistance, the hatch was to remain barred
down; otherwise the slaves were to be called up, and in the crowd, and
hurry, and confusion of the time, we resolved to regain our liberty or
lose our lives. I was then to assume the unaccustomed place of pilot,
and, steering northward, we trusted that some lucky wind might bear us
to the soil of freedom.

The mate's name was Biddee, the captain's I cannot now recall, though
I rarely ever forget a name once heard. The captain was a small,
genteel man, erect and prompt, with a proud bearing, and looked the
personification of courage. If he is still living, and these pages
should chance to meet his eye, he will learn a fact connected with
the voyage of the brig, from Richmond to New-Orleans, in 1841, not
entered on his log-book.

We were all prepared, and impatiently waiting an opportunity of
putting our designs into execution, when they were frustrated by a
sad and unforeseen event. Robert was taken ill. It was soon announced
that he had the small-pox. He continued to grow worse, and four days
previous to our arrival in New-Orleans he died. One of the sailors
sewed him in his blanket, with a large stone from the ballast at his
feet, and then laying him on a hatchway, and elevating it with tackles
above the railing, the inanimate body of poor Robert was consigned to
the white waters of the gulf.

We were all panic-stricken by the appearance of the small-pox. The
captain ordered lime to be scattered through the hold, and other
prudent precautions to be taken. The death of Robert, however, and the
presence of the malady, oppressed me sadly, and I gazed out over the
great waste of waters with a spirit that was indeed disconsolate.

An evening or two after Robert's burial, I was leaning on the hatchway
near the forecastle, full of desponding thoughts, when a sailor in a
kind voice asked me why I was so down-hearted. The tone and manner
of the man assured me, and I answered, because I was a freeman, and
had been kidnapped. He remarked that it was enough to make any one
down-hearted, and continued to interrogate me until he learned the
particulars of my whole history. He was evidently much interested
in my behalf, and, in the blunt speech of a sailor, swore he would
aid me all he could, if it "split his timbers." I requested him to
furnish me pen, ink and paper, in order that I might write to some
of my friends. He promised to obtain them--but how I could use them
undiscovered was a difficulty. If I could only get into the forecastle
while his watch was off, and the other sailors asleep, the thing could
be accomplished. The small boat instantly occurred to me. He thought
we were not far from the Balize, at the mouth of the Mississippi, and
it was necessary that the letter be written soon, or the opportunity
would be lost. Accordingly, by arrangement, I managed the next night
to secret myself again under the long-boat. His watch was off at
twelve. I saw him pass into the forecastle, and in about an hour
followed him. He was nodding over a table, half asleep, on which a
sickly light was flickering, and on which also was a pen and sheet
of paper. As I entered he aroused, beckoned me to a seat beside him,
and pointed to the paper. I directed the letter to Henry B. Northup,
of Sandy Hill--stating that I had been kidnapped, was then on board
the brig Orleans, bound for New-Orleans; that it was then impossible
for me to conjecture my ultimate destination, and requesting he would
take measures to rescue me. The letter was sealed and directed, and
Manning, having read it, promised to deposit it in the New-Orleans
post-office. I hastened back to my place under the long-boat, and in
the morning, as the slaves came up and were walking round, crept out
unnoticed and mingled with them.

My good friend, whose name was John Manning, was an Englishman by
birth, and a noble-hearted, generous sailor as ever walked a deck. He
had lived in Boston--was a tall, well-built man, about twenty-four
years old, with a face somewhat pock-marked, but full of benevolent
expression.

Nothing to vary the monotony of our daily life occurred, until we
reached New-Orleans. On coming to the levee, and before the vessel was
made fast, I saw Manning leap on shore and hurry away into the city.
As he started off he looked back over his shoulder significantly,
giving me to understand the object of his errand. Presently he
returned, and passing close by me, hunched me with his elbow, with a
peculiar wink, as much as to say, "it is all right."

The letter, as I have since learned, reached Sandy Hill. Mr. Northup
visited Albany and laid it before Governor Seward, but inasmuch as
it gave no definite information as to my probable locality, it was
not, at that time, deemed advisable to institute measures for my
liberation. It was concluded to delay, trusting that a knowledge of
where I was might eventually be obtained.

A happy and touching scene was witnessed immediately upon our
reaching the levee. Just as Manning left the brig, on his way to the
post-office, two men came up and called aloud for Arthur. The latter,
as he recognized them, was almost crazy with delight. He could hardly
be restrained from leaping over the brig's side; and when they met
soon after, he grasped them by the hand, and clung to them a long,
long time. They were men from Norfolk, who had come on to New-Orleans
to rescue him. His kidnappers, they informed him, had been arrested,
and were then confined in the Norfolk prison. They conversed a few
moments with the captain, and then departed with the rejoicing Arthur.

But in all the crowd that thronged the wharf, there was no one who
knew or cared for me. Not one. No familiar voice greeted my ears, nor
was there a single face that I had ever seen. Soon Arthur would rejoin
his family, and have the satisfaction of seeing his wrongs avenged:
my family, alas, should I ever see them more? There was a feeling
of utter desolation in my heart, filling it with a despairing and
regretful sense, that I had not gone down with Robert to the bottom of
the sea.

Very soon traders and consignees came on board. One, a tall,
thin-faced man, with light complexion and a little bent, made his
appearance, with a paper in his hand. Burch's gang, consisting of
myself, Eliza and her children, Harry, Lethe, and some others, who had
joined us at Richmond, were consigned to him. This gentleman was Mr.
Theophilus Freeman. Reading from his paper, he called, "Platt." No one
answered. The name was called again and again, but still there was no
reply. Then Lethe was called, then Eliza, then Harry, until the list
was finished, each one stepping forward as his or her name was called.

"Captain, where's Platt?" demanded Theophilus Freeman.

The captain was unable to inform him, no one being on board answering
to that name.

"Who shipped _that_ <DW65>?" he again inquired of the captain,
pointing to me.

"Burch," replied the captain.

"Your name is Platt--you answer my description. Why don't you come
forward?" he demanded of me, in an angry tone.

I informed him that was not my name; that I had never been called by
it, but that I had no objection to it as I knew of.

"Well, I will learn you your name," said he; "and so you won't forget
it either, by ----," he added.

Mr. Theophilus Freeman, by the way, was not a whit behind his partner,
Burch, in the matter of blasphemy. On the vessel I had gone by the
name of "Steward," and this was the first time I had ever been
designated as Platt--the name forwarded by Burch to his consignee.
From the vessel I observed the chain-gang at work on the levee. We
passed near them as we were driven to Freeman's slave pen. This pen is
very similar to Goodin's in Richmond, except the yard was enclosed by
plank, standing upright, with ends sharpened, instead of brick walls.

Including us, there were now at least fifty in this pen. Depositing
our blankets in one of the small buildings in the yard, and having
been called up and fed, we were allowed to saunter about the enclosure
until night, when we wrapped our blankets round us and laid down
under the shed, or in the loft, or in the open yard, just as each one
preferred.

It was but a short time I closed my eyes that night. Thought was
busy in my brain. Could it be possible that I was thousands of miles
from home--that I had been driven through the streets like a dumb
beast--that I had been chained and beaten without mercy--that I was
even then herded with a drove of slaves, a slave myself? Were the
events of the last few weeks realities indeed?--or was I passing only
through the dismal phases of a long, protracted dream? It was no
illusion. My cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. Then I lifted up
my hands to God, and in the still watches of the night, surrounded by
the sleeping forms of my companions, begged for mercy on the poor,
forsaken captive. To the Almighty Father of us all--the freeman and
the slave--I poured forth the supplications of a broken spirit,
imploring strength from on high to bear up against the burden of my
troubles, until the morning light aroused the slumberers, ushering in
another day of bondage.




CHAPTER VI.

  FREEMAN'S INDUSTRY--CLEANLINESS AND CLOTHES--EXERCISING IN THE SHOW
  ROOM--THE DANCE--BOB, THE FIDDLER--ARRIVAL OF CUSTOMERS--SLAVES
  EXAMINED--THE OLD GENTLEMAN OF NEW-ORLEANS--SALE OF DAVID,
  CAROLINE AND LETHE--PARTING OF RANDALL AND ELIZA--SMALL POX--THE
  HOSPITAL--RECOVERY AND RETURN TO FREEMAN'S SLAVE PEN--THE PURCHASER
  OF ELIZA, HARRY AND PLATT--ELIZA'S AGONY ON PARTING FROM LITTLE EMILY.


The very amiable, pious-hearted Mr. Theophilus Freeman, partner
or consignee of James H. Burch, and keeper of the slave pen in
New-Orleans, was out among his animals early in the morning. With an
occasional kick of the older men and women, and many a sharp crack of
the whip about the ears of the younger slaves, it was not long before
they were all astir, and wide awake. Mr. Theophilus Freeman bustled
about in a very industrious manner, getting his property ready for the
sales-room, intending, no doubt, to do that day a rousing business.

In the first place we were required to wash thoroughly, and those with
beards, to shave. We were then furnished with a new suit each, cheap,
but clean. The men had hat, coat, shirt, pants and shoes; the women
frocks of calico, and handkerchiefs to bind about their heads. We were
now conducted into a large room in the front part of the building
to which the yard was attached, in order to be properly trained,
before the admission of customers. The men were arranged on one side
of the room, the women on the other. The tallest was placed at the
head of the row, then the next tallest, and so on in the order of
their respective heights. Emily was at the foot of the line of women.
Freeman charged us to remember our places; exhorted us to appear smart
and lively,--sometimes threatening, and again, holding out various
inducements. During the day he exercised us in the art of "looking
smart," and of moving to our places with exact precision.

After being fed, in the afternoon, we were again paraded and made to
dance. Bob, a <DW52> boy, who had some time belonged to Freeman,
played on the violin. Standing near him, I made bold to inquire if he
could play the "Virginia Reel." He answered he could not, and asked me
if I could play. Replying in the affirmative, he handed me the violin.
I struck up a tune, and finished it. Freeman ordered me to continue
playing, and seemed well pleased, telling Bob that I far excelled
him--a remark that seemed to grieve my musical companion very much.

Next day many customers called to examine Freeman's "new lot." The
latter gentleman was very loquacious, dwelling at much length upon our
several good points and qualities. He would make us hold up our heads,
walk briskly back and forth, while customers would feel of our hands
and arms and bodies, turn us about, ask us what we could do, make us
open our mouths and show our teeth, precisely as a jockey examines
a horse which he is about to barter for or purchase. Sometimes a man
or woman was taken back to the small house in the yard, stripped, and
inspected more minutely. Scars upon a slave's back were considered
evidence of a rebellious or unruly spirit, and hurt his sale.

One old gentleman, who said he wanted a coachman, appeared to take
a fancy to me. From his conversation with Burch, I learned he was
a resident in the city. I very much desired that he would buy me,
because I conceived it would not be difficult to make my escape from
New-Orleans on some northern vessel. Freeman asked him fifteen hundred
dollars for me. The old gentleman insisted it was too much, as times
were very hard. Freeman, however, declared that I was sound and
healthy, of a good constitution, and intelligent. He made it a point
to enlarge upon my musical attainments. The old gentleman argued quite
adroitly that there was nothing extraordinary about the <DW65>, and
finally, to my regret, went out, saying he would call again. During
the day, however, a number of sales were made. David and Caroline
were purchased together by a Natchez planter. They left us, grinning
broadly, and in the most happy state of mind, caused by the fact of
their not being separated. Lethe was sold to a planter of Baton Rouge,
her eyes flashing with anger as she was led away.

The same man also purchased Randall. The little fellow was made
to jump, and run across the floor, and perform many other feats,
exhibiting his activity and condition. All the time the trade was
going on, Eliza was crying aloud, and wringing her hands. She besought
the man not to buy him, unless he also bought herself and Emily.
She promised, in that case, to be the most faithful slave that ever
lived. The man answered that he could not afford it, and then Eliza
burst into a paroxysm of grief, weeping plaintively. Freeman turned
round to her, savagely, with his whip in his uplifted hand, ordering
her to stop her noise, or he would flog her. He would not have such
work--such snivelling; and unless she ceased that minute, he would
take her to the yard and give her a hundred lashes. Yes, he would
take the nonsense out of her pretty quick--if he didn't, might he be
d--d. Eliza shrunk before him, and tried to wipe away her tears, but
it was all in vain. She wanted to be with her children, she said, the
little time she had to live. All the frowns and threats of Freeman,
could not wholly silence the afflicted mother. She kept on begging and
beseeching them, most piteously, not to separate the three. Over and
over again she told them how she loved her boy. A great many times she
repeated her former promises--how very faithful and obedient she would
be; how hard she would labor day and night, to the last moment of her
life, if he would only buy them all together. But it was of no avail;
the man could not afford it. The bargain was agreed upon, and Randall
must go alone. Then Eliza ran to him; embraced him passionately;
kissed him again and again; told him to remember her--all the while
her tears falling in the boy's face like rain.

Freeman damned her, calling her a blubbering, bawling wench, and
ordered her to go to her place, and behave herself, and be somebody.
He swore he wouldn't stand such stuff but a little longer. He would
soon give her something to cry about, if she was not mighty careful,
and _that_ she might depend upon.

The planter from Baton Rouge, with his new purchases, was ready to
depart.

"Don't cry, mama. I will be a good boy. Don't cry," said Randall,
looking back, as they passed out of the door.

What has become of the lad, God knows. It was a mournful scene indeed.
I would have cried myself if I had dared.

That night, nearly all who came in on the brig Orleans, were taken
ill. They complained of violent pain in the head and back. Little
Emily--a thing unusual with her--cried constantly. In the morning
a physician was called in, but was unable to determine the nature
of our complaint. While examining me, and asking questions touching
my symptoms, I gave it as my opinion that it was an attack of
small-pox--mentioning the fact of Robert's death as the reason of my
belief. It might be so indeed, he thought, and he would send for the
head physician of the hospital. Shortly, the head physician came--a
small, light-haired man, whom they called Dr. Carr. He pronounced
it small-pox, whereupon there was much alarm throughout the yard.
Soon after Dr. Carr left, Eliza, Emmy, Harry and myself were put into
a hack and driven to the hospital--a large white marble building,
standing on the outskirts of the city. Harry and I were placed in a
room in one of the upper stories. I became very sick. For three days
I was entirely blind. While lying in this state one day, Bob came in,
saying to Dr. Carr that Freeman had sent him over to inquire how we
were getting on. Tell him, said the doctor, that Platt is very bad,
but that if he survives until nine o'clock, he may recover.

I expected to die. Though there was little in the prospect before
me worth living for, the near approach of death appalled me. I
thought I could have been resigned to yield up my life in the bosom
of my family, but to expire in the midst of strangers, under such
circumstances, was a bitter reflection.

There were a great number in the hospital, of both sexes, and of all
ages. In the rear of the building coffins were manufactured. When one
died, the bell tolled--a signal to the undertaker to come and bear
away the body to the potter's field. Many times, each day and night,
the tolling bell sent forth its melancholy voice, announcing another
death. But my time had not yet come. The crisis having passed, I began
to revive, and at the end of two weeks and two days, returned with
Harry to the pen, bearing upon my face the effects of the malady,
which to this day continues to disfigure it. Eliza and Emily were
also brought back next day in a hack, and again were we paraded in
the sales-room, for the inspection and examination of purchasers. I
still indulged the hope that the old gentleman in search of a coachman
would call again, as he had promised, and purchase me. In that event
I felt an abiding confidence that I would soon regain my liberty.
Customer after customer entered, but the old gentleman never made his
appearance.

At length, one day, while we were in the yard, Freeman came out and
ordered us to our places, in the great room. A gentleman was waiting
for us as we entered, and inasmuch as he will be often mentioned
in the progress of this narrative, a description of his personal
appearance, and my estimation of his character, at first sight, may
not be out of place.

He was a man above the ordinary height, somewhat bent and stooping
forward. He was a good-looking man, and appeared to have reached about
the middle age of life. There was nothing repulsive in his presence;
but on the other hand, there was something cheerful and attractive in
his face, and in his tone of voice. The finer elements were all kindly
mingled in his breast, as any one could see. He moved about among us,
asking many questions, as to what we could do, and what labor we had
been accustomed to; if we thought we would like to live with him, and
would be good boys if he would buy us, and other interrogatories of
like character.

After some further inspection, and conversation touching prices, he
finally offered Freeman one thousand dollars for me, nine hundred
for Harry, and seven hundred for Eliza. Whether the small-pox had
depreciated our value, or from what cause Freeman had concluded
to fall five hundred dollars from the price I was before held at,
I cannot say. At any rate, after a little shrewd reflection, he
announced his acceptance of the offer.

As soon as Eliza heard it, she was in an agony again. By this time
she had become haggard and hollow-eyed with sickness and with sorrow.
It would be a relief if I could consistently pass over in silence
the scene that now ensued. It recalls memories more mournful and
affecting than any language can portray. I have seen mothers kissing
for the last time the faces of their dead offspring; I have seen them
looking down into the grave, as the earth fell with a dull sound upon
their coffins, hiding them from their eyes forever; but never have I
seen such an exhibition of intense, unmeasured, and unbounded grief,
as when Eliza was parted from her child. She broke from her place
in the line of women, and rushing down where Emily was standing,
caught her in her arms. The child, sensible of some impending danger,
instinctively fastened her hands around her mother's neck, and nestled
her little head upon her bosom. Freeman sternly ordered her to be
quiet, but she did not heed him. He caught her by the arm and pulled
her rudely, but she only clung the closer to the child. Then, with
a volley of great oaths, he struck her such a heartless blow, that
she staggered backward, and was like to fall. Oh! how piteously then
did she beseech and beg and pray that they might not be separated.
Why could they not be purchased together? Why not let her have one
of her dear children? "Mercy, mercy, master!" she cried, falling on
her knees. "Please, master, buy Emily. I can never work any if she is
taken from me: I will die."

Freeman interfered again, but, disregarding him, she still plead most
earnestly, telling how Randall had been taken from her--how she never
would see him again, and now it was too bad--oh, God! it was too bad,
too cruel, to take her away from Emily--her pride--her only darling,
that could not live, it was so young, without its mother!

Finally, after much more of supplication, the purchaser of Eliza
stepped forward, evidently affected, and said to Freeman he would buy
Emily, and asked him what her price was.

"What is her _price_? _Buy_ her?" was the responsive interrogatory of
Theophilus Freeman. And instantly answering his own inquiry, he added,
"I won't sell her. She's not for sale."

The man remarked he was not in need of one so young--that it would be
of no profit to him, but since the mother was so fond of her, rather
than see them separated, he would pay a reasonable price. But to this
humane proposal Freeman was entirely deaf. He would not sell her then
on any account whatever. There were heaps and piles of money to be
made of her, he said, when she was a few years older. There were men
enough in New-Orleans who would give five thousand dollars for such
an extra, handsome, fancy piece as Emily would be, rather than not
get her. No, no, he would not sell her then. She was a beauty--a
picture--a doll--one of the regular bloods--none of your thick-lipped,
bullet-headed, cotton-picking <DW65>s--if she was might he be d--d.

When Eliza heard Freeman's determination not to part with Emily, she
became absolutely frantic.

"I will _not_ go without her. They shall _not_ take her from me," she
fairly shrieked, her shrieks commingling with the loud and angry voice
of Freeman, commanding her to be silent.

Meantime Harry and myself had been to the yard and returned with our
blankets, and were at the front door ready to leave. Our purchaser
stood near us, gazing at Eliza with an expression indicative of regret
at having bought her at the expense of so much sorrow. We waited some
time, when, finally, Freeman, out of patience, tore Emily from her
mother by main force, the two clinging to each other with all their
might.

"Don't leave me, mama--don't leave me," screamed the child, as its
mother was pushed harshly forward; "Don't leave me--come back, mama,"
she still cried, stretching forth her little arms imploringly. But
she cried in vain. Out of the door and into the street we were
quickly hurried. Still we could hear her calling to her mother,
"Come back--don't leave me--come back, mama," until her infant voice
grew faint and still more faint, and gradually died away, as distance
intervened, and finally was wholly lost.

Eliza never after saw or heard of Emily or Randall. Day nor night,
however, were they ever absent from her memory. In the cotton field,
in the cabin, always and everywhere, she was talking of them--often
_to_ them, as if they were actually present. Only when absorbed
in that illusion, or asleep, did she ever have a moment's comfort
afterwards.

She was no common slave, as has been said. To a large share of natural
intelligence which she possessed, was added a general knowledge and
information on most subjects. She had enjoyed opportunities such as
are afforded to very few of her oppressed class. She had been lifted
up into the regions of a higher life. Freedom--freedom for herself
and for her offspring, for many years had been her cloud by day, her
pillar of fire by night. In her pilgrimage through the wilderness of
bondage, with eyes fixed upon that hope-inspiring beacon, she had
at length ascended to "the top of Pisgah," and beheld "the land of
promise." In an unexpected moment she was utterly overwhelmed with
disappointment and despair. The glorious vision of liberty faded from
her sight as they led her away into captivity. Now "she weepeth sore
in the night, and tears are on her cheeks: all her friends have dealt
treacherously with her: they have become her enemies."

[Illustration: SEPERATION OF ELIZA AND HER LAST CHILD.]




CHAPTER VII.

  THE STEAMBOAT RODOLPH--DEPARTURE FROM NEW-ORLEANS--WILLIAM
  FORD--ARRIVAL AT ALEXANDRIA, ON RED RIVER--RESOLUTIONS--THE GREAT
  PINE WOODS--WILD CATTLE--MARTIN'S SUMMER RESIDENCE--THE TEXAS
  ROAD--ARRIVAL AT MASTER FORD'S--ROSE--MISTRESS FORD--SALLY, AND
  HER CHILDREN--JOHN, THE COOK--WALTER, SAM, AND ANTONY--THE MILLS
  ON INDIAN CREEK--SABBATH DAYS--SAM'S CONVERSION--THE PROFIT OF
  KINDNESS--RAFTING--ADAM TAYDEM, THE LITTLE WHITE MAN--CASCALLA AND
  HIS TRIBE--THE INDIAN BALL--JOHN M. TIBEATS--THE STORM APPROACHING.


On leaving the New-Orleans slave pen, Harry and I followed our new
master through the streets, while Eliza, crying and turning back, was
forced along by Freeman and his minions, until we found ourselves on
board the steamboat Rodolph, then lying at the levee. In the course
of half an hour we were moving briskly up the Mississippi, bound for
some point on Red River. There were quite a number of slaves on board
beside ourselves, just purchased in the New-Orleans market. I remember
a Mr. Kelsow, who was said to be a well known and extensive planter,
had in charge a gang of women.

Our master's name was William Ford. He resided then in the "Great Pine
Woods," in the parish of Avoyelles, situated on the right bank of
Red River, in the heart of Louisiana. He is now a Baptist preacher.
Throughout the whole parish of Avoyelles, and especially along both
shores of Bayou Boeuf, where he is more intimately known, he is
accounted by his fellow-citizens as a worthy minister of God. In many
northern minds, perhaps, the idea of a man holding his brother man
in servitude, and the traffic in human flesh, may seem altogether
incompatible with their conceptions of a moral or religious life. From
descriptions of such men as Burch and Freeman, and others hereinafter
mentioned, they are led to despise and execrate the whole class of
slaveholders, indiscriminately. But I was sometime his slave, and
had an opportunity of learning well his character and disposition,
and it is but simple justice to him when I say, in my opinion, there
never was a more kind, noble, candid, Christian man than William
Ford. The influences and associations that had always surrounded him,
blinded him to the inherent wrong at the bottom of the system of
Slavery. He never doubted the moral right of one man holding another
in subjection. Looking through the same medium with his fathers
before him, he saw things in the same light. Brought up under other
circumstances and other influences, his notions would undoubtedly
have been different. Nevertheless, he was a model master, walking
uprightly, according to the light of his understanding, and fortunate
was the slave who came to his possession. Were all men such as he,
Slavery would be deprived of more than half its bitterness.

We were two days and three nights on board the steamboat Rodolph,
during which time nothing of particular interest occurred. I was
now known as Platt, the name given me by Burch, and by which I was
designated through the whole period of my servitude. Eliza was sold by
the name of "Dradey." She was so distinguished in the conveyance to
Ford, now on record in the recorder's office in New-Orleans.

On our passage I was constantly reflecting on my situation, and
consulting with myself on the best course to pursue in order to
effect my ultimate escape. Sometimes, not only then, but afterwards,
I was almost on the point of disclosing fully to Ford the facts of my
history. I am inclined now to the opinion it would have resulted in
my benefit. This course was often considered, but through fear of its
miscarriage, never put into execution, until eventually my transfer
and his pecuniary embarrassments rendered it evidently unsafe.
Afterwards, under other masters, unlike William Ford, I knew well
enough the slightest knowledge of my real character would consign me
at once to the remoter depths of Slavery. I was too costly a chattel
to be lost, and was well aware that I would be taken farther on,
into some by-place, over the Texan border, perhaps, and sold; that I
would be disposed of as the thief disposes of his stolen horse, if
my right to freedom was even whispered. So I resolved to lock the
secret closely in my heart--never to utter one word or syllable as to
who or what I was--trusting in Providence and my own shrewdness for
deliverance.

At length we left the steamboat Rodolph at a place called Alexandria,
several hundred miles from New-Orleans. It is a small town on the
southern shore of Red River. Having remained there over night, we
entered the morning train of cars, and were soon at Bayou Lamourie, a
still smaller place, distant eighteen miles from Alexandria. At that
time it was the termination of the railroad. Ford's plantation was
situated on the Texas road, twelve miles from Lamourie, in the Great
Pine Woods. This distance, it was announced to us, must be traveled on
foot, there being public conveyances no farther. Accordingly we all
set out in the company of Ford. It was an excessively hot day. Harry,
Eliza, and myself were yet weak, and the bottoms of our feet were
very tender from the effects of the small-pox. We proceeded slowly,
Ford telling us to take our time and sit down and rest whenever we
desired--a privilege that was taken advantage of quite frequently.
After leaving Lamourie and crossing two plantations, one belonging to
Mr. Carnell, the other to a Mr. Flint, we reached the Pine Woods, a
wilderness that stretches to the Sabine River.

The whole country about Red River is low and marshy. The Pine Woods,
as they are called, is comparatively upland, with frequent small
intervals, however, running through them. This upland is covered with
numerous trees--the white oak, the chincopin, resembling chestnut,
but principally the yellow pine. They are of great size, running up
sixty feet, and perfectly straight. The woods were full of cattle,
very shy and wild, dashing away in herds, with a loud snuff, at our
approach. Some of them were marked or branded, the rest appeared
to be in their wild and untamed state. They are much smaller than
northern breeds, and the peculiarity about them that most attracted my
attention was their horns. They stand out from the sides of the head
precisely straight, like two iron spikes.

At noon we reached a cleared piece of ground containing three or four
acres. Upon it was a small, unpainted, wooden house, a corn crib, or,
as we would say, a barn, and a log kitchen, standing about a rod from
the house. It was the summer residence of Mr. Martin. Rich planters,
having large establishments on Bayou Boeuf, are accustomed to spend
the warmer season in these woods. Here they find clear water and
delightful shades. In fact, these retreats are to the planters of that
section of the country what Newport and Saratoga are to the wealthier
inhabitants of northern cities.

We were sent around into the kitchen, and supplied with sweet
potatoes, corn-bread, and bacon, while Master Ford dined with Martin
in the house. There were several slaves about the premises. Martin
came out and took a look at us, asking Ford the price of each, if we
were green hands, and so forth, and making inquiries in relation to
the slave market generally.

After a long rest we set forth again, following the Texas road, which
had the appearance of being very rarely traveled. For five miles we
passed through continuous woods without observing a single habitation.
At length, just as the sun was sinking in the west, we entered another
opening, containing some twelve or fifteen acres.

In this opening stood a house much larger than Mr. Martin's. It was
two stories high, with a piazza in front. In the rear of it was also a
log kitchen, poultry house, corncribs, and several <DW64> cabins. Near
the house was a peach orchard, and gardens of orange and pomegranate
trees. The space was entirely surrounded by woods, and covered with
a carpet of rich, rank verdure. It was a quiet, lonely, pleasant
place--literally a green spot in the wilderness. It was the residence
of my master, William Ford.

As we approached, a yellow girl--her name was Rose--was standing on
the piazza. Going to the door, she called her mistress, who presently
came running out to meet her lord. She kissed him, and laughingly
demanded if he had bought "those <DW65>s." Ford said he had, and told
us to go round to Sally's cabin and rest ourselves. Turning the corner
of the house, we discovered Sally washing--her two baby children near
her, rolling on the grass. They jumped up and toddled towards us,
looked at us a moment like a brace of rabbits, then ran back to their
mother as if afraid of us.

Sally conducted us into the cabin, told us to lay down our bundles
and be seated, for she was sure that we were tired. Just then John,
the cook, a boy some sixteen years of age, and blacker than any crow,
came running in, looked steadily in our faces, then turning round,
without saying as much as "how d'ye do," ran back to the kitchen,
laughing loudly, as if our coming was a great joke indeed.

Much wearied with our walk, as soon as it was dark, Harry and I
wrapped our blankets round us, and laid down upon the cabin floor.
My thoughts, as usual, wandered back to my wife and children. The
consciousness of my real situation; the hopelessness of any effort to
escape through the wide forests of Avoyelles, pressed heavily upon me,
yet my heart was at home in Saratoga.

I was awakened early in the morning by the voice of Master Ford,
calling Rose. She hastened into the house to dress the children, Sally
to the field to milk the cows, while John was busy in the kitchen
preparing breakfast. In the meantime Harry and I were strolling about
the yard, looking at our new quarters. Just after breakfast a <DW52>
man, driving three yoke of oxen, attached to a wagon load of lumber,
drove into the opening. He was a slave of Ford's, named Walton, the
husband of Rose. By the way, Rose was a native of Washington, and had
been brought from thence five years before. She had never seen Eliza,
but she had heard of Berry, and they knew the same streets, and the
same people, either personally, or by reputation. They became fast
friends immediately, and talked a great deal together of old times,
and of friends they had left behind.

Ford was at that time a wealthy man. Besides his seat in the Pine
Woods, he owned a large lumbering establishment on Indian Creek, four
miles distant, and also, in his wife's right, an extensive plantation
and many slaves on Bayou Boeuf.

Walton had come with his load of lumber from the mills on Indian
Creek. Ford directed us to return with him, saying he would follow
us as soon as possible. Before leaving, Mistress Ford called me into
the store-room, and handed me, as it is there termed, a tin bucket of
molasses for Harry and myself.

Eliza was still ringing her hands and deploring the loss of her
children. Ford tried as much as possible to console her--told her she
need not work very hard; that she might remain with Rose, and assist
the madam in the house affairs.

Riding with Walton in the wagon, Harry and I became quite well
acquainted with him long before reaching Indian Creek. He was a "born
thrall" of Ford's, and spoke kindly and affectionately of him, as
a child would speak of his own father. In answer to his inquiries
from whence I came, I told him from Washington. Of that city, he had
heard much from his wife, Rose, and all the way plied me with many
extravagant and absurd questions.

On reaching the mills at Indian Creek, we found two more of Ford's
slaves, Sam and Antony. Sam, also, was a Washingtonian, having been
brought out in the same gang with Rose. He had worked on a farm near
Georgetown. Antony was a blacksmith, from Kentucky, who had been in
his present master's service about ten years. Sam knew Burch, and when
informed that he was the trader who had sent me on from Washington, it
was remarkable how well we agreed upon the subject of his superlative
rascality. He had forwarded Sam, also.

On Ford's arrival at the mill, we were employed in piling lumber, and
chopping logs, which occupation we continued during the remainder of
the summer.

We usually spent our Sabbaths at the opening, on which days our master
would gather all his slaves about him, and read and expound the
Scriptures. He sought to inculcate in our minds feelings of kindness
towards each other, of dependence upon God--setting forth the rewards
promised unto those who lead an upright and prayerful life. Seated
in the doorway of his house, surrounded by his man-servants and his
maid-servants, who looked earnestly into the good man's face, he spoke
of the loving kindness of the Creator, and of the life that is to
come. Often did the voice of prayer ascend from his lips to heaven,
the only sound that broke the solitude of the place.

In the course of the summer Sam became deeply convicted, his mind
dwelling intensely on the subject of religion. His mistress gave him
a Bible, which he carried with him to his work. Whatever leisure time
was allowed him, he spent in perusing it, though it was only with
great difficulty that he could master any part of it. I often read to
him, a favor which he well repaid me by many expressions of gratitude.
Sam's piety was frequently observed by white men who came to the mill,
and the remark it most generally provoked was, that a man like Ford,
who allowed his slaves to have Bibles, was "not fit to own a <DW65>."

He, however, lost nothing by his kindness. It is a fact I have
more than once observed, that those who treated their slaves most
leniently, were rewarded by the greatest amount of labor. I know
it from my own experience. It was a source of pleasure to surprise
Master Ford with a greater day's work than was required, while, under
subsequent masters, there was no prompter to extra effort but the
overseer's lash.

It was the desire of Ford's approving voice that suggested to me an
idea that resulted to his profit. The lumber we were manufacturing
was contracted to be delivered at Lamourie. It had hitherto been
transported by land, and was an important item of expense. Indian
Creek, upon which the mills were situated, was a narrow but deep
stream emptying into Bayou Boeuf. In some places it was not more than
twelve feet wide, and much obstructed with trunks of trees. Bayou
Boeuf was connected with Bayou Lamourie. I ascertained the distance
from the mills to the point on the latter bayou, where our lumber
was to be delivered, was but a few miles less by land than by water.
Provided the creek could be made navigable for rafts, it occurred to
me that the expense of transportation would be materially diminished.

Adam Taydem, a little white man, who had been a soldier in Florida,
and had strolled into that distant region, was foreman and
superintendent of the mills. He scouted the idea; but Ford, when I
laid it before him, received it favorably, and permitted me to try the
experiment.

Having removed the obstructions, I made up a narrow raft, consisting
of twelve cribs. At this business I think I was quite skillful, not
having forgotten my experience years before on the Champlain canal. I
labored hard, being extremely anxious to succeed, both from a desire
to please my master, and to show Adam Taydem that my scheme was not
such a visionary one as he incessantly pronounced it. One hand could
manage three cribs. I took charge of the forward three, and commenced
poling down the creek. In due time we entered the first bayou, and
finally reached our destination in a shorter period of time than I had
anticipated.

The arrival of the raft at Lamourie created a sensation, while Mr.
Ford loaded me with commendations. On all sides I heard Ford's Platt
pronounced the "smartest <DW65> in the Pine Woods"--in fact I was the
Fulton of Indian Creek. I was not insensible to the praise bestowed
upon me, and enjoyed, especially, my triumph over Taydem, whose
half-malicious ridicule had stung my pride. From this time the entire
control of bringing the lumber to Lamourie was placed in my hands
until the contract was fulfilled.

Indian Creek, in its whole length, flows through a magnificent
forest. There dwells on its shore a tribe of Indians, a remnant of
the Chickasaws or Chickopees, if I remember rightly. They live in
simple huts, ten or twelve feet square, constructed of pine poles
and covered with bark. They subsist principally on the flesh of the
deer, the <DW53>, and opossum, all of which are plenty in these woods.
Sometimes they exchange venison for a little corn and whisky with
the planters on the bayous. Their usual dress is buckskin breeches
and calico hunting shirts of fantastic colors, buttoned from belt to
chin. They wear brass rings on their wrists, and in their ears and
noses. The dress of the squaws is very similar. They are fond of dogs
and horses--owning many of the latter, of a small, tough breed--and
are skillful riders. Their bridles, girths and saddles were made
of raw skins of animals; their stirrups of a certain kind of wood.
Mounted astride their ponies, men and women, I have seen them dash
out into the woods at the utmost of their speed, following narrow
winding paths, and dodging trees, in a manner that eclipsed the most
miraculous feats of civilized equestrianism. Circling away in various
directions, the forest echoing and re-echoing with their whoops, they
would presently return at the same dashing, headlong speed with which
they started. Their village was on Indian Creek, known as Indian
Castle, but their range extended to the Sabine River. Occasionally
a tribe from Texas would come over on a visit, and then there was
indeed a carnival in the "Great Pine Woods." Chief of the tribe was
Cascalla; second in rank, John Baltese, his son-in-law; with both of
whom, as with many others of the tribe, I became acquainted during
my frequent voyages down the creek with rafts. Sam and myself would
often visit them when the day's task was done. They were obedient to
the chief; the word of Cascalla was their law. They were a rude but
harmless people, and enjoyed their wild mode of life. They had little
fancy for the open country, the cleared lands on the shores of the
bayous, but preferred to hide themselves within the shadows of the
forest. They worshiped the Great Spirit, loved whisky, and were happy.

On one occasion I was present at a dance, when a roving herd from
Texas had encamped in their village. The entire carcass of a deer was
roasting before a large fire, which threw its light a long distance
among the trees under which they were assembled. When they had formed
in a ring, men and squaws alternately, a sort of Indian fiddle set up
an indescribable tune. It was a continuous, melancholy kind of wavy
sound, with the slightest possible variation. At the first note, if
indeed there was more than one note in the whole tune, they circled
around, trotting after each other, and giving utterance to a guttural,
sing-song noise, equally as nondescript as the music of the fiddle.
At the end of the third circuit, they would stop suddenly, whoop as
if their lungs would crack, then break from the ring, forming in
couples, man and squaw, each jumping backwards as far as possible from
the other, then forwards--which graceful feat having been twice or
thrice accomplished, they would form in a ring, and go trotting round
again. The best dancer appeared to be considered the one who could
whoop the loudest, jump the farthest, and utter the most excruciating
noise. At intervals, one or more would leave the dancing circle, and
going to the fire, cut from the roasting carcass a slice of venison.

In a hole, shaped like a mortar, cut in the trunk of a fallen tree,
they pounded corn with a wooden pestle, and of the meal made cake.
Alternately they danced and ate. Thus were the visitors from Texas
entertained by the dusky sons and daughters of the Chicopees, and such
is a description, as I saw it, of an Indian ball in the Pine Woods of
Avoyelles.

In the autumn, I left the mills, and was employed at the opening.
One day the mistress was urging Ford to procure a loom, in order
that Sally might commence weaving cloth for the winter garments of
the slaves. He could not imagine where one was to be found, when
I suggested that the easiest way to get one would be to make it,
informing him at the same time, that I was a sort of "Jack at all
trades," and would attempt it, with his permission. It was granted
very readily, and I was allowed to go to a neighboring planter's
to inspect one before commencing the undertaking. At length it was
finished and pronounced by Sally to be perfect. She could easily
weave her task of fourteen yards, milk the cows, and have leisure time
besides each day. It worked so well, I was continued in the employment
of making looms, which were taken down to the plantation on the bayou.

At this time one John M. Tibeats, a carpenter, came to the opening to
do some work on master's house. I was directed to quit the looms and
assist him. For two weeks I was in his company, planning and matching
boards for ceiling, a plastered room being a rare thing in the parish
of Avoyelles.

John M. Tibeats was the opposite of Ford in all respects. He was
a small, crabbed, quick-tempered, spiteful man. He had no fixed
residence that I ever heard of, but passed from one plantation to
another, wherever he could find employment. He was without standing
in the community, not esteemed by white men, nor even respected by
slaves. He was ignorant, withal, and of a revengeful disposition. He
left the parish long before I did, and I know not whether he is at
present alive or dead. Certain it is, it was a most unlucky day for
me that brought us together. During my residence with Master Ford
I had seen only the bright side of slavery. His was no heavy hand
crushing us to the earth. _He_ pointed upwards, and with benign and
cheering words addressed us as his fellow-mortals, accountable, like
himself, to the Maker of us all. I think of him with affection, and
had my family been with me, could have borne his gentle servitude,
without murmuring, all my days. But clouds were gathering in the
horizon--forerunners of a pitiless storm that was soon to break over
me. I was doomed to endure such bitter trials as the poor slave only
knows, and to lead no more the comparatively happy life which I had
led in the "Great Pine Woods."




CHAPTER VIII.

  FORD'S EMBARRASSMENTS--THE SALE TO TIBEATS--THE CHATTEL
  MORTGAGE--MISTRESS FORD'S PLANTATION ON BAYOU BOEUF--DESCRIPTION
  OF THE LATTER--FORD'S BROTHER-IN-LAW, PETER TANNER--MEETING
  WITH ELIZA--SHE STILL MOURNS FOR HER CHILDREN--FORD'S OVERSEER,
  CHAPIN--TIBEAT'S ABUSE--THE KEG OF NAILS--THE FIRST FIGHT WITH
  TIBEATS--HIS DISCOMFITURE AND CASTIGATION--THE ATTEMPT TO HANG
  ME--CHAPIN'S INTERFERENCE AND SPEECH--UNHAPPY REFLECTIONS--ABRUPT
  DEPARTURE OF TIBEATS, COOK AND RAMSAY--LAWSON AND THE BROWN
  MULE--MESSAGE TO THE PINE WOODS.


William Ford unfortunately became embarrassed in his pecuniary
affairs. A heavy judgment was rendered against him in consequence of
his having become security for his brother, Franklin Ford, residing
on Red River, above Alexandria, and who had failed to meet his
liabilities. He was also indebted to John M. Tibeats to a considerable
amount in consideration of his services in building the mills on
Indian Creek, and also a weaving-house, corn-mill and other erections
on the plantation at Bayou Boeuf, not yet completed. It was therefore
necessary, in order to meet these demands, to dispose of eighteen
slaves, myself among the number. Seventeen of them, including Sam and
Harry, were purchased by Peter Compton, a planter also residing on Red
River.

I was sold to Tibeats, in consequence, undoubtedly, of my slight skill
as a carpenter. This was in the winter of 1842. The deed of myself
from Freeman to Ford, as I ascertained from the public records in
New-Orleans on my return, was dated June 23d, 1841. At the time of my
sale to Tibeats, the price agreed to be given for me being more than
the debt, Ford took a chattel mortgage of four hundred dollars. I am
indebted for my life, as will hereafter be seen, to that mortgage.

I bade farewell to my good friends at the opening, and departed with
my new master Tibeats. We went down to the plantation on Bayou Boeuf,
distant twenty-seven miles from the Pine Woods, to complete the
unfinished contract. Bayou Boeuf is a sluggish, winding stream--one
of those stagnant bodies of water common in that region, setting back
from Red River. It stretches from a point not far from Alexandria, in
a south-easterly direction, and following its tortuous course, is more
than fifty miles in length. Large cotton and sugar plantations line
each shore, extending back to the borders of interminable swamps. It
is alive with alligators, rendering it unsafe for swine, or unthinking
slave children to stroll along its banks. Upon a bend in this bayou, a
short distance from Cheneyville, was situated the plantation of Madam
Ford--her brother, Peter Tanner, a great landholder, living on the
opposite side.

On my arrival at Bayou Boeuf, I had the pleasure of meeting Eliza,
whom I had not seen for several months. She had not pleased Mrs.
Ford, being more occupied in brooding over her sorrows than in
attending to her business, and had, in consequence, been sent down
to work in the field on the plantation. She had grown feeble and
emaciated, and was still mourning for her children. She asked me if
I had forgotten them, and a great many times inquired if I still
remembered how handsome little Emily was--how much Randall loved
her--and wondered if they were living still, and where the darlings
could then be. She had sunk beneath the weight of an excessive grief.
Her drooping form and hollow cheeks too plainly indicated that she had
well nigh reached the end of her weary road.

Ford's overseer on this plantation, and who had the exclusive
charge of it, was a Mr. Chapin, a kindly-disposed man, and a native
of Pennsylvania. In common with others, he held Tibeats in light
estimation, which fact, in connection with the four hundred dollar
mortgage, was fortunate for me.

I was now compelled to labor very hard. From earliest dawn until late
at night, I was not allowed to be a moment idle. Notwithstanding
which, Tibeats was never satisfied. He was continually cursing and
complaining. He never spoke to me a kind word. I was his faithful
slave, and earned him large wages every day, and yet I went to my
cabin nightly, loaded with abuse and stinging epithets.

We had completed the corn mill, the kitchen, and so forth, and were
at work upon the weaving-house, when I was guilty of an act, in that
State punishable with death. It was my first fight with Tibeats. The
weaving-house we were erecting stood in the orchard a few rods from
the residence of Chapin, or the "great house," as it was called. One
night, having worked until it was too dark to see, I was ordered by
Tibeats to rise very early in the morning, procure a keg of nails
from Chapin, and commence putting on the clapboards. I retired to the
cabin extremely tired, and having cooked a supper of bacon and corn
cake, and conversed a while with Eliza, who occupied the same cabin,
as also did Lawson and his wife Mary, and a slave named Bristol, laid
down upon the ground floor, little dreaming of the sufferings that
awaited me on the morrow. Before daylight I was on the piazza of the
"great house," awaiting the appearance of overseer Chapin. To have
aroused him from his slumbers and stated my errand, would have been
an unpardonable boldness. At length he came out. Taking off my hat,
I informed him Master Tibeats had directed me to call upon him for
a keg of nails. Going into the store-room, he rolled it out, at the
same time saying, if Tibeats preferred a different size, he would
endeavor to furnish them, but that I might use those until further
directed. Then mounting his horse, which stood saddled and bridled
at the door, he rode away into the field, whither the slaves had
preceded him, while I took the keg on my shoulder, and proceeding to
the weaving-house, broke in the head, and commenced nailing on the
clapboards.

As the day began to open, Tibeats came out of the house to where I
was, hard at work. He seemed to be that morning even more morose and
disagreeable than usual. He was my master, entitled by law to my flesh
and blood, and to exercise over me such tyrannical control as his mean
nature prompted; but there was no law that could prevent my looking
upon him with intense contempt. I despised both his disposition and
his intellect. I had just come round to the keg for a further supply
of nails, as he reached the weaving-house.

"I thought I told you to commence putting on weather-boards this
morning," he remarked.

"Yes, master, and I am about it," I replied.

"Where?" he demanded.

"On the other side," was my answer.

He walked round to the other side, examined my work for a while,
muttering to himself in a fault-finding tone.

"Didn't I tell you last night to get a keg of nails of Chapin?" he
broke forth again.

"Yes, master, and so I did; and overseer said he would get another
size for you, if you wanted them, when he came back from the field."

Tibeats walked to the keg, looked a moment at the contents, then
kicked it violently. Coming towards me in a great passion, he
exclaimed,

"G--d d--n you! I thought you _knowed_ something."

I made answer: "I tried to do as you told me, master. I didn't mean
anything wrong. Overseer said--" But he interrupted me with such a
flood of curses that I was unable to finish the sentence. At length he
ran towards the house, and going to the piazza, took down one of the
overseer's whips. The whip had a short wooden stock, braided over with
leather, and was loaded at the butt. The lash was three feet long, or
thereabouts, and made of raw-hide strands.

At first I was somewhat frightened, and my impulse was to run. There
was no one about except Rachel, the cook, and Chapin's wife, and
neither of them were to be seen. The rest were in the field. I knew he
intended to whip me, and it was the first time any one had attempted
it since my arrival at Avoyelles. I felt, moreover, that I had been
faithful--that I was guilty of no wrong whatever, and deserved
commendation rather than punishment. My fear changed to anger, and
before he reached me I had made up my mind fully not to be whipped,
let the result be life or death.

Winding the lash around his hand, and taking hold of the small end of
the stock, he walked up to me, and with a malignant look, ordered me
to strip.

"Master Tibeats" said I, looking him boldly in the face, "I will
_not_." I was about to say something further in justification, but
with concentrated vengeance, he sprang upon me, seizing me by the
throat with one hand, raising the whip with the other, in the act of
striking. Before the blow descended, however, I had caught him by
the collar of the coat, and drawn him closely to me. Reaching down,
I seized him by the ankle, and pushing him back with the other hand,
he fell over on the ground. Putting one arm around his leg, and
holding it to my breast, so that his head and shoulders only touched
the ground, I placed my foot upon his neck. He was completely in my
power. My blood was up. It seemed to course through my veins like
fire. In the frenzy of my madness I snatched the whip from his hand.
He struggled with all his power; swore that I should not live to see
another day; and that he would tear out my heart. But his struggles
and his threats were alike in vain. I cannot tell how many times I
struck him. Blow after blow fell fast and heavy upon his wriggling
form. At length he screamed--cried murder--and at last the blasphemous
tyrant called on God for mercy. But he who had never shown mercy did
not receive it. The stiff stock of the whip warped round his cringing
body until my right arm ached.

Until this time I had been too busy to look about me. Desisting for a
moment, I saw Mrs. Chapin looking from the window, and Rachel standing
in the kitchen door. Their attitudes expressed the utmost excitement
and alarm. His screams had been heard in the field. Chapin was coming
as fast as he could ride. I struck him a blow or two more, then pushed
him from me with such a well-directed kick that he went rolling over
on the ground.

Rising to his feet, and brushing the dirt from his hair, he stood
looking at me, pale with rage. We gazed at each other in silence. Not
a word was uttered until Chapin galloped up to us.

"What is the matter?" he cried out.

"Master Tibeats wants to whip me for using the nails you gave me," I
replied.

"What is the matter with the nails?" he inquired, turning to Tibeats.

Tibeats answered to the effect that they were too large, paying little
heed, however, to Chapin's question, but still keeping his snakish
eyes fastened maliciously on me.

"I am overseer here," Chapin began. "I told Platt to take them and
use them, and if they were not of the proper size I would get others
on returning from the field. It is not his fault. Besides, I shall
furnish such nails as I please. I hope you will understand _that_, Mr.
Tibeats."

Tibeats made no reply, but, grinding his teeth and shaking his fist,
swore he would have satisfaction, and that it was not half over yet.
Thereupon he walked away, followed by the overseer, and entered the
house, the latter talking to him all the while in a suppressed tone,
and with earnest gestures.

I remained where I was, doubting whether it was better to fly or abide
the result, whatever it might be. Presently Tibeats came out of the
house, and, saddling his horse, the only property he possessed besides
myself, departed on the road to Cheneyville.

When he was gone, Chapin came out, visibly excited, telling me not to
stir, not to attempt to leave the plantation on any account whatever.
He then went to the kitchen, and calling Rachel out, conversed with
her some time. Coming back, he again charged me with great earnestness
not to run, saying my master was a rascal; that he had left on no
good errand, and that there might be trouble before night. But at all
events, he insisted upon it, I must not stir.

As I stood there, feelings of unutterable agony overwhelmed me. I was
conscious that I had subjected myself to unimaginable punishment. The
reaction that followed my extreme ebullition of anger produced the
most painful sensations of regret. An unfriended, helpless slave--what
could I _do_, what could I _say_, to justify, in the remotest manner,
the heinous act I had committed, of resenting a _white_ man's
contumely and abuse. I tried to pray--I tried to beseech my Heavenly
Father to sustain me in my sore extremity, but emotion choked my
utterance, and I could only bow my head upon my hands and weep. For
at least an hour I remained in this situation, finding relief only
in tears, when, looking up, I beheld Tibeats, accompanied by two
horsemen, coming down the bayou. They rode into the yard, jumped from
their horses, and approached me with large whips, one of them also
carrying a coil of rope.

"Cross your hands," commanded Tibeats, with the addition of such a
shuddering expression of blasphemy as is not decorous to repeat.

"You need not bind me, Master Tibeats, I am ready to go with you
anywhere," said I.

One of his companions then stepped forward, swearing if I made the
least resistance he would break my head--he would tear me limb from
limb--he would cut my black throat--and giving wide scope to other
similar expressions. Perceiving any importunity altogether vain, I
crossed my hands, submitting humbly to whatever disposition they might
please to make of me. Thereupon Tibeats tied my wrists, drawing the
rope around them with his utmost strength. Then he bound my ankles
in the same manner. In the meantime the other two had slipped a cord
within my elbows, running it across my back, and tying it firmly. It
was utterly impossible to move hand or foot. With a remaining piece of
rope Tibeats made an awkward noose, and placed it about my neck.

"Now, then," inquired one of Tibeats' companions, "where shall we hang
the <DW65>?"

One proposed such a limb, extending from the body of a peach tree,
near the spot where we were standing. His comrade objected to it,
alleging it would break, and proposed another. Finally they fixed upon
the latter.

During this conversation, and all the time they were binding me, I
uttered not a word. Overseer Chapin, during the progress of the scene,
was walking hastily back and forth on the piazza. Rachel was crying
by the kitchen door, and Mrs. Chapin was still looking from the
window. Hope died within my heart. Surely my time had come. I should
never behold the light of another day--never behold the faces of my
children--the sweet anticipation I had cherished with such fondness. I
should that hour struggle through the fearful agonies of death! None
would mourn for me--none revenge me. Soon my form would be mouldering
in that distant soil, or, perhaps, be cast to the slimy reptiles
that filled the stagnant waters of the bayou! Tears flowed down my
cheeks, but they only afforded a subject of insulting comment for my
executioners.

[Illustration: CHAPIN RESCUES SOLOMON FROM HANGING.]

At length, as they were dragging me towards the tree, Chapin, who had
momentarily disappeared from the piazza, came out of the house and
walked towards us. He had a pistol in each hand, and as near as I can
now recall to mind, spoke in a firm, determined manner, as follows:

"Gentlemen, I have a few words to say. You had better listen to them.
Whoever moves that slave another foot from where he stands is a dead
man. In the first place, he does not deserve this treatment. It is
a shame to murder him in this manner. I never knew a more faithful
boy than Platt. You, Tibeats, are in the fault yourself. You are
pretty much of a scoundrel, and I know it, and you richly deserve the
flogging you have received. In the next place, I have been overseer
on this plantation seven years, and, in the absence of William Ford,
am master here. My duty is to protect his interests, and that duty I
shall perform. You are not responsible--you are a worthless fellow.
Ford holds a mortgage on Platt of four hundred dollars. If you hang
him he loses his debt. Until that is canceled you have no right to
take his life. You have no right to take it any way. There is a law
for the slave as well as for the white man. You are no better than a
murderer.

"As for you," addressing Cook and Ramsay, a couple of overseers from
neighboring plantations, "as for you--begone! If you have any regard
for your own safety, I say, begone."

Cook and Ramsay, without a further word, mounted their horses and rode
away. Tibeats, in a few minutes, evidently in fear, and overawed by
the decided tone of Chapin, sneaked off like a coward, as he was, and
mounting his horse, followed his companions.

I remained standing where I was, still bound, with the rope around my
neck. As soon as they were gone, Chapin called Rachel, ordering her to
run to the field, and tell Lawson to hurry to the house without delay,
and bring the brown mule with him, an animal much prized for its
unusual fleetness. Presently the boy appeared.

"Lawson," said Chapin, "you must go to the Pine Woods. Tell your
master Ford to come here at once--that he must not delay a single
moment. Tell him they are trying to murder Platt. Now hurry, boy. Be
at the Pine Woods by noon if you kill the mule."

Chapin stepped into the house and wrote a pass. When he returned,
Lawson was at the door, mounted on his mule. Receiving the pass, he
plied the whip right smartly to the beast, dashed out of the yard, and
turning up the bayou on a hard gallop, in less time than it has taken
me to describe the scene, was out of sight.




CHAPTER IX.

  THE HOT SUN--YET BOUND--THE CORDS SINK INTO MY FLESH--CHAPIN'S
  UNEASINESS--SPECULATION--RACHEL, AND HER CUP OF WATER--SUFFERING
  INCREASES--THE HAPPINESS OF SLAVERY--ARRIVAL OF FORD--HE CUTS THE
  CORDS WHICH BIND ME, AND TAKES THE ROPE FROM MY NECK--MISERY--THE
  GATHERING OF THE SLAVES IN ELIZA'S CABIN--THEIR KINDNESS--RACHEL
  REPEATS THE OCCURRENCES OF THE DAY--LAWSON ENTERTAINS HIS COMPANIONS
  WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HIS RIDE--CHAPIN'S APPREHENSIONS OF TIBEATS--HIRED
  TO PETER TANNER--PETER EXPOUNDS THE SCRIPTURES--DESCRIPTION OF THE
  STOCKS.


As the sun approached the meridian that day it became insufferably
warm. Its hot rays scorched the ground. The earth almost blistered
the foot that stood upon it. I was without coat or hat, standing
bare-headed, exposed to its burning blaze. Great drops of perspiration
rolled down my face, drenching the scanty apparel wherewith I was
clothed. Over the fence, a very little way off, the peach trees cast
their cool, delicious shadows on the grass. I would gladly have
given a long year of service to have been enabled to exchange the
heated oven, as it were, wherein I stood, for a seat beneath their
branches. But I was yet bound, the rope still dangling from my neck,
and standing in the same tracks where Tibeats and his comrades left
me. I could not move an inch, so firmly had I been bound. To have been
enabled to lean against the weaving house would have been a luxury
indeed. But it was far beyond my reach, though distant less than
twenty feet. I wanted to lie down, but knew I could not rise again.
The ground was so parched and boiling hot I was aware it would but
add to the discomfort of my situation. If I could have only moved my
position, however slightly, it would have been relief unspeakable.
But the hot rays of a southern sun, beating all the long summer day
on my bare head, produced not half the suffering I experienced from
my aching limbs. My wrists and ankles, and the cords of my legs and
arms began to swell, burying the rope that bound them into the swollen
flesh.

All day Chapin walked back and forth upon the stoop, but not once
approached me. He appeared to be in a state of great uneasiness,
looking first towards me, and then up the road, as if expecting some
arrival every moment. He did not go to the field, as was his custom.
It was evident from his manner that he supposed Tibeats would return
with more and better armed assistance, perhaps, to renew the quarrel,
and it was equally evident he had prepared his mind to defend my life
at whatever hazard. Why he did not relieve me--why he suffered me to
remain in agony the whole weary day, I never knew. It was not for
want of sympathy, I am certain. Perhaps he wished Ford to see the
rope about my neck, and the brutal manner in which I had been bound;
perhaps his interference with another's property in which he had no
legal interest might have been a trespass, which would have subjected
him to the penalty of the law. Why Tibeats was all day absent was
another mystery I never could divine. He knew well enough that Chapin
would not harm him unless he persisted in his design against me.
Lawson told me afterwards, that, as he passed the plantation of John
David Cheney, he saw the three, and that they turned and looked after
him as he flew by. I think his supposition was, that Lawson had been
sent out by Overseer Chapin to arouse the neighboring planters, and to
call on them to come to his assistance. He, therefore, undoubtedly,
acted on the principle, that "discretion is the better part of valor,"
and kept away.

But whatever motive may have governed the cowardly and malignant
tyrant, it is of no importance. There I still stood in the noon-tide
sun, groaning with pain. From long before daylight I had not eaten a
morsel. I was growing faint from pain, and thirst, and hunger. Once
only, in the very hottest portion of the day, Rachel, half fearful she
was acting contrary to the overseer's wishes, ventured to me, and held
a cup of water to my lips. The humble creature never knew, nor could
she comprehend if she had heard them, the blessings I invoked upon
her, for that balmy draught. She could only say, "Oh, Platt, how I do
pity you," and then hastened back to her labors in the kitchen.

Never did the sun move so slowly through the heavens--never did it
shower down such fervent and fiery rays, as it did that day. At
least, so it appeared to me. What my meditations were--the innumerable
thoughts that thronged through my distracted brain--I will not attempt
to give expression to. Suffice it to say, during the whole long day I
came not to the conclusion, even once, that the southern slave, fed,
clothed, whipped and protected by his master, is happier than the
free  citizen of the North. To that conclusion I have never
since arrived. There are many, however, even in the Northern States,
benevolent and well-disposed men, who will pronounce my opinion
erroneous, and gravely proceed to substantiate the assertion with an
argument. Alas! they have never drunk, as I have, from the bitter cup
of slavery. Just at sunset my heart leaped with unbounded joy, as Ford
came riding into the yard, his horse covered with foam. Chapin met him
at the door, and after conversing a short time, he walked directly to
me.

"Poor Platt, you are in a bad state," was the only expression that
escaped his lips.

"Thank God!" said I, "thank God, Master Ford, that you have come at
last."

Drawing a knife from his pocket, he indignantly cut the cord from
my wrists, arms, and ankles, and slipped the noose from my neck.
I attempted to walk, but staggered like a drunken man, and fell
partially to the ground.

Ford returned immediately to the house, leaving me alone again. As
he reached the piazza, Tibeats and his two friends rode up. A long
dialogue followed. I could hear the sound of their voices, the mild
tones of Ford mingling with the angry accents of Tibeats, but was
unable to distinguish what was said. Finally the three departed again,
apparently not well pleased.

I endeavored to raise the hammer, thinking to show Ford how willing I
was to work, by proceeding with my labors on the weaving house, but
it fell from my nerveless hand. At dark I crawled into the cabin, and
laid down. I was in great misery--all sore and swollen--the slightest
movement producing excruciating suffering. Soon the hands came in
from the field. Rachel, when she went after Lawson, had told them
what had happened. Eliza and Mary broiled me a piece of bacon, but my
appetite was gone. Then they scorched some corn meal and made coffee.
It was all that I could take. Eliza consoled me and was very kind.
It was not long before the cabin was full of slaves. They gathered
round me, asking many questions about the difficulty with Tibeats in
the morning--and the particulars of all the occurrences of the day.
Then Rachel came in, and in her simple language, repeated it over
again--dwelling emphatically on the kick that sent Tibeats rolling
over on the ground--whereupon there was a general titter throughout
the crowd. Then she described how Chapin walked out with his pistols
and rescued me, and how Master Ford cut the ropes with his knife, just
as if he was mad.

By this time Lawson had returned. He had to regale them with an
account of his trip to the Pine Woods--how the brown mule bore him
faster than a "streak o'lightnin"--how he astonished everybody as he
flew along--how Master Ford started right away--how he said Platt was
a good <DW65>, and they shouldn't kill him, concluding with pretty
strong intimations that there was not another human being in the wide
world, who could have created such a universal sensation on the road,
or performed such a marvelous John Gilpin feat, as he had done that
day on the brown mule.

The kind creatures loaded me with the expression of their
sympathy--saying, Tibeats was a hard, cruel man, and hoping "Massa
Ford" would get me back again. In this manner they passed the time,
discussing, chatting, talking over and over again the exciting affair,
until suddenly Chapin presented himself at the cabin door and called
me.

"Platt," said he, "you will sleep on the floor in the great house
to-night; bring your blanket with you."

I arose as quickly as I was able, took my blanket in my hand, and
followed him. On the way he informed me that he should not wonder
if Tibeats was back again before morning--that he intended to kill
me--and that he did not mean he should do it without witnesses. Had he
stabbed me to the heart in the presence of a hundred slaves, not one
of them, by the laws of Louisiana, could have given evidence against
him. I laid down on the floor in the "great house"--the first and
the last time such a sumptuous resting place was granted me during
my twelve years of bondage--and tried to sleep. Near midnight the
dog began to bark. Chapin arose, looked from the window, but could
discover nothing. At length the dog was quiet. As he returned to his
room, he said,

"I believe, Platt, that scoundrel is skulking about the premises
somewhere. If the dog barks again, and I am sleeping, wake me."

I promised to do so. After the lapse of an hour or more, the dog
re-commenced his clamor, running towards the gate, then back again,
all the while barking furiously.

Chapin was out of bed without waiting to be called. On this occasion,
he stepped forth upon the piazza, and remained standing there a
considerable length of time. Nothing, however, was to be seen, and
the dog returned to his kennel. We were not disturbed again during
the night. The excessive pain that I suffered, and the dread of
some impending danger, prevented any rest whatever. Whether or not
Tibeats did actually return to the plantation that night, seeking an
opportunity to wreak his vengeance upon me, is a secret known only
to himself, perhaps. I thought then, however, and have the strong
impression still, that he was there. At all events, he had the
disposition of an assassin--cowering before a brave man's words, but
ready to strike his helpless or unsuspecting victim in the back, as I
had reason afterwards to know.

At daylight in the morning, I arose, sore and weary, having rested
little. Nevertheless, after partaking breakfast, which Mary and Eliza
had prepared for me in the cabin, I proceeded to the weaving house
and commenced the labors of another day. It was Chapin's practice, as
it is the practice of overseers generally, immediately on arising,
to bestride his horse, always saddled and bridled and ready for
him--the particular business of some slave--and ride into the field.
This morning, on the contrary, he came to the weaving house, asking
if I had seen anything of Tibeats yet. Replying in the negative, he
remarked there was something not right about the fellow--there was bad
blood in him--that I must keep a sharp watch of him, or he would do me
wrong some day when I least expected it.

While he was yet speaking, Tibeats rode in, hitched his horse, and
entered the house. I had little fear of him while Ford and Chapin were
at hand, but they could not be near me always.

Oh! how heavily the weight of slavery pressed upon me then. I must
toil day after day, endure abuse and taunts and scoffs, sleep on
the hard ground, live on the coarsest fare, and not only this, but
live the slave of a blood-seeking wretch, of whom I must stand
henceforth in continued fear and dread. Why had I not died in my young
years--before God had given me children to love and live for? What
unhappiness and suffering and sorrow it would have prevented. I sighed
for liberty; but the bondman's chain was round me, and could not be
shaken off. I could only gaze wistfully towards the North, and think
of the thousands of miles that stretched between me and the soil of
freedom, over which a _black_ freeman may not pass.

Tibeats, in the course of half an hour, walked over to the
weaving-house, looked at me sharply, then returned without saying
anything. Most of the forenoon he sat on the piazza, reading a
newspaper and conversing with Ford. After dinner, the latter left for
the Pine Woods, and it was indeed with regret that I beheld him depart
from the plantation.

Once more during the day Tibeats came to me, gave me some order, and
returned.

During the week the weaving-house was completed--Tibeats in the
meantime making no allusion whatever to the difficulty--when I was
informed he had hired me to Peter Tanner, to work under another
carpenter by the name of Myers. This announcement was received with
gratification, as any place was desirable that would relieve me of his
hateful presence.

Peter Tanner, as the reader has already been informed, lived on the
opposite shore, and was the brother of Mistress Ford. He is one of the
most extensive planters on Bayou Boeuf, and owns a large number of
slaves.

Over I went to Tanner's, joyfully enough. He had heard of my late
difficulties--in fact, I ascertained the flogging of Tibeats was
soon blazoned far and wide. This affair, together with my rafting
experiment, had rendered me somewhat notorious. More than once I
heard it said that Platt Ford, now Platt Tibeats--a slave's name
changes with his change of master--was "a devil of a <DW65>." But I
was destined to make a still further noise, as will presently be seen,
throughout the little world of Bayou Boeuf.

Peter Tanner endeavored to impress upon me the idea that he was quite
severe, though I could perceive there was a vein of good humor in the
old fellow, after all.

"You're the <DW65>," he said to me on my arrival--"You're the <DW65>
that flogged your master, eh? You're the <DW65> that kicks, and holds
carpenter Tibeats by the leg, and wallops him, are ye? I'd like to see
you hold me by the leg--I should. You're a 'portant character--you're
a great <DW65>--very remarkable <DW65>, ain't ye? _I'd_ lash
you--_I'd_ take the tantrums out of ye. Jest take hold of my leg, if
you please. None of your pranks here, my boy, remember _that_. Now
go to work, you _kickin'_ rascal," concluded Peter Tanner, unable to
suppress a half-comical grin at his own wit and sarcasm.

After listening to this salutation, I was taken charge of by Myers,
and labored under his direction for a month, to his and my own
satisfaction.

Like William Ford, his brother-in-law, Tanner was in the habit of
reading the Bible to his slaves on the Sabbath, but in a somewhat
different spirit. He was an impressive commentator on the New
Testament. The first Sunday after my coming to the plantation, he
called them together, and began to read the twelfth chapter of Luke.
When he came to the 47th verse, he looked deliberately around him,
and continued--"And that servant which knew his lord's _will_,"--here
he paused, looking around more deliberately than before, and again
proceeded--"which knew his lord's _will_, and _prepared_ not
himself"--here was another pause--"_prepared_ not himself, neither did
_according_ to his will, shall be beaten with many _stripes_."

"D'ye hear that?" demanded Peter, emphatically. "_Stripes_,"
he repeated, slowly and distinctly, taking off his spectacles,
preparatory to making a few remarks.

"That <DW65> that don't take care--that don't obey his lord--that's
his master--d'ye see?--that _'ere_ <DW65> shall be beaten with many
stripes. Now, 'many' signifies a _great_ many--forty, a hundred, a
hundred and fifty lashes. _That's_ Scripter!" and so Peter continued
to elucidate the subject for a great length of time, much to the
edification of his sable audience.

At the conclusion of the exercises, calling up three of his slaves,
Warner, Will and Major, he cried out to me--

"Here, Platt, you held Tibeats by the legs; now I'll see if you can
hold these rascals in the same way, till I get back from meetin'."

Thereupon he ordered them to the stocks--a common thing on plantations
in the Red River country. The stocks are formed of two planks, the
lower one made fast at the ends to two short posts, driven firmly
into the ground. At regular distances half circles are cut in the
upper edge. The other plank is fastened to one of the posts by a
hinge, so that it can be opened or shut down, in the same manner as
the blade of a pocket-knife is shut or opened. In the lower edge of
the upper plank corresponding half circles are also cut, so that when
they close, a row of holes is formed large enough to admit a <DW64>'s
leg above the ankle, but not large enough to enable him to draw out
his foot. The other end of the upper plank, opposite the hinge, is
fastened to its post by lock and key. The slave is made to sit upon
the ground, when the uppermost plank is elevated, his legs, just above
the ankles, placed in the sub-half circles, and shutting it down
again, and locking it, he is held secure and fast. Very often the neck
instead of the ankle is enclosed. In this manner they are held during
the operation of whipping.

Warner, Will and Major, according to Tanner's account of them, were
melon-stealing, Sabbath-breaking <DW65>s, and not approving of such
wickedness, he felt it his duty to put them in the stocks. Handing
me the key, himself, Myers, Mistress Tanner and the children entered
the carriage and drove away to church at Cheneyville. When they were
gone, the boys begged me to let them out. I felt sorry to see them
sitting on the hot ground, and remembered my own sufferings in the
sun. Upon their promise to return to the stocks at any moment they
were required to do so, I consented to release them. Grateful for
the lenity shown them, and in order in some measure to repay it, they
could do no less, of course, than pilot me to the melon-patch. Shortly
before Tanner's return, they were in the stocks again. Finally he
drove up, and looking at the boys, said, with a chuckle,--

"Aha! ye havn't been strolling about much to-day, any way. _I'll_
teach you what's what. _I'll_ tire ye of eating water-melons on the
Lord's day, ye Sabbath-breaking <DW65>s."

Peter Tanner prided himself upon his strict religious observances: he
was a deacon in the church.

But I have now reached a point in the progress of my narrative, when
it becomes necessary to turn away from these light descriptions, to
the more grave and weighty matter of the second battle with Master
Tibeats, and the flight through the great Pacoudrie Swamp.




CHAPTER X.

  RETURN TO TIBEATS--IMPOSSIBILITY OF PLEASING HIM--HE ATTACKS ME
  WITH A HATCHET--THE STRUGGLE OVER THE BROAD AXE--THE TEMPTATION
  TO MURDER HIM--ESCAPE ACROSS THE PLANTATION--OBSERVATIONS FROM
  THE FENCE--TIBEATS APPROACHES, FOLLOWED BY THE HOUNDS--THEY TAKE
  MY TRACK--THEIR LOUD YELLS--THEY ALMOST OVERTAKE ME--I REACH THE
  WATER--THE HOUNDS CONFUSED--MOCCASIN SNAKES--ALLIGATORS--NIGHT
  IN THE "GREAT PACOUDRIE SWAMP"--THE SOUNDS OF LIFE--NORTH-WEST
  COURSE--EMERGE INTO THE PINE WOODS--THE SLAVE AND HIS YOUNG
  MASTER--ARRIVAL AT FORD'S--FOOD AND REST.


At the end of a month, my services being no longer required at
Tanner's I was sent over the bayou again to my master, whom I found
engaged in building the cotton press. This was situated at some
distance from the great house, in a rather retired place. I commenced
working once more in company with Tibeats, being entirely alone with
him most part of the time. I remembered the words of Chapin, his
precautions, his advice to beware, lest in some unsuspecting moment
he might injure me. They were always in my mind, so that I lived in a
most uneasy state of apprehension and fear. One eye was on my work,
the other on my master. I determined to give him no cause of offence,
to work still more diligently, if possible, than I had done, to bear
whatever abuse he might heap upon me, save bodily injury, humbly and
patiently, hoping thereby to soften in some degree his manner towards
me, until the blessed time might come when I should be delivered from
his clutches.

The third morning after my return, Chapin left the plantation for
Cheneyville, to be absent until night. Tibeats, on that morning, was
attacked with one of those periodical fits of spleen and ill-humor to
which he was frequently subject, rendering him still more disagreeable
and venomous than usual.

It was about nine o'clock in the forenoon, when I was busily employed
with the jack-plane on one of the sweeps. Tibeats was standing by the
work-bench, fitting a handle into the chisel, with which he had been
engaged previously in cutting the thread of the screw.

"You are not planing that down enough," said he.

"It is just even with the line," I replied.

"You're a d--d liar," he exclaimed passionately.

"Oh, well, master," I said, mildly, "I will plane it down more if you
say so," at the same time proceeding to do as I supposed he desired.
Before one shaving had been removed, however, he cried out, saying I
had now planed it too deep--it was too small--I had spoiled the sweep
entirely. Then followed curses and imprecations. I had endeavored to
do exactly as he directed, but nothing would satisfy the unreasonable
man. In silence and in dread I stood by the sweep, holding the
jack-plane in my hand, not knowing what to do, and not daring to be
idle. His anger grew more and more violent, until, finally, with an
oath, such a bitter, frightful oath as only Tibeats could utter, he
seized a hatchet from the work-bench and darted towards me, swearing
he would cut my head open.

It was a moment of life or death. The sharp, bright blade of the
hatchet glittered in the sun. In another instant it would be buried in
my brain, and yet in that instant--so quick will a man's thoughts come
to him in such a fearful strait--I reasoned with myself. If I stood
still, my doom was certain; if I fled, ten chances to one the hatchet,
flying from his hand with a too-deadly and unerring aim, would strike
me in the back. There was but one course to take. Springing towards
him with all my power, and meeting him full half-way, before he could
bring down the blow, with one hand I caught his uplifted arm, with the
other seized him by the throat. We stood looking each other in the
eyes. In his I could see murder. I felt as if I had a serpent by the
neck, watching the slightest relaxation of my gripe, to coil itself
round my body, crushing and stinging it to death. I thought to scream
aloud, trusting that some ear might catch the sound--but Chapin was
away; the hands were in the field; there was no living soul in sight
or hearing.

The good genius, which thus far through life has saved me from the
hands of violence, at that moment suggested a lucky thought. With a
vigorous and sudden kick, that brought him on one knee, with a groan,
I released my hold upon his throat, snatched the hatchet, and cast it
beyond reach.

Frantic with rage, maddened beyond control, he seized a white oak
stick, five feet long, perhaps, and as large in circumference as his
hand could grasp, which was lying on the ground. Again he rushed
towards me, and again I met him, seized him about the waist, and being
the stronger of the two, bore him to the earth. While in that position
I obtained possession of the stick, and rising, cast it from me, also.

He likewise arose and ran for the broad-axe, on the work-bench.
Fortunately, there was a heavy plank lying upon its broad blade, in
such a manner that he could not extricate it, before I had sprung upon
his back. Pressing him down closely and heavily on the plank, so that
the axe was held more firmly to its place, I endeavored, but in vain,
to break his grasp upon the handle. In that position we remained some
minutes.

There have been hours in my unhappy life, many of them, when the
contemplation of death as the end of earthly sorrow--of the grave as
a resting place for the tired and worn out body--has been pleasant to
dwell upon. But such contemplations vanish in the hour of peril. No
man, in his full strength, can stand undismayed, in the presence of
the "king of terrors." Life is dear to every living thing; the worm
that crawls upon the ground will struggle for it. At that moment it
was dear to me, enslaved and treated as I was.

Not able to unloose his hand, once more I seized him by the throat,
and this time, with a vice-like gripe that soon relaxed his hold.
He became pliant and unstrung. His face, that had been white with
passion, was now black from suffocation. Those small serpent eyes
that spat such venom, were now full of horror--two great white orbs
starting from their sockets!

There was "a lurking devil" in my heart that prompted me to kill the
human blood-hound on the spot--to retain the grip on his accursed
throat till the breath of life was gone! I dared not murder him,
and I dared not let him live. If I killed him, my life must pay the
forfeit--if he lived, my life only would satisfy his vengeance. A
voice within whispered me to fly. To be a wanderer among the swamps,
a fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth, was preferable to
the life that I was leading.

My resolution was soon formed, and swinging him from the work-bench
to the ground, I leaped a fence near by, and hurried across the
plantation, passing the slaves at work in the cotton field. At the end
of a quarter of a mile I reached the wood-pasture, and it was a short
time indeed that I had been running it. Climbing on to a high fence, I
could see the cotton press, the great house, and the space between.
It was a conspicuous position, from whence the whole plantation was
in view. I saw Tibeats cross the field towards the house, and enter
it--then he came out, carrying his saddle, and presently mounted his
horse and galloped away.

I was desolate, but thankful. Thankful that my life was
spared,--desolate and discouraged with the prospect before me. What
would become of me? Who would befriend me? Whither should I fly?
Oh, God! Thou who gavest me life, and implanted in my bosom the
love of life--who filled it with emotions such as other men, thy
creatures, have, do not forsake me. Have pity on the poor slave--let
me not perish. If thou dost not protect me, I am lost--lost! Such
supplications, silently and unuttered, ascended from my inmost heart
to Heaven. But there was no answering voice--no sweet, low tone,
coming down from on high, whispering to my soul, "It is I, be not
afraid." I was the forsaken of God, it seemed--the despised and hated
of men!

In about three-fourths of an hour several of the slaves shouted and
made signs for me to run. Presently, looking up the bayou, I saw
Tibeats and two others on horse-back, coming at a fast gait, followed
by a troop of dogs. There were as many as eight or ten. Distant as I
was, I knew them. They belonged on the adjoining plantation. The dogs
used on Bayou Boeuf for hunting slaves are a kind of blood-hound,
but a far more savage breed than is found in the Northern States.
They will attack a <DW64>, at their master's bidding, and cling
to him as the common bull-dog will cling to a four footed animal.
Frequently their loud bay is heard in the swamps, and then there is
speculation as to what point the runaway will be overhauled--the same
as a New-York hunter stops to listen to the hounds coursing along the
hillsides, and suggests to his companion that the fox will be taken
at such a place. I never knew a slave escaping with his life from
Bayou Boeuf. One reason is, they are not allowed to learn the art
of swimming, and are incapable of crossing the most inconsiderable
stream. In their flight they can go in no direction but a little
way without coming to a bayou, when the inevitable alternative is
presented, of being drowned or overtaken by the dogs. In youth I had
practised in the clear streams that flow through my native district,
until I had become an expert swimmer, and felt at home in the watery
element.

I stood upon the fence until the dogs had reached the cotton press. In
an instant more, their long, savage yells announced they were on my
track. Leaping down from my position, I ran towards the swamp. Fear
gave me strength, and I exerted it to the utmost. Every few moments I
could hear the yelpings of the dogs. They were gaining upon me. Every
howl was nearer and nearer. Each moment I expected they would spring
upon my back--expected to feel their long teeth sinking into my flesh.
There were so many of them, I knew they would tear me to pieces, that
they would worry me, at once, to death. I gasped for breath--gasped
forth a half-uttered, choking prayer to the Almighty to save me--to
give me strength to reach some wide, deep bayou where I could throw
them off the track, or sink into its waters. Presently I reached
a thick palmetto bottom. As I fled through them they made a loud
rustling noise, not loud enough, however, to drown the voices of the
dogs.

Continuing my course due south, as nearly as I can judge, I came at
length to water just over shoe. The hounds at that moment could not
have been five rods behind me. I could hear them crashing and plunging
through the palmettoes, their loud, eager yells making the whole swamp
clamorous with the sound. Hope revived a little as I reached the
water. If it were only deeper, they might lose the scent, and thus
disconcerted, afford me the opportunity of evading them. Luckily, it
grew deeper the farther I proceeded--now over my ankles--now half-way
to my knees--now sinking a moment to my waist, and then emerging
presently into more shallow places. The dogs had not gained upon me
since I struck the water. Evidently they were confused. Now their
savage intonations grew more and more distant, assuring me that I was
leaving them. Finally I stopped to listen, but the long howl came
booming on the air again, telling me I was not yet safe. From bog to
bog, where I had stepped, they could still keep upon the track, though
impeded by the water. At length, to my great joy, I came to a wide
bayou, and plunging in, had soon stemmed its sluggish current to
the other side. There, certainly, the dogs would be confounded--the
current carrying down the stream all traces of that slight, mysterious
scent, which enables the quick-smelling hound to follow in the track
of the fugitive.

After crossing this bayou the water became so deep I could not run. I
was now in what I afterwards learned was the "Great Pacoudrie Swamp."
It was filled with immense trees--the sycamore, the gum, the cotton
wood and cypress, and extends, I am informed, to the shore of the
Calcasieu river. For thirty or forty miles it is without inhabitants,
save wild beasts--the bear, the wild-cat, the tiger, and great slimy
reptiles, that are crawling through it everywhere. Long before I
reached the bayou, in fact, from the time I struck the water until I
emerged from the swamp on my return, these reptiles surrounded me. I
saw hundreds of moccasin snakes. Every log and bog--every trunk of a
fallen tree, over which I was compelled to step or climb, was alive
with them. They crawled away at my approach, but sometimes in my
haste, I almost placed my hand or foot upon them. They are poisonous
serpents--their bite more fatal than the rattlesnake's. Besides, I had
lost one shoe, the sole having come entirely off, leaving the upper
only dangling to my ankle.

I saw also many alligators, great and small, lying in the water, or
on pieces of floodwood. The noise I made usually startled them,
when they moved off and plunged into the deepest places. Sometimes,
however, I would come directly upon a monster before observing it. In
such cases, I would start back, run a short way round, and in that
manner shun them. Straight forward, they will run a short distance
rapidly, but do not possess the power of turning. In a crooked race,
there is no difficulty in evading them.

About two o'clock in the afternoon, I heard the last of the hounds.
Probably they did not cross the bayou. Wet and weary, but relieved
from the sense of instant peril, I continued on, more cautious and
afraid, however, of the snakes and alligators than I had been in the
earlier portion of my flight. Now, before stepping into a muddy pool,
I would strike the water with a stick. If the waters moved, I would go
around it, if not, would venture through.

At length the sun went down, and gradually night's trailing mantle
shrouded the great swamp in darkness. Still I staggered on, fearing
every instant I should feel the dreadful sting of the moccasin, or
be crushed within the jaws of some disturbed alligator. The dread of
them now almost equaled the fear of the pursuing hounds. The moon
arose after a time, its mild light creeping through the overspreading
branches, loaded with long, pendent moss. I kept traveling forwards
until after midnight, hoping all the while that I would soon emerge
into some less desolate and dangerous region. But the water grew
deeper and the walking more difficult than ever. I perceived it
would be impossible to proceed much farther, and knew not, moreover,
what hands I might fall into, should I succeed in reaching a human
habitation. Not provided with a pass, any white man would be at
liberty to arrest me, and place me in prison until such time as my
master should "prove property, pay charges, and take me away." I was
an estray, and if so unfortunate as to meet a law-abiding citizen of
Louisiana, he would deem it his duty to his neighbor, perhaps, to put
me forthwith in the pound. Really, it was difficult to determine which
I had most reason to fear--dogs, alligators or men!

After midnight, however, I came to a halt. Imagination cannot picture
the dreariness of the scene. The swamp was resonant with the quacking
of innumerable ducks! Since the foundation of the earth, in all
probability, a human footstep had never before so far penetrated the
recesses of the swamp. It was not silent now--silent to a degree that
rendered it oppressive,--as it was when the sun was shining in the
heavens. My midnight intrusion had awakened the feathered tribes,
which seemed to throng the morass in hundreds of thousands, and their
garrulous throats poured forth such multitudinous sounds--there was
such a fluttering of wings--such sullen plunges in the water all
around me--that I was affrighted and appalled. All the fowls of
the air, and all the creeping things of the earth appeared to have
assembled together in that particular place, for the purpose of
filling it with clamor and confusion. Not by human dwellings--not in
crowded cities alone, are the sights and sounds of life. The wildest
places of the earth are full of them. Even in the heart of that dismal
swamp, God had provided a refuge and a dwelling place for millions of
living things.

The moon had now risen above the trees, when I resolved upon a new
project. Thus far I had endeavored to travel as nearly south as
possible. Turning about I proceeded in a north-west direction, my
object being to strike the Pine Woods in the vicinity of Master
Ford's. Once within the shadow of his protection, I felt I would be
comparatively safe.

My clothes were in tatters, my hands, face, and body covered with
scratches, received from the sharp knots of fallen trees, and in
climbing over piles of brush and floodwood. My bare foot was full of
thorns. I was besmeared with muck and mud, and the green slime that
had collected on the surface of the dead water, in which I had been
immersed to the neck many times during the day and night. Hour after
hour, and tiresome indeed had they become, I continued to plod along
on my north-west course. The water began to grow less deep, and the
ground more firm under my feet. At last I reached the Pacoudrie, the
same wide bayou I had swam while "outward bound." I swam it again, and
shortly after thought I heard a cock crow, but the sound was faint,
and it might have been a mockery of the ear. The water receded from
my advancing footsteps--now I had left the bogs behind me--now I was
on dry land that gradually ascended to the plain, and I knew I was
somewhere in the "Great Pine Woods."

Just at day-break I came to an opening--a sort of small
plantation--but one I had never seen before. In the edge of the woods
I came upon two men, a slave and his young master, engaged in catching
wild hogs. The white man I knew would demand my pass, and not able
to give him one, would take me into possession. I was too wearied to
run again, and too desperate to be taken, and therefore adopted a
ruse that proved entirely successful. Assuming a fierce expression, I
walked directly towards him, looking him steadily in the face. As I
approached, he moved backwards with an air of alarm. It was plain he
was much affrighted--that he looked upon me as some infernal goblin,
just arisen from the bowels of the swamp!

"Where does William Ford live?" I demanded, in no gentle tone.

"He lives seven miles from here," was the reply.

"Which is the way to his place?" I again demanded, trying to look more
fiercely than ever.

"Do you see those pine trees yonder?" he asked, pointing to two, a
mile distant, that rose far above their fellows, like a couple of tall
sentinels, overlooking the broad expanse of forest.

"I see them," was the answer.

"At the feet of those pine trees," he continued, "runs the Texas road.
Turn to the left, and it will lead you to William Ford's."

Without farther parley, I hastened forward, happy as he was, no doubt,
to place the widest possible distance between us. Striking the Texas
road, I turned to the left hand, as directed, and soon passed a great
fire, where a pile of logs were burning. I went to it, thinking I
would dry my clothes; but the gray light of the morning was fast
breaking away,--some passing white man might observe me; besides, the
heat overpowered me with the desire of sleep: so, lingering no longer,
I continued my travels, and finally, about eight o'clock, reached the
house of Master Ford.

The slaves were all absent from the quarters, at their work. Stepping
on to the piazza, I knocked at the door, which was soon opened by
Mistress Ford. My appearance was so changed--I was in such a wobegone
and forlorn condition, she did not know me. Inquiring if Master Ford
was at home, that good man made his appearance, before the question
could be answered. I told him of my flight, and all the particulars
connected with it. He listened attentively, and when I had concluded,
spoke to me kindly and sympathetically, and taking me to the kitchen,
called John, and ordered him to prepare me food. I had tasted nothing
since daylight the previous morning.

When John had set the meal before me, the madam came out with a bowl
of milk, and many little delicious dainties, such as rarely please the
palate of a slave. I was hungry, and I was weary, but neither food nor
rest afforded half the pleasure as did the blessed voices speaking
kindness and consolation. It was the oil and the wine which the Good
Samaritan in the "Great Pine Woods" was ready to pour into the wounded
spirit of the slave, who came to him, stripped of his raiment and
half-dead.

They left me in the cabin, that I might rest. Blessed be sleep! It
visiteth all alike, descending as the dews of heaven on the bond and
free. Soon it nestled to my bosom, driving away the troubles that
oppressed it, and bearing me to that shadowy region, where I saw again
the faces, and listened to the voices of my children, who, alas, for
aught I knew in my waking hours, had fallen into the arms of that
_other_ sleep, from which they _never_ would arouse.




CHAPTER XI.

  THE MISTRESS' GARDEN--THE CRIMSON AND GOLDEN FRUIT--ORANGE AND
  POMEGRANATE TREES--RETURN TO BAYOU BOEUF--MASTER FORD'S REMARKS ON
  THE WAY--THE MEETING WITH TIBEATS--HIS ACCOUNT OF THE CHASE--FORD
  CENSURES HIS BRUTALITY--ARRIVAL AT THE PLANTATION--ASTONISHMENT OF
  THE SLAVES ON SEEING ME--THE ANTICIPATED FLOGGING--KENTUCKY JOHN--MR.
  ELDRET, THE PLANTER--ELDRET'S SAM--TRIP TO THE "BIG CANE BRAKE"--THE
  TRADITION OF "SUTTON'S FIELD"--FOREST TREES--GNATS AND MOSQUITOS--THE
  ARRIVAL OF BLACK WOMEN IN THE BIG CANE--LUMBER WOMEN--SUDDEN
  APPEARANCE OF TIBEATS--HIS PROVOKING TREATMENT--VISIT TO BAYOU
  BOEUF--THE SLAVE PASS--SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY--THE LAST OF ELIZA--SALE
  TO EDWIN EPPS.


After a long sleep, sometime in the afternoon I awoke, refreshed, but
very sore and stiff. Sally came in and talked with me, while John
cooked me some dinner. Sally was in great trouble, as well as myself,
one of her children being ill, and she feared it could not survive.
Dinner over, after walking about the quarters for a while, visiting
Sally's cabin and looking at the sick child, I strolled into the
madam's garden. Though it was a season of the year when the voices
of the birds are silent, and the trees are stripped of their summer
glories in more frigid climes, yet the whole variety of roses were
then blooming there, and the long, luxuriant vines creeping over
the frames. The crimson and golden fruit hung half hidden amidst the
younger and older blossoms of the peach, the orange, the plum, and
the pomegranate; for, in that region of almost perpetual warmth, the
leaves are falling and the buds bursting into bloom the whole year
long.

I indulged the most grateful feelings towards Master and Mistress
Ford, and wishing in some manner to repay their kindness, commenced
trimming the vines, and afterwards weeding out the grass from among
the orange and pomegranate trees. The latter grows eight or ten feet
high, and its fruit, though larger, is similar in appearance to the
jelly-flower. It has the luscious flavor of the strawberry. Oranges,
peaches, plums, and most other fruits are indigenous to the rich,
warm soil of Avoyelles; but the apple, the most common of them all in
colder latitudes, is rarely to be seen.

Mistress Ford came out presently, saying it was praise-worthy in me,
but I was not in a condition to labor, and might rest myself at the
quarters until master should go down to Bayou Boeuf, which would not
be that day, and it might not be the next. I said to her--to be sure,
I felt bad, and was stiff, and that my foot pained me, the stubs and
thorns having so torn it, but thought such exercise would not hurt
me, and that it was a great pleasure to work for so good a mistress.
Thereupon she returned to the great house, and for three days I was
diligent in the garden, cleaning the walks, weeding the flower beds,
and pulling up the rank grass beneath the jessamine vines, which the
gentle and generous hand of my protectress had taught to clamber along
the walls.

The fourth morning, having become recruited and refreshed, Master Ford
ordered me to make ready to accompany him to the bayou. There was but
one saddle horse at the opening, all the others with the mules having
been sent down to the plantation. I said I could walk, and bidding
Sally and John goodbye, left the opening, trotting along by the
horse's side.

That little paradise in the Great Pine Woods was the oasis in the
desert, towards which my heart turned lovingly, during many years
of bondage. I went forth from it now with regret and sorrow, not so
overwhelming, however, as if it had then been given me to know that I
should never return to it again.

Master Ford urged me to take his place occasionally on the horse, to
rest me; but I said no, I was not tired, and it was better for me to
walk than him. He said many kind and cheering things to me on the
way, riding slowly, in order that I might keep pace with him. The
goodness of God was manifest, he declared, in my miraculous escape
from the swamp. As Daniel came forth unharmed from the den of lions,
and as Jonah had been preserved in the whale's belly, even so had
I been delivered from evil by the Almighty. He interrogated me in
regard to the various fears and emotions I had experienced during the
day and night, and if I had felt, at any time, a desire to pray. I
felt forsaken of the whole world, I answered him, and was praying
mentally all the while. At such times, said he, the heart of man turns
instinctively towards his Maker. In prosperity, and when there is
nothing to injure or make him afraid, he remembers Him not, and is
ready to defy Him; but place him in the midst of dangers, cut him off
from human aid, let the grave open before him--then it is, in the time
of his tribulation, that the scoffer and unbelieving man turns to God
for help, feeling there is no other hope, or refuge, or safety, save
in his protecting arm.

So did that benignant man speak to me of this life and of the life
hereafter; of the goodness and power of God, and of the vanity of
earthly things, as we journeyed along the solitary road towards Bayou
Boeuf.

When within some five miles of the plantation, we discovered a
horseman at a distance, galloping towards us. As he came near I saw
that it was Tibeats! He looked at me a moment, but did not address
me, and turning about, rode along side by side with Ford. I trotted
silently at their horses' heels, listening to their conversation.
Ford informed him of my arrival in the Pine Woods three days before,
of the sad plight I was in, and of the difficulties and dangers I had
encountered.

"Well," exclaimed Tibeats, omitting his usual oaths in the presence
of Ford, "I never saw such running before. I'll bet him against a
hundred dollars, he'll beat any <DW65> in Louisiana. I offered John
David Cheney twenty-five dollars to catch him, dead or alive, but he
outran his dogs in a fair race. Them Cheney dogs ain't much, after
all. Dunwoodie's hounds would have had him down before he touched the
palmettoes. Somehow the dogs got off the track, and we had to give
up the hunt. We rode the horses as far as we could, and then kept on
foot till the water was three feet deep. The boys said he was drowned,
sure. I allow I wanted a shot at him mightily. Ever since, I have
been riding up and down the bayou, but had'nt much hope of catching
him--thought he was dead, _sartin_. Oh, he's a cuss to run--that
<DW65> is!"

In this way Tibeats ran on, describing his search in the swamp, the
wonderful speed with which I had fled before the hounds, and when
he had finished, Master Ford responded by saying, I had always been
a willing and faithful boy with him; that he was sorry we had such
trouble; that, according to Platt's story, he had been inhumanly
treated, and that he, Tibeats, was himself in fault. Using hatchets
and broad-axes upon slaves was shameful, and should not be allowed,
he remarked. "This is no way of dealing with them, when first brought
into the country. It will have a pernicious influence, and set them
all running away. The swamps will be full of them. A little kindness
would be far more effectual in restraining them, and rendering them
obedient, than the use of such deadly weapons. Every planter on the
bayou should frown upon such inhumanity. It is for the interest of
all to do so. It is evident enough, Mr. Tibeats, that you and Platt
cannot live together. You dislike him, and would not hesitate to
kill him, and knowing it, he will run from you again through fear
of his life. Now, Tibeats, you must sell him, or hire him out, at
least. Unless you do so, I shall take measures to get him out of your
possession."

In this spirit Ford addressed him the remainder of the distance. I
opened not my mouth. On reaching the plantation they entered the
great house, while I repaired to Eliza's cabin. The slaves were
astonished to find me there, on returning from the field, supposing
I was drowned. That night, again, they gathered about the cabin to
listen to the story of my adventure. They took it for granted I would
be whipped, and that it would be severe, the well-known penalty of
running away being five hundred lashes.

"Poor fellow," said Eliza, taking me by the hand, "it would have been
better for you if you had drowned. You have a cruel master, and he
will kill you yet, I am afraid."

Lawson suggested that it might be, overseer Chapin would be appointed
to inflict the punishment, in which case it would not be severe,
whereupon Mary, Rachel, Bristol, and others hoped it would be Master
Ford, and then it would be no whipping at all. They all pitied me
and tried to console me, and were sad in view of the castigation
that awaited me, except Kentucky John. There were no bounds to his
laughter; he filled the cabin with cachinnations, holding his sides
to prevent an explosion, and the cause of his noisy mirth was the idea
of my outstripping the hounds. Somehow, he looked at the subject in a
comical light. "I _know'd_ dey would'nt cotch him, when he run cross
de plantation. O, de lor', did'nt Platt pick his feet right up, tho',
hey? When dem dogs got whar he was, he was'nt _dar_--haw, haw, haw! O,
de lor' a' mity!"--and then Kentucky John relapsed into another of his
boisterous fits.

Early the next morning, Tibeats left the plantation. In the course
of the forenoon, while sauntering about the gin-house, a tall,
good-looking man came to me, and inquired if I was Tibeats' boy, that
youthful appellation being applied indiscriminately to slaves even
though they may have passed the number of three score years and ten. I
took off my hat, and answered that I was.

"How would you like to work for me?" he inquired.

"Oh, I would like to, very much," said I, inspired with a sudden hope
of getting away from Tibeats.

"You worked under Myers at Peter Tanner's, didn't you?"

I replied I had, adding some complimentary remarks that Myers had made
concerning me.

"Well, boy," said he, "I have hired you of your master to work for me
in the "Big Cane Brake," thirty-eight miles from here, down on Red
River."

This man was Mr. Eldret, who lived below Ford's, on the same side of
the bayou. I accompanied him to his plantation, and in the morning
started with his slave Sam, and a wagon-load of provisions, drawn by
four mules, for the Big Cane, Eldret and Myers having preceded us on
horseback. This Sam was a native of Charleston, where he had a mother,
brother and sisters. He "allowed"--a common word among both black and
white--that Tibeats was a mean man, and hoped, as I most earnestly did
also, that his master would buy me.

We proceeded down the south shore of the bayou, crossing it at Carey's
plantation; from thence to Huff Power, passing which, we came upon the
Bayou Rouge road, which runs towards Red River. After passing through
Bayou Rouge Swamp, and just at sunset, turning from the highway, we
struck off into the "Big Cane Brake." We followed an unbeaten track,
scarcely wide enough to admit the wagon. The cane, such as are used
for fishing-rods, were as thick as they could stand. A person could
not be seen through them the distance of a rod. The paths of wild
beasts run through them in various directions--the bear and the
American tiger abounding in these brakes, and wherever there is a
basin of stagnant water, it is full of alligators.

We kept on our lonely course through the "Big Cane" several miles,
when we entered a clearing, known as "Sutton's Field." Many years
before, a man by the name of Sutton had penetrated the wilderness
of cane to this solitary place. Tradition has it, that he fled
thither, a fugitive, not from service, but from justice. Here he lived
alone--recluse and hermit of the swamp--with his own hands planting
the seed and gathering in the harvest. One day a band of Indians
stole upon his solitude, and after a bloody battle, overpowered and
massacred him. For miles the country round, in the slaves' quarters,
and on the piazzas of "great houses," where white children listen to
superstitious tales, the story goes, that that spot, in the heart
of the "Big Cane," is a haunted place. For more than a quarter of
a century, human voices had rarely, if ever, disturbed the silence
of the clearing. Rank and noxious weeds had overspread the once
cultivated field--serpents sunned themselves on the doorway of the
crumbling cabin. It was indeed a dreary picture of desolation.

Passing "Sutton's Field," we followed a new-cut road two miles
farther, which brought us to its termination. We had now reached
the wild lands of Mr. Eldret, where he contemplated clearing up
an extensive plantation. We went to work next morning with our
cane-knives, and cleared a sufficient space to allow the erection of
two cabins--one for Myers and Eldret, the other for Sam, myself, and
the slaves that were to join us. We were now in the midst of trees of
enormous growth, whose wide-spreading branches almost shut out the
light of the sun, while the space between the trunks was an impervious
mass of cane, with here and there an occasional palmetto.

The bay and the sycamore, the oak and the cypress, reach a growth
unparalleled, in those fertile lowlands bordering the Red River. From
every tree, moreover, hang long, large masses of moss, presenting to
the eye unaccustomed to them, a striking and singular appearance.
This moss, in large quantities, is sent north, and there used for
manufacturing purposes.

We cut down oaks, split them into rails, and with these erected
temporary cabins. We covered the roofs with the broad palmetto leaf,
an excellent substitute for shingles, as long as they last.

The greatest annoyance I met with here were small flies, gnats and
mosquitoes. They swarmed the air. They penetrated the porches of the
ear, the nose, the eyes, the mouth. They sucked themselves beneath the
skin. It was impossible to brush or beat them off. It seemed, indeed,
as if they would devour us--carry us away piecemeal, in their small
tormenting mouths.

A lonelier spot, or one more disagreeable, than the centre of the "Big
Cane Brake," it would be difficult to conceive; yet to me it was a
paradise, in comparison with any other place in the company of Master
Tibeats. I labored hard, and oft-times was weary and fatigued, yet I
could lie down at night in peace, and arise in the morning without
fear.

In the course of a fortnight, four black girls came down from Eldret's
plantation--Charlotte, Fanny, Cresia and Nelly. They were all large
and stout. Axes were put into their hands, and they were sent out
with Sam and myself to cut trees. They were excellent choppers, the
largest oak or sycamore standing but a brief season before their
heavy and well-directed blows. At piling logs, they were equal to any
man. There are lumberwomen as well as lumbermen in the forests of the
South. In fact, in the region of the Bayou Boeuf they perform their
share of all the labor required on the plantation. They plough, drag,
drive team, clear wild lands, work on the highway, and so forth. Some
planters, owning large cotton and sugar plantations, have none other
than the labor of slave women. Such a one is Jim Burns, who lives on
the north shore of the bayou, opposite the plantation of John Fogaman.

On our arrival in the brake, Eldret promised me, if I worked well, I
might go up to visit my friends at Ford's in four weeks. On Saturday
night of the fifth week, I reminded him of his promise, when he told
me I had done so well, that I might go. I had set my heart upon it,
and Eldret's announcement thrilled me with pleasure. I was to return
in time to commence the labors of the day on Tuesday morning.

While indulging the pleasant anticipation of so soon meeting my old
friends again, suddenly the hateful form of Tibeats appeared among us.
He inquired how Myers and Platt got along together, and was told, very
well, and that Platt was going up to Ford's plantation in the morning
on a visit.

"Poh, poh!" sneered Tibeats; "it isn't worth while--the <DW65> will
get unsteady. He can't go."

But Eldret insisted I had worked faithfully--that he had given me
his promise, and that, under the circumstances, I ought not to be
disappointed. They then, it being about dark, entered one cabin
and I the other. I could not give up the idea of going; it was a
sore disappointment. Before morning I resolved, if Eldret made no
objection, to leave at all hazards. At daylight I was at his door,
with my blanket rolled up into a bundle, and hanging on a stick over
my shoulder, waiting for a pass. Tibeats came out presently in one
of his disagreeable moods, washed his face, and going to a stump
near by, sat down upon it, apparently busily thinking with himself.
After standing there a long time, impelled by a sudden impulse of
impatience, I started off.

"Are you going without a pass?" he cried out to me.

"Yes, master, I thought I would," I answered.

"How do you think you'll get there?" demanded he.

"Don't know," was all the reply I made him.

"You'd be taken and sent to jail, where you ought to be, before you
got half-way there," he added, passing into the cabin as he said it.
He came out soon with the pass in his hand, and calling me a "d--d
<DW65> that deserved a hundred lashes," threw it on the ground. I
picked it up, and hurried away right speedily.

A slave caught off his master's plantation without a pass, may be
seized and whipped by any white man whom he meets. The one I now
received was dated, and read as follows:

"Platt has permission to go to Ford's plantation, on Bayou Boeuf, and
return by Tuesday morning.

                                             JOHN M. TIBEATS."

This is the usual form. On the way, a great many demanded it, read it,
and passed on. Those having the air and appearance of gentlemen, whose
dress indicated the possession of wealth, frequently took no notice of
me whatever; but a shabby fellow, an unmistakable loafer, never failed
to hail me, and to scrutinize and examine me in the most thorough
manner. Catching runaways is sometimes a money-making business. If,
after advertising, no owner appears, they may be sold to the highest
bidder; and certain fees are allowed the finder for his services, at
all events, even if reclaimed. "A mean white," therefore,--a name
applied to the species loafer--considers it a god-send to meet an
unknown <DW64> without a pass.

There are no inns along the highways in that portion of the State
where I sojourned. I was wholly destitute of money, neither did I
carry any provisions, on my journey from the Big Cane to Bayou Boeuf;
nevertheless, with his pass in his hand, a slave need never suffer
from hunger or from thirst. It is only necessary to present it to the
master or overseer of a plantation, and state his wants, when he will
be sent round to the kitchen and provided with food or shelter, as
the case may require. The traveler stops at any house and calls for
a meal with as much freedom as if it was a public tavern. It is the
general custom of the country. Whatever their faults may be, it is
certain the inhabitants along Red River, and around the bayous in the
interior of Louisiana are not wanting in hospitality.

I arrived at Ford's plantation towards the close of the afternoon,
passing the evening in Eliza's cabin, with Lawson, Rachel, and others
of my acquaintance. When we left Washington Eliza's form was round
and plump. She stood erect, and in her silks and jewels, presented
a picture of graceful strength and elegance. Now she was but a thin
shadow of her former self. Her face had become ghastly haggard, and
the once straight and active form was bowed down, as if bearing the
weight of a hundred years. Crouching on her cabin floor, and clad
in the coarse garments of a slave, old Elisha Berry would not have
recognized the mother of his child. I never saw her afterwards. Having
become useless in the cotton-field, she was bartered for a trifle, to
some man residing in the vicinity of Peter Compton's. Grief had gnawed
remorselessly at her heart, until her strength was gone; and for that,
her last master, it is said, lashed and abused her most unmercifully.
But he could not whip back the departed vigor of her youth, nor
straighten up that bended body to its full height, such as it was when
her children were around her, and the light of freedom was shining on
her path.

I learned the particulars relative to her departure from this world,
from some of Compton's slaves, who had come over Red River to the
bayou, to assist young Madam Tanner during the "busy season." She
became at length, they said, utterly helpless, for several weeks lying
on the ground floor in a dilapidated cabin, dependent upon the mercy
of her fellow-thralls for an occasional drop of water, and a morsel of
food. Her master did not "knock her on the head," as is sometimes done
to put a suffering animal out of misery, but left her unprovided for,
and unprotected, to linger through a life of pain and wretchedness to
its natural close. When the hands returned from the field one night
they found her dead! During the day, the Angel of the Lord, who moveth
invisibly over all the earth, gathering in his harvest of departing
souls, had silently entered the cabin of the dying woman, and taken
her from thence. She was _free_ at last!

Next day, rolling up my blanket, I started on my return to the Big
Cane. After traveling five miles, at a place called Huff Power, the
ever-present Tibeats met me in the road. He inquired why I was going
back so soon, and when informed I was anxious to return by the time I
was directed, he said I need go no farther than the next plantation,
as he had that day sold me to Edwin Epps. We walked down into the
yard, where we met the latter gentleman, who examined me, and asked
me the usual questions propounded by purchasers. Having been duly
delivered over, I was ordered to the quarters, and at the same time
directed to make a hoe and axe handle for myself.

I was now no longer the property of Tibeats--his dog, his brute,
dreading his wrath and cruelty day and night; and whoever or whatever
my new master might prove to be, I could not, certainly, regret the
change. So it was good news when the sale was announced, and with a
sigh of relief I sat down for the first time in my new abode.

Tibeats soon after disappeared from that section of the country.
Once afterwards, and only once, I caught a glimpse of him. It was
many miles from Bayou Boeuf. He was seated in the doorway of a low
groggery. I was passing, in a drove of slaves, through St. Mary's
parish.




CHAPTER XII.

  PERSONAL APPEARANCE OF EPPS--EPPS, DRUNK AND SOBER--A GLIMPSE
  OF HIS HISTORY--COTTON GROWING--THE MODE OF PLOUGHING AND
  PREPARING GROUND--OF PLANTING--OF HOEING, OF PICKING, OF
  TREATING RAW HANDS--THE DIFFERENCE IN COTTON PICKERS--PATSEY
  A REMARKABLE ONE--TASKED ACCORDING TO ABILITY--BEAUTY OF A
  COTTON FIELD--THE SLAVE'S LABORS--FEAR ON APPROACHING THE
  GIN-HOUSE--WEIGHING--"CHORES"--CABIN LIFE--THE CORN MILL--THE USES
  OF THE GOURD--FEAR OF OVERSLEEPING--FEAR CONTINUALLY--MODE OF
  CULTIVATING CORN--SWEET POTATOES--FERTILITY OF THE SOIL--FATTENING
  HOGS--PRESERVING BACON--RAISING CATTLE--SHOOTING-MATCHES--GARDEN
  PRODUCTS--FLOWERS AND VERDURE.


Edwin Epps, of whom much will be said during the remainder of this
history, is a large, portly, heavy-bodied man with light hair, high
cheek bones, and a Roman nose of extraordinary dimensions. He has
blue eyes, a fair complexion, and is, as I should say, full six feet
high. He has the sharp, inquisitive expression of a jockey. His
manners are repulsive and coarse, and his language gives speedy and
unequivocal evidence that he has never enjoyed the advantages of an
education. He has the faculty of saying most provoking things, in that
respect even excelling old Peter Tanner. At the time I came into his
possession, Edwin Epps was fond of the bottle, his "sprees" sometimes
extending over the space of two whole weeks. Latterly, however,
he had reformed his habits, and when I left him, was as strict a
specimen of temperance as could be found on Bayou Boeuf. When "in his
cups," Master Epps was a roystering, blustering, noisy fellow, whose
chief delight was in dancing with his "<DW65>s," or lashing them
about the yard with his long whip, just for the pleasure of hearing
them screech and scream, as the great welts were planted on their
backs. When sober, he was silent, reserved and cunning, not beating
us indiscriminately, as in his drunken moments, but sending the end
of his rawhide to some tender spot of a lagging slave, with a sly
dexterity peculiar to himself.

He had been a driver and overseer in his younger years, but at this
time was in possession of a plantation on Bayou Huff Power, two and
a half miles from Holmesville, eighteen from Marksville, and twelve
from Cheneyville. It belonged to Joseph B. Roberts, his wife's uncle,
and was leased by Epps. His principal business was raising cotton,
and inasmuch as some may read this book who have never seen a cotton
field, a description of the manner of its culture may not be out of
place.

The ground is prepared by throwing up beds or ridges, with the
plough--back-furrowing, it is called. Oxen and mules, the latter
almost exclusively, are used in ploughing. The women as frequently
as the men perform this labor, feeding, currying, and taking care of
their teams, and in all respects doing the field and stable work,
precisely as do the ploughboys of the North.

The beds, or ridges, are six feet wide, that is, from water furrow
to water furrow. A plough drawn by one mule is then run along the
top of the ridge or center of the bed, making the drill, into which
a girl usually drops the seed, which she carries in a bag hung round
her neck. Behind her comes a mule and harrow, covering up the seed,
so that two mules, three slaves, a plough and harrow, are employed
in planting a row of cotton. This is done in the months of March and
April. Corn is planted in February. When there are no cold rains,
the cotton usually makes its appearance in a week. In the course of
eight or ten days afterwards the first hoeing is commenced. This is
performed in part, also, by the aid of the plough and mule. The plough
passes as near as possible to the cotton on both sides, throwing the
furrow from it. Slaves follow with their hoes, cutting up the grass
and cotton, leaving hills two feet and a half apart. This is called
scraping cotton. In two weeks more commences the second hoeing. This
time the furrow is thrown towards the cotton. Only one stalk, the
largest, is now left standing in each hill. In another fortnight it
is hoed the third time, throwing the furrow towards the cotton in the
same manner as before, and killing all the grass between the rows.
About the first of July, when it is a foot high or thereabouts, it is
hoed the fourth and last time. Now the whole space between the rows
is ploughed, leaving a deep water furrow in the center. During all
these hoeings the overseer or driver follows the slaves on horseback
with a whip, such as has been described. The fastest hoer takes the
lead row. He is usually about a rod in advance of his companions. If
one of them passes him, he is whipped. If one falls behind or is a
moment idle, he is whipped. In fact, the lash is flying from morning
until night, the whole day long. The hoeing season thus continues from
April until July, a field having no sooner been finished once, than it
is commenced again.

In the latter part of August begins the cotton picking season. At
this time each slave is presented with a sack. A strap is fastened to
it, which goes over the neck, holding the mouth of the sack breast
high, while the bottom reaches nearly to the ground. Each one is also
presented with a large basket that will hold about two barrels. This
is to put the cotton in when the sack is filled. The baskets are
carried to the field and placed at the beginning of the rows.

When a new hand, one unaccustomed to the business, is sent for the
first time into the field, he is whipped up smartly, and made for that
day to pick as fast as he can possibly. At night it is weighed, so
that his capability in cotton picking is known. He must bring in the
same weight each night following. If it falls short, it is considered
evidence that he has been laggard, and a greater or less number of
lashes is the penalty.

An ordinary day's work is two hundred pounds. A slave who is
accustomed to picking, is punished, if he or she brings in a less
quantity than that. There is a great difference among them as regards
this kind of labor. Some of them seem to have a natural knack, or
quickness, which enables them to pick with great celerity, and with
both hands, while others, with whatever practice or industry, are
utterly unable to come up to the ordinary standard. Such hands are
taken from the cotton field and employed in other business. Patsey,
of whom I shall have more to say, was known as the most remarkable
cotton picker on Bayou Boeuf. She picked with both hands and with such
surprising rapidity, that five hundred pounds a day was not unusual
for her.

Each one is tasked, therefore, according to his picking abilities,
none, however, to come short of two hundred weight. I, being
unskillful always in that business, would have satisfied my master by
bringing in the latter quantity, while on the other hand, Patsey would
surely have been beaten if she failed to produce twice as much.

The cotton grows from five to seven feet high, each stalk having a
great many branches, shooting out in all directions, and lapping each
other above the water furrow.

There are few sights more pleasant to the eye, than a wide cotton
field when it is in the bloom. It presents an appearance of purity,
like an immaculate expanse of light, new-fallen snow.

Sometimes the slave picks down one side of a row, and back upon the
other, but more usually, there is one on either side, gathering all
that has blossomed, leaving the unopened bolls for a succeeding
picking. When the sack is filled, it is emptied into the basket and
trodden down. It is necessary to be extremely careful the first time
going through the field, in order not to break the branches off the
stalks. The cotton will not bloom upon a broken branch. Epps never
failed to inflict the severest chastisement on the unlucky servant
who, either carelessly or unavoidably, was guilty in the least degree
in this respect.

The hands are required to be in the cotton field as soon as it is
light in the morning, and, with the exception of ten or fifteen
minutes, which is given them at noon to swallow their allowance of
cold bacon, they are not permitted to be a moment idle until it is too
dark to see, and when the moon is full, they often times labor till
the middle of the night. They do not dare to stop even at dinner time,
nor return to the quarters, however late it be, until the order to
halt is given by the driver.

The day's work over in the field, the baskets are "toted," or in other
words, carried to the gin-house, where the cotton is weighed. No
matter how fatigued and weary he may be--no matter how much he longs
for sleep and rest--a slave never approaches the gin-house with his
basket of cotton but with fear. If it falls short in weight--if he
has not performed the full task appointed him, he knows that he must
suffer. And if he has exceeded it by ten or twenty pounds, in all
probability his master will measure the next day's task accordingly.
So, whether he has too little or too much, his approach to the
gin-house is always with, fear and trembling. Most frequently they
have too little, and therefore it is they are not anxious to leave
the field. After weighing, follow the whippings; and then the baskets
are carried to the cotton house, and their contents stored away like
hay, all hands being sent in to tramp it down. If the cotton is not
dry, instead of taking it to the gin-house at once, it is laid upon
platforms, two feet high, and some three times as wide, covered with
boards or plank, with narrow walks running between them.

This done, the labor of the day is not yet ended, by any means. Each
one must then attend to his respective chores. One feeds the mules,
another the swine--another cuts the wood, and so forth; besides, the
packing is all done by candle light. Finally, at a late hour, they
reach the quarters, sleepy and overcome with the long day's toil. Then
a fire must be kindled in the cabin, the corn ground in the small
hand-mill, and supper, and dinner for the next day in the field,
prepared. All that is allowed them is corn and bacon, which is given
out at the corncrib and smoke-house every Sunday morning. Each one
receives, as his weekly, allowance, three and a half pounds of bacon,
and corn enough to make a peck of meal. That is all--no tea, coffee,
sugar, and with the exception of a very scanty sprinkling now and
then, no salt. I can say, from a ten years' residence with Master
Epps, that no slave of his is ever likely to suffer from the gout,
superinduced by excessive high living. Master Epps' hogs were fed on
_shelled_ corn--it was thrown out to his "<DW65>s" in the ear. The
former, he thought, would fatten faster by shelling, and soaking it in
the water--the latter, perhaps, if treated in the same manner, might
grow too fat to labor. Master Epps was a shrewd calculator, and knew
how to manage his own animals, drunk or sober.

The corn mill stands in the yard beneath a shelter. It is like a
common coffee mill, the hopper holding about six quarts. There was
one privilege which Master Epps granted freely to every slave he had.
They might grind their corn nightly, in such small quantities as their
daily wants required, or they might grind the whole week's allowance
at one time, on Sundays, just as they preferred. A very generous man
was Master Epps!

I kept my corn in a small wooden box, the meal in a gourd; and, by the
way, the gourd is one of the most convenient and necessary utensils on
a plantation. Besides supplying the place of all kinds of crockery in
a slave cabin, it is used for carrying water to the fields. Another,
also, contains the dinner. It dispenses with the necessity of pails,
dippers, basins, and such tin and wooden superfluities altogether.

When the corn is ground, and fire is made, the bacon is taken down
from the nail on which it hangs, a slice cut off and thrown upon the
coals to broil. The majority of slaves have no knife, much less a
fork. They cut their bacon with the axe at the wood-pile. The corn
meal is mixed with a little water, placed in the fire, and baked. When
it is "done brown," the ashes are scraped off, and being placed upon a
chip, which answers for a table, the tenant of the slave hut is ready
to sit down upon the ground to supper. By this time it is usually
midnight. The same fear of punishment with which they approach the
gin-house, possesses them again on lying down to get a snatch of rest.
It is the fear of oversleeping in the morning. Such an offence would
certainly be attended with not less than twenty lashes. With a prayer
that he may be on his feet and wide awake at the first sound of the
horn, he sinks to his slumbers nightly.

The softest couches in the world are not to be found in the log
mansion of the slave. The one whereon I reclined year after year, was
a plank twelve inches wide and ten feet long. My pillow was a stick of
wood. The bedding was a coarse blanket, and not a rag or shred beside.
Moss might be used, were it not that it directly breeds a swarm of
fleas.

The cabin is constructed of logs, without floor or window. The latter
is altogether unnecessary, the crevices between the logs admitting
sufficient light. In stormy weather the rain drives through them,
rendering it comfortless and extremely disagreeable. The rude door
hangs on great wooden hinges. In one end is constructed an awkward
fire-place.

An hour before day light the horn is blown. Then the slaves arouse,
prepare their breakfast, fill a gourd with water, in another deposit
their dinner of cold bacon and corn cake, and hurry to the field
again. It is an offence invariably followed by a flogging, to be found
at the quarters after daybreak. Then the fears and labors of another
day begin; and until its close there is no such thing as rest. He
fears he will be caught lagging through the day; he fears to approach
the gin-house with his basket-load of cotton at night; he fears, when
he lies down, that he will oversleep himself in the morning. Such is a
true, faithful, unexaggerated picture and description of the slave's
daily life, during the time of cotton-picking, on the shores of Bayou
Boeuf.

In the month of January, generally, the fourth and last picking is
completed. Then commences the harvesting of corn. This is considered
a secondary crop, and receives far less attention than the cotton. It
is planted, as already mentioned, in February. Corn is grown in that
region for the purpose of fattening hogs and feeding slaves; very
little, if any, being sent to market. It is the white variety, the
ear of great size, and the stalk growing to the height of eight, and
often times ten feet. In August the leaves are stripped off, dried in
the sun, bound in small bundles, and stored away as provender for the
mules and oxen. After this the slaves go through the field, turning
down the ear, for the purpose of keeping the rains from penetrating to
the grain. It is left in this condition until after cotton-picking is
over, whether earlier or later. Then the ears are separated from the
stalks, and deposited in the corncrib with the husks on; otherwise,
stripped of the husks, the weevil would destroy it. The stalks are
left standing in the field.

The Carolina, or sweet potato, is also grown in that region to
some extent. They are not fed, however, to hogs or cattle, and are
considered but of small importance. They are preserved by placing them
upon the surface of the ground, with a slight covering of earth or
cornstalks. There is not a cellar on Bayou Boeuf. The ground is so low
it would fill with water. Potatoes are worth from two to three "bits,"
or shillings a barrel; corn, except when there is an unusual scarcity,
can be purchased at the same rate.

As soon as the cotton and corn crops are secured, the stalks are
pulled up, thrown into piles and burned. The ploughs are started at
the same time, throwing up the beds again, preparatory to another
planting. The soil, in the parishes of Rapides and Avoyelles, and
throughout the whole country, so far as my observation extended, is
of exceeding richness and fertility. It is a kind of marl, of a brown
or reddish color. It does not require those invigorating composts
necessary to more barren lands, and on the same field the same crop is
grown for many successive years.

Ploughing, planting, picking cotton, gathering the corn, and pulling
and burning stalks, occupies the whole of the four seasons of the
year. Drawing and cutting wood, pressing cotton, fattening and killing
hogs, are but incidental labors.

In the month of September or October, the hogs are run out of the
swamps by dogs, and confined in pens. On a cold morning, generally
about New Year's day, they are slaughtered. Each carcass is cut into
six parts, and piled one above the other in salt, upon large tables
in the smoke-house. In this condition it remains a fortnight, when it
is hung up, and a fire built, and continued more than half the time
during the remainder of the year. This thorough smoking is necessary
to prevent the bacon from becoming infested with worms. In so warm a
climate it is difficult to preserve it, and very many times myself and
my companions have received our weekly allowance of three pounds and a
half, when it was full of these disgusting vermin.

Although the swamps are overrun with cattle, they are never made
the source of profit, to any considerable extent. The planter
cuts his mark upon the ear, or brands his initials upon the side,
and turns them into the swamps, to roam unrestricted within their
almost limitless confines. They are the Spanish breed, small and
spike-horned. I have known of droves being taken from Bayou Boeuf, but
it is of very rare occurrence. The value of the best cows is about
five dollars each. Two quarts at one milking, would be considered
an unusual large quantity. They furnish little tallow, and that of
a soft, inferior quality. Notwithstanding the great number of cows
that throng the swamps, the planters are indebted to the North for
their cheese and butter, which is purchased in the New-Orleans market.
Salted beef is not an article of food either in the great house, or in
the cabin.

Master Epps was accustomed to attend shooting matches for the purpose
of obtaining what fresh beef he required. These sports occurred
weekly at the neighboring village of Holmesville. Fat beeves are
driven thither and shot at, a stipulated price being demanded for the
privilege. The lucky marksman divides the flesh among his fellows, and
in this manner the attending planters are supplied.

The great number of tame and untamed cattle which swarm the woods and
swamps of Bayou Boeuf, most probably suggested that appellation to the
French, inasmuch as the term, translated, signifies the creek or river
of the wild ox.

Garden products, such as cabbages, turnips and the like, are
cultivated for the use of the master and his family. They have greens
and vegetables at all times and seasons of the year. "The grass
withereth and the flower fadeth" before the desolating winds of autumn
in the chill northern latitudes, but perpetual verdure overspreads the
hot lowlands, and flowers bloom in the heart of winter, in the region
of Bayou Boeuf.

There are no meadows appropriated to the cultivation of the grasses.
The leaves of the corn supply a sufficiency of food for the laboring
cattle, while the rest provide for themselves all the year in the
ever-growing pasture.

There are many other peculiarities of climate, habit, custom, and of
the manner of living and laboring at the South, but the foregoing, it
is supposed, will give the reader an insight and general idea of life
on a cotton plantation in Louisiana. The mode of cultivating cane,
and the process of sugar manufacturing, will be mentioned in another
place.




CHAPTER XIII.

  THE CURIOUS AXE-HELVE--SYMPTOMS OF APPROACHING ILLNESS--CONTINUE
  TO DECLINE--THE WHIP INEFFECTUAL--CONFINED TO THE CABIN--VISIT BY
  DR. WINES--PARTIAL RECOVERY--FAILURE AT COTTON PICKING--WHAT MAY
  BE HEARD ON EPPS' PLANTATION--LASHES GRADUATED--EPPS IN A WHIPPING
  MOOD--EPPS IN A DANCING MOOD--DESCRIPTION OF THE DANCE--LOSS OF
  REST NO EXCUSE--EPPS' CHARACTERISTICS--JIM BURNS REMOVAL FROM HUFF
  POWER TO BAYOU BOEUF--DESCRIPTION OF UNCLE ABRAM; OF WILEY; OF AUNT
  PHEBE; OF BOB, HENRY, AND EDWARD; OF PATSEY; WITH A GENEALOGICAL
  ACCOUNT OF EACH--SOMETHING OF THEIR PAST HISTORY, AND PECULIAR
  CHARACTERISTICS--JEALOUSY AND LUST--PATSEY, THE VICTIM.


On my arrival at Master Epps', in obedience to his order, the first
business upon which I entered was the making of an axe-helve. The
handles in use there are simply a round, straight stick. I made a
crooked one, shaped like those to which I had been accustomed at the
North. When finished, and presented to Epps, he looked at it with
astonishment, unable to determine exactly what it was. He had never
before seen such a handle, and when I explained its conveniences, he
was forcibly struck with the novelty of the idea. He kept it in the
house a long time, and when his friends called, was wont to exhibit it
as a curiosity.

It was now the season of hoeing. I was first sent into the
corn-field, and afterwards set to scraping cotton. In this employment
I remained until hoeing time was nearly passed, when I began to
experience the symptoms of approaching illness. I was attacked with
chills, which were succeeded by a burning fever. I became weak and
emaciated, and frequently so dizzy that it caused me to reel and
stagger like a drunken man. Nevertheless, I was compelled to keep up
my row. When in health I found little difficulty in keeping pace with
my fellow-laborers, but now it seemed to be an utter impossibility.
Often I fell behind, when the driver's lash was sure to greet my back,
infusing into my sick and drooping body a little temporary energy.
I continued to decline until at length the whip became entirely
ineffectual. The sharpest sting of the rawhide could not arouse me.
Finally, in September, when the busy season of cotton picking was at
hand, I was unable to leave my cabin. Up to this time I had received
no medicine, nor any attention from my master or mistress. The old
cook visited me occasionally, preparing me corn-coffee, and sometimes
boiling a bit of bacon, when I had grown too feeble to accomplish it
myself.

When it was said that I would die, Master Epps, unwilling to bear
the loss, which the death of an animal worth a thousand dollars
would bring upon him, concluded to incur the expense of sending to
Holmesville for Dr. Wines. He announced to Epps that it was the
effect of the climate, and there was a probability of his losing me.
He directed me to eat no meat, and to partake of no more food than
was absolutely necessary to sustain life. Several weeks elapsed,
during which time, under the scanty diet to which I was subjected, I
had partially recovered. One morning, long before I was in a proper
condition to labor, Epps appeared at the cabin door, and, presenting
me a sack, ordered me to the cotton field. At this time I had had no
experience whatever in cotton picking. It was an awkward business
indeed. While others used both hands, snatching the cotton and
depositing it in the mouth of the sack, with a precision and dexterity
that was incomprehensible to me, I had to seize the boll with one
hand, and deliberately draw out the white, gushing blossom with the
other.

Depositing the cotton in the sack, moreover, was a difficulty that
demanded the exercise of both hands and eyes. I was compelled to pick
it from the ground where it would fall, nearly as often as from the
stalk where it had grown. I made havoc also with the branches, loaded
with the yet unbroken bolls, the long, cumbersome sack swinging from
side to side in a manner not allowable in the cotton field. After a
most laborious day I arrived at the gin-house with my load. When the
scale determined its weight to be only ninety-five pounds, not half
the quantity required of the poorest picker, Epps threatened the
severest flogging, but in consideration of my being a "raw hand,"
concluded to pardon me on that occasion. The following day, and
many days succeeding, I returned at night with no better success--I
was evidently not designed for that kind of labor. I had not the
gift--the dexterous fingers and quick motion of Patsey, who could
fly along one side of a row of cotton, stripping it of its undefiled
and fleecy whiteness miraculously fast. Practice and whipping were
alike unavailing, and Epps, satisfied of it at last, swore I was
a disgrace--that I was not fit to associate with a cotton-picking
"<DW65>"--that I could not pick enough in a day to pay the trouble
of weighing it, and that I should go into the cotton field no more.
I was now employed in cutting and hauling wood, drawing cotton from
the field to the gin-house, and performed whatever other service was
required. Suffice to say, I was never permitted to be idle.

It was rarely that a day passed by without one or more whippings. This
occurred at the time the cotton was weighed. The delinquent, whose
weight had fallen short, was taken out, stripped, made to lie upon the
ground, face downwards, when he received a punishment proportioned to
his offence. It is the literal, unvarnished truth, that the crack of
the lash, and the shrieking of the slaves, can be heard from dark till
bed time, on Epps' plantation, any day almost during the entire period
of the cotton-picking season.

The number of lashes is graduated according to the nature of the case.
Twenty-five are deemed a mere brush, inflicted, for instance, when a
dry leaf or piece of boll is found in the cotton, or when a branch
is broken in the field; fifty is the ordinary penalty following all
delinquencies of the next higher grade; one hundred is called severe:
it is the punishment inflicted for the serious offence of standing
idle in the field; from one hundred and fifty to two hundred is
bestowed upon him who quarrels with his cabin-mates, and five hundred,
well laid on, besides the mangling of the dogs, perhaps, is certain to
consign the poor, unpitied runaway to weeks of pain and agony.

During the two years Epps remained on the plantation at Bayou Huff
Power, he was in the habit, as often as once in a fortnight at least,
of coming home intoxicated from Holmesville. The shooting-matches
almost invariably concluded with a debauch. At such times he was
boisterous and half-crazy. Often he would break the dishes, chairs,
and whatever furniture he could lay his hands on. When satisfied
with his amusement in the house, he would seize the whip and walk
forth into the yard. Then it behooved the slaves to be watchful and
exceeding wary. The first one who came within reach felt the smart
of his lash. Sometimes for hours he would keep them running in all
directions, dodging around the corners of the cabins. Occasionally
he would come upon one unawares, and if he succeeded in inflicting a
fair, round blow, it was a feat that much delighted him. The younger
children, and the aged, who had become inactive, suffered then. In the
midst of the confusion he would slily take his stand behind a cabin,
waiting with raised whip, to dash it into the first black face that
peeped cautiously around the corner.

At other times he would come home in a less brutal humor. Then there
must be a merry-making. Then all must move to the measure of a tune.
Then Master Epps must needs regale his melodious ears with the music
of a fiddle. Then did he become buoyant, elastic, gaily "tripping the
light fantastic toe" around the piazza and all through the house.

Tibeats, at the time of my sale, had informed him I could play on
the violin. He had received his information from Ford. Through the
importunities of Mistress Epps, her husband had been induced to
purchase me one during a visit to New-Orleans. Frequently I was called
into the house to play before the family, mistress being passionately
fond of music.

All of us would be assembled in the large room of the great house,
whenever Epps came home in one of his dancing moods. No matter how
worn out and tired we were, there must be a general dance. When
properly stationed on the floor, I would strike up a tune.

"Dance, you d--d <DW65>s, dance," Epps would shout.

Then there must be no halting or delay, no slow or languid movements;
all must be brisk, and lively, and alert. "Up and down, heel and toe,
and away we go," was the order of the hour. Epps' portly form mingled
with those of his dusky slaves, moving rapidly through all the mazes
of the dance.

Usually his whip was in his hand, ready to fall about the ears of
the presumptuous thrall, who dared to rest a moment, or even stop to
catch his breath. When he was himself exhausted, there would be a
brief cessation, but it would be very brief. With a slash, and crack,
and flourish of the whip, he would shout again, "Dance, <DW65>s,
dance," and away they would go once more, pell-mell, while I spurred
by an occasional sharp touch of the lash, sat in a corner, extracting
from my violin a marvelous quick-stepping tune. The mistress often
upbraided him, declaring she would return to her father's house at
Cheneyville; nevertheless, there were times she could not restrain a
burst of laughter, on witnessing his uproarious pranks. Frequently,
we were thus detained until almost morning. Bent with excessive
toil--actually suffering for a little refreshing rest, and feeling
rather as if we could cast ourselves upon the earth and weep, many a
night in the house of Edwin Epps have his unhappy slaves been made to
dance and laugh.

Notwithstanding these deprivations in order to gratify the whim of
an unreasonable master, we had to be in the field as soon as it was
light, and during the day perform the ordinary and accustomed task.
Such deprivations could not be urged at the scales in extenuation of
any lack of weight, or in the cornfield for not hoeing with the usual
rapidity. The whippings were just as severe as if we had gone forth
in the morning, strengthened and invigorated by a night's repose.
Indeed, after such frantic revels, he was always more sour and savage
than before, punishing for slighter causes, and using the whip with
increased and more vindictive energy.

Ten years I toiled for that man without reward. Ten years of
my incessant labor has contributed to increase the bulk of his
possessions. Ten years I was compelled to address him with down-cast
eyes and uncovered head--in the attitude and language of a slave. I am
indebted to him for nothing, save undeserved abuse and stripes.

Beyond the reach of his inhuman thong, and standing on the soil of
the free State where I was born, thanks be to Heaven, I can raise my
head once more among men. I can speak of the wrongs I have suffered,
and of those who inflicted them, with upraised eyes. But I have no
desire to speak of him or any other one otherwise than truthfully.
Yet to speak truthfully of Edwin Epps would be to say--he is a man
in whose heart the quality of kindness or of justice is not found. A
rough, rude energy, united with an uncultivated mind and an avaricious
spirit, are his prominent characteristics. He is known as a "<DW65>
breaker," distinguished for his faculty of subduing the spirit of the
slave, and priding himself upon his reputation in this respect, as a
jockey boasts of his skill in managing a refractory horse. He looked
upon a <DW52> man, not as a human being, responsible to his Creator
for the small talent entrusted to him, but as a "chattel personal," as
mere live property, no better, except in value, than his mule or dog.
When the evidence, clear and indisputable, was laid before him that I
was a free man, and as much entitled to my liberty as he--when, on the
day I left, he was informed that I had a wife and children, as dear
to me as his own babes to him, he only raved and swore, denouncing the
law that tore me from him, and declaring he would find out the man who
had forwarded the letter that disclosed the place of my captivity, if
there was any virtue or power in money, and would take his life. He
thought of nothing but his loss, and cursed me for having been born
free. He could have stood unmoved and seen the tongues of his poor
slaves torn out by the roots--he could have seen them burned to ashes
over a slow fire, or gnawed to death by dogs, if it only brought him
profit. Such a hard, cruel, unjust man is Edwin Epps.

There was but one greater savage on Bayou Boeuf than he. Jim Burns'
plantation was cultivated, as already mentioned, exclusively by women.
That barbarian kept their backs so sore and raw, that they could not
perform the customary labor demanded daily of the slave. He boasted of
his cruelty, and through all the country round was accounted a more
thorough-going, energetic man than even Epps. A brute himself, Jim
Burns had not a particle of mercy for his subject brutes, and like a
fool, whipped and scourged away the very strength upon which depended
his amount of gain.

Epps remained on Huff Power two years, when, having accumulated a
considerable sum of money, he expended it in the purchase of the
plantation on the east bank of Bayou Boeuf, where he still continues
to reside. He took possession of it in 1845, after the holidays
were passed. He carried thither with him nine slaves, all of whom,
except myself, and Susan, who has since died, remain there yet. He
made no addition to this force, and for eight years the following
were my companions in his quarters, viz: Abram, Wiley, Phebe, Bob,
Henry, Edward, and Patsey. All these, except Edward, born since, were
purchased out of a drove by Epps during the time he was overseer for
Archy B. Williams, whose plantation is situated on the shore of Red
River, not far from Alexandria.

Abram was tall, standing a full head above any common man. He is
sixty years of age, and was born in Tennessee. Twenty years ago, he
was purchased by a trader, carried into South Carolina, and sold to
James Buford, of Williamsburgh county, in that State. In his youth
he was renowned for his great strength, but age and unremitting toil
have somewhat shattered his powerful frame and enfeebled his mental
faculties.

Wiley is forty-eight. He was born on the estate of William Tassle,
and for many years took charge of that gentleman's ferry over the Big
Black River, in South Carolina.

Phebe was a slave of Buford, Tassle's neighbor, and having married
Wiley, he bought the latter, at her instigation. Buford was a kind
master, sheriff of the county, and in those days a man of wealth.

Bob and Henry are Phebe's children, by a former husband, their father
having been abandoned to give place to Wiley. That seductive youth
had insinuated himself into Phebe's affections, and therefore the
faithless spouse had gently kicked her first husband out of her cabin
door. Edward had been born to them on Bayou Huff Power.

Patsey is twenty-three--also from Buford's plantation. She is in no
wise connected with the others, but glories in the fact that she is
the offspring of a "Guinea <DW65>," brought over to Cuba in a slave
ship, and in the course of trade transferred to Buford, who was her
mother's owner.

This, as I learned from them, is a genealogical account of my master's
slaves. For years they had been together. Often they recalled the
memories of other days, and sighed to retrace their steps to the
old home in Carolina. Troubles came upon their master Buford, which
brought far greater troubles upon them. He became involved in debt,
and unable to bear up against his failing fortunes, was compelled
to sell these, and others of his slaves. In a chain gang they had
been driven from beyond the Mississippi to the plantation of Archy
B. Williams. Edwin Epps, who, for a long while had been his driver
and overseer, was about establishing himself in business on his own
account, at the time of their arrival, and accepted them in payment of
his wages.

Old Abram was a kind-hearted being--a sort of patriarch among us,
fond of entertaining his younger brethren with grave and serious
discourse. He was deeply versed in such philosophy as is taught in
the cabin of the slave; but the great absorbing hobby of Uncle Abram
was General Jackson, whom his young master in Tennessee had followed
to the wars. He loved to wander back, in imagination, to the place
where he was born, and to recount the scenes of his youth during those
stirring times when the nation was in arms. He had been athletic,
and more keen and powerful than the generality of his race, but now
his eye had become dim, and his natural force abated. Very often,
indeed, while discussing the best method of baking the hoe-cake, or
expatiating at large upon the glory of Jackson, he would forget where
he left his hat, or his hoe, or his basket; and then would the old man
be laughed at, if Epps was absent, and whipped if he was present. So
was he perplexed continually, and sighed to think that he was growing
aged and going to decay. Philosophy and Jackson and forgetfulness had
played the mischief with him, and it was evident that all of them
combined were fast bringing down the gray hairs of Uncle Abram to the
grave.

Aunt Phebe had been an excellent field hand, but latterly was put
into the kitchen, where she remained, except occasionally, in a time
of uncommon hurry. She was a sly old creature, and when not in the
presence of her mistress or her master, was garrulous in the extreme.

Wiley, on the contrary, was silent. He performed his task without
murmur or complaint, seldom indulging in the luxury of speech, except
to utter a wish, that he was away from Epps, and back once more in
South Carolina.

Bob and Henry had reached the ages of twenty and twenty-three, and
were distinguished for nothing extraordinary or unusual, while Edward,
a lad of thirteen, not yet able to maintain his row in the corn or
the cotton field, was kept in the great house, to wait on the little
Eppses.

Patsey was slim and straight. She stood erect as the human form is
capable of standing. There was an air of loftiness in her movement,
that neither labor, nor weariness, nor punishment could destroy.
Truly, Patsey was a splendid animal, and were it not that bondage had
enshrouded her intellect in utter and everlasting darkness, would
have been chief among ten thousand of her people. She could leap the
highest fences, and a fleet hound it was indeed, that could outstrip
her in a race. No horse could fling her from his back. She was a
skillful teamster. She turned as true a furrow as the best, and at
splitting rails there were none who could excel her. When the order
to halt was heard at night, she would have her mules at the crib,
unharnessed, fed and curried, before uncle Abram had found his hat.
Not, however, for all or any of these, was she chiefly famous. Such
lightning-like motion was in her fingers as no other fingers ever
possessed, and therefore it was, that in cotton picking time, Patsey
was queen of the field.

She had a genial and pleasant temper, and was faithful and obedient.
Naturally, she was a joyous creature, a laughing, light-hearted girl,
rejoicing in the mere sense of existence. Yet Patsey wept oftener,
and suffered more, than any of her companions. She had been literally
excoriated. Her back bore the scars of a thousand stripes; not because
she was backward in her work, nor because she was of an unmindful and
rebellious spirit, but because it had fallen to her lot to be the
slave of a licentious master and a jealous mistress. She shrank before
the lustful eye of the one, and was in danger even of her life at the
hands of the other, and between the two, she was indeed accursed. In
the great house, for days together, there were high and angry words,
poutings and estrangement, whereof she was the innocent cause. Nothing
delighted the mistress so much as to see her suffer, and more than
once, when Epps had refused to sell her, has she tempted me with
bribes to put her secretly to death, and bury her body in some lonely
place in the margin of the swamp. Gladly would Patsey have appeased
this unforgiving spirit, if it had been in her power, but not like
Joseph, dared she escape from Master Epps, leaving her garment in his
hand. Patsey walked under a cloud. If she uttered a word in opposition
to her master's will, the lash was resorted to at once, to bring her
to subjection; if she was not watchful when about her cabin, or when
walking in the yard, a billet of wood, or a broken bottle perhaps,
hurled from her mistress' hand, would smite her unexpectedly in the
face. The enslaved victim of lust and hate, Patsey had no comfort of
her life.

These were my companions and fellow-slaves, with whom I was accustomed
to be driven to the field, and with whom it has been my lot to dwell
for ten years in the log cabins of Edwin Epps. They, if living, are
yet toiling on the banks of Bayou Boeuf, never destined to breathe,
as I now do, the blessed air of liberty, nor to shake off the heavy
shackles that enthrall them, until they shall lie down forever in the
dust.




CHAPTER XIV.

  DESTRUCTION OF THE COTTON CROP IN 1845--DEMAND FOR LABORERS IN ST.
  MARY'S PARISH--SENT THITHER IN A DROVE--THE ORDER OF THE MARCH--THE
  GRAND COTEAU--HIRED TO JUDGE TURNER ON BAYOU SALLE--APPOINTED
  DRIVER IN HIS SUGAR HOUSE--SUNDAY SERVICES SLAVE FURNITURE, HOW
  OBTAINED--THE PARTY AT YARNEY'S IN CENTREVILLE--GOOD FORTUNE--THE
  CAPTAIN OF THE STEAMER--HIS REFUSAL TO SECRETE ME--RETURN TO
  BAYOU BOEUF--SIGHT OF TIBEATS--PATSEY'S SORROWS--TUMULT AND
  CONTENTION--HUNTING THE <DW53> AND OPOSSUM--THE CUNNING OF THE
  LATTER--THE LEAN CONDITION OF THE SLAVE--DESCRIPTION OF THE FISH
  TRAP--THE MURDER OF THE MAN FROM NATCHEZ--EPPS CHALLENGED BY
  MARSHALL--THE INFLUENCE OF SLAVERY--THE LOVE OF FREEDOM.


The first year of Epps' residence on the bayou, 1845, the caterpillars
almost totally destroyed the cotton crop throughout that region.
There was little to be done, so that the slaves were necessarily idle
half the time. However, there came a rumor to Bayou Boeuf that wages
were high, and laborers in great demand on the sugar plantations in
St. Mary's parish. This parish is situated on the coast of the Gulf
of Mexico, about one hundred and forty miles from Avoyelles. The Rio
Teche, a considerable stream, flows through St. Mary's to the gulf.

It was determined by the planters, on the receipt of this
intelligence, to make up a drove of slaves to be sent down to Tuckapaw
in St. Mary's, for the purpose of hiring them out in the cane fields.
Accordingly, in the month of September, there were one hundred and
forty-seven collected at Holmesville, Abram, Bob and myself among the
number. Of these about one-half were women. Epps, Alonson Pierce,
Henry Toler, and Addison Roberts, were the white men, selected to
accompany, and take charge of the drove. They had a two-horse carriage
and two saddle horses for their use. A large wagon, drawn by four
horses, and driven by John, a boy belonging to Mr. Roberts, carried
the blankets and provisions.

About 2 o'clock in the afternoon, having been fed, preparations were
made to depart. The duty assigned me was, to take charge of the
blankets and provisions, and see that none were lost by the way. The
carriage proceeded in advance, the wagon following; behind this the
slaves were arranged, while the two horsemen brought up the rear, and
in this order the procession moved out of Holmesville.

That night we reached a Mr. McCrow's plantation, a distance of ten or
fifteen miles, when we were ordered to halt. Large fires were built,
and each one spreading his blanket on the ground, laid down upon it.
The white men lodged in the great house. An hour before day we were
aroused by the drivers coming among us, cracking their whips and
ordering us to arise. Then the blankets were rolled up, and being
severally delivered to me and deposited in the wagon, the procession
set forth again.

The following night it rained violently. We were all drenched, our
clothes saturated with mud and water. Reaching an open shed, formerly
a gin-house, we found beneath it such shelter as it afforded. There
was not room for all of us to lay down. There we remained, huddled
together, through the night, continuing our march, as usual, in the
morning. During the journey we were fed twice a day, boiling our
bacon and baking our corn-cake at the fires in the same manner as in
our huts. We passed through Lafayetteville, Mountsville, New-Town,
to Centreville, where Bob and Uncle Abram were hired. Our number
decreased as we advanced--nearly every sugar plantation requiring the
services of one or more.

On our route we passed the Grand Coteau or prairie, a vast space of
level, monotonous country, without a tree, except an occasional one
which had been transplanted near some dilapidated dwelling. It was
once thickly populated, and under cultivation, but for some cause
had been abandoned. The business of the scattered inhabitants that
now dwell upon it is principally raising cattle. Immense herds were
feeding upon it as we passed. In the centre of the Grand Coteau one
feels as if he were on the ocean, out of sight of land. As far as the
eye can see, in all directions, it is but a ruined and deserted waste.

I was hired to Judge Turner, a distinguished man and extensive
planter, whose large estate is situated on Bayou Salle, within a few
miles of the gulf. Bay on Salle is a small stream flowing into the bay
of Atchafalaya. For some days I was employed at Turner's in repairing
his sugar house, when a cane knife was put into my hand, and with
thirty or forty others, I was sent into the field. I found no such
difficulty in learning the art of cutting cane that I had in picking
cotton. It came to me naturally and intuitively, and in a short time
I was able to keep up with the fastest knife. Before the cutting was
over, however, Judge Turner transferred me from the field to the sugar
house, to act there in the capacity of driver. From the time of the
commencement of sugar making to the close, the grinding and boiling
does not cease day or night. The whip was given me with directions to
use it upon any one who was caught standing idle. If I failed to obey
them to the letter, there was another one for my own back. In addition
to this my duty was to call on and off the different gangs at the
proper time. I had no regular periods of rest, and could never snatch
but a few moments of sleep at a time.

It is the custom in Louisiana, as I presume it is in other slave
States, to allow the slave to retain whatever compensation he may
obtain for services performed on Sundays. In this way, only, are they
able to provide themselves with any luxury or convenience whatever.
When a slave, purchased, or kidnapped in the North, is transported to
a cabin on Bayou Boeuf he is furnished with neither knife, nor fork,
nor dish, nor kettle, nor any other thing in the shape of crockery, or
furniture of any nature or description. He is furnished with a blanket
before he reaches there, and wrapping that around him, he can either
stand up, or lie down upon the ground, or on a board, if his master
has no use for it. He is at liberty to find a gourd in which to keep
his meal, or he can eat his corn from the cob, just as he pleases.
To ask the master for a knife, or skillet, or any small convenience
of the kind, would be answered with a kick, or laughed at as a joke.
Whatever necessary article of this nature is found in a cabin has been
purchased with Sunday money. However injurious to the morals, it is
certainly a blessing to the physical condition of the slave, to be
permitted to break the Sabbath. Otherwise there would be no way to
provide himself with any utensils, which seem to be indispensable to
him who is compelled to be his own cook.

On cane plantations in sugar time, there is no distinction as to
the days of the week. It is well understood that all hands must
labor on the Sabbath, and it is equally well understood that those
especially who are hired, as I was to Judge Turner, and others in
succeeding years, shall receive remuneration for it. It is usual,
also, in the most hurrying time of cotton-picking, to require the
same extra service. From this source, slaves generally are afforded
an opportunity of earning sufficient to purchase a knife, a kettle,
tobacco and so forth. The females, discarding the latter luxury, are
apt to expend their little revenue in the purchase of gaudy ribbons,
wherewithal to deck their hair in the merry season of the holidays.

I remained in St. Mary's until the first of January, during which
time my Sunday money amounted to ten dollars. I met with other
good fortune, for which I was indebted to my violin, my constant
companion, the source of profit, and soother of my sorrows during
years of servitude. There was a grand party of whites assembled at
Mr. Yarney's, in Centreville, a hamlet in the vicinity of Turner's
plantation. I was employed to play for them, and so well pleased were
the merry-makers with my performance, that a contribution was taken
for my benefit, which amounted to seventeen dollars.

With this sum in possession, I was looked upon by my fellows as a
millionaire. It afforded me great pleasure to look at it--to count
it over and over again, day after day. Visions of cabin furniture,
of water pails, of pocket knives, new shoes and coats and hats,
floated through my fancy, and up through all rose the triumphant
contemplation, that I was the wealthiest "<DW65>" on Bayou Boeuf.

Vessels run up the Rio Teche to Centreville. While there, I was bold
enough one day to present myself before the captain of a steamer, and
beg permission to hide myself among the freight. I was emboldened to
risk the hazard of such a step, from overhearing a conversation, in
the course of which I ascertained he was a native of the North. I did
not relate to him the particulars of my history, but only expressed
an ardent desire to escape from slavery to a free State. He pitied
me, but said it would be impossible to avoid the vigilant custom
house officers in New-Orleans, and that detection would subject him
to punishment, and his vessel to confiscation. My earnest entreaties
evidently excited his sympathies, and doubtless he would have yielded
to them, could he have done so with any kind of safety. I was
compelled to smother the sudden flame that lighted up my bosom with
sweet hopes of liberation, and turn my steps once more towards the
increasing darkness of despair.

Immediately after this event the drove assembled at Centreville, and
several of the owners having arrived and collected the monies due
for our services, we were driven back to Bayou Boeuf. It was on our
return, while passing through a small village, that I caught sight of
Tibeats, seated in the door of a dirty grocery, looking somewhat seedy
and out of repair. Passion and poor whisky, I doubt not, have ere this
laid him on the shelf.

During our absence, I learned from Aunt Phebe and Patsey, that the
latter had been getting deeper and deeper into trouble. The poor
girl was truly an object of pity. "Old Hogjaw," the name by which
Epps was called, when the slaves were by themselves, had beaten her
more severely and frequently than ever. As surely as he came from
Holmesville, elated with liquor--and it was often in those days--he
would whip her, merely to gratify the mistress; would punish her to
an extent almost beyond endurance, for an offence of which he himself
was the sole and irresistible cause. In his sober moments he could not
always be prevailed upon to indulge his wife's insatiable thirst for
vengeance.

To be rid of Patsey--to place her beyond sight or reach, by sale, or
death, or in any other manner, of late years, seemed to be the ruling
thought and passion of my mistress. Patsey had been a favorite when a
child, even in the great house. She had been petted and admired for
her uncommon sprightliness and pleasant disposition. She had been
fed many a time, so Uncle Abram said, even on biscuit and milk, when
the madam, in her younger days, was wont to call her to the piazza,
and fondle her as she would a playful Kitten. But a sad change had
come over the spirit of the woman. Now, only black and angry fiends
ministered in the temple of her heart, until she could look on Patsey
but with concentrated venom.

Mistress Epps was not naturally such an evil woman, after all. She was
possessed of the devil, jealousy, it is true, but aside from that,
there was much in her character to admire. Her father, Mr. Roberts,
resided in Cheneyville, an influential and honorable man, and as
much respected throughout the parish as any other citizen. She had
been well educated at some institution this side the Mississippi;
was beautiful, accomplished, and usually good-humored. She was kind
to all of us but Patsey--frequently, in the absence of her husband,
sending out to us some little dainty from her own table. In other
situations--in a different society from that which exists on the
shores of Bayou Boeuf, she would have been pronounced an elegant and
fascinating woman. An ill wind it was that blew her into the arms of
Epps.

He respected and loved his wife as much as a coarse nature like his
is capable of loving, but supreme selfishness always overmastered
conjugal affection.

  "He loved as well as baser natures can,
  But a mean heart and soul were in that man."

He was ready to gratify any whim--to grant any request she made,
provided it did not cost too much. Patsey was equal to any two of his
slaves in the cotton field. He could not replace her with the same
money she would bring. The idea of disposing of her, therefore, could
not be entertained. The mistress did not regard her at all in that
light. The pride of the haughty woman was aroused; the blood of the
fiery southern boiled at the sight of Patsey, and nothing less than
trampling out the life of the helpless bondwoman would satisfy her.

Sometimes the current of her wrath turned upon him whom she had
just cause to hate. But the storm of angry words would pass over at
length, and there would be a season of calm again. At such times
Patsey trembled with fear, and cried as if her heart would break,
for she knew from painful experience, that if mistress should work
herself to the red-hot pitch of rage, Epps would quiet her at last
with a promise that Patsey should be flogged--a promise he was sure
to keep. Thus did pride, and jealousy, and vengeance war with
avarice and brute-passion in the mansion of my master, filling it
with daily tumult and contention. Thus, upon the head of Patsey--the
simple-minded slave, in whose heart God had implanted the seeds of
virtue--the force of all these domestic tempests spent itself at last.

During the summer succeeding my return from St. Mary's parish, I
conceived a plan of providing myself with food, which, though simple,
succeeded beyond expectation. It has been followed by many others
in my condition, up and down the bayou, and of such benefit has it
become that I am almost persuaded to look upon myself as a benefactor.
That summer the worms got into the bacon. Nothing but ravenous hunger
could induce us to swallow it. The weekly allowance of meal scarcely
sufficed to satisfy us. It was customary with us, as it is with all in
that region, where the allowance is exhausted before Saturday night,
or is in such a state as to render it nauseous and disgusting, to
hunt in the swamps for <DW53> and opossum. This, however, must be done
at night, after the day's work is accomplished. There are planters
whose slaves, for months at a time, have no other meat than such as is
obtained in this manner. No objections are made to hunting, inasmuch
as it dispenses with drafts upon the smoke-house, and because every
marauding <DW53> that is killed is so much saved from the standing corn.
They are hunted with dogs and clubs, slaves not being allowed the use
of fire-arms.

The flesh of the <DW53> is palatable, but verily there is nothing in
all butcherdom so delicious as a roasted 'possum. They are a round,
rather long-bodied, little animal, of a whitish color, with nose like
a pig, and caudal extremity like a rat. They burrow among the roots
and in the hollows of the gum tree, and are clumsy and slow of motion.
They are deceitful and cunning creatures. On receiving the slightest
tap of a stick, they will roll over on the ground and feign death. If
the hunter leaves him, in pursuit of another, without first taking
particular pains to break his neck, the chances are, on his return, he
is not to be found. The little animal has out witted the enemy--has
"played 'possum"--and is off. But after a long and hard day's work,
the weary slave feels little like going to the swamp for his supper,
and half the time prefers throwing himself on the cabin floor without
it. It is for the interest of the master that the servant should not
suffer in health from starvation, and it is also for his interest that
he should not become gross from over-feeding. In the estimation of the
owner, a slave is the most serviceable when in rather a lean and lank
condition, such a condition as the race-horse is in, when fitted for
the course, and in that condition they are generally to be found on
the sugar and cotton plantations along Red River.

My cabin was within a few rods of the bayou bank, and necessity
being indeed the mother of invention, I resolved upon a mode of
obtaining the requisite amount of food, without the trouble of
resorting nightly to the woods. This was to construct a fish trap.
Having, in my mind, conceived the manner in which it could be done,
the next Sunday I set about putting it into practical execution. It
may be impossible for me to convey to the reader a full and correct
idea of its construction, but the following will serve as a general
description:

A frame between two and three feet square is made, and of a greater
or less height, according to the depth of water. Boards or slats are
nailed on three sides of this frame, not so closely, however, as to
prevent the water circulating freely through it. A door is fitted
into the fourth side, in such manner that it will slide easily up
and down in the grooves cut in the two posts. A movable bottom is
then so fitted that it can be raised to the top of the frame without
difficulty. In the centre of the movable bottom an auger hole is
bored, and into this one end of a handle or round stick is fastened
on the under side so loosely that it will turn. The handle ascends
from the centre of the movable bottom to the top of the frame, or as
much higher as is desirable. Up and down this handle, in a great many
places, are gimlet holes, through which small sticks are inserted,
extending to opposite sides of the frame. So many of these small
sticks are running out from the handle in all directions, that a fish
of any considerable dimensions cannot pass through without hitting one
of them. The frame is then placed in the water and made stationary.

The trap is "set" by sliding or drawing up the door, and kept in that
position by another stick, one end of which rests in a notch on the
inner side, the other end in a notch made in the handle, running up
from the centre of the movable bottom. The trap is baited by rolling
a handful of wet meal and cotton together until it becomes hard, and
depositing it in the back part of the frame. A fish swimming through
the upraised door towards the bait, necessarily strikes one of the
small sticks turning the handle, which displacing the stick supporting
the door, the latter falls, securing the fish within the frame. Taking
hold of the top of the handle, the movable bottom is then drawn up to
the surface of the water, and the fish taken out. There may have been
other such traps in use before mine was constructed, but if there were
I had never happened to see one. Bayou Boeuf abounds in fish of large
size and excellent quality, and after this time I was very rarely in
want of one for myself, or for my comrades. Thus a mine was opened--a
new resource was developed, hitherto unthought of by the enslaved
children of Africa, who toil and hunger along the shores of that
sluggish, but prolific stream.

About the time of which I am now writing, an event occurred in our
immediate neighborhood, which made a deep impression upon me, and
which shows the state of society existing there, and the manner in
which affronts are oftentimes avenged. Directly opposite our quarters,
on the other side of the bayou, was situated the plantation of
Mr. Marshall. He belonged to a family among the most wealthy and
aristocratic in the country. A gentleman from the vicinity of Natchez
had been negotiating with him for the purchase of the estate. One
day a messenger came in great haste to our plantation, saying that a
bloody and fearful battle was going on at Marshall's--that blood had
been spilled--and unless the combatants were forthwith separated, the
result would be disastrous.

On repairing to Marshall's house, a scene presented itself that
beggars description. On the floor of one of the rooms lay the ghastly
corpse of the man from Natchez, while Marshall, enraged and covered
with wounds and blood, was stalking back and forth, "breathing out
threatenings and slaughter." A difficulty had arisen in the course of
their negotiation, high words ensued, when drawing their weapons, the
deadly strife began that ended so unfortunately. Marshall was never
placed in confinement. A sort of trial or investigation was had at
Marksville, when he was acquitted, and returned to his plantation,
rather more respected, as I thought, than ever, from the fact that the
blood of a fellow being was on his soul.

Epps interested himself in his behalf, accompanying him to Marksville,
and on all occasions loudly justifying him, but his services in this
respect did not afterwards deter a kinsman of this same Marshall
from seeking his life also. A brawl occurred between them over a
gambling-table, which terminated in a deadly feud. Riding up on
horseback in front of the house one day, armed with pistols and
bowie knife, Marshall challenged him to come forth and make a final
settlement of the quarrel, or he would brand him as a coward, and
shoot him like a dog the first opportunity. Not through cowardice,
nor from any conscientious scruples, in my opinion, but through the
influence of his wife, he was restrained from accepting the challenge
of his enemy. A reconciliation, however, was effected afterward, since
which time they have been on terms of the closest intimacy.

Such occurrences, which would bring upon the parties concerned in them
merited and condign punishment in the Northern States, are frequent on
the bayou, and pass without notice, and almost without comment. Every
man carries his bowie knife, and when two fall out, they set to work
hacking and thrusting at each other, more like savages than civilized
and enlightened beings.

The existence of Slavery in its most cruel form among them, has a
tendency to brutalize the humane and finer feelings of their nature.
Daily witnesses of human suffering--listening to the agonizing
screeches of the slave--beholding him writhing beneath the merciless
lash--bitten and torn by dogs--dying without attention, and buried
without shroud or coffin--it cannot otherwise be expected, than
that they should become brutified and reckless of human life. It
is true there are many kind-hearted and good men in the parish of
Avoyelles--such men as William Ford--who can look with pity upon
the sufferings of a slave, just as there are, over all the world,
sensitive and sympathetic spirits, who cannot look with indifference
upon the sufferings of any creature which the Almighty has endowed
with life. It is not the fault of the slaveholder that he is cruel, so
much as it is the fault of the system under which he lives. He cannot
withstand the influence of habit and associations that surround him.
Taught from earliest childhood, by all that he sees and hears, that
the rod is for the slave's back, he will not be apt to change his
opinions in maturer years.

There may be humane masters, as there certainly are inhuman
ones--there may be slaves well-clothed, well-fed, and happy, as there
surely are those half-clad, half-starved and miserable; nevertheless,
the institution that tolerates such wrong and inhumanity as I have
witnessed, is a cruel, unjust, and barbarous one. Men may write
fictions portraying lowly life as it is, or as it is not--may
expatiate with owlish gravity upon the bliss of ignorance--discourse
flippantly from arm chairs of the pleasures of slave life; but let
them toil with him in the field--sleep with him in the cabin--feed
with him on husks; let them behold him scourged, hunted, trampled
on, and they will come back with another story in their mouths.
Let them know the _heart_ of the poor slave--learn his secret
thoughts--thoughts he dare not utter in the hearing of the white man;
let them sit by him in the silent watches of the night--converse with
him in trustful confidence, of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness," and they will find that ninety-nine out of every hundred
are intelligent enough to understand their situation, and to cherish
in their bosoms the love of freedom, as passionately as themselves.




CHAPTER XV.

  LABORS ON SUGAR PLANTATIONS--THE MODE OF PLANTING CANE--OF
  HOEING CANE--CANE RICKS--CUTTING CANE--DESCRIPTION OF THE CANE
  KNIFE--WINROWING--PREPARING FOR SUCCEEDING CROPS--DESCRIPTION OF
  HAWKINS' SUGAR MILL ON BAYOU BOEUF--THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS--THE
  CARNIVAL SEASON OF THE CHILDREN OF BONDAGE--THE CHRISTMAS
  SUPPER--RED, THE FAVORITE COLOR--THE VIOLIN, AND THE CONSOLATION IT
  AFFORDED--THE CHRISTMAS DANCE--LIVELY, THE COQUETTE--SAM ROBERTS, AND
  HIS RIVALS--SLAVE SONGS--SOUTHERN LIFE AS IT IS--THREE DAYS IN THE
  YEAR--THE SYSTEM OF MARRIAGE--UNCLE ABRAM'S CONTEMPT OF MATRIMONY.


In consequence of my inability in cotton-picking, Epps was in the
habit of hiring me out on sugar plantations during the season of
cane-cutting and sugar-making. He received for my services a dollar
a day, with the money supplying my place on his cotton plantation.
Cutting cane was an employment that suited me, and for three
successive years I held the lead row at Hawkins', leading a gang of
from fifty to an hundred hands.

In a previous chapter the mode of cultivating cotton is described.
This may be the proper place to speak of the manner of cultivating
cane.

The ground is prepared in beds, the same as it is prepared for the
reception of the cotton seed, except it is ploughed deeper. Drills
are made in the same manner. Planting commences in January, and
continues until April. It is necessary to plant a sugar field only
once in three years. Three crops are taken before the seed or plant is
exhausted.

Three gangs are employed in the operation. One draws the cane from the
rick, or stack, cutting the top and flags from the stalk, leaving only
that part which is sound and healthy. Each joint of the cane has an
eye, like the eye of a potato, which sends forth a sprout when buried
in the soil. Another gang lays the cane in the drill, placing two
stalks side by side in such manner that joints will occur once in four
or six inches. The third gang follows with hoes, drawing earth upon
the stalks, and covering them to the depth, of three inches.

In four weeks, at the farthest, the sprouts appear above the ground,
and from this time forward grow with great rapidity. A sugar field is
hoed three times, the same as cotton, save that a greater quantity of
earth is drawn to the roots. By the first of August hoeing is usually
over. About the middle of September, whatever is required for seed is
cut and stacked in ricks, as they are termed. In October it is ready
for the mill or sugar-house, and then the general cutting begins. The
blade of a cane-knife is fifteen inches long, three inches wide in the
middle, and tapering towards the point and handle. The blade is thin,
and in order to be at all serviceable must be kept very sharp. Every
third hand takes the lead of two others, one of whom is on each side
of him. The lead hand, in the first place, with a blow of his knife
shears the flags from the stalk. He next cuts off the top down as far
as it is green. He must be careful to sever all the green from the
ripe part, inasmuch as the juice of the former sours the molasses, and
renders it unsalable. Then he severs the stalk at the root, and lays
it directly behind him. His right and left hand companions lay their
stalks, when cut in the same manner, upon his. To every three hands
there is a cart, which follows, and the stalks are thrown into it by
the younger slaves, when it is drawn to the sugar-house and ground.

If the planter apprehends a frost, the cane is winrowed. Winrowing is
the cutting the stalks at an early period and throwing them lengthwise
in the water furrow in such a manner that the tops will cover the
butts of the stalks. They will remain in this condition three weeks or
a month without souring, and secure from frost. When the proper time
arrives, they are taken up, trimmed and carted to the sugar-house.

In the month of January the slaves enter the field again to prepare
for another crop. The ground is now strewn with the tops, and flags
cut from the past year's cane. On a dry day fire is set to this
combustible refuse, which sweeps over the field, leaving it bare and
clean, and ready for the hoes. The earth is loosened about the roots
of the old stubble, and in process of time another crop springs up
from the last year's seed. It is the same the year following; but the
third year the seed has exhausted its strength, and the field must be
ploughed and planted again. The second year the cane is sweeter and
yields more than the first, and the third year more than the second.

During the three seasons I labored on Hawkins' plantation, I was
employed a considerable portion of the time in the sugar-house. He is
celebrated as the producer of the finest variety of white sugar. The
following is a general description of his sugar-house and the process
of manufacture:

The mill is an immense brick building, standing on the shore of the
bayou. Running out from the building is an open shed, at least an
hundred feet in length and forty or fifty feet in width. The boiler in
which the steam is generated is situated outside the main building;
the machinery and engine rest on a brick pier, fifteen feet above
the floor, within the body of the building. The machinery turns two
great iron rollers, between two and three feet in diameter and six
or eight feet in length. They are elevated above the brick pier, and
roll in towards each other. An endless carrier, made of chain and
wood, like leathern belts used in small mills, extends from the iron
rollers out of the main building and through the entire length of the
open shed. The carts in which the cane is brought from the field as
fast as it is cut, are unloaded at the sides of the shed. All along
the endless carrier are ranged slave children, whose business it is
to place the cane upon it, when it is conveyed through the shed into
the main building, where it falls between the rollers, is crushed, and
drops upon another carrier that conveys it out of the main building
in an opposite direction, depositing it in the top of a chimney upon
a fire beneath, which consumes it. It is necessary to burn it in
this manner, because otherwise it would soon fill the building, and
more especially because it would soon sour and engender disease. The
juice of the cane falls into a conductor underneath the iron rollers,
and is carried into a reservoir. Pipes convey it from thence into
five filterers, holding several hogsheads each. These filterers are
filled with bone-black, a substance resembling pulverized charcoal.
It is made of bones calcinated in close vessels, and is used for the
purpose of decolorizing, by filtration, the cane juice before boiling.
Through these five filterers it passes in succession, and then runs
into a large reservoir underneath the ground floor, from whence it is
carried up, by means of a steam pump, into a clarifier made of sheet
iron, where it is heated by steam until it boils. From the first
clarifier it is carried in pipes to a second and a third, and thence
into close iron pans, through which tubes pass, filled with steam.
While in a boiling state it flows through three pans in succession,
and is then carried in other pipes down to the coolers on the ground
floor. Coolers are wooden boxes with sieve bottoms made of the finest
wire. As soon as the syrup passes into the coolers, and is met by the
air, it grains, and the molasses at once escapes through the sieves
into a cistern below. It is then white or loaf sugar of the finest
kind--clear, clean, and as white as snow. When cool, it is taken out,
packed in hogsheads, and is ready for market. The molasses is then
carried from the cistern into the upper story again, and by another
process converted into brown sugar.

There are larger mills, and those constructed differently from the one
thus imperfectly described, but none, perhaps, more celebrated than
this anywhere on Bayou Boeuf. Lambert, of New-Orleans, is a partner of
Hawkins. He is a man of vast wealth, holding, as I have been told, an
interest in over forty different sugar plantations in Louisiana.

       *       *       *       *       *

The only respite from constant labor the slave has through the whole
year, is during the Christmas holidays. Epps allowed us three--others
allow four, five and six days, according to the measure of their
generosity. It is the only time to which they look forward with any
interest or pleasure. They are glad when night comes, not only because
it brings them a few hours repose, but because it brings them one day
nearer Christmas. It is hailed with equal delight by the old and the
young; even Uncle Abram ceases to glorify Andrew Jackson, and Patsey
forgets her many sorrows, amid the general hilarity of the holidays.
It is the time of feasting, and frolicking, and fiddling--the carnival
season with the children of bondage. They are the only days when they
are allowed a little restricted liberty, and heartily indeed do they
enjoy it.

It is the custom for one planter to give a "Christmas supper,"
inviting the slaves from neighboring plantations to join his own on
the occasion; for instance, one year it is given by Epps, the next
by Marshall, the next by Hawkins, and so on. Usually from three to
five hundred are assembled, coming together on foot, in carts, on
horseback, on mules, riding double and triple, sometimes a boy and
girl, at others a girl and two boys, and at others again a boy, a girl
and an old woman. Uncle Abram astride a mule, with Aunt Phebe and
Patsey behind him, trotting towards a Christmas supper, would be no
uncommon sight on Bayou Boeuf.

Then, too, "of all days i' the year," they array themselves in their
best attire. The cotton coat has been washed clean, the stump of a
tallow candle has been applied to the shoes, and if so fortunate as
to possess a rimless or a crownless hat, it is placed jauntily on the
head. They are welcomed with equal cordiality, however, if they come
bare-headed and barefooted to the feast. As a general thing, the women
wear handkerchiefs tied about their heads, but if chance has thrown in
their way a fiery red ribbon, or a cast-off bonnet of their mistress'
grandmother, it is sure to be worn on such occasions. Red--the deep
blood red--is decidedly the favorite color among the enslaved damsels
of my acquaintance. If a red ribbon does not encircle the neck, you
will be certain to find all the hair of their woolly heads tied up
with red strings of one sort or another.

The table is spread in the open air, and loaded with varieties of
meat and piles of vegetables. Bacon and corn meal at such times are
dispensed with. Sometimes the cooking is performed in the kitchen on
the plantation, at others in the shade of wide branching trees. In
the latter case, a ditch is dug in the ground, and wood laid in and
burned until it is filled with glowing coals, over which chickens,
ducks, turkeys, pigs, and not unfrequently the entire body of a wild
ox, are roasted. They are furnished also with flour, of which biscuits
are made, and often with peach and other preserves, with tarts, and
every manner and description of pies, except the mince, that being an
article of pastry as yet unknown among them. Only the slave who has
lived all the years on his scanty allowance of meal and bacon, can
appreciate such suppers. White people in great numbers assemble to
witness the gastronomical enjoyments.

They seat themselves at the rustic table--the males on one side, the
females on the other. The two between whom there may have been an
exchange of tenderness, invariably manage to sit opposite; for the
omnipresent Cupid disdains not to hurl his arrows into the simple
hearts of slaves. Unalloyed and exulting happiness lights up the dark
faces of them all. The ivory teeth, contrasting with their black
complexions, exhibit two long, white streaks the whole extent of
the table. All round the bountiful board a multitude of eyes roll
in ecstacy. Giggling and laughter and the clattering of cutlery
and crockery succeed. Cuffee's elbow hunches his neighbor's side,
impelled by an involuntary impulse of delight; Nelly shakes her finger
at <DW71> and laughs, she knows not why, and so the fun and merriment
flows on.

When the viands have disappeared, and the hungry maws of the children
of toil are satisfied, then, next in the order of amusement, is
the Christmas dance. My business on these gala days always was
to play on the violin. The African race is a music-loving one,
proverbially; and many there were among my fellow-bondsmen whose
organs of tune were strikingly developed, and who could thumb the
banjo with dexterity; but at the expense of appearing egotistical,
I must, nevertheless, declare, that I was considered the Ole Bull
of Bayou Boeuf. My master often received letters, sometimes from a
distance of ten miles, requesting him to send me to play at a ball or
festival of the whites. He received his compensation, and usually I
also returned with many picayunes jingling in my pockets--the extra
contributions of those to whose delight I had administered. In this
manner I became more acquainted than I otherwise would, up and down
the bayou. The young men and maidens of Holmesville always knew there
was to be a jollification somewhere, whenever Platt Epps was seen
passing through the town with his fiddle in his hand. "Where are you
going now, Platt?" and "What is coming off to-night, Platt?" would be
interrogatories issuing from every door and window, and many a time
when there was no special hurry, yielding to pressing importunities,
Platt would draw his bow, and sitting astride his mule, perhaps,
discourse musically to a crowd of delighted children, gathered around
him in the street.

Alas! had it not been for my beloved violin, I scarcely can
conceive how I could have endured the long years of bondage. It
introduced me to great houses--relieved me of many days' labor in the
field--supplied me with conveniences for my cabin--with pipes and
tobacco, and extra pairs of shoes, and oftentimes led me away from the
presence of a hard master, to witness scenes of jollity and mirth. It
was my companion--the friend of my bosom--triumphing loudly when I was
joyful, and uttering its soft, melodious consolations when I was sad.
Often, at midnight, when sleep had fled affrighted from the cabin, and
my soul was disturbed and troubled with the contemplation of my fate,
it would sing me a song of peace. On holy Sabbath days, when an hour
or two of leisure was allowed, it would accompany me to some quiet
place on the bayou bank, and, lifting up its voice, discourse kindly
and pleasantly indeed. It heralded my name round the country--made me
friends, who, otherwise would not have noticed me--gave me an honored
seat at the yearly feasts, and secured the loudest and heartiest
welcome of them all at the Christmas dance. The Christmas dance! Oh,
ye pleasure-seeking sons and daughters of idleness, who move with
measured step, listless and snail-like, through the slow-winding
cotillon, if ye wish to look upon the celerity, if not the "poetry of
motion"--upon genuine happiness, rampant and unrestrained--go down to
Louisiana, and see the slaves dancing in the starlight of a Christmas
night.

On that particular Christmas I have now in my mind, a description
whereof will serve as a description of the day generally, Miss Lively
and Mr. Sam, the first belonging to Stewart, the latter to Roberts,
started the ball. It was well known that Sam cherished an ardent
passion for Lively, as also did one of Marshall's and another of
Carey's boys; for Lively was _lively_ indeed, and a heart-breaking
coquette withal. It was a victory for Sam Roberts, when, rising from
the repast, she gave him her hand for the first "figure" in preference
to either of his rivals. They were somewhat crest-fallen, and, shaking
their heads angrily, rather intimated they would like to pitch into
Mr. Sam and hurt him badly. But not an emotion of wrath ruffled the
placid bosom of Samuel, as his legs flew like drum-sticks down the
outside and up the middle, by the side of his bewitching partner.
The whole company cheered them vociferously, and, excited with the
applause, they continued "tearing down" after all the others had
become exhausted and halted a moment to recover breath. But Sam's
superhuman exertions overcame him finally, leaving Lively alone, yet
whirling like a top. Thereupon one of Sam's rivals, Pete Marshall,
dashed in, and, with might and main, leaped and shuffled and threw
himself into every conceivable shape, as if determined to show Miss
Lively and all the world that Sam Roberts was of no account.

Pete's affection, however, was greater than his discretion. Such
violent exercise took the breath out of him directly, and he dropped
like an empty bag. Then was the time for Harry Carey to try his hand;
but Lively also soon out-winded him, amidst hurrahs and shouts, fully
sustaining her well-earned reputation of being the "fastest gal" on
the bayou.

One "set" off, another takes its place, he or she remaining longest
on the floor receiving the most uproarious commendation, and so the
dancing continues until broad daylight. It does not cease with the
sound of the fiddle, but in that case they set up a music peculiar to
themselves. This is called "patting," accompanied with one of those
unmeaning songs, composed rather for its adaptation to a certain tune
or measure, than for the purpose of expressing any distinct idea. The
patting is performed by striking the hands on the knees, then striking
the hands together, then striking the right shoulder with one hand,
the left with the other--all the while keeping time with the feet, and
singing, perhaps, this song:

        "Harper's creek and roarin' ribber,
        Thar, my dear, we'll live forebber;
        Den we'll go to de Ingin nation,
        All I want in dis creation,
        Is pretty little wife and big plantation.

    _Chorus._ Up dat oak and down dat ribber,
                     Two overseers and one little <DW65>."

Or, if these words are not adapted to the tune called for, it may be
that "Old Hog Eye" _is_--a rather solemn and startling specimen of
versification, not, however, to be appreciated unless heard at the
South. It runneth as follows:

    "Who's been here since I've been gone?
    Pretty little gal wid a josey on.

                            Hog Eye!
                            Old Hog Eye,
                            And Hosey too!

    Never see de like since I was born,
    Here come a little gal wid a josey on.

                            Hog Eye!
                            Old Hog Eye!
                            And Hosey too!"

Or, may be the following, perhaps, equally nonsensical, but full of
melody, nevertheless, as it flows from the <DW64>'s mouth:

    "Ebo Dick and Jurdan's Jo,
    Them two <DW65>s stole my yo'.

        _Chorus._ Hop Jim along,
                        Walk Jim along,
                        Talk Jim along," &c.

    Old black Dan, as black as tar,
    He dam glad he was not dar.

                        Hop Jim along," &c.

During the remaining holidays succeeding Christmas, they are provided
with passes, and permitted to go where they please within a limited
distance, or they may remain and labor on the plantation, in which
case they are paid for it. It is very rarely, however, that the latter
alternative is accepted. They may be seen at these times hurrying in
all directions, as happy looking mortals as can be found on the face
of the earth. They are different beings from what they are in the
field; the temporary relaxation, the brief deliverance from fear, and
from the lash, producing an entire metamorphosis in their appearance
and demeanor. In visiting, riding, renewing old friendships, or,
perchance, reviving some old attachment, or pursuing whatever pleasure
may suggest itself, the time is occupied. Such is "southern life as it
is," _three days in the year_, as I found it--the other three hundred
and sixty-two being days of weariness, and fear, and suffering, and
unremitting labor.

Marriage is frequently contracted during the holidays, if such an
institution may be said to exist among them. The only ceremony
required before entering into that "holy estate," is to obtain the
consent of the respective owners. It is usually encouraged by the
masters of female slaves. Either party can have as many husbands or
wives as the owner will permit, and either is at liberty to discard
the other at pleasure. The law in relation to divorce, or to bigamy,
and so forth, is not applicable to property, of course. If the wife
does not belong on the same plantation with the husband, the latter
is permitted to visit her on Saturday nights, if the distance is not
too far. Uncle Abram's wife lived seven miles from Epps', on Bayou
Huff Power. He had permission to visit her once a fortnight, but he
was growing old, as has been said, and truth to say, had latterly
well nigh forgotten her. Uncle Abram had no time to spare from his
meditations on General Jackson--connubial dalliance being well enough
for the young and thoughtless, but unbecoming a grave and solemn
philosopher like himself.




CHAPTER XVI.

  OVERSEERS--HOW THEY ARE ARMED AND ACCOMPANIED--THE HOMICIDE--HIS
  EXECUTION AT MARKSVILLE--SLAVE-DRIVERS--APPOINTED DRIVER ON REMOVING
  TO BAYOU BOEUF--PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT--EPPS' ATTEMPT TO CUT PLATT'S
  THROAT--THE ESCAPE FROM HIM--PROTECTED BY THE MISTRESS--FORBIDS
  READING AND WRITING--OBTAIN A SHEET OF PAPER AFTER NINE YEARS'
  EFFORT--THE LETTER--ARMSBY, THE MEAN WHITE--PARTIALLY CONFIDE IN
  HIM--HIS TREACHERY--EPPS' SUSPICIONS--HOW THEY WERE QUIETED--BURNING
  THE LETTER--ARMSBY LEAVES THE BAYOU--DISAPPOINTMENT AND DESPAIR.


With the exception of my trip to St. Mary's parish, and my absence
during the cane-cutting seasons, I was constantly employed on the
plantation of Master Epps. He was considered but a small planter,
not having a sufficient number of hands to require the services of
an overseer, acting in the latter capacity himself. Not able to
increase his force, it was his custom to hire during the hurry of
cotton-picking.

On larger estates, employing fifty or a hundred, or perhaps two
hundred hands, an overseer is deemed indispensable. These gentlemen
ride into the field on horseback, without an exception, to my
knowledge, armed with pistols, bowie knife, whip, and accompanied
by several dogs. They follow, equipped in this fashion, in rear of
the slaves, keeping a sharp lookout upon them all. The requisite
qualifications in an overseer are utter heartlessness, brutality and
cruelty. It is his business to produce large crops, and if that is
accomplished, no matter what amount of suffering it may have cost.
The presence of the dogs are necessary to overhaul a fugitive who may
take to his heels, as is sometimes the case, when faint or sick, he is
unable to maintain his row, and unable, also, to endure the whip. The
pistols are reserved for any dangerous emergency, there having been
instances when such weapons were necessary. Goaded into uncontrollable
madness, even the slave will sometimes turn upon his oppressor. The
gallows were standing at Marksville last January, upon which one was
executed a year ago for killing his overseer. It occurred not many
miles from Epps' plantation on Red River. The slave was given his task
at splitting rails. In the course of the day the overseer sent him on
an errand, which occupied so much time that it was not possible for
him to perform the task. The next day he was called to an account, but
the loss of time occasioned by the errand was no excuse, and he was
ordered to kneel and bare his back for the reception of the lash. They
were in the woods alone--beyond the reach of sight or hearing. The boy
submitted until maddened at such injustice, and insane with pain, he
sprang to his feet, and seizing an axe, literally chopped the overseer
in pieces. He made no attempt whatever at concealment, but hastening
to his master, related the whole affair, and declared himself ready
to expiate the wrong by the sacrifice of his life. He was led to
the scaffold, and while the rope was around his neck, maintained an
undismayed and fearless bearing, and with his last words justified the
act.

Besides the overseer, there are drivers under him, the number being in
proportion to the number of hands in the field. The drivers are black,
who, in addition to the performance of their equal share of work, are
compelled to do the whipping of their several gangs. Whips hang around
their necks, and if they fail to use them thoroughly, are whipped
themselves. They have a few privileges, however; for example, in
cane-cutting the hands are not allowed to sit down long enough to eat
their dinners. Carts filled with corn cake, cooked at the kitchen, are
driven into the field at noon. The cake is distributed by the drivers,
and must be eaten with the least possible delay.

When the slave ceases to perspire, as he often does when taxed beyond
his strength, he falls to the ground and becomes entirely helpless.
It is then the duty of the driver to drag him into the shade of the
standing cotton or cane, or of a neighboring tree, where he dashes
buckets of water upon him, and uses other means of bringing out
perspiration again, when he is ordered to his place, and compelled to
continue his labor.

At Huff Power, when I first came to Epps', Tom, one of Roberts'
<DW64>s, was driver. He was a burly fellow, and severe in the
extreme. After Epps' removal to Bayou Boeuf, that distinguished
honor was conferred upon myself. Up to the time of my departure I
had to wear a whip about my neck in the field. If Epps was present,
I dared not show any lenity, not having the Christian fortitude of
a certain well-known Uncle Tom sufficiently to brave his wrath, by
refusing to perform the office. In that way, only, I escaped the
immediate martyrdom he suffered, and, withal, saved my companions
much suffering, as it proved in the end. Epps, I soon found, whether
actually in the field or not, had his eyes pretty generally upon us.
From the piazza, from behind some adjacent tree, or other concealed
point of observation, he was perpetually on the watch. If one of us
had been backward or idle through the day, we were apt to be told
all about it on returning to the quarters, and as it was a matter of
principle with him to reprove every offence of that kind that came
within his knowledge, the offender not only was certain of receiving
a castigation for his tardiness, but I likewise was punished for
permitting it.

If, on the other hand, he had seen me use the lash freely, the man
was satisfied. "Practice makes perfect," truly; and during my eight
years' experience as a driver, I learned to handle the whip with
marvelous dexterity and precision, throwing the lash within a hair's
breadth of the back, the ear, the nose, without, however, touching
either of them. If Epps was observed at a distance, or we had reason
to apprehend he was sneaking somewhere in the vicinity, I would
commence plying the lash vigorously, when, according to arrangement,
they would squirm and screech as if in agony, although not one of them
had in fact been even grazed. Patsey would take occasion, if he made
his appearance presently, to mumble in his hearing some complaints
that Platt was lashing them the whole time, and Uncle Abram, with an
appearance of honesty peculiar to himself, would declare roundly I
had just whipped them worse than General Jackson whipped the enemy at
New-Orleans. If Epps was not drunk, and in one of his beastly humors,
this was, in general, satisfactory. If he was, some one or more of us
must suffer, as a matter of course. Sometimes his violence assumed a
dangerous form, placing the lives of his human stock in jeopardy. On
one occasion the drunken madman thought to amuse himself by cutting my
throat.

He had been absent at Holmesville, in attendance at a shooting-match,
and none of us were aware of his return. While hoeing by the side of
Patsey, she exclaimed, in a low voice, suddenly, "Platt, d'ye see old
Hog-Jaw beckoning me to come to him?"

Glancing sideways, I discovered him in the edge of the field,
motioning and grimacing, as was his habit when half-intoxicated. Aware
of his lewd intentions, Patsey began to cry. I whispered her not to
look up, and to continue at her work, as if she had not observed him.
Suspecting the truth of the matter, however, he soon staggered up to
me in a great rage.

"What did you say to Pats?" he demanded, with an oath. I made him some
evasive answer, which only had the effect of increasing his violence.

"How long have you owned this plantation, _say_, you d----d <DW65>?"
he inquired, with a malicious sneer, at the same time taking hold
of my shirt collar with one hand, and thrusting the other into his
pocket. "Now I'll cut your black throat; that's what I'll do," drawing
his knife from his pocket as he said it. But with one hand he was
unable to open it, until finally seizing the blade in his teeth, I
saw he was about to succeed, and felt the necessity of escaping from
him, for in his present reckless state, it was evident he was not
joking, by any means. My shirt was open in front, and as I turned
round quickly and sprang from him, while he still retained his gripe,
it was stripped entirely from my back. There was no difficulty now
in eluding him. He would chase me until out of breath, then stop
until it was recovered, swear, and renew the chase again. Now he
would command me to come to him, now endeavor to coax me, but I was
careful to keep at a respectful distance. In this manner we made the
circuit of the field several times, he making desperate plunges, and
I always dodging them, more amused than frightened, well knowing that
when his sober senses returned, he would laugh at his own drunken
folly. At length I observed the mistress standing by the yard fence,
watching our half-serious, half-comical manoeuvres. Shooting past him,
I ran directly to her. Epps, on discovering her, did not follow. He
remained about the field an hour or more, during which time I stood
by the mistress, having related the particulars of what had taken
place. Now, _she_ was aroused again, denouncing her husband and Patsey
about equally. Finally, Epps came towards the house, by this time
nearly sober, walking demurely, with his hands behind his back, and
attempting to look as innocent as a child.

As he approached, nevertheless, Mistress Epps began to berate him
roundly, heaping upon him many rather disrespectful epithets, and
demanding for what reason he had attempted to cut my throat. Epps
made wondrous strange of it all, and to my surprise, swore by all the
saints in the calendar he had not spoken to me that day.

"Platt, you lying <DW65>, _have_ I?" was his brazen appeal to me.

It is not safe to contradict a master, even by the assertion of a
truth. So I was silent, and when he entered the house I returned to
the field, and the affair was never after alluded to.

Shortly after this time a circumstance occurred that came nigh
divulging the secret of my real name and history, which I had so long
and carefully concealed, and upon which I was convinced depended my
final escape. Soon after he purchased me, Epps asked me if I could
write and read, and on being informed that I had received some
instruction in those branches of education, he assured me, with
emphasis, if he ever caught me with a book, or with pen and ink, he
would give me a hundred lashes. He said he wanted me to understand
that he bought "<DW65>s" to work and not to educate. He never inquired
a word of my past life, or from whence I came. The mistress, however,
cross-examined me frequently about Washington, which she supposed was
my native city, and more than once remarked that I did not talk nor
act like the other "<DW65>s," and she was sure I had seen more of the
world than I admitted.

My great object always was to invent means of getting a letter
secretly into the post-office, directed to some of my friends or
family at the North. The difficulty of such an achievement cannot be
comprehended by one unacquainted with the severe restrictions imposed
upon me. In the first place, I was deprived of pen, ink, and paper.
In the second place, a slave cannot leave his plantation without a
pass, nor will a post-master mail a letter for one without written
instructions from his owner. I was in slavery nine years, and always
watchful and on the alert, before I met with the good fortune of
obtaining a sheet of paper. While Epps was in New-Orleans, one winter,
disposing of his cotton, the mistress sent me to Holmesville, with an
order for several articles, and among the rest a quantity of foolscap.
I appropriated a sheet, concealing it in the cabin, under the board on
which I slept.

After various experiments I succeeded in making ink, by boiling white
maple bark, and with a feather plucked from the wing of a duck,
manufactured a pen. When all were asleep in the cabin, by the light
of the coals, lying upon my plank couch, I managed to complete a
somewhat lengthy epistle. It was directed to an old acquaintance at
Sandy Hill, stating my condition, and urging him to take measures to
restore me to liberty. This letter I kept a long time, contriving
measures by which it could be safely deposited in the post-office. At
length, a low fellow, by the name of Armsby, hitherto a stranger, came
into the neighborhood, seeking a situation as overseer. He applied
to Epps, and was about the plantation for several days. He next went
over to Shaw's, near by, and remained with him several weeks. Shaw
was generally surrounded by such worthless characters, being himself
noted as a gambler and unprincipled man. He had made a wife of his
slave Charlotte, and a brood of young mulattoes were growing up in his
house. Armsby became so much reduced at last, that he was compelled
to labor with the slaves. A white man working in the field is a rare
and unusual spectacle on Bayou Boeuf. I improved every opportunity
of cultivating his acquaintance privately, desiring to obtain his
confidence so far as to be willing to intrust the letter to his
keeping. He visited Marksville repeatedly, he informed me, a town some
twenty miles distant, and there, I proposed to myself, the letter
should be mailed.

Carefully deliberating on the most proper manner of approaching him
on the subject, I concluded finally to ask him simply if he would
deposit a letter for me in the Marksville post-office the next time
he visited that place, without disclosing to him that the letter was
written, or any of the particulars it contained; for I had fears that
he might betray me, and knew that some inducement must be held out to
him of a pecuniary nature, before it would be safe to confide in him.
As late as one o'clock one night I stole noiselessly from my cabin,
and, crossing the field to Shaw's, found him sleeping on the piazza.
I had but a few picayunes--the proceeds of my fiddling performances,
but all I had in the world I promised him if he would do me the
favor required. I begged him not to expose me if he could not grant
the request. He assured me, upon his honor, he would deposit it in
the Marksville post-office, and that he would keep it an inviolable
secret forever. Though the letter was in my pocket at the time, I
dared not then deliver it to him, but stating I would have it written
in a day or two, bade him good night, and returned to my cabin. It
was impossible for me to expel the suspicions I entertained, and all
night I lay awake, revolving in my mind the safest course to pursue. I
was willing to risk a great deal to accomplish my purpose, but should
the letter by any means fall into the hands of Epps, it would be a
death-blow to my aspirations. I was "perplexed in the extreme."

My suspicions were well-founded, as the sequel demonstrated. The next
day but one, while scraping cotton in the field, Epps seated himself
on the line fence between Shaw's plantation and his own, in such a
position as to overlook the scene of our labors. Presently Armsby made
his appearance, and, mounting the fence, took a seat beside him. They
remained two or three hours, all of which time I was in an agony of
apprehension.

That night, while broiling my bacon, Epps entered the cabin with his
rawhide in his hand.

"Well, boy," said he, "I understand I've got a larned <DW65>, that
writes letters, and tries to get white fellows to mail 'em. Wonder if
you know who he is?"

My worst fears were realized, and although it may not be considered
entirely creditable, even under the circumstances, yet a resort to
duplicity and downright falsehood was the only refuge that presented
itself.

"Don't know nothing about it, Master Epps," I answered him, assuming
an air of ignorance and surprise; "Don't know nothing at all about it,
sir."

"Wan't you over to Shaw's night before last?" he inquired.

"No, master," was the reply.

"Hav'nt you asked that fellow, Armsby, to mail a letter for you at
Marksville?"

"Why, Lord, master, I never spoke three words to him in all my life. I
don't know what you mean."

"Well," he continued, "Armsby told me to-day the devil was among my
<DW65>s; that I had one that needed close watching or he would run
away; and when I axed him why, he said you come over to Shaw's,
and waked him up in the night, and wanted him to carry a letter to
Marksville. What have you got to say to that, ha?"

"All I've got to say, master," I replied, "is, there is no truth in
it. How could I write a letter without any ink or paper? There is
nobody I want to write to, 'cause I haint got no friends living as I
know of. That Armsby is a lying, drunken fellow, they say, and nobody
believes him anyway. You know I always tell the truth, and that I
never go off the plantation without a pass. Now, master, I can see
what that Armsby is after, plain enough. Did'nt he want you to hire
him for an overseer?"

"Yes, he wanted me to hire him," answered Epps.

"That's it," said I, "he wants to make you believe we're all going
to run away, and then he thinks you'll hire an overseer to watch us.
He just made that story out of whole cloth, 'cause he wants to get a
situation. It's all a lie, master, you may depend on't."

Epps mused awhile, evidently impressed with the plausibility of my
theory, and exclaimed,

"I'm d--d, Platt, if I don't believe you tell the truth. He must
take me for a soft, to think he can come it over me with them kind
of yarns, musn't he? Maybe he thinks he can fool me; maybe he thinks
I don't know nothing--can't take care of my own <DW65>s, eh! Soft
soap old Epps, eh! Ha, ha, ha! D--n Armsby! Set the dogs on him,
Platt," and with many other comments descriptive of Armsby's general
character, and his capability of taking care of his own business, and
attending to his own "<DW65>s," Master Epps left the cabin. As soon as
he was gone I threw the letter in the fire, and, with a desponding and
despairing heart, beheld the epistle which had cost me so much anxiety
and thought, and which I fondly hoped would have been my forerunner
to the land of freedom, writhe and shrivel on its bed of coals, and
dissolve into smoke and ashes. Armsby, the treacherous wretch, was
driven from Shaw's plantation not long subsequently, much to my
relief, for I feared he might renew his conversation, and perhaps
induce Epps to credit him.

I knew not now whither to look for deliverance. Hopes sprang up in
my heart only to be crushed and blighted. The summer of my life was
passing away; I felt I was growing prematurely old; that a few years
more, and toil, and grief, and the poisonous miasmas of the swamps
would accomplish their work upon me--would consign me to the grave's
embrace, to moulder and be forgotten. Repelled, betrayed, cut off from
the hope of succor, I could only prostrate myself upon the earth and
groan in unutterable anguish. The hope of rescue was the only light
that cast a ray of comfort on my heart. That was now flickering,
faint and low; another breath of disappointment would extinguish it
altogether, leaving me to grope in midnight darkness to the end of
life.




CHAPTER XVII.

  WILEY DISREGARDS THE COUNSELS OF AUNT PHEBE AND UNCLE ABRAM,
  AND IS CAUGHT BY THE PATROLLERS--THE ORGANIZATION AND DUTIES OF
  THE LATTER--WILEY RUNS AWAY--SPECULATIONS IN REGARD TO HIM--HIS
  UNEXPECTED RETURN--HIS CAPTURE ON RED RIVER, AND CONFINEMENT
  IN ALEXANDRIA JAIL--DISCOVERED BY JOSEPH B. ROBERTS--SUBDUING
  DOGS IN ANTICIPATION OF ESCAPE--THE FUGITIVES IN THE GREAT PINE
  WOODS--CAPTURED BY ADAM TAYDEM AND THE INDIANS--AUGUSTUS KILLED
  BY DOGS--NELLY, ELDRET'S SLAVE WOMAN--THE STORY OF CELESTE--THE
  CONCERTED MOVEMENT--LEW CHENEY, THE TRAITOR--THE IDEA OF INSURRECTION.


The year 1850, down to which time I have now arrived, omitting many
occurrences uninteresting to the reader, was an unlucky year for my
companion Wiley, the husband of Phebe, whose taciturn and retiring
nature has thus far kept him in the background. Notwithstanding Wiley
seldom opened his mouth, and revolved in his obscure and unpretending
orbit without a grumble, nevertheless the warm elements of sociality
were strong in the bosom of that silent "<DW65>." In the exuberance
of his self-reliance, disregarding the philosophy of Uncle Abram,
and setting the counsels of Aunt Phebe utterly at naught, he had the
fool-hardiness to essay a nocturnal visit to a neighboring cabin
without a pass.

So attractive was the society in which he found himself, that Wiley
took little note of the passing hours, and the light began to break in
the east before he was aware. Speeding homeward as fast as he could
run, he hoped to reach the quarters before the horn would sound; but,
unhappily, he was spied on the way by a company of patrollers.

How it is in other dark places of slavery, I do not know, but on
Bayou Boeuf there is an organization of patrollers, as they are
styled, whose business it is to seize and whip any slave they may find
wandering from the plantation. They ride on horseback, headed by a
captain, armed, and accompanied by dogs. They have the right, either
by law, or by general consent, to inflict discretionary chastisement
upon a black man caught beyond the boundaries of his master's estate
without a pass, and even to shoot him, if he attempts to escape. Each
company has a certain distance to ride up and down the bayou. They
are compensated by the planters, who contribute in proportion to the
number of slaves they own. The clatter of their horses' hoofs dashing
by can be heard at all hours of the night, and frequently they may be
seen driving a slave before them, or leading him by a rope fastened
around his neck, to his owner's plantation.

Wiley fled before one of these companies, thinking he could reach
his cabin before they could overtake him; but one of their dogs, a
great ravenous hound, griped him by the leg, and held him fast. The
patrollers whipped him severely, and brought him, a prisoner, to
Epps. From him he received another flagellation still more severe,
so that the cuts of the lash and the bites of the dog rendered him
sore, stiff and miserable, insomuch he was scarcely able to move. It
was impossible in such a state to keep up his row, and consequently
there was not an hour in the day but Wiley felt the sting of his
master's rawhide on his raw and bleeding back. His sufferings became
intolerable, and finally he resolved to run away. Without disclosing
his intentions to run away even to his wife Phebe, he proceeded to
make arrangements for carrying his plan into execution. Having cooked
his whole week's allowance, he cautiously left the cabin on a Sunday
night, after the inmates of the quarters were asleep. When the horn
sounded in the morning, Wiley did not make his appearance. Search was
made for him in the cabins, in the corn-crib, in the cotton-house, and
in every nook and corner of the premises. Each of us was examined,
touching any knowledge we might have that could throw light upon his
sudden disappearance or present whereabouts. Epps raved and stormed,
and mounting his horse, galloped to neighboring plantations, making
inquiries in all directions. The search was fruitless. Nothing
whatever was elicited, going to show what had become of the missing
man. The dogs were led to the swamp, but were unable to strike his
trail. They would circle away through the forest, their noses to the
ground, but invariably returned in a short time to the spot from
whence they started.

Wiley had escaped, and so secretly and cautiously as to elude and
baffle all pursuit. Days and even weeks passed away, and nothing could
be heard of him. Epps did nothing but curse and swear. It was the only
topic of conversation among us when alone. We indulged in a great deal
of speculation in regard to him, one suggesting he might have been
drowned in some bayou, inasmuch as he was a poor swimmer; another,
that perhaps he might have been devoured by alligators, or stung by
the venomous moccasin, whose bite is certain and sudden death. The
warm and hearty sympathies of us all, however, were with poor Wiley,
wherever he might be. Many an earnest prayer ascended from the lips of
Uncle Abram, beseeching safety for the wanderer.

In about three weeks, when all hope of ever seeing him again was
dismissed, to our surprise, he one day appeared among us. On leaving
the plantation, he informed us, it was his intention to make his way
back to South Carolina--to the old quarters of Master Buford. During
the day he remained secreted, sometimes in the branches of a tree, and
at night pressed forward through the swamps. Finally, one morning,
just at dawn, he reached the shore of Red River. While standing on
the bank, considering how he could cross it, a white man accosted
him, and demanded a pass. Without one, and evidently a runaway, he
was taken to Alexandria, the shire town of the parish of Rapides,
and confined in prison. It happened several days after that Joseph
B. Roberts, uncle of Mistress Epps, was in Alexandria, and going
into the jail, recognized him. Wiley had worked on his plantation,
when Epps resided at Huff Power. Paying the jail fee, and writing him
a pass, underneath which was a note to Epps, requesting him not to
whip him on his return, Wiley was sent back to Bayou Boeuf. It was
the hope that hung upon this request, and which Roberts assured him
would be respected by his master, that sustained him as he approached
the house. The request, however, as may be readily supposed, was
entirely disregarded. After being kept in suspense three days, Wiley
was stripped, and compelled to endure one of those inhuman floggings
to which the poor slave is so often subjected. It was the first and
last attempt of Wiley to run away. The long scars upon his back, which
he will carry with him to the grave, perpetually remind him of the
dangers of such a step.

There was not a day throughout the ten years I belonged to Epps that I
did not consult with myself upon the prospect of escape. I laid many
plans, which at the time I considered excellent ones, but one after
the other they were all abandoned. No man who has never been placed
in such a situation, can comprehend the thousand obstacles thrown in
the way of the flying slave. Every white man's hand is raised against
him--the patrollers are watching for him--the hounds are ready to
follow on his track, and the nature of the country is such as renders
it impossible to pass through it with any safety. I thought, however,
that the time might come, perhaps, when I should be running through
the swamps again. I concluded, in that case, to be prepared for Epps'
dogs, should they pursue me. He possessed several, one of which was
a notorious slave-hunter, and the most fierce and savage of his
breed. While out hunting the <DW53> or the opossum, I never allowed an
opportunity to escape, when alone, of whipping them severely. In this
manner I succeeded at length in subduing them completely. They feared
me, obeying my voice at once when others had no control over them
whatever. Had they followed and overtaken me, I doubt not they would
have shrank from attacking me.

Notwithstanding the certainty of being captured, the woods and swamps
are, nevertheless, continually filled with runaways. Many of them,
when sick, or so worn out as to be unable to perform their tasks,
escape into the swamps, willing to suffer the punishment inflicted for
such offences, in order to obtain a day or two of rest.

While I belonged to Ford, I was unwittingly the means of disclosing
the hiding-place of six or eight, who had taken up their residence in
the "Great Pine Woods." Adam Taydem frequently sent me from the mills
over to the opening after provisions. The whole distance was then a
thick pine forest. About ten o'clock of a beautiful moonlight night,
while walking along the Texas road, returning to the mills, carrying
a dressed pig in a bag swung over my shoulder, I heard footsteps
behind me, and turning round, beheld two black men in the dress of
slaves approaching at a rapid pace. When within a short distance,
one of them raised a club, as if intending to strike me; the other
snatched at the bag. I managed to dodge them both, and seizing a pine
knot, hurled it with such force against the head of one of them that
he was prostrated apparently senseless to the ground. Just then two
more made their appearance from one side of the road. Before they
could grapple me, however, I succeeded in passing them, and taking
to my heels, fled, much affrighted, towards the mills. When Adam was
informed of the adventure, he hastened straightway to the Indian
village, and arousing Cascalla and several of his tribe, started in
pursuit of the highwaymen. I accompanied them to the scene of attack,
when we discovered a puddle of blood in the road, where the man whom I
had smitten with the pine knot had fallen. After searching carefully
through the woods a long time, one of Cascalla's men discovered a
smoke curling up through the branches of several prostrate pines,
whose tops had fallen together. The rendezvous was cautiously
surrounded, and all of them taken prisoners. They had escaped from a
plantation in the vicinity of Lamourie, and had been secreted there
three weeks. They had no evil design upon me, except to frighten me
out of my pig. Having observed me passing towards Ford's just at
night-fall, and suspecting the nature of my errand, they had followed
me, seen me butcher and dress the porker, and start on my return.
They had been pinched for food, and were driven to this extremity by
necessity. Adam conveyed them to the parish jail, and was liberally
rewarded.

Not unfrequently the runaway loses his life in the attempt to escape.
Epps' premises were bounded on one side by Carey's, a very extensive
sugar plantation. He cultivates annually at least fifteen hundred
acres of cane, manufacturing twenty-two or twenty-three hundred
hogsheads of sugar; an hogshead and a half being the usual yield of
an acre. Besides this he also cultivates five or six hundred acres
of corn and cotton. He owned last year one hundred and fifty three
field hands, besides nearly as many children, and yearly hires a drove
during the busy season from this side the Mississippi.

One of his <DW64> drivers, a pleasant, intelligent boy, was named
Augustus. During the holidays, and occasionally while at work in
adjoining fields, I had an opportunity of making his acquaintance,
which eventually ripened into a warm and mutual attachment. Summer
before last he was so unfortunate as to incur the displeasure of the
overseer, a coarse, heartless brute, who whipped him most cruelly.
Augustus ran away. Reaching a cane rick on Hawkins' plantation, he
secreted himself in the top of it. All Carey's dogs were put upon
his track--some fifteen of them--and soon scented his footsteps to
the hiding place. They surrounded the rick, baying and scratching,
but could not reach him. Presently, guided by the clamor of the
hounds, the pursuers rode up, when the overseer, mounting on to the
rick, drew him forth. As he rolled down to the ground the whole pack
plunged upon him, and before they could be beaten off, had gnawed and
mutilated his body in the most shocking manner, their teeth having
penetrated to the bone in an hundred places. He was taken up, tied
upon a mule, and carried home. But this was Augustus' last trouble. He
lingered until the next day, when death sought the unhappy boy, and
kindly relieved him from his agony.

It was not unusual for slave women as well as slave men to endeavor
to escape. Nelly, Eldret's girl, with whom I lumbered for a time in
the "Big Cane Brake," lay concealed in Epps' corn crib three days. At
night, when his family were asleep, she would steal into the quarters
for food, and return to the crib again. We concluded it would no
longer be safe for us to allow her to remain, and accordingly she
retraced her steps to her own cabin.

But the most remarkable instance of a successful evasion of dogs and
hunters was the following: Among Carey's girls was one by the name of
Celeste. She was nineteen or twenty, and far whiter than her owner, or
any of his offspring. It required a close inspection to distinguish
in her features the slightest trace of African blood. A stranger
would never have dreamed that she was the descendant of slaves. I was
sitting in my cabin late at night, playing a low air on my violin,
when the door opened carefully, and Celeste stood before me. She was
pale and haggard. Had an apparition arisen from the earth, I could
not have been more startled.

"Who are you?" I demanded, after gazing at her a moment.

"I'm hungry; give me some bacon," was her reply.

My first impression was that she was some deranged young mistress,
who, escaping from home, was wandering, she knew not whither, and
had been attracted to my cabin by the sound of the violin. The
coarse cotton slave dress she wore, however, soon dispelled such a
supposition.

"What is your name?" I again interrogated.

"My name is Celeste," she answered. "I belong to Carey, and have been
two days among the palmettoes. I am sick and can't work, and would
rather die in the swamp than be whipped to death by the overseer.
Carey's dogs won't follow me. They have tried to set them on. There's
a secret between them and Celeste, and they wont mind the devilish
orders of the overseer. Give me some meat--I'm starving."

I divided my scanty allowance with her, and while partaking of it,
she related how she had managed to escape, and described the place
of her concealment. In the edge of the swamp, not half a mile from
Epps' house, was a large space, thousands of acres in extent, thickly
covered with palmetto. Tall trees, whose long arms interlocked each
other, formed a canopy above them, so dense as to exclude the beams
of the sun. It was like twilight always, even in the middle of the
brightest day. In the centre of this great space, which nothing but
serpents very often explore--a sombre and solitary spot--Celeste had
erected a rude hut of dead branches that had fallen to the ground,
and covered it with the leaves of the palmetto. This was the abode
she had selected. She had no fear of Carey's dogs, any more than I
had of Epps'. It is a fact, which I have never been able to explain,
that there are those whose tracks the hounds will absolutely refuse to
follow. Celeste was one of them.

For several nights she came to my cabin for food. On one occasion our
dogs barked as she approached, which aroused Epps, and induced him
to reconnoitre the premises. He did not discover her, but after that
it was not deemed prudent for her to come to the yard. When all was
silent I carried provisions to a certain spot agreed upon, where she
would find them.

In this manner Celeste passed the greater part of the summer. She
regained her health, and became strong and hearty. At all seasons of
the year the howlings of wild animals can be heard at night along the
borders of the swamps. Several times they had made her a midnight
call, awakening her from slumber with a growl. Terrified by such
unpleasant salutations, she finally concluded to abandon her lonely
dwelling; and, accordingly, returning to her master, was scourged, her
neck meanwhile being fastened in the stocks, and sent into the field
again.

The year before my arrival in the country there was a concerted
movement among a number of slaves on Bayou Boeuf, that terminated
tragically indeed. It was, I presume, a matter of newspaper notoriety
at the time, but all the knowledge I have of it, has been derived from
the relation of those living at that period in the immediate vicinity
of the excitement. It has become a subject of general and unfailing
interest in every slave-hut on the bayou, and will doubtless go down
to succeeding generations as their chief tradition. Lew Cheney, with
whom I became acquainted--a shrewd, cunning <DW64>, more intelligent
than the generality of his race, but unscrupulous and full of
treachery--conceived the project of organizing a company sufficiently
strong to fight their way against all opposition, to the neighboring
territory of Mexico.

A remote spot, far within the depths of the swamp, back of Hawkins'
plantation, was selected as the rallying point. Lew flitted from one
plantation to another, in the dead of night, preaching a crusade to
Mexico, and, like Peter the Hermit, creating a furor of excitement
wherever he appeared. At length a large number of runaways were
assembled; stolen mules, and corn gathered from the fields, and bacon
filched from smoke-houses, had been conveyed into the woods. The
expedition was about ready to proceed, when their hiding place was
discovered. Lew Cheney, becoming convinced of the ultimate failure of
his project, in order to curry favor with his master, and avoid the
consequences which he foresaw would follow, deliberately determined to
sacrifice all his companions. Departing secretly from the encampment,
he proclaimed among the planters the number collected in the swamp,
and, instead of stating truly the object they had in view, asserted
their intention was to emerge from their seclusion the first favorable
opportunity, and murder every white person along the bayou.

Such an announcement, exaggerated as it passed from mouth to mouth,
filled the whole country with terror. The fugitives were surrounded
and taken prisoners, carried in chains to Alexandria, and hung by
the populace. Not only those, but many who were suspected, though
entirely innocent, were taken from the field and from the cabin,
and without the shadow of process or form of trial, hurried to the
scaffold. The planters on Bayou Boeuf finally rebelled against such
reckless destruction of property, but it was not until a regiment of
soldiers had arrived from some fort on the Texan frontier, demolished
the gallows, and opened the doors of the Alexandria prison, that the
indiscriminate slaughter was stayed. Lew Cheney escaped, and was
even rewarded for his treachery. He is still living, but his name is
despised and execrated by all his race throughout the parishes of
Rapides and Avoyelles.

Such an idea as insurrection, however, is not new among the enslaved
population of Bayou Boeuf. More than once I have joined in serious
consultation, when the subject has been discussed, and there have
been times when a word from me would have placed hundreds of my
fellow-bondsmen in an attitude of defiance. Without arms or
ammunition, or even with them, I saw such a step would result in
certain defeat, disaster and death, and always raised my voice against
it.

During the Mexican war I well remember the extravagant hopes that were
excited. The news of victory filled the great house with rejoicing,
but produced only sorrow and disappointment in the cabin. In my
opinion--and I have had opportunity to know something of the feeling
of which I speak--there are not fifty slaves on the shores of Bayou
Boeuf, but would hail with unmeasured delight the approach of an
invading army.

They are deceived who flatter themselves that the ignorant and
debased slave has no conception of the magnitude of his wrongs. They
are deceived who imagine that he arises from his knees, with back
lacerated and bleeding, cherishing only a spirit of meekness and
forgiveness. A day may come--it _will_ come, if his prayer is heard--a
terrible day of vengeance, when the master in his turn will cry in
vain for mercy.




CHAPTER XVIII.

  O'NIEL, THE TANNER--CONVERSATION WITH AUNT PHEBE OVERHEARD--EPPS IN
  THE TANNING BUSINESS--STABBING OF UNCLE ABRAM--THE UGLY WOUND--EPPS
  IS JEALOUS--PATSEY IS MISSING--HER RETURN FROM SHAW'S--HARRIET,
  SHAW'S BLACK WIFE--EPPS ENRAGED--PATSEY DENIES HIS CHARGES--SHE IS
  TIED DOWN NAKED TO FOUR STAKES--THE INHUMAN FLOGGING--FLAYING OF
  PATSEY--THE BEAUTY OF THE DAY--THE BUCKET OF SALT WATER--THE DRESS
  STIFF WITH BLOOD--PATSEY GROWS MELANCHOLY--HER IDEA OF GOD AND
  ETERNITY--OF HEAVEN AND FREEDOM--THE EFFECT OF SLAVE-WHIPPING--EPPS'
  OLDEST SON--"THE CHILD IS FATHER TO THE MAN."


Wiley suffered severely at the hands of Master Epps, as has been
related in the preceding chapter, but in this respect he fared no
worse than his unfortunate companions. "Spare the rod," was an idea
scouted by our master. He was constitutionally subject to periods of
ill-humor, and at such times, however little provocation there might
be, a certain amount of punishment was inflicted. The circumstances
attending the last flogging but one that I received, will show how
trivial a cause was sufficient with him for resorting to the whip.

A Mr. O'Niel, residing in the vicinity of the Big Pine Woods, called
upon Epps for the purpose of purchasing me. He was a tanner and
currier by occupation, transacting an extensive business, and intended
to place me at service in some department of his establishment,
provided he bought me. Aunt Phebe, while preparing the dinner-table
in the great house, overheard their conversation. On returning to the
yard at night, the old woman ran to meet me, designing, of course,
to overwhelm me with the news. She entered into a minute repetition
of all she had heard, and Aunt Phebe was one whose ears never failed
to drink in every word of conversation uttered in her hearing. She
enlarged upon the fact that "Massa Epps was g'wine to sell me to a
tanner ober in de Pine Woods," so long and loudly as to attract the
attention of the mistress, who, standing unobserved on the piazza at
the time, was listening to our conversation.

"Well, Aunt Phebe," said I, "I'm glad of it. I'm tired of scraping
cotton, and would rather be a tanner. I hope he'll buy me."

O'Niel did not effect a purchase, however, the parties differing as
to price, and the morning following his arrival, departed homewards.
He had been gone but a short time, when Epps made his appearance in
the field. Now nothing will more violently enrage a master, especially
Epps, than the intimation of one of his servants that he would like to
leave him. Mistress Epps had repeated to him my expressions to Aunt
Phebe the evening previous, as I learned from the latter afterwards,
the mistress having mentioned to her that she had overheard us. On
entering the field, Epps walked directly to me.

"So, Platt, you're tired of scraping cotton, are you? You
would like to change your master, eh? You're fond of moving
round--traveler--ain't ye? Ah, yes--like to travel for your health,
may be? Feel above cotton-scraping, I 'spose. So you're going into the
tanning business? Good business--devilish fine business. Enterprising
<DW65>! B'lieve I'll go into that business myself. Down on your knees,
and strip that rag off your back! I'll try my hand at tanning."

I begged earnestly, and endeavored to soften him with excuses, but in
vain. There was no other alternative; so kneeling down, I presented my
bare back for the application of the lash.

"How do you like _tanning_?" he exclaimed, as the rawhide descended
upon my flesh. "How do you like _tanning_?" he repeated at every
blow. In this manner he gave me twenty or thirty lashes, incessantly
giving utterance to the word "tanning," in one form of expression or
another. When sufficiently "tanned," he allowed me to arise, and with
a half-malicious laugh assured me, if I still fancied the business, he
would give me further instruction in it whenever I desired. This time,
he remarked, he had only given me a short lesson in "_tanning_"--the
next time he would "curry me down."

Uncle Abram, also, was frequently treated with great brutality,
although he was one of the kindest and most faithful creatures in
the world. He was my cabin-mate for years. There was a benevolent
expression in the old man's face, pleasant to behold. He regarded us
with a kind of parental feeling, always counseling us with remarkable
gravity and deliberation.

Returning from Marshall's plantation one afternoon, whither I had been
sent on some errand of the mistress, I found him lying on the cabin
floor, his clothes saturated with blood. He informed me that he had
been stabbed! While spreading cotton on the scaffold, Epps came home
intoxicated from Holmesville. He found fault with every thing, giving
many orders so directly contrary that it was impossible to execute
any of them. Uncle Abram, whose faculties were growing dull, became
confused, and committed some blunder of no particular consequence.
Epps was so enraged thereat, that, with drunken recklessness, he flew
upon the old man, and stabbed him in the back. It was a long, ugly
wound, but did not happen to penetrate far enough to result fatally.
It was sewed up by the mistress, who censured her husband with extreme
severity, not only denouncing his inhumanity, but declaring that
she expected nothing else than that he would bring the family to
poverty--that he would kill all the slaves on the plantation in some
of his drunken fits.

It was no uncommon thing with him to prostrate Aunt Phebe with a chair
or stick of wood; but the most cruel whipping that ever I was doomed
to witness--one I can never recall with any other emotion than that
of horror--was inflicted on the unfortunate Patsey.

It has been seen that the jealousy and hatred of Mistress Epps made
the daily life of her young and agile slave completely miserable. I
am happy in the belief that on numerous occasions I was the means
of averting punishment from the inoffensive girl. In Epps' absence
the mistress often ordered me to whip her without the remotest
provocation. I would refuse, saying that I feared my master's
displeasure, and several times ventured to remonstrate with her
against the treatment Patsey received. I endeavored to impress her
with the truth that the latter was not responsible for the acts of
which she complained, but that she being a slave, and subject entirely
to her master's will, he alone was answerable.

At length "the green-eyed monster" crept into the soul of Epps also,
and then it was that he joined with his wrathful wife in an infernal
jubilee over the girl's miseries.

On a Sabbath day in hoeing time, not long ago, we were on the bayou
bank, washing our clothes, as was our usual custom. Presently Patsey
was missing. Epps called aloud, but there was no answer. No one had
observed her leaving the yard, and it was a wonder with us whither she
had gone. In the course of a couple of hours she was seen approaching
from the direction of Shaw's. This man, as has been intimated, was
a notorious profligate, and withal not on the most friendly terms
with Epps. Harriet, his black wife, knowing Patsey's troubles, was
kind to her, in consequence of which the latter was in the habit of
going over to see her every opportunity. Her visits were prompted by
friendship merely, but the suspicion gradually entered the brain of
Epps, that another and a baser passion led her thither--that it was
not Harriet she desired to meet, but rather the unblushing libertine,
his neighbor. Patsey found her master in a fearful rage on her return.
His violence so alarmed her that at first she attempted to evade
direct answers to his questions, which only served to increase his
suspicions. She finally, however, drew herself up proudly, and in a
spirit of indignation boldly denied his charges.

"Missus don't give me soap to wash with, as she does the rest," said
Patsey, "and you know why. I went over to Harriet's to get a piece,"
and saying this, she drew it forth from a pocket in her dress and
exhibited it to him. "That's what I went to Shaw's for, Massa Epps,"
continued she; "the Lord knows that was all."

"You lie, you black wench!" shouted Epps.

"I _don't_ lie, massa. If you kill me, I'll stick to that."

"Oh! I'll fetch you down. I'll learn you to go to Shaw's. I'll take
the starch out of ye," he muttered fiercely through his shut teeth.

Then turning to me, he ordered four stakes to be driven into the
ground, pointing with the toe of his boot to the places where he
wanted them. When the stakes were driven down, he ordered her to be
stripped of every article of dress. Ropes were then brought, and
the naked girl was laid upon her face, her wrists and feet each tied
firmly to a stake. Stepping to the piazza, he took down a heavy whip,
and placing it in my hands, commanded me to lash her. Unpleasant as it
was, I was compelled to obey him. Nowhere that day, on the face of the
whole earth, I venture to say, was there such a demoniac exhibition
witnessed as then ensued.

Mistress Epps stood on the piazza among her children, gazing on the
scene with an air of heartless satisfaction. The slaves were huddled
together at a little distance, their countenances indicating the
sorrow of their hearts. Poor Patsey prayed piteously for mercy, but
her prayers were vain. Epps ground his teeth, and stamped upon the
ground, screaming at me, like a mad fiend, to strike _harder_.

"Strike harder, or _your_ turn will come next, you scoundrel," he
yelled.

"Oh, mercy, massa!--oh! have mercy, _do_. Oh, God! pity me," Patsey
exclaimed continually, struggling fruitlessly, and the flesh quivering
at every stroke.

When I had struck her as many as thirty times, I stopped, and turned
round toward Epps, hoping he was satisfied; but with bitter oaths and
threats, he ordered me to continue. I inflicted ten or fifteen blows
more. By this time her back was covered with long welts, intersecting
each other like net work. Epps was yet furious and savage as ever,
demanding if she would like to go to Shaw's again, and swearing he
would flog her until she wished she was in h--l. Throwing down the
whip, I declared I could punish her no more. He ordered me to go on,
threatening me with a severer flogging than she had received, in case
of refusal. My heart revolted at the inhuman scene, and risking the
consequences, I absolutely refused to raise the whip. He then seized
it himself, and applied it with ten-fold greater force than I had.
The painful cries and shrieks of the tortured Patsey, mingling with
the loud and angry curses of Epps, loaded the air. She was terribly
lacerated--I may say, without exaggeration, literally flayed. The lash
was wet with blood, which flowed down her sides and dropped upon the
ground. At length she ceased struggling. Her head sank listlessly on
the ground. Her screams and supplications gradually decreased and died
away into a low moan. She no longer writhed and shrank beneath the
lash when it bit out small pieces of her flesh. I thought that she was
dying!

[Illustration: THE STAKING OUT AND FLOGGING OF THE GIRL PATSEY.]

It was the Sabbath of the Lord. The fields smiled in the warm
sunlight--the birds chirped merrily amidst the foliage of the
trees--peace and happiness seemed to reign everywhere, save in the
bosoms of Epps and his panting victim and the silent witnesses around
him. The tempestuous emotions that were raging there were little in
harmony with the calm and quiet beauty of the day. I could look on
Epps only with unutterable loathing and abhorrence, and thought
within myself--"Thou devil, sooner or later, somewhere in the course
of eternal justice, thou shalt answer for this sin!"

Finally, he ceased whipping from mere exhaustion, and ordered Phebe
to bring a bucket of salt and water. After washing her thoroughly
with this, I was told to take her to her cabin. Untying the ropes, I
raised her in my arms. She was unable to stand, and as her head rested
on my shoulder, she repeated many times, in a faint voice scarcely
perceptible, "Oh, Platt--oh, Platt!" but nothing further. Her dress
was replaced, but it clung to her back, and was soon stiff with blood.
We laid her on some boards in the hut, where she remained a long time,
with eyes closed and groaning in agony. At night Phebe applied melted
tallow to her wounds, and so far as we were able, all endeavored to
assist and console her. Day after day she lay in her cabin upon her
face, the sores preventing her resting in any other position.

A blessed thing it would have been for her--days and weeks and months
of misery it would have saved her--had she never lifted up her head in
life again. Indeed, from that time forward she was not what she had
been. The burden of a deep melancholy weighed heavily on her spirits.
She no longer moved with that buoyant and elastic step--there was
not that mirthful sparkle in her eyes that formerly distinguished
her. The bounding vigor--the sprightly, laughter-loving spirit of her
youth, were gone. She fell into a mournful and desponding mood, and
oftentimes would start up in her sleep, and with raised hands, plead
for mercy. She became more silent than she was, toiling all day in our
midst, not uttering a word. A care-worn, pitiful expression settled on
her face, and it was her humor now to weep, rather than rejoice. If
ever there was a broken heart--one crushed and blighted by the rude
grasp of suffering and misfortune--it was Patsey's.

She had been reared no better than her master's beast--looked upon
merely as a valuable and handsome animal--and consequently possessed
but a limited amount of knowledge. And yet a faint light cast its rays
over her intellect, so that it was not wholly dark. She had a dim
perception of God and of eternity, and a still more dim perception
of a Saviour who had died even for such as her. She entertained but
confused notions of a future life--not comprehending the distinction
between the corporeal and spiritual existence. Happiness, in her mind,
was exemption from stripes--from labor--from the cruelty of masters
and overseers. Her idea of the joy of heaven was simply _rest_, and is
fully expressed in these lines of a melancholy bard:

    "I ask no paradise on high,
      With cares on earth oppressed,
    The only heaven for which I sigh,
      Is rest, eternal rest."

It is a mistaken opinion that prevails in some quarters, that the
slave does not understand the term--does not comprehend the idea of
freedom. Even on Bayou Boeuf, where I conceive slavery exists in its
most abject and cruel form--where it exhibits features altogether
unknown in more northern States--the most ignorant of them generally
know full well its meaning. They understand the privileges and
exemptions that belong to it--that it would bestow upon them the
fruits of their own labors, and that it would secure to them the
enjoyment of domestic happiness. They do not fail to observe the
difference between their own condition and the meanest white man's,
and to realize the injustice of the laws which place it in his power
not only to appropriate the profits of their industry, but to subject
them to unmerited and unprovoked punishment, without remedy, or the
right to resist, or to remonstrate.

Patsey's life, especially after her whipping, was one long dream of
liberty. Far away, to her fancy an immeasurable distance, she knew
there was a land of freedom. A thousand times she had heard that
somewhere in the distant North there were no slaves--no masters. In
her imagination it was an enchanted region, the Paradise of the earth.
To dwell where the black man may work for himself--live in his own
cabin--till his own soil, was a blissful dream of Patsey's--a dream,
alas! the fulfillment of which she can never realize.

The effect of these exhibitions of brutality on the household of the
slave-holder, is apparent. Epps' oldest son is an intelligent lad of
ten or twelve years of age. It is pitiable, sometimes, to see him
chastising, for instance, the venerable Uncle Abram. He will call the
old man to account, and if in his childish judgment it is necessary,
sentence him to a certain number of lashes, which he proceeds to
inflict with much gravity and deliberation. Mounted on his pony,
he often rides into the field with his whip, playing the overseer,
greatly to his father's delight. Without discrimination, at such
times, he applies the rawhide, urging the slaves forward with shouts,
and occasional expressions of profanity, while the old man laughs, and
commends him as a thorough-going boy.

"The child is father to the man," and with such training, whatever may
be his natural disposition, it cannot well be otherwise than that, on
arriving at maturity, the sufferings and miseries of the slave will be
looked upon with entire indifference. The influence of the iniquitous
system necessarily fosters an unfeeling and cruel spirit, even in the
bosoms of those who, among their equals, are regarded as humane and
generous.

Young Master Epps possessed some noble qualities, yet no process
of reasoning could lead him to comprehend, that in the eye of the
Almighty there is no distinction of color. He looked upon the black
man simply as an animal, differing in no respect from any other
animal, save in the gift of speech and the possession of somewhat
higher instincts, and, therefore, the more valuable. To work like his
father's mules--to be whipped and kicked and scourged through life--to
address the white man with hat in hand, and eyes bent servilely on
the earth, in his mind, was the natural and proper destiny of the
slave. Brought up with such ideas--in the notion that we stand without
the pale of humanity--no wonder the oppressors of my people are a
pitiless and unrelenting race.




CHAPTER XIX.

  AVERY, OF BAYOU ROUGE--PECULIARITY OF DWELLINGS--EPPS BUILDS
  A NEW HOUSE--BASS, THE CARPENTER--HIS NOBLE QUALITIES--HIS
  PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND ECCENTRICITIES--BASS AND EPPS DISCUSS
  THE QUESTION OF SLAVERY--EPPS' OPINION OF BASS--I MAKE MYSELF
  KNOWN TO HIM--OUR CONVERSATION--HIS SURPRISE--THE MIDNIGHT
  MEETING ON THE BAYOU BANK--BASS' ASSURANCES--DECLARES WAR
  AGAINST SLAVERY--WHY I DID NOT DISCLOSE MY HISTORY--BASS WRITES
  LETTERS--COPY OF HIS LETTER TO MESSRS. PARKER AND PERRY--THE FEVER OF
  SUSPENSE--DISAPPOINTMENTS--BASS ENDEAVORS TO CHEER ME--MY FAITH IN
  HIM.


In the month of June, 1852, in pursuance of a previous contract, Mr.
Avery, a carpenter of Bayou Rouge, commenced the erection of a house
for Master Epps. It has previously been stated that there are no
cellars on Bayou Boeuf; on the other hand, such is the low and swampy
nature of the ground, the great houses are usually built upon spiles.
Another peculiarity is, the rooms are not plastered, but the ceiling
and sides are covered with matched cypress boards, painted such color
as most pleases the owner's taste. Generally the plank and boards are
sawed by slaves with whip-saws, there being no waterpower upon which
mills might be built within many miles. When the planter erects for
himself a dwelling, therefore, there is plenty of extra work for his
slaves. Having had some experience under Tibeats as a carpenter, I was
taken from the field altogether, on the arrival of Avery and his hands.

Among them was one to whom I owe an immeasurable debt of gratitude.
Only for him, in all probability, I should have ended my days in
slavery. He was my deliverer--a man whose true heart overflowed with
noble and generous emotions. To the last moment of my existence I
shall remember him with feelings of thankfulness. His name was Bass,
and at that time he resided in Marksville. It will be difficult to
convey a correct impression of his appearance or character. He was a
large man, between forty and fifty years old, of light complexion and
light hair. He was very cool and self-possessed, fond of argument, but
always speaking with extreme deliberation. He was that kind of person
whose peculiarity of manner was such that nothing he uttered ever gave
offence. What would be intolerable, coming from the lips of another,
could be said by him with impunity. There was not a man on Red River,
perhaps, that agreed with him on the subject of politics or religion,
and not a man, I venture to say, who discussed either of those
subjects half as much. It seemed to be taken for granted that he would
espouse the unpopular side of every local question, and it always
created amusement rather than displeasure among his auditors, to
listen to the ingenious and original manner in which he maintained the
controversy. He was a bachelor--an "old bachelor," according to the
true acceptation of the term--having no kindred living, as he knew of,
in the world. Neither had he any permanent abiding place--wandering
from one State to another, as his fancy dictated. He had lived in
Marksville three or four years, and in the prosecution of his business
as a carpenter; and in consequence, likewise, of his peculiarities,
was quite extensively known throughout the parish of Avoyelles. He
was liberal to a fault; and his many acts of kindness and transparent
goodness of heart rendered him popular in the community, the sentiment
of which he unceasingly combated.

He was a native of Canada, from whence he had wandered in early life,
and after visiting all the principal localities in the northern and
western States, in the course of his peregrinations, arrived in
the unhealthy region of the Red River. His last removal was from
Illinois. Whither he has now gone, I regret to be obliged to say, is
unknown to me. He gathered up his effects and departed quietly from
Marksville the day before I did, the suspicions of his instrumentality
in procuring my liberation rendering such a step necessary. For the
commission of a just and righteous act he would undoubtedly have
suffered death, had he remained within reach of the slave-whipping
tribe on Bayou Boeuf.

One day, while working on the new house, Bass and Epps became engaged
in a controversy, to which, as will be readily supposed, I listened
with absorbing interest. They were discussing the subject of Slavery.

"I tell you what it is Epps," said Bass, "it's all wrong--all wrong,
sir--there's no justice nor righteousness in it. I wouldn't own a
slave if I was rich as Croesus, which I am not, as is perfectly well
understood, more particularly among my creditors. _There's_ another
humbug--the credit system--humbug, sir; no credit--no debt. Credit
leads a man into temptation. Cash down is the only thing that will
deliver him from evil. But this question of _Slavery_; what _right_
have you to your <DW65>s when you come down to the point?"

"What right!" said Epps, laughing; "why, I bought 'em, and paid for
'em."

"Of _course_ you did; the law says you have the right to hold a
<DW65>, but begging the law's pardon, it _lies_. Yes, Epps, when the
law says that it's a _liar_, and the truth is not in it. Is every
thing right because the law allows it? Suppose they'd pass a law
taking away your liberty and making you a slave?"

"Oh, that ain't a supposable case," said Epps, still laughing; "hope
you don't compare me to a <DW65>, Bass."

"Well," Bass answered gravely, "no, not exactly. But I have seen
<DW65>s before now as good as I am, and I have no acquaintance with
any white man in these parts that I consider a whit better than
myself. Now, in the sight of God, what is the difference, Epps,
between a white man and a black one?"

"All the difference in the world," replied Epps. "You might as well
ask what the difference is between a white man and a baboon. Now,
I've seen one of them critters in Orleans that knowed just as much as
any <DW65> I've got. You'd call them feller citizens, I s'pose?"--and
Epps indulged in a loud laugh at his own wit.

"Look here, Epps," continued his companion; "you can't laugh me down
in that way. Some men are witty, and some ain't so witty as they think
they are. Now let me ask you a question. Are all men created free and
equal as the Declaration of Independence holds they are?"

"Yes," responded Epps, "but all men, <DW65>s, and monkeys _ain't_;"
and hereupon he broke forth into a more boisterous laugh than before.

"There are monkeys among white people as well as black, when you
come to that," coolly remarked Bass. "I know some white men that use
arguments no sensible monkey would. But let that pass. These <DW65>s
are human beings. If they don't know as much as their masters, whose
fault is it? They are not _allowed_ to know anything. You have books
and papers, and can go where you please, and gather intelligence
in a thousand ways. But your slaves have no privileges. You'd whip
one of them if caught reading a book. They are held in bondage,
generation after generation, deprived of mental improvement, and who
can expect them to possess much knowledge? If they are not brought
down to a level with the brute creation, you slaveholders will never
be blamed for it. If they are baboons, or stand no higher in the
scale of intelligence than such animals, you and men like you will
have to answer for it. There's a sin, a fearful sin, resting on this
nation, that will not go unpunished forever. There will be a reckoning
yet--yes, Epps, there's a day coming that will burn as an oven. It may
be sooner or it may be later, but it's a coming as sure as the Lord is
just."

"If you lived up among the Yankees in New-England," said Epps, "I
expect you'd be one of them cursed fanatics that know more than the
constitution, and go about peddling clocks and coaxing <DW65>s to run
away."

"If I was in New-England," returned Bass, "I would be just what I
am here. I would say that Slavery was an iniquity, and ought to be
abolished. I would say there was no reason nor justice in the law, or
the constitution that allows one man to hold another man in bondage.
It would be hard for you to lose your property, to be sure, but it
wouldn't be half as hard as it would be to lose your liberty. You
have no more right to your freedom, in exact justice, than Uncle
Abram yonder. Talk about black skin, and black blood; why, how many
slaves are there on this bayou as white as either of us? And what
difference is there in the color of the soul? Pshaw! the whole system
is as absurd as it is cruel. You may own <DW65>s and behanged, but I
wouldn't own one for the best plantation in Louisiana."

"You like to hear yourself talk, Bass, better than any man I know of.
You would argue that black was white, or white black, if any body
would contradict you. Nothing suits you in this world, and I don't
believe you will be satisfied with the next, if you should have your
choice in them."

Conversations substantially like the foregoing were not unusual
between the two after this; Epps drawing him out more for the purpose
of creating a laugh at his expense, than with a view of fairly
discussing the merits of the question. He looked upon Bass, as a man
ready to say anything merely for the pleasure of hearing his own
voice; as somewhat self-conceited, perhaps, contending against his
faith and judgment, in order, simply, to exhibit his dexterity in
argumentation.

He remained at Epps' through the summer, visiting Marksville generally
once a fortnight. The more I saw of him, the more I became convinced
he was a man in whom I could confide. Nevertheless, my previous
ill-fortune had taught me to be extremely cautious. It was not my
place to speak to a white man except when spoken to, but I omitted no
opportunity of throwing myself in his way, and endeavored constantly
in every possible manner to attract his attention. In the early part
of August he and myself were at work alone in the house, the other
carpenters having left, and Epps being absent in the field. Now was
the time, if ever, to broach the subject, and I resolved to do it, and
submit to whatever consequences might ensue. We were busily at work in
the afternoon, when I stopped suddenly and said--

"Master Bass, I want to ask you what part of the country you came
from?"

"Why, Platt, what put that into your head?" he answered. "You wouldn't
know if I should tell you." After a moment or two he added--"I was
born in Canada; now guess where that is."

"Oh, I know where Canada is," said I, "I have been there myself."

"Yes, I expect you are well acquainted all through that country," he
remarked, laughing incredulously.

"As sure as I live, Master Bass," I replied, "I have been there. I
have been in Montreal and Kingston, and Queenston, and a great many
places in Canada, and I have been in York State, too--in Buffalo, and
Rochester, and Albany, and can tell you the names of the villages on
the Erie canal and the Champlain canal."

Bass turned round and gazed at me a long time without uttering a
syllable.

"How came you here?" he inquired, at length. "Master Bass," I
answered, "if justice had been done, I never would have been here."

"Well, how's this?" said he. "Who are you? You have been in Canada
sure enough; I know all the places you mention. How did you happen to
get here? Come, tell me all about it."

"I have no friends here," was my reply, "that I can put confidence in.
I am afraid to tell you, though I don't believe you would tell Master
Epps if I should."

He assured me earnestly he would keep every word I might speak to
him a profound secret, and his curiosity was evidently strongly
excited. It was a long story, I informed him, and would take some
time to relate it. Master Epps would be back soon, but if he would
see me that night after all were asleep, I would repeat it to him. He
consented readily to the arrangement, and directed me to come into
the building where we were then at work, and I would find him there.
About midnight, when all was still and quiet, I crept cautiously from
my cabin, and silently entering the unfinished building, found him
awaiting me.

After further assurances on his part that I should not be betrayed,
I began a relation of the history of my life and misfortunes. He
was deeply interested, asking numerous questions in reference to
localities and events. Having ended my story I besought him to
write to some of my friends at the North, acquainting them with my
situation, and begging them to forward free papers, or take such steps
as they might consider proper to secure my release. He promised to do
so, but dwelt upon the danger of such an act in case of detection,
and now impressed upon me the great necessity of strict silence and
secresy. Before we parted our plan of operation was arranged.

We agreed to meet the next night at a specified place among the high
weeds on the bank of the bayou, some distance from master's dwelling.
There he was to write down on paper the names and address of several
persons, old friends in the North, to whom he would direct letters
during his next visit to Marksville. It was not deemed prudent to
meet in the new house, inasmuch as the light it would be necessary to
use might possibly be discovered. In the course of the day I managed
to obtain a few matches and a piece of candle, unperceived, from the
kitchen, during a temporary absence of Aunt Phebe. Bass had pencil and
paper in his tool chest.

At the appointed hour we met on the bayou bank, and creeping among
the high weeds, I lighted the candle, while he drew forth pencil and
paper and prepared for business. I gave him the names of William
Perry, Cephas Parker and Judge Marvin, all of Saratoga Springs,
Saratoga county, New-York. I had been employed by the latter in the
United States Hotel, and had transacted business with the former to a
considerable extent, and trusted that at least one of them would be
still living at that place. He carefully wrote the names, and then
remarked, thoughtfully--

"It is so many years since you left Saratoga, all these men may be
dead, or may have removed. You say you obtained papers at the custom
house in New-York. Probably there is a record of them there, and I
think it would be well to write and ascertain."

I agreed with him, and again repeated the circumstances related
heretofore, connected with my visit to the custom house with Brown
and Hamilton. We lingered on the bank of the bayou an hour or more,
conversing upon the subject which now engrossed our thoughts. I
could no longer doubt his fidelity, and freely spoke to him of the
many sorrows I had borne in silence, and so long. I spoke of my wife
and children, mentioning their names and ages, and dwelling upon the
unspeakable happiness it would be to clasp them to my heart once
more before I died. I caught him by the hand, and with tears and
passionate entreaties implored him to befriend me--to restore me to my
kindred and to liberty--promising I would weary Heaven the remainder
of my life with prayers that it would bless and prosper him. In the
enjoyment of freedom--surrounded by the associations of youth, and
restored to the bosom of my family--that promise is not yet forgotten,
nor shall it ever be so long as I have strength to raise my imploring
eyes on high.

    "Oh, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair,
    And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there."

He overwhelmed me with assurances of friendship and faithfulness,
saying he had never before taken so deep an interest in the fate of
any one. He spoke of himself in a somewhat mournful tone, as a lonely
man, a wanderer about the world--that he was growing old, and must
soon reach the end of his earthly journey, and lie down to his final
rest without kith or kin to mourn for him, or to remember him--that
his life was of little value to himself, and henceforth should be
devoted to the accomplishment of my liberty, and to an unceasing
warfare against the accursed shame of Slavery.

After this time we seldom spoke to, or recognized each other. He was,
moreover, less free in his conversation with Epps on the subject
of Slavery. The remotest suspicion that there was any unusual
intimacy--any secret understanding between us--never once entered the
mind of Epps, or any other person, white or black, on the plantation.

I am often asked, with an air of incredulity, how I succeeded so many
years in keeping from my daily and constant companions the knowledge
of my true name and history. The terrible lesson Burch taught me,
impressed indelibly upon my mind the danger and uselessness of
asserting I was a freeman. There was no possibility of any slave being
able to assist me, while, on the other hand, there _was_ a possibility
of his exposing me. When it is recollected the whole current of my
thoughts, for twelve years, turned to the contemplation of escape, it
will not be wondered at, that I was always cautious and on my guard.
It would have been an act of folly to have proclaimed my _right_ to
freedom; it would only have subjected me to severer scrutiny--probably
have consigned me to some more distant and inaccessible region than
even Bayou Boeuf. Edwin Epps was a person utterly regardless of a
black man's rights or wrongs--utterly destitute of any natural sense
of justice, as I well knew. It was important, therefore, not only as
regarded my hope of deliverance, but also as regarded the few personal
privileges I was permitted to enjoy, to keep from him the history of
my life.

The Saturday night subsequent to our interview at the water's edge,
Bass went home to Marksville. The next day, being Sunday, he employed
himself in his own room writing letters. One he directed to the
Collector of Customs at New-York, another to Judge Marvin, and another
to Messrs. Parker and Perry jointly. The latter was the one which led
to my recovery. He subscribed my true name, but in the postscript
intimated I was not the writer. The letter itself shows that he
considered himself engaged in a dangerous undertaking--no less than
running "the risk of his life, if detected." I did not see the letter
before it was mailed, but have since obtained a copy, which is here
inserted:

                                   "Bayou Boeuf, August 15, 1852.

     "Mr. WILLIAM PERRY or Mr. CEPHAS PARKER:

     "Gentlemen--It having been a long time since I have seen or
     heard from you, and not knowing that you are living, it is with
     uncertainty that I write to you, but the necessity of the case
     must be my excuse.

     "Having been born free, just across the river from you, I am
     certain you must know me, and I am here now a slave. I wish you to
     obtain free papers for me, and forward them to me at Marksville,
     Louisiana, Parish of Avoyelles, and oblige

                                   "Yours, SOLOMON NORTHUP.

     "The way I came to be a slave, I was taken sick in Washington
     City, and was insensible for some time. When I recovered my
     reason, I was robbed of my free-papers, and in irons on my way to
     this State, and have never been able to get any one to write for
     me until now; and he that is writing for me runs the risk of his
     life if detected."

The allusion to myself in the work recently issued, entitled "A Key to
Uncle Tom's Cabin," contains the first part of this letter, omitting
the postscript. Neither are the full names of the gentlemen to whom
it is directed correctly stated, there being a slight discrepancy,
probably a typographical error. To the postscript more than to the
body of the communication am I indebted for my liberation, as will
presently be seen.

When Bass returned from Marksville he informed me of what he had done.
We continued our midnight consultations, never speaking to each other
through the day, excepting as it was necessary about the work. As
nearly as he was able to ascertain, it would require two weeks for the
letter to reach Saratoga in due course of mail, and the same length of
time for an answer to return. Within six weeks, at the farthest, we
concluded, an answer would arrive, if it arrived at all. A great many
suggestions were now made, and a great deal of conversation took place
between us, as to the most safe and proper course to pursue on receipt
of the free papers. They would stand between him and harm, in case we
were overtaken and arrested leaving the country altogether. It would
be no infringement of law, however much it might provoke individual
hostility, to assist a freeman to regain his freedom.

At the end of four weeks he was again at Marksville, but no answer
had arrived. I was sorely disappointed, but still reconciled myself
with the reflection that sufficient length of time had not yet
elapsed--that there might have been delays--and that I could not
reasonably expect one so soon. Six, seven, eight, and ten weeks passed
by, however, and nothing came. I was in a fever of suspense whenever
Bass visited Marksville, and could scarcely close my eyes until his
return. Finally my master's house was finished, and the time came when
Bass must leave me. The night before his departure I was wholly given
up to despair. I had clung to him as a drowning man clings to the
floating spar, knowing if it slips from his grasp he must forever sink
beneath the waves. The all-glorious hope, upon which I had laid such
eager hold, was crumbling to ashes in my hands. I felt as if sinking
down, down, amidst the bitter waters of Slavery, from the unfathomable
depths of which I should never rise again.

The generous heart of my friend and benefactor was touched with pity
at the sight of my distress. He endeavored to cheer me up, promising
to return the day before Christmas, and if no intelligence was
received in the meantime, some further step would be undertaken to
effect our design. He exhorted me to keep up my spirits--to rely upon
his continued efforts in my behalf, assuring me, in most earnest and
impressive language, that my liberation should, from thenceforth, be
the chief object of his thoughts.

In his absence the time passed slowly indeed. I looked forward to
Christmas with intense anxiety and impatience. I had about given up
the expectation of receiving any answer to the letters. They might
have miscarried, or might have been misdirected. Perhaps those at
Saratoga, to whom they had been addressed, were all dead; perhaps,
engaged in their pursuits, they did not consider the fate of an
obscure, unhappy black man of sufficient importance to be noticed. My
whole reliance was in Bass. The faith I had in him was continually
re-assuring me, and enabled me to stand up against the tide of
disappointment that had overwhelmed me.

So wholly was I absorbed in reflecting upon my situation and
prospects, that the hands with whom I labored in the field often
observed it. Patsey would ask me if I was sick, and Uncle Abram, and
Bob, and Wiley frequently expressed a curiosity to know what I could
be thinking about so steadily. But I evaded their inquiries with some
light remark, and kept my thoughts locked closely in my breast.




CHAPTER XX.

  BASS FAITHFUL TO HIS WORD--HIS ARRIVAL ON CHRISTMAS EVE--THE
  DIFFICULTY OF OBTAINING AN INTERVIEW--THE MEETING IN THE
  CABIN--NON-ARRIVAL OF THE LETTER--BASS ANNOUNCES HIS INTENTION TO
  PROCEED NORTH--CHRISTMAS--CONVERSATION BETWEEN EPPS AND BASS--YOUNG
  MISTRESS M'COY, THE BEAUTY OF BAYOU BOEUF--THE "NE PLUS ULTRA"
  OF DINNERS--MUSIC AND DANCING--PRESENCE OF THE MISTRESS--HER
  EXCEEDING BEAUTY--THE LAST SLAVE DANCE--WILLIAM PIERCE--OVERSLEEP
  MYSELF--THE LAST WHIPPING--DESPONDENCY--THE COLD MORNING--EPPS'
  THREATS--THE PASSING CARRIAGE--STRANGERS APPROACHING THROUGH THE
  COTTON-FIELD--LAST HOUR ON BAYOU BOEUF.


Faithful to his word, the day before Christmas, just at night-fall,
Bass came riding into the yard.

"How are you," said Epps, shaking him by the hand, "glad to see you."

He would not have been _very_ glad had he known the object of his
errand.

"Quite well, quite well," answered Bass. "Had some business out on the
bayou, and concluded to call and see you, and stay over night."

Epps ordered one of the slaves to take charge of his horse, and with
much talk and laughter they passed into the house together; not,
however, until Bass had looked at me significantly, as much as to
say, "Keep dark, we understand each other." It was ten o'clock at
night before the labors of the day were performed, when I entered the
cabin. At that time Uncle Abram and Bob occupied it with me. I laid
down upon my board and feigned I was asleep. When my companions had
fallen into a profound slumber, I moved stealthily out of the door,
and watched, and listened attentively for some sign or sound from
Bass. There I stood until long after midnight, but nothing could be
seen or heard. As I suspected, he dared not leave the house, through
fear of exciting the suspicion of some of the family. I judged,
correctly, he would rise earlier than was his custom, and take the
opportunity of seeing me before Epps was up. Accordingly I aroused
Uncle Abram an hour sooner than usual, and sent him into the house to
build a fire, which, at that season of the year, is a part of Uncle
Abram's duties.

I also gave Bob a violent shake, and asked him if he intended to sleep
till noon, saying master would be up before the mules were fed. He
knew right well the consequence that would follow such an event, and,
jumping to his feet, was at the horse-pasture in a twinkling.

Presently, when both were gone, Bass slipped into the cabin.

"No letter yet, Platt," said he. The announcement fell upon my heart
like lead.

"Oh, _do_ write again, Master Bass," I cried; "I will give you the
names of a great many I know. Surely they are not all dead. Surely
some one will pity me."

"No use," Bass replied, "no use. I have made up my mind to that.
I fear the Marksville post-master will mistrust something, I have
inquired so often at his office. Too uncertain--too dangerous."

"Then it is all over," I exclaimed. "Oh, my God, how can I end my days
here!"

"You're not going to end them here," he said, "unless you die
very soon. I've thought this matter all over, and have come to a
determination. There are more ways than one to manage this business,
and a better and surer way than writing letters. I have a job or two
on hand which can be completed by March or April. By that time I shall
have a considerable sum of money, and then, Platt, I am going to
Saratoga myself."

I could scarcely credit my own senses as the words fell from his lips.
But he assured me, in a manner that left no doubt of the sincerity of
his intention, that if his life was spared until spring, he should
certainly undertake the journey.

"I have lived in this region long enough," he continued; "I may as
well be in one place as another. For a long time I have been thinking
of going back once more to the place where I was born. I'm tired of
Slavery as well as you. If I can succeed in getting you away from
here, it will be a good act that I shall like to think of all my life.
And I _shall_ succeed, Platt; I'm _bound_ to do it. Now let me tell
you what I want. Epps will be up soon, and it won't do to be caught
here. Think of a great many men at Saratoga and Sandy Hill, and in
that neighborhood, who once knew you. I shall make excuse to come here
again in the course of the winter, when I will write down their names.
I will then know who to call on when I go north. Think of all you can.
Cheer up! Don't be discouraged. I'm with you, life or death. Good-bye.
God bless you," and saying this he left the cabin quickly, and entered
the great house.

It was Christmas morning--the happiest day in the whole year for the
slave. That morning he need not hurry to the field, with his gourd
and cotton-bag. Happiness sparkled in the eyes and overspread the
countenances of all. The time of feasting and dancing had come. The
cane and cotton fields were deserted. That day the clean dress was
to be donned--the red ribbon displayed; there were to be re-unions,
and joy and laughter, and hurrying to and fro. It was to be a day of
_liberty_ among the children of Slavery. Wherefore they were happy,
and rejoiced.

After breakfast Epps and Bass sauntered about the yard, conversing
upon the price of cotton, and various other topics.

"Where do your <DW65>s hold Christmas?" Bass inquired.

"Platt is going to Tanners to-day. His fiddle is in great demand.
They want him at Marshall's Monday, and Miss Mary McCoy, on the old
Norwood plantation, writes me a note that she wants him to play for
her <DW65>s Tuesday."

"He is rather a smart boy, ain't he?" said Bass. "Come here, Platt,"
he added, looking at me as I walked up to them, as if he had never
thought before to take any special notice of me.

"Yes," replied Epps, taking hold of my arm and feeling it, "there
isn't a bad joint in him. There ain't a boy on the bayou worth more
than he is--perfectly sound, and no bad tricks. D--n him, he isn't
like other <DW65>s; doesn't look like 'em--don't act like 'em. I was
offered seventeen hundred dollars for him last week."

"And didn't take it?" Bass inquired, with an air of surprise.

"Take it--no; devilish clear of it. Why, he's a reg'lar genius; can
make a plough beam, wagon tongue--anything, as well as you can.
Marshall wanted to put up one of his <DW65>s agin him and raffle for
them, but I told him I would see the devil have him first."

"I don't see anything remarkable about him," Bass observed.

"Why, just feel of him, now," Epps rejoined. "You don't see a boy very
often put together any closer than he is. He's a thin-skin'd cuss, and
won't bear as much whipping as some; but he's got the muscle in him,
and no mistake."

Bass felt of me, turned me round, and made a thorough examination,
Epps all the while dwelling on my good points. But his visitor seemed
to take but little interest finally in the subject, and consequently
it was dropped. Bass soon departed, giving me another sly look of
recognition and significance, as he trotted out of the yard.

When he was gone I obtained a pass, and started for Tanner's--not
Peter Tanner's, of whom mention has previously been made, but a
relative of his. I played during the day and most of the night,
spending the next day, Sunday, in my cabin. Monday I crossed the
bayou to Douglas Marshall's, all Epps' slaves accompanying me, and on
Tuesday went to the old Norwood place, which is the third plantation
above Marshall's, on the same side of the water.

This estate is now owned by Miss Mary McCoy, a lovely girl, some
twenty years of age. She is the beauty and the glory of Bayou Boeuf.
She owns about a hundred working hands, besides a great many house
servants, yard boys, and young children. Her brother-in-law, who
resides on the adjoining estate, is her general agent. She is beloved
by all her slaves, and good reason indeed have they to be thankful
that they have fallen into such gentle hands. Nowhere on the bayou
are there such feasts, such merrymaking, as at young Madam McCoy's.
Thither, more than to any other place, do the old and the young for
miles around love to repair in the time of the Christmas holidays; for
nowhere else can they find such delicious repasts; nowhere else can
they hear a voice speaking to them so pleasantly. No one is so well
beloved--no one fills so large a space in the hearts of a thousand
slaves, as young Madam McCoy, the orphan mistress of the old Norwood
estate.

On my arrival at her place, I found two or three hundred had
assembled. The table was prepared in a long building, which she had
erected expressly for her slaves to dance in. It was covered with
every variety of food the country afforded, and was pronounced by
general acclamation to be the rarest of dinners. Roast turkey, pig,
chicken, duck, and all kinds of meat, baked, boiled, and broiled,
formed a line the whole length of the extended table, while the vacant
spaces were filled with tarts, jellies, and frosted cake, and pastry
of many kinds. The young mistress walked around the table, smiling
and saying a kind word to each one, and seemed to enjoy the scene
exceedingly.

When the dinner was over the tables were removed to make room for the
dancers. I tuned my violin and struck up a lively air; while some
joined in a nimble reel, others patted and sang their simple but
melodious songs, filling the great room with music mingled with the
sound of human voices and the clatter of many feet.

In the evening the mistress returned, and stood in the door a long
time, looking at us. She was magnificently arrayed. Her dark hair and
eyes contrasted strongly with her clear and delicate complexion. Her
form was slender but commanding, and her movement was a combination
of unaffected dignity and grace. As she stood there, clad in her
rich apparel, her face animated with pleasure, I thought I had never
looked upon a human being half so beautiful. I dwell with delight upon
the description of this fair and gentle lady, not only because she
inspired me with emotions of gratitude and admiration, but because I
would have the reader understand that all slave-owners on Bayou Boeuf
are not like Epps, or Tibeats, or Jim Burns. Occasionally can be
found, rarely it may be, indeed, a good man like William Ford, or an
angel of kindness like young Mistress McCoy.

Tuesday concluded the three holidays Epps yearly allowed us. On my
way home, Wednesday morning, while passing the plantation of William
Pierce, that gentleman hailed me, saying he had received a line from
Epps, brought down by William Varnell, permitting him to detain me
for the purpose of playing for his slaves that night. It was the last
time I was destined to witness a slave dance on the shores of Bayou
Boeuf. The party at Pierce's continued their jollification until broad
daylight, when I returned to my master's house, somewhat wearied with
the loss of rest, but rejoicing in the possession of numerous bits
and picayunes, which the whites, who were pleased with my musical
performances, had contributed.

On Saturday morning, for the first time in years, I overslept myself.
I was frightened on coming out of the cabin to find the slaves were
already in the field. They had preceded me some fifteen minutes.
Leaving my dinner and water-gourd, I hurried after them as fast as I
could move. It was not yet sunrise, but Epps was on the piazza as I
left the hut, and cried out to me that it was a pretty time of day
to be getting up. By extra exertion my row was up when he came out
after breakfast. This, however, was no excuse for the offence of
oversleeping. Bidding me strip and lie down, he gave me ten or fifteen
lashes, at the conclusion of which he inquired if I thought, after
that, I could get up sometime in the _morning_. I expressed myself
quite positively that I _could_, and, with back stinging with pain,
went about my work.

The following day, Sunday, my thoughts were upon Bass, and the
probabilities and hopes which hung upon his action and determination.
I considered the uncertainty of life; that if it should be the will
of God that he should die, my prospect of deliverance, and all
expectation of happiness in this world, would be wholly ended and
destroyed. My sore back, perhaps, did not have a tendency to render me
unusually cheerful. I felt down-hearted and unhappy all day long, and
when I laid down upon the hard board at night, my heart was oppressed
with such a load of grief, it seemed that it must break.

Monday morning, the third of January, 1853, we were in the field
betimes. It was a raw, cold morning, such as is unusual in that
region. I was in advance, Uncle Abram next to me, behind him Bob,
Patsey and Wiley, with our cotton-bags about our necks. Epps happened
(a rare thing, indeed,) to come out that morning without his whip.
He swore, in a manner that would shame a pirate, that we were doing
nothing. Bob ventured to say that his fingers were so numb with cold
he couldn't pick fast. Epps cursed himself for not having brought his
rawhide, and declared that when he came out again he would warm us
well; yes, he would make us all hotter than that fiery realm in which
I am sometimes compelled to believe he will himself eventually reside.

With these fervent expressions, he left us. When out of hearing,
we commenced talking to each other, saying how hard it was to be
compelled to keep up our tasks with numb fingers; how unreasonable
master was, and speaking of him generally in no flattering terms. Our
conversation was interrupted by a carriage passing rapidly towards
the house. Looking up, we saw two men approaching us through the
cotton-field.

       *       *       *       *       *

Having now brought down this narrative to the last hour I was to spend
on Bayou Boeuf--having gotten through my last cotton picking, and
about to bid Master Epps farewell--I must beg the reader to go back
with me to the month of August; to follow Bass' letter on its long
journey to Saratoga; to learn the effect it produced--and that, while
I was repining and despairing in the slave hut of Edwin Epps, through
the friendship of Bass and the goodness of Providence, all things were
working together for my deliverance.




CHAPTER XXI.

  THE LETTER REACHES SARATOGA--IS FORWARDED TO ANNE--IS LAID
  BEFORE HENRY B. NORTHUP--THE STATUTE OF MAY 14, 1840--ITS
  PROVISIONS--ANNE'S MEMORIAL TO THE GOVERNOR--THE AFFIDAVITS
  ACCOMPANYING IT--SENATOR SOULE'S LETTER--DEPARTURE OF THE AGENT
  APPOINTED BY THE GOVERNOR--ARRIVAL AT MARKSVILLE--THE HON. JOHN
  P. WADDILL--THE CONVERSATION ON NEW-YORK POLITICS--IT SUGGESTS
  A FORTUNATE IDEA--THE MEETING WITH BASS--THE SECRET OUT--LEGAL
  PROCEEDINGS INSTITUTED--DEPARTURE OF NORTHUP AND THE SHERIFF FROM
  MARKSVILLE FOR BAYOU BOEUF--ARRANGEMENTS ON THE WAY--REACH EPPS'
  PLANTATION--DISCOVER HIS SLAVES IN THE COTTON FIELD--THE MEETING--THE
  FAREWELL.


I am indebted to Mr. Henry B. Northup and others for many of the
particulars contained in this chapter.

The letter written by Bass, directed to Parker and Perry, and which
was deposited in the post-office in Marksville on the 15th day of
August, 1852, arrived at Saratoga in the early part of September.
Some time previous to this, Anne had removed to Glens Falls, Warren
county, where she had charge of the kitchen in Carpenter's Hotel. She
kept house, however, lodging with our children, and was only absent
from them during such time as the discharge of her duties in the hotel
required.

Messrs. Parker and Perry, on receipt of the letter, forwarded it
immediately to Anne. On reading it the children were all excitement,
and without delay hastened to the neighboring village of Sandy Hill,
to consult Henry B. Northup, and obtain his advice and assistance in
the matter.

Upon examination, that gentleman found among the statutes of the State
an act providing for the recovery of free citizens from slavery. It
was passed May 14, 1840, and is entitled "An act more effectually
to protect the free citizens of this State from being kidnapped or
reduced to slavery." It provides that it shall be the duty of the
Governor, upon the receipt of satisfactory information that any free
citizen or inhabitant of this State, is wrongfully held in another
State or Territory of the United States, upon the allegation or
pretence that such person is a slave, or by color of any usage or
rule of law is deemed or taken to be a slave, to take such measures
to procure the restoration of such person to liberty, as he shall
deem necessary. And to that end, he is authorized to appoint and
employ an agent, and directed to furnish him with such credentials
and instructions as will be likely to accomplish the object of his
appointment. It requires the agent so appointed to proceed to collect
the proper proof to establish the right of such person to his freedom;
to perform such journeys, take such measures, institute such legal
proceedings, &c., as may be necessary to return such person to this
State, and charges all expenses incurred in carrying the act into
effect, upon moneys not otherwise appropriated in the treasury.[1]

It was necessary to establish two facts to the satisfaction of the
Governor: First, that I was a free citizen of New-York; and secondly,
that I was wrongfully held in bondage. As to the first point, there
was no difficulty, all the older inhabitants in the vicinity being
ready to testify to it. The second point rested entirely upon the
letter to Parker and Perry, written in an unknown hand, and upon the
letter penned on board the brig Orleans, which, unfortunately, had
been mislaid or lost.

A memorial was prepared, directed to his excellency, Governor Hunt,
setting forth her marriage, my departure to Washington city; the
receipt of the letters; that I was a free citizen, and such other
facts as were deemed important, and was signed and verified by Anne.
Accompanying this memorial were several affidavits of prominent
citizens of Sandy Hill and Fort Edward, corroborating fully the
statements it contained, and also a request of several well known
gentlemen to the Governor, that Henry B. Northup be appointed agent
under the legislative act.

On reading the memorial and affidavits, his excellency took a lively
interest in the matter, and on the 23d day of November, 1852, under
the seal of the State, "constituted, appointed and employed Henry B.
Northup, Esq., an agent, with full power to effect" my restoration,
and to take such measures as would be most likely to accomplish
it, and instructing him to proceed to Louisiana with all convenient
dispatch.[2]

The pressing nature of Mr. Northup's professional and political
engagements delayed his departure until December. On the fourteenth
day of that month he left Sandy Hill, and proceeded to Washington.
The Hon. Pierre Soule, Senator in Congress from Louisiana, Hon. Mr.
Conrad, Secretary of War, and Judge Nelson, of the Supreme Court
of the United States, upon hearing a statement of the facts, and
examining his commission, and certified copies of the memorial and
affidavits, furnished him with open letters to gentlemen in Louisiana,
strongly urging their assistance in accomplishing the object of his
appointment.

Senator Soule especially interested himself in the matter, insisting,
in forcible language, that it was the duty and interest of every
planter in his State to aid in restoring me to freedom, and trusted
the sentiments of honor and justice in the bosom of every citizen
of the commonwealth would enlist him at once in my behalf. Having
obtained these valuable letters, Mr. Northup returned to Baltimore,
and proceeded from thence to Pittsburgh. It was his original
intention, under advice of friends at Washington, to go directly to
New Orleans, and consult the authorities of that city. Providentially,
however, on arriving at the mouth of Red River, he changed his mind.
Had he continued on, he would not have met with Bass, in which case
the search for me would probably have been fruitless.

Taking passage on the first steamer that arrived, he pursued his
journey up Red River, a sluggish, winding stream, flowing through
a vast region of primitive forests and impenetrable swamps, almost
wholly destitute of inhabitants. About nine o'clock in the forenoon,
January 1st, 1853, he left the steamboat at Marksville, and proceeded
directly to Marksville Court House, a small village four miles in the
interior.

From the fact that the letter to Messrs. Parker and Perry was
post-marked at Marksville, it was supposed by him that I was in
that place or its immediate vicinity. On reaching this town, he at
once laid his business before the Hon. John P. Waddill, a legal
gentleman of distinction, and a man of fine genius and most noble
impulses. After reading the letters and documents presented him, and
listening to a representation of the circumstances under which I had
been carried away into captivity, Mr. Waddill at once proffered his
services, and entered into the affair with great zeal and earnestness.
He, in common with others of like elevated character, looked upon the
kidnapper with abhorrence. The title of his fellow parishioners and
clients to the property which constituted the larger proportion of
their wealth, not only depended upon the good faith in which slave
sales were transacted, but he was a man in whose honorable heart
emotions of indignation were aroused by such an instance of injustice.

Marksville, although occupying a prominent position, and standing out
in impressive italics on the map of Louisiana, is, in fact, but a
small and insignificant hamlet. Aside from the tavern, kept by a jolly
and generous boniface, the court house, inhabited by lawless cows
and swine in the seasons of vacation, and a high gallows, with its
dissevered rope dangling in the air, there is little to attract the
attention of the stranger.

Solomon Northup was a name Mr. Waddill had never heard, but he was
confident that if there was a slave bearing that appellation in
Marksville or vicinity, his black boy Tom would know him. Tom was
accordingly called, but in all his extensive circle of acquaintances
there was no such personage.

The letter to Parker and Perry was dated at Bayou Boeuf. At this
place, therefore, the conclusion was, I must be sought. But here a
difficulty suggested itself, of a very grave character indeed. Bayou
Boeuf, at its nearest point, was twenty-three miles distant, and was
the name applied to the section of country extending between fifty
and a hundred miles, on both sides of that stream. Thousands and
thousands of slaves resided upon its shores, the remarkable richness
and fertility of the soil having attracted thither a great number of
planters. The information in the letter was so vague and indefinite
as to render it difficult to conclude upon any specific course of
proceeding. It was finally determined, however, as the only plan that
presented any prospect of success, that Northup and the brother of
Waddill, a student in the office of the latter, should repair to the
Bayou, and traveling up one side and down the other its whole length,
inquire at each plantation for me. Mr. Waddill tendered the use of his
carriage, and it was definitely arranged that they should start upon
the excursion early Monday morning.

It will be seen at once that this course, in all probability, would
have resulted unsuccessfully. It would have been impossible for them
to have gone into the fields and examine all the gangs at work. They
were not aware that I was known only as Platt; and had they inquired
of Epps himself, he would have stated truly that he knew nothing of
Solomon Northup.

The arrangement being adopted, however, there was nothing further to
be done until Sunday had elapsed. The conversation between Messrs.
Northup and Waddill, in the course of the afternoon, turned upon
New-York politics.

"I can scarcely comprehend the nice distinctions and shades of
political parties in your State," observed Mr. Waddill. "I read of
soft-shells and hard-shells, hunkers and barnburners, woolly-heads
and silver-grays, and am unable to understand the precise difference
between them. Pray, what is it?"

Mr. Northup, re-filling his pipe, entered into quite an elaborate
narrative of the origin of the various sections of parties, and
concluded by saying there was another party in New-York, known as
free-soilers or abolitionists. "You have seen none of those in this
part of the country, I presume?" Mr. Northup remarked.

"Never, but one," answered Waddill, laughingly. "We have one here
in Marksville, an eccentric creature, who preaches abolitionism as
vehemently as any fanatic at the North. He is a generous, inoffensive
man, but always maintaining the wrong side of an argument. It affords
us a deal of amusement. He is an excellent mechanic, and almost
indispensable in this community. He is a carpenter. His name is Bass."

Some further good-natured conversation was had at the expense of Bass'
peculiarities, when Waddill all at once fell into a reflective mood,
and asked for the mysterious letter again.

"Let me see--l-e-t m-e s-e-e!" he repeated, thoughtfully to himself,
running his eyes over the letter once more. "'Bayou Boeuf, August 15.'
August 15--post-marked here. 'He that is writing for me--' Where did
Bass work last summer?" he inquired, turning suddenly to his brother.
His brother was unable to inform him, but rising, left the office,
and soon returned with the intelligence that "Bass worked last summer
somewhere on Bayou Boeuf."

"He is the man," bringing down his hand emphatically on the table,
"who can tell us all about Solomon Northup," exclaimed Waddill.

Bass was immediately searched for, but could not be found. After some
inquiry, it was ascertained he was at the landing on Red River.
Procuring a conveyance, young Waddill and Northup were not long in
traversing the few miles to the latter place. On their arrival, Bass
was found, just on the point of leaving, to be absent a fortnight or
more. After an introduction, Northup begged the privilege of speaking
to him privately a moment. They walked together towards the river,
when the following conversation ensued:

"Mr. Bass," said Northup, "allow me to ask you if you were on Bayou
Boeuf last August?"

"Yes, sir, I was there in August," was the reply.

"Did you write a letter for a <DW52> man at that place to some
gentleman in Saratoga Springs?"

"Excuse me, sir, if I say that is none of your business," answered
Bass, stopping and looking his interrogator searchingly in the face.

"Perhaps I am rather hasty, Mr. Bass; I beg your pardon; but I have
come from the State of New-York to accomplish the purpose the writer
of a letter dated the 15th of August, post-marked at Marksville, had
in view. Circumstances have led me to think that you are perhaps the
man who wrote it. I am in search of Solomon Northup. If you know him,
I beg you to inform me frankly where he is, and I assure you the
source of any information you may give me shall not be divulged, if
you desire it not to be."

A long time Bass looked his new acquaintance steadily in the eyes,
without opening his lips. He seemed to be doubting in his own mind if
there was not an attempt to practice some deception upon him. Finally
he said, deliberately--

"I have done nothing to be ashamed of. I am the man who wrote the
letter. If you have come to rescue Solomon Northup, I am glad to see
you."

"When did you last see him, and where is he?" Northup inquired.

"I last saw him Christmas, a week ago to-day. He is the slave of Edwin
Epps, a planter on Bayou Boeuf, near Holmesville. He is not known as
Solomon Northup; he is called Platt."

The secret was out--the mystery was unraveled. Through the thick,
black cloud, amid whose dark and dismal shadows I had walked twelve
years, broke the star that was to light me back to liberty. All
mistrust and hesitation were soon thrown aside, and the two men
conversed long and freely upon the subject uppermost in their
thoughts. Bass expressed the interest he had taken in my behalf--his
intention of going north in the Spring, and declaring that he had
resolved to accomplish my emancipation, if it were in his power. He
described the commencement and progress of his acquaintance with me,
and listened with eager curiosity to the account given him of my
family, and the history of my early life. Before separating, he drew
a map of the bayou on a strip of paper with a piece of red chalk,
showing the locality of Epps' plantation, and the road leading most
directly to it.

Northup and his young companion returned to Marksville, where it
was determined to commence legal proceedings to test the question
of my right to freedom. I was made plaintiff, Mr. Northup acting as
my guardian, and Edwin Epps defendant. The process to be issued was
in the nature of replevin, directed to the sheriff of the parish,
commanding him to take me into custody, and detain me until the
decision of the court. By the time the papers were duly drawn up,
it was twelve o'clock at night--too late to obtain the necessary
signature of the Judge, who resided some distance out of town. Further
business was therefore suspended until Monday morning.

Everything, apparently, was moving along swimmingly, until Sunday
afternoon, when Waddill called at Northup's room to express his
apprehension of difficulties they had not expected to encounter. Bass
had become alarmed, and had placed his affairs in the hands of a
person at the landing, communicating to him his intention of leaving
the State. This person had betrayed the confidence reposed in him to
a certain extent, and a rumor began to float about the town, that
the stranger at the hotel, who had been observed in the company of
lawyer Waddill, was after one of old Epps' slaves, over on the bayou.
Epps was known at Marksville, having frequent occasion to visit that
place during the session of the courts, and the fear entertained by
Mr. Northup's adviser was, that intelligence would be conveyed to him
in the night, giving him an opportunity of secreting me before the
arrival of the sheriff.

This apprehension had the effect of expediting matters considerably.
The sheriff, who lived in one direction from the village, was
requested to hold himself in readiness immediately after midnight,
while the Judge was informed he would be called upon at the same
time. It is but justice to say, that the authorities at Marksville
cheerfully rendered all the assistance in their power.

As soon after midnight as bail could be perfected, and the Judge's
signature obtained, a carriage, containing Mr. Northup and the
sheriff, driven by the landlord's son, rolled rapidly out of the
village of Marksville, on the road towards Bayou Boeuf.

It was supposed that Epps would contest the issue involving my right
to liberty, and it therefore suggested itself to Mr. Northup, that
the testimony of the sheriff, describing my first meeting with the
former, might perhaps become material on the trial. It was accordingly
arranged during the ride, that, before I had an opportunity of
speaking to Mr. Northup, the sheriff should propound to me certain
questions agreed upon, such as the number and names of my children,
the name of my wife before marriage, of places I knew at the North,
and so forth. If my answers corresponded with the statements given
him, the evidence must necessarily be considered conclusive.

At length, shortly after Epps had left the field, with the consoling
assurance that he would soon return and _warm_ us, as was stated
in the conclusion of the preceding chapter, they came in sight of
the plantation, and discovered us at work. Alighting from the
carriage, and directing the driver to proceed to the great house, with
instructions not to mention to any one the object of their errand
until they met again, Northup and the sheriff turned from the highway,
and came towards us across the cotton field. We observed them, on
looking up at the carriage--one several rods in advance of the other.
It was a singular and unusual thing to see white men approaching us
in that manner, and especially at that early hour in the morning,
and Uncle Abram and Patsey made some remarks, expressive of their
astonishment. Walking up to Bob, the sheriff inquired:

"Where's the boy they call Platt?"

"Thar he is, massa," answered Bob, pointing to me, and twitching off
his hat.

I wondered to myself what business he could possibly have with me, and
turning round, gazed at him until he had approached within a step.
During my long residence on the bayou, I had become familiar with the
face of every planter within many miles; but this man was an utter
stranger--certainly I had never seen him before.

"Your name is Platt, is it?" he asked.

"Yes, master," I responded.

Pointing towards Northup, standing a few rods distant, he
demanded--"Do you know that man?"

I looked in the direction indicated, and as my eyes rested on his
countenance, a world of images thronged my brain; a multitude of
well-known faces--Anne's, and the dear children's, and my old dead
father's; all the scenes and associations of childhood and youth;
all the friends of other and happier days, appeared and disappeared,
flitting and floating like dissolving shadows before the vision of my
imagination, until at last the perfect memory of the man recurred to
me, and throwing up my hands towards Heaven, I exclaimed, in a voice
louder than I could utter in a less exciting moment--

"_Henry B. Northup!_ Thank God--thank God!"

In an instant I comprehended the nature of his business, and felt that
the hour of my deliverance was at hand. I started towards him, but the
sheriff stepped before me.

"Stop a moment," said he; "have you any other name than Platt?"

"Solomon Northup is my name, master," I replied.

"Have you a family?" he inquired.

"I _had_ a wife and three children."

"What were your children's names?"

"Elizabeth, Margaret and Alonzo."

"And your wife's name before her marriage?"

"Anne Hampton."

"Who married you?"

"Timothy Eddy, of Fort Edward."

"Where does that gentleman live?" again pointing to Northup, who
remained standing in the same place where I had first recognized him.

"He lives in Sandy Hill, Washington county, New-York," was the reply.

He was proceeding to ask further questions, but I pushed past him,
unable longer to restrain myself. I seized my old acquaintance by both
hands. I could not speak. I could not refrain from tears.

"Sol," he said at length, "I'm glad to see you."

I essayed to make some answer, but emotion choked all utterance, and
I was silent. The slaves, utterly confounded, stood gazing upon the
scene, their open mouths and rolling eyes indicating the utmost wonder
and astonishment. For ten years I had dwelt among them, in the field
and in the cabin, borne the same hardships, partaken the same fare,
mingled my griefs with theirs, participated in the same scanty joys;
nevertheless, not until this hour, the last I was to remain among
them, had the remotest suspicion of my true name, or the slightest
knowledge of my real history, been entertained by any one of them.

Not a word was spoken for several minutes, during which time I clung
fast to Northup, looking up into his face, fearful I should awake and
find it all a dream.

"Throw down that sack," Northup added, finally; "your cotton-picking
days are over. Come with us to the man you live with."

I obeyed him, and walking between him and the sheriff, we moved
towards the great house. It was not until we had proceeded some
distance that I had recovered my voice sufficiently to ask if my
family were all living. He informed me he had seen Anne, Margaret
and Elizabeth but a short time previously; that Alonzo was also
living, and all were well. My mother, however, I could never see
again. As I began to recover in some measure from the sudden and great
excitement which so overwhelmed me, I grew faint and weak, insomuch
it was with difficulty I could walk. The sheriff took hold of my arm
and assisted me, or I think I should have fallen. As we entered the
yard, Epps stood by the gate, conversing with the driver. That young
man, faithful to his instructions, was entirely unable to give him
the least information in answer to his repeated inquiries of what was
going on. By the time we reached him he was almost as much amazed and
puzzled as Bob or Uncle Abram.

Shaking hands with the sheriff, and receiving an introduction to Mr.
Northup, he invited them into the house, ordering me, at the same
time, to bring in some wood. It was some time before I succeeded in
cutting an armful, having, somehow, unaccountably lost the power of
wielding the axe with any manner of precision. When I entered with it
at last, the table was strewn with papers, from one of which Northup
was reading. I was probably longer than necessity required, in placing
the sticks upon the fire, being particular as to the exact position
of each individual one of them. I heard the words, "the said Solomon
Northup," and "the deponent further says," and "free citizen of
New-York," repeated frequently, and from these expressions understood
that the secret I had so long retained from Master and Mistress Epps,
was finally developing. I lingered as long as prudence permitted,
and was about leaving the room, when Epps inquired,

[Illustration: SCENE IN THE COTTON FIELD, SOLOMON DELIVERED UP.]

"Platt, do you know this gentleman?"

"Yes, master," I replied, "I have known him as long as I can remember."

"Where does he live?"

"He lives in New-York."

"Did you ever live there?"

"Yes, master--born and bred there."

"You was free, then. Now you d----d <DW65>," he exclaimed, "why did
you not tell me that when I bought you?"

"Master Epps," I answered, in a somewhat different tone than the one
in which I had been accustomed to address him--"Master Epps, you did
not take the trouble to ask me; besides, I told one of my owners--the
man that kidnapped me--that I was free, and was whipped almost to
death for it."

"It seems there has been a letter written for you by somebody. Now,
who is it?" he demanded, authoritatively. I made no reply.

"I say, who wrote that letter?" he demanded again.

"Perhaps I wrote it myself," I said.

"You haven't been to Marksville post-office and back before light, I
know."

He insisted upon my informing him, and I insisted I would not. He
made many vehement threats against the man, whoever he might be, and
intimated the bloody and savage vengeance he would wreak upon him,
when he found him out. His whole manner and language exhibited a
feeling of anger towards the unknown person who had written for me,
and of fretfulness at the idea of losing so much property. Addressing
Mr. Northup, he swore if he had only had an hour's notice of his
coming, he would have saved him the trouble of taking me back to
New-York; that he would have run me into the swamp, or some other
place out of the way, where all the sheriffs on earth couldn't have
found me.

I walked out into the yard, and was entering the kitchen door, when
something struck me in the back. Aunt Phebe, emerging from the back
door of the great house with a pan of potatoes, had thrown one of them
with unnecessary violence, thereby giving me to understand that she
wished to speak to me a moment confidentially. Running up to me, she
whispered in my ear with great earnestness,

"Lor a' mity, Platt! what d'ye think? Dem two men come after ye. Heard
'em tell massa you free--got wife and tree children back thar whar you
come from. Goin' wid 'em? Fool if ye don't--wish I could go," and Aunt
Phebe ran on in this manner at a rapid rate.

Presently Mistress Epps made her appearance in the kitchen. She said
many things to me, and wondered why I had not told her who I was.
She expressed her regret, complimenting me by saying she had rather
lose any other servant on the plantation. Had Patsey that day stood
in my place, the measure of my mistress' joy would have overflowed.
Now there was no one left who could mend a chair or a piece of
furniture--no one who was of any use about the house--no one who could
play for her on the violin--and Mistress Epps was actually affected to
tears.

Epps had called to Bob to bring up his saddle horse. The other slaves,
also, overcoming their fear of the penalty, had left their work and
come to the yard. They were standing behind the cabins, out of sight
of Epps. They beckoned me to come to them, and with all the eagerness
of curiosity, excited to the highest pitch, conversed with and
questioned me. If I could repeat the exact words they uttered, with
the same emphasis--if I could paint their several attitudes, and the
expression of their countenances--it would be indeed an interesting
picture. In their estimation, I had suddenly arisen to an immeasurable
height--had become a being of immense importance.

The legal papers having been served, and arrangements made with Epps
to meet them the next day at Marksville, Northup and the sheriff
entered the carriage to return to the latter place. As I was about
mounting to the driver's seat, the sheriff said I ought to bid Mr. and
Mrs. Epps good bye. I ran back to the piazza where they were standing,
and taking off my hat, said,

"Good-bye, missis."

"Good-bye, Platt," said Mrs. Epps, kindly.

"Good-bye, master."

"Ah! you d--d <DW65>," muttered Epps, in a surly, malicious tone of
voice, "you needn't feel so cussed tickled--you ain't gone yet--I'll
see about this business at Marksville to-morrow."

I was only a "_nigger_" and knew my place, but felt as strongly as if
I had been a white man, that it would have been an inward comfort,
had I dared to have given him a parting kick. On my way back to the
carriage, Patsey ran from behind a cabin and threw her arms about my
neck.

"Oh! Platt," she cried, tears streaming down her face, "you're goin'
to be free--you're goin' way off yonder where we'll neber see ye any
more. You've saved me a good many whippins, Platt; I'm glad you're
goin' to be free--but oh! de Lord, de Lord! what'll become of me?"

I disengaged myself from her, and entered the carriage. The driver
cracked his whip and away we rolled. I looked back and saw Patsey,
with drooping head, half reclining on the ground; Mrs. Epps was on the
piazza; Uncle Abram, and Bob, and Wiley, and Aunt Phebe stood by the
gate, gazing after me. I waved my hand, but the carriage turned a bend
of the bayou, hiding them from my eyes forever.

We stopped a moment at Carey's sugar house, where a great number of
slaves were at work, such an establishment being a curiosity to a
Northern man. Epps dashed by us on horseback at full speed--on the
way, as we learned next day, to the "Pine Woods," to see William Ford,
who had brought me into the country.

Tuesday, the fourth of January, Epps and his counsel, the Hon. H.
Taylor, Northup, Waddill, the Judge and sheriff of Avoyelles, and
myself, met in a room in the village of Marksville. Mr. Northup stated
the facts in regard to me, and presented his commission, and the
affidavits accompanying it. The sheriff described the scene in the
cotton field. I was also interrogated at great length. Finally, Mr.
Taylor assured his client that he was satisfied, and that litigation
would not only be expensive, but utterly useless. In accordance with
his advice, a paper was drawn up and signed by the proper parties,
wherein Epps acknowledged he was satisfied of my right to freedom, and
formally surrendered me to the authorities of New-York. It was also
stipulated that it be entered of record in the recorder's office of
Avoyelles.[3]

Mr. Northup and myself immediately hastened to the landing, and taking
passage on the first steamer that arrived, were soon floating down
Red River, up which, with such desponding thoughts, I had been borne
twelve years before.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Appendix A.

[2] See Appendix B.

[3] See Appendix C.




CHAPTER XXII.

  ARRIVAL IN NEW-ORLEANS--GLIMPSE OF FREEMAN--GENOIS, THE
  RECORDER--HIS DESCRIPTION OF SOLOMON--REACH CHARLESTON--INTERRUPTED
  BY CUSTOM HOUSE OFFICERS--PASS THROUGH RICHMOND--ARRIVAL IN
  WASHINGTON--BURCH ARRESTED--SHEKELS AND THORN--THEIR TESTIMONY--BURCH
  ACQUITTED--ARREST OF SOLOMON--BURCH WITHDRAWS THE COMPLAINT--THE
  HIGHER TRIBUNAL--DEPARTURE FROM WASHINGTON--ARRIVAL AT SANDY
  HILL--OLD FRIENDS AND FAMILIAR SCENES--PROCEED TO GLENS
  FALLS--MEETING WITH ANNE, MARGARET AND ELIZABETH--SOLOMON NORTHUP
  STAUNTON--INCIDENTS--CONCLUSION.


As the steamer glided on its way towards New-Orleans, _perhaps_ I was
not happy--_perhaps_ there was no difficulty in restraining myself
from dancing round the deck--perhaps I did not feel grateful to the
man who had come so many hundred miles for me--perhaps I did not
light his pipe, and wait and watch his word, and run at his slightest
bidding. If I didn't--well, no matter.

We tarried at New-Orleans two days. During that time I pointed out the
locality of Freeman's slave pen, and the room in which Ford purchased
me. We happened to meet Theophilus in the street, but I did not think
it worth while to renew acquaintance with him. From respectable
citizens we ascertained he had become a low, miserable rowdy--a
broken-down, disreputable man.

We also visited the recorder, Mr. Genois, to whom Senator Soule's
letter was directed, and found him a man well deserving the wide and
honorable reputation that he bears. He very generously furnished us
with a sort of legal pass, over his signature and seal of office, and
as it contains the recorder's description of my personal appearance,
it may not be amiss to insert it here. The following is a copy:

                         "_State of Louisiana_--_City of New-Orleans_:
                         Recorder's Office, Second District.

     "To all to whom these presents shall come:--

     "This is to certify that Henry B. Northup, Esquire, of the county
     of Washington, New-York, has produced before me due evidence
     of the freedom of Solomon, a mulatto man, aged about forty-two
     years, five feet, seven inches and six lines, woolly hair, and
     chestnut eyes, who is a native born of the State of New-York. That
     the said Northup, being about bringing the said Solomon to his
     native place, through the southern routes, the civil authorities
     are requested to let the aforesaid <DW52> man Solomon pass
     unmolested, he demeaning well and properly.

     "Given under my hand and the seal of the city of New-Orleans this
     7th January, 1853.

     [L. S.]                                 "TH. GENOIS, Recorder."

On the 8th we came to Lake Pontchartrain, by railroad, and, in due
time, following the usual route, reached Charleston. After going on
board the steamboat, and paying our passage at this city, Mr. Northup
was called upon by a custom-house officer to explain why he had not
registered his servant. He replied that he had no servant--that, as
the agent of New-York, he was accompanying a free citizen of that
State from slavery to freedom, and did not desire nor intend to make
any registry whatever. I conceived from his conversation and manner,
though I may perhaps be entirely mistaken, that no great pains would
be taken to avoid whatever difficulty the Charleston officials might
deem proper to create. At length, however, we were permitted to
proceed, and, passing through Richmond, where I caught a glimpse of
Goodin's pen, arrived in Washington January 17th, 1853.

We ascertained that both Burch and Radburn were still residing in that
city. Immediately a complaint was entered with a police magistrate
of Washington, against James H. Burch, for kidnapping and selling
me into slavery. He was arrested upon a warrant issued by Justice
Goddard, and returned before Justice Mansel, and held to bail in the
sum of three thousand dollars. When first arrested, Burch was much
excited, exhibiting the utmost fear and alarm, and before reaching the
justice's office on Louisiana Avenue, and before knowing the precise
nature of the complaint, begged the police to permit him to consult
Benjamin O. Shekels, a slave trader of seventeen years' standing, and
his former partner. The latter became his bail.

At ten o'clock, the 18th of January, both parties appeared before the
magistrate. Senator Chase, of Ohio, Hon. Orville Clark, of Sandy Hill,
and Mr. Northup acted as counsel for the prosecution, and Joseph H.
Bradley for the defence.

Gen. Orville Clark was called and sworn as a witness, and testified
that he had known me from childhood, and that I was a free man, as
was my father before me. Mr. Northup then testified to the same, and
proved the facts connected with his mission to Avoyelles.

Ebenezer Radburn was then sworn for the prosecution, and testified
he was forty-eight years old; that he was a resident of Washington,
and had known Burch fourteen years; that in 1841 he was keeper of
Williams' slave pen; that he remembered the fact of my confinement in
the pen that year. At this point it was admitted by the defendant's
counsel, that I had been placed in the pen by Burch in the spring of
1841, and hereupon the prosecution rested.

Benjamin O. Shekels was then offered as a witness by the prisoner.
Benjamin is a large, coarse-featured man, and the reader may perhaps
get a somewhat correct conception of him by reading the exact language
he used in answer to the first question of defendant's lawyer. He was
asked the place of his nativity, and his reply, uttered in a sort of
rowdyish way, was in these very words--

"I was born in Ontario county, New-York, and _weighed fourteen
pounds_!"

Benjamin was a prodigious baby! He further testified that he kept the
Steamboat Hotel in Washington in 1841, and saw me there in the spring
of that year. He was proceeding to state what he had heard two men
say, when Senator Chase raised a legal objection, to wit, that the
sayings of third persons, being hearsay, was improper evidence. The
objection was overruled by the Justice, and Shekels continued, stating
that two men came to his hotel and represented they had a <DW52> man
for sale; that they had an interview with Burch; that they stated they
came from Georgia, but he did not remember the county; that they gave
a full history of the boy, saying he was a bricklayer, and played
on the violin; that Burch remarked he would purchase if they could
agree; that they went out and brought the boy in, and that I was the
same person. He further testified, with as much unconcern as if it
was the truth, that I represented I was born and bred in Georgia;
that one of the young men with me was my master; that I exhibited a
great deal of regret at parting with him, and he believed "got into
tears!"--nevertheless, that I insisted my master had a right to sell
me; that he _ought_ to sell me; and the remarkable reason I gave was,
according to Shekels, because he, my master, "had been gambling and on
a spree!"

He continued, in these words, copied from the minutes taken on the
examination: "Burch interrogated the boy in the usual manner, told him
if he purchased him he should send him south. The boy said he had no
objection, that in fact he would like to go south. Burch paid $650 for
him, to my knowledge. I don't know what name was given him, but think
it was not Solomon. Did not know the name of either of the two men.
They were in my tavern two or three hours, during which time the boy
played on the violin. The bill of sale was signed in my bar-room. It
was a _printed blank, filled up by Burch_. Before 1838 Burch was my
partner. Our business was buying and selling slaves. After that time
he was a partner of Theophilus Freeman, of New-Orleans. Burch bought
here--Freeman sold there!"

Shekels, before testifying, had heard my relation of the circumstances
connected with the visit to Washington with Brown and Hamilton, and
therefore, it was, undoubtedly, he spoke of "two men," and of my
playing on the violin. Such was his fabrication, utterly untrue, and
yet there was found in Washington a man who endeavored to corroborate
him.

Benjamin A. Thorn testified he was at Shekels' in 1841, and saw a
<DW52> boy playing on a fiddle. "Shekels said he was for sale. Heard
his master tell him he should sell him. The boy acknowledged to me he
was a slave. I was not present when the money was paid. Will not swear
positively this is the boy. The master _came near shedding tears: I
think the boy did_! I have been engaged in the business of taking
slaves south, off and on, for twenty years. When I can't do that I do
something else."

I was then offered as a witness, but, objection being made, the court
decided my evidence inadmissible. It was rejected solely on the ground
that I was a <DW52> man--the fact of my being a free citizen of
New-York not being disputed.

Shekels having testified there was a bill of sale executed, Burch
was called upon by the prosecution to produce it, inasmuch as such
a paper would corroborate the testimony of Thorn and Shekels. The
prisoner's counsel saw the necessity of exhibiting it, or giving some
reasonable explanation for its non-production. To effect the latter,
Burch himself was offered as a witness in his own behalf. It was
contended by counsel for the people, that such testimony should not be
allowed--that it was in contravention of every rule of evidence, and
if permitted would defeat the ends of justice. His testimony, however,
was received by the court! He made oath that such a bill of sale had
been drawn up and signed, _but he had lost it, and did not know what
had become of it_! Thereupon the magistrate was requested to dispatch
a police officer to Burch's residence, with directions to bring his
books, containing his bills of sales for the year 1841. The request
was granted, and before any measure could be taken to prevent it, the
officer had obtained possession of the books, and brought them into
court. The sales for the year 1841 were found, and carefully examined,
but no sale of myself, by any name, was discovered!

Upon this testimony the court held the fact to be established, that
Burch came innocently and honestly by me, and accordingly he was
discharged.

An attempt was then made by Burch and his satellites, to fasten
upon me the charge that I had conspired with the two white men to
defraud him--with what success, appears in an extract taken from an
article in the New-York Times, published a day or two subsequent to
the trial: "The counsel for the defendant had drawn up, before the
defendant was discharged, an affidavit, signed by Burch, and had a
warrant out against the <DW52> man for a conspiracy with the two
white men before referred to, to defraud Burch out of six hundred
and twenty-five dollars. The warrant was served, and the <DW52> man
arrested and brought before officer Goddard. Burch and his witnesses
appeared in court, and H. B. Northup appeared as counsel for the
<DW52> man, stating he was ready to proceed as counsel on the part of
the defendant, and asking no delay whatever. Burch, after consulting
privately a short time with Shekels, stated to the magistrate that
he wished him to dismiss the complaint, as he would not proceed
farther with it. Defendant's counsel stated to the magistrate that
if the complaint was withdrawn, it must be without the request or
consent of the defendant. Burch then asked the magistrate to let him
have the complaint and the warrant, and he took them. The counsel
for the defendant objected to his receiving them, and insisted they
should remain as part of the records of the court, and that the court
should endorse the proceedings which had been had under the process.
Burch delivered them up, and the court rendered a judgment of
discontinuance by the request of the prosecutor, and filed it in his
office."

       *       *       *       *       *

There may be those who will affect to believe the statement of the
slave-trader--those, in whose minds his allegations will weigh heavier
than mine. I am a poor <DW52> man--one of a down-trodden and degraded
race, whose humble voice may not be heeded by the oppressor--but
_knowing_ the truth, and with a full sense of my accountability, I
do solemnly declare before men, and before God, that any charge or
assertion, that I conspired directly or indirectly with any person
or persons to sell myself; that any other account of my visit to
Washington, my capture and imprisonment in Williams' slave pen, than
is contained in these pages, is utterly and absolutely false. I never
played on the violin in Washington. I never was in the Steamboat
Hotel, and never saw Thorn or Shekels, to my knowledge, in my life,
until last January. The story of the trio of slave-traders is a
fabrication as absurd as it is base and unfounded. Were it true, I
should not have turned aside on my way back to liberty for the purpose
of prosecuting Burch. I should have _avoided_ rather than sought him.
I should have known that such a step would have resulted in rendering
me infamous. Under the circumstances--longing as I did to behold my
family, and elated with the prospect of returning home--it is an
outrage upon probability to suppose I would have run the hazard, not
only of exposure, but of a criminal prosecution and conviction, by
voluntarily placing myself in the position I did, if the statements of
Burch and his confederates contain a particle of truth. I took pains
to seek him out, to confront him in a court of law, charging him with
the crime of kidnapping; and the only motive that impelled me to this
step, was a burning sense of the wrong he had inflicted upon me, and a
desire to bring him to justice. He was acquitted, in the manner, and
by such means as have been described. A human tribunal has permitted
him to escape; but there is another and a higher tribunal, where false
testimony will not prevail, and where I am willing, so far at least as
these statements are concerned, to be judged at last.

       *       *       *       *       *

We left Washington on the 20th of January, and proceeding by the way
of Philadelphia, New-York, and Albany, reached Sandy Hill in the night
of the 21st. My heart overflowed with happiness as I looked around
upon old familiar scenes, and found myself in the midst of friends of
other days. The following morning I started, in company with several
acquaintances, for Glens Falls, the residence of Anne and our children.

As I entered their comfortable cottage, Margaret was the first that
met me. She did not recognize me. When I left her, she was but seven
years old, a little prattling girl, playing with her toys. Now she was
grown to womanhood--was married, with a bright-eyed boy standing by
her side. Not forgetful of his enslaved, unfortunate grand-father,
she had named the child Solomon Northup Staunton. When told who I
was, she was overcome with emotion, and unable to speak. Presently
Elizabeth entered the room, and Anne came running from the hotel,
having been informed of my arrival. They embraced me, and with tears
flowing down their cheeks, hung upon my neck. But I draw a veil over a
scene which can better be imagined than described.

When the violence of our emotions had subsided to a sacred joy--when
the household gathered round the fire, that sent out its warm and
crackling comfort through the room, we conversed of the thousand
events that had occurred--the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows,
the trials and troubles we had each experienced during the long
separation. Alonzo was absent in the western part of the State. The
boy had written to his mother a short time previous, of the prospect
of his obtaining sufficient money to purchase my freedom. From his
earliest years, that had been the chief object of his thoughts and his
ambition. They knew I was in bondage. The letter written on board the
brig, and Clem Ray himself, had given them that information. But where
I was, until the arrival of Bass' letter, was a matter of conjecture.
Elizabeth and Margaret once returned from school--so Anne informed
me--weeping bitterly. On inquiring the cause of the children's sorrow,
it was found that, while studying geography, their attention had been
attracted to the picture of slaves working in the cotton-field,
and an overseer following them with his whip. It reminded them of
the sufferings their father might be, and, as it happened, actually
_was_, enduring in the South. Numerous incidents, such as these, were
related--incidents showing they still held me in constant remembrance,
but not, perhaps, of sufficient interest to the reader, to be
recounted.

[Illustration: ARRIVAL HOME, AND FIRST MEETING WITH HIS WIFE AND
CHILDREN]

       *       *       *       *       *

My narrative is at an end. I have no comments to make upon the subject
of Slavery. Those who read this book may form their own opinions of
the "peculiar institution." What it may be in other States, I do not
profess to know; what it is in the region of Red River, is truly
and faithfully delineated in these pages. This is no fiction, no
exaggeration. If I have failed in anything, it has been in presenting
to the reader too prominently the bright side of the picture. I doubt
not hundreds have been as unfortunate as myself; that hundreds of free
citizens have been kidnapped and sold into slavery, and are at this
moment wearing out their lives on plantations in Texas and Louisiana.
But I forbear. Chastened and subdued in spirit by the sufferings I
have borne, and thankful to that good Being through whose mercy I have
been restored to happiness and liberty, I hope henceforward to lead an
upright though lowly life, and rest at last in the church yard where
my father sleeps.




ROARING RIVER.

A REFRAIN OF THE RED RIVER PLANTATION.


[Illustration: Musical score]

    "Harper's creek and roarin' ribber,
    Thar, my dear, we'll live forebber;
    Den we'll go to de Ingin nation,
    All I want in dis creation,
    Is pretty little wife and big plantation.

    CHORUS.

    Up dat oak and down dat ribber,
    Two overseers and one little <DW65>."




APPENDIX.


A.--Page 291.

CHAP. 375.

     _An act more effectually to protect the free citizens of this
     State from being kidnapped, or reduced to Slavery._

                                             [Passed May 14, 1840.]

The People of the State of New-York, represented in Senate and
Assembly, do enact as follows:

Sec. 1. Whenever the Governor of this State shall receive information
satisfactory to him that any free citizen or any inhabitant of this
State has been kidnapped or transported away out of this State, into
any other State or Territory of the United States, for the purpose of
being there held in slavery; or that such free citizen or inhabitant
is wrongfully seized, imprisoned or held in slavery in any of the
States or Territories of the United States, on the allegation or
pretence that such a person is a slave, or by color of any usage
or rule of law prevailing in such State or Territory, is deemed or
taken to be a slave, or not entitled of right to the personal liberty
belonging to a citizen; it shall be the duty of the said Governor to
take such measures as he shall deem necessary to procure such person
to be restored to his liberty and returned to this State. The Governor
is hereby authorized to appoint and employ such agent or agents as
he shall deem necessary to effect the restoration and return of
such person; and shall furnish the said agent with such credentials
and instructions as will be likely to accomplish the object of his
appointment. The Governor may determine the compensation to be allowed
to such agent for his services besides his necessary expenses.

Sec. 2. Such agent shall proceed to collect the proper proof to establish
the right of such person to his freedom, and shall perform such
journeys, take such measures, institute and procure to be prosecuted
such legal proceedings, under the direction of the Governor, as shall
be necessary to procure such person to be restored to his liberty and
returned to this State.

Sec. 3. The accounts for all services and expenses incurred in carrying
this act into effect shall be audited by the Comptroller, and paid by
the Treasurer on his warrant, out of any moneys in the treasury of
this State not otherwise appropriated. The Treasurer may advance, on
the warrant of the Comptroller, to such agent, such sum or sums as
the Governor shall certify to be reasonable advances to enable him to
accomplish the purposes of his appointment, for which advance such
agent shall account, on the final audit of his warrant.

Sec. 4. This act shall take effect immediately.


B.--Page 292.

MEMORIAL OF ANNE.

_To His Excellency, the Governor of the State of New-York:_

The memorial of Anne Northup, of the village of Glens Falls, in the
county of Warren, State aforesaid, respectfully sets forth--

That your memorialist, whose maiden name was Anne Hampton, was
forty-four years old on the 14th day of March last, and was married
to Solomon Northup, then of Fort Edward, in the county of Washington
and State aforesaid, on the 25th day of December, A. D. 1828, by
Timothy Eddy, then a Justice of the Peace. That the said Solomon,
after such marriage, lived and kept house with your memorialist in
said town until 1830, when he removed with his said family to the town
of Kingsbury in said county, and remained there about three years, and
then removed to Saratoga Springs in the State aforesaid, and continued
to reside in said Saratoga Springs and the adjoining town until about
the year 1841, as near as the time can be recollected, when the said
Solomon started to go to the city of Washington, in the District of
Columbia, since which time your memorialist has never seen her said
husband.

And your memorialist further states, that in the year 1841 she
received information by a letter directed to Henry B. Northup, Esq.,
of Sandy Hill, Washington county, New-York, and post-marked at
New-Orleans, that said Solomon had been kidnapped in Washington, put
on board of a vessel, and was then in such vessel in New-Orleans, but
could not tell how he came in that situation, nor what his destination
was.

That your memorialist ever since the last mentioned period has been
wholly unable to obtain any information of where the said Solomon was,
until the month of September last, when another letter was received
from the said Solomon, post-marked at Marksville, in the parish of
Avoyelles, in the State of Louisiana, stating that he was held there
as a slave, which statement your memorialist believes to be true.

That the said Solomon is about forty-five years of age, and never
resided out of the State of New-York, in which State he was born,
until the time he went to Washington city, as before stated. That
the said Solomon Northup is a free citizen of the State of New-York,
and is now wrongfully held in slavery, in or near Marksville, in the
parish of Avoyelles, in the State of Louisiana, one of the United
States of America, on the allegation or pretence that the said Solomon
is a slave.

And your memorialist further states that Mintus Northup was the
reputed father of said Solomon, and was a <DW64>, and died at Fort
Edward, on the 22d day of November, 1829; that the mother of said
Solomon was a mulatto, or three quarters white, and died in the county
of Oswego, New-York, some five or six years ago, as your memorialist
was informed and believes, and never was a slave.

That your memorialist and her family are poor and wholly unable to pay
or sustain any portion of the expenses of restoring the said Solomon
to his freedom.

Your excellency is entreated to employ such agent or agents as shall
be deemed necessary to effect the restoration and return of said
Solomon Northup, in pursuance of an act of the Legislature of the
State of New-York, passed May 14th, 1840, entitled "An act more
effectually to protect the free citizens of this State from being
kidnappd or reduced to slavery." And your memorialist will ever pray.

                                   (Signed,)     ANNE NORTHUP.

Dated November 19, 1852.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF NEW-YORK:
  Washington county, ss.

Anne Northup, of the village of Glens Falls, in the county of Warren,
in said State, being duly sworn, doth depose and say that she signed
the above memorial, and that the statements therein contained are true.

                                   (Signed,) ANNE NORTHUP.

  Subscribed and sworn before me this
  19th November, 1852.
  CHARLES HUGHES, Justice Peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

We recommend that the Governor appoint Henry B. Northup, of the
village of Sandy Hill, Washington county, New-York, as one of the
agents to procure the restoration and return of Solomon Northup, named
in the foregoing memorial of Anne Northup.

Dated at Sandy Hill, Washington Co., N. Y.,

  November 20, 1852.    (Signed.)
      PETER HOLBROOK,       DANIEL SWEET,
      B. F. HOAG,           ALMON CLARK,
      CHARLES HUGHES,       BENJAMIN FERRIS,
      E. D. BAKER,          JOSIAH H. BROWN,
      ORVILLE CLARK.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF NEW-YORK:
  Washington County, ss:

Josiah Hand, of the village of Sandy Hill, in said county, being
duly sworn, says, he is fifty-seven years old, and was born in said
village, and has always resided there; that he has known Mintus
Northup and his son Solomon, named in the annexed memorial of Anne
Northup, since previous to the year 1816; that Mintus Northup then,
and until the time of his death, cultivated a farm in the towns of
Kingsbury and Fort Edward, from the time deponent first knew him until
he died; that said Mintus and his wife, the mother of said Solomon
Northup, were reported to be free citizens of New-York, and deponent
believes they were so free; that said Solomon Northup was born in
said county of Washington, as deponent believes, and was married Dec.
25th, 1828, in Fort Edward aforesaid, and his said wife and three
children--two daughters and one son--are now living in Glens Falls,
Warren county, New-York, and that the said Solomon Northup always
resided in said county of Washington, and its immediate vicinity,
until about 1841, since which time deponent has not seen him, but
deponent has been credibly informed, and as he verily believes truly,
the said Solomon is now wrongfully held as a slave in the State of
Louisiana. And deponent further says that Anne Northup, named in
the said memorial, is entitled to credit, and deponent believes the
statements contained in her said memorial are true.

                                   (Signed,) JOSIAH HAND.

  Subscribed and sworn before me this
  19th day of November, 1852,
  CHARLES HUGHES, Justice Peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF NEW-YORK:
  Washington county, ss:

Timothy Eddy, of Fort Edward, in said county, being duly sworn, says
he is now over--years old, and has been a resident of said town more
than--years last past, and that he was well acquainted with Solomon
Northup, named in the annexed memorial of Anne Northup, and with his
father, Mintus Northup, who was a <DW64>,--the wife of said Mintus
was a mulatto woman; that said Mintus Northup and his said wife and
family, two sons, Joseph and Solomon, resided in said town of Fort
Edward for several years before the year 1828, and said Mintus died
in said town A. D. 1829, as deponent believes. And deponent further
says that he was a Justice of the Peace in said town in the year 1828,
and as such Justice of the Peace, he, on the 25th day of Dec'r, 1828,
joined the said Solomon Northup in marriage with Anne Hampton, who is
the same person who has subscribed the annexed memorial. And deponent
expressly says, that said Solomon was a free citizen of the State of
New-York, and always lived in said State, until about the year A. D.
1840, since which time deponent has not seen him, but has recently
been informed, and as deponent believes truly, that said Solomon
Northup is wrongfully held in slavery in or near Marksville, in the
parish of Avoyelles, in the State of Louisiana. And deponent further
says, that said Mintus Northup was nearly sixty years old at the time
of his death, and was, for more than thirty years next prior to his
death, a free citizen of the State of New-York.

And this deponent further says, that Anne Northup, the wife of
said Solomon Northup, is of good character and reputation, and her
statements, as contained in the memorial hereto annexed, are entitled
to full credit.

                                   (Signed,) TIMOTHY EDDY.

  Subscribed and sworn before me this
  19th day of November, 1852,
  TIM'Y STOUGHTON, Justice.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF NEW-YORK:
  Washington County, ss:

Henry B. Northup, of the village of Sandy Hill, in said county, being
duly sworn, says, that he is forty-seven years old, and has always
lived in said county; that he knew Mintus Northup, named in the
annexed memorial, from deponent's earliest recollection until the
time of his death, which occurred at Fort Edward, in said county, in
1829; that deponent knew the children of said Mintus, viz, Solomon
and Joseph; that they were both born in the county of Washington
aforesaid, as deponent believes; that deponent was well acquainted
with said Solomon, who is the same person named in the annexed
memorial of Anne Northup, from his childhood; and that said Solomon
always resided in said county of Washington and the adjoining counties
until about the year 1841; that said Solomon could read and write;
that said Solomon and his mother and father were free citizens of the
State of New-York; that sometime about the year 1841 this deponent
received a letter from said Solomon, post-marked New-Orleans, stating
that while on business at Washington city, he had been kidnapped, and
his free papers taken from him, and he was then on board a vessel,
in irons, and was claimed as a slave, and that he did not know his
destination, which the deponent believes to be true, and he urged
this deponent to assist in procuring his restoration to freedom; that
deponent has lost or mislaid said letter, and cannot find it; that
deponent has since endeavored to find where said Solomon was, but
could get no farther trace of him until Sept. last, when this deponent
ascertained by a letter purporting to have been written by the
direction of said Solomon, that said Solomon was held and claimed as
a slave in or near Marksville, in the parish of Avoyelles, Louisiana,
and that this deponent verily believes that such information is true,
and that said Solomon is now wrongfully held in slavery at Marksville
aforesaid.

                                   (Signed,) HENRY B. NORTHUP.

  Subscribed and sworn to before me
  this 20th day of November, 1852,
  CHARLES HUGHES, J. P.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF NEW-YORK:
  Washington County, ss

Nicholas C. Northup, of the village of Sandy Hill, in said county,
being duly sworn, doth depose and say, that he is now fifty-eight
years of age, and has known Solomon Northup, mentioned in the annexed
memorial of Ann Northup, ever since he was born. And this deponent
saith that said Solomon is now about forty-five years old, and was
born in the county of Washington aforesaid, or in the county of
Essex, in said State, and always resided in the State of New-York
until about the year 1841, since which time deponent has not seen him
or known where he was, until a few weeks since, deponent was informed,
and believes truly, that said Solomon was held in slavery in the State
of Louisiana. Deponent further says, that said Solomon was married
in the town of Fort Edward, in said county, about twenty-four years
ago, and that his wife and two daughters and one son now reside in the
village of Glens Falls, county of Warren, in said State of New-York.
And this deponent swears positively that said Solomon Northup is a
citizen of said State of New-York, and was born free, and from his
earliest infancy lived and resided in the counties of Washington,
Essex, Warren and Saratoga, in the State of New-York, and that his
said wife and children have never resided out of said counties since
the time said Solomon was married; that deponent knew the father of
said Solomon Northup; that said father was a <DW64>, named Mintus
Northup, and died in the town of Fort Edward, in the county of
Washington, State of New-York, on the 22d day of November, A. D. 1829,
and was buried in the grave-yard in Sandy Hill aforesaid; that for
more than thirty years before his death he lived in the counties of
Essex, Washington and Rensselaer and State of New-York, and left a
wife and two sons, Joseph and the said Solomon, him surviving; that
the mother of said Solomon was a mulatto woman, and is now dead, and
died, as deponent believes, in Oswego county, New-York, within five or
six years past. And this deponent further states, that the mother of
the said Solomon Northup was not a slave at the time of the birth of
said Solomon Northup, and has not been a slave at any time within the
last fifty years.

                                   (Signed,) N. C. NORTHUP.

  Subscribed and sworn before me this 19th day
  of November, 1852.
  CHARLES HUGHES, Justice Peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF NEW-YORK:
  Washington County, ss.

Orville Clark, of the village of Sandy Hill, in the county of
Washington, State of New-York, being duly sworn, doth depose and
say--that he, this deponent, is over fifty years of age; that in
the years 1810 and 1811, or most of the time of those years, this
deponent resided at Sandy Hill, aforesaid, and at Glens Falls; that
this deponent then knew Mintus Northup, a black or <DW52> man; he
was then a free man, as this deponent believes and always understood;
that the wife of said Mintus Northup, and mother of Solomon, was a
free woman; that from the year 1818 until the time of the death of
said Mintus Northup, about the year 1829, this deponent was very well
acquainted with the said Mintus Northup; that he was a respectable man
in the community in which he resided, and was a free man, so taken
and esteemed by all his acquaintances; that this deponent has also
been and was acquainted with his son Solomon Northup, from the said
year 1818 until he left this part of the country, about the year 1840
or 1841; that he married Anne Hampton, daughter of William Hampton,
a near neighbor of this deponent; that the said Anne, wife of said
Solomon, is now living and resides in this vicinity; that the said
Mintus Northup and William Hampton were both reputed and esteemed
in this community as respectable men. And this deponent saith that
the said Mintus Northup and his family, and the said William Hampton
and his family, from the earliest recollection and acquaintance of
this deponent with him (as far back as 1810,) were always reputed,
esteemed, and taken to be, and this deponent believes, truly so,
free citizens of the State of New-York. This deponent knows the said
William Hampton, under the laws of this State, was entitled to vote
at our elections, and he believes the said Mintus Northup also was
entitled as a free citizen with the property qualification. And this
deponent further saith, that the said Solomon Northup, son of said
Mintus, and husband of said Anne Hampton, when he left this State,
was at the time thereof a free citizen of the State of New-York. And
this deponent further saith, that said Anne Hampton, wife of Solomon
Northup, is a respectable woman, of good character, and I would
believe her statements, and do believe the facts set forth in her
memorial to his excellency, the Governor, in relation to her said
husband, are true.

                                   (Signed,) ORVILLE CLARK.

  Sworn before me, November
  19th, 1852.
  U. G. PARIS, Justice of the Peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF NEW-YORK:
  Washington County, ss.

Benjamin Ferris, of the village of Sandy Hill, in said county, being
duly sworn, doth depose and say--that he is now fifty-seven years old,
and has resided in said village forty-five years; that he was well
acquainted with Mintus Northup, named in the annexed memorial of Anne
Northup, from the year 1816 to the time of his death, which occurred
at Fort Edward, in the fall of 1829; that he knew the children of the
said Mintus, namely, Joseph Northup and Solomon Northup, and that the
said Solomon is the same person named in said memorial; that said
Mintus resided in the said county of Washington to the time of his
death, and was, during all that time, a free citizen of the said State
of New-York, as deponent verily believes; that said memorialist, Anne
Northup, is a woman of good character, and the statement contained in
her memorial is entitled to credit.

                                   (Signed) BENJAMIN FERRIS.

  Sworn before me, November
  19th, 1852.
  U. G. PARIS, Justice of the Peace.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF NEW-YORK:
  Executive Chamber, Albany, Nov. 30, 1852.

I hereby certify that the foregoing is a correct copy of certain
proofs filed in the Executive Department, upon which I have appointed
Henry B. Northup an Agent of this State, to take proper proceedings in
behalf of Solomon Northup, there in mentioned.

                                   (Signed,) WASHINGTON HUNT.

  By the Governor.
  J. F. R., Private Secretary.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF NEW-YORK:
  Executive Department.

  WASHINGTON HUNT, _Governor of the State of New-York,
  to whom it may concern, greeting_:

Whereas, I have received information on oath, which is satisfactary
to me, that Solomon Northup, who is a free citizen of this State, is
wrongfully held in slavery, in the State of Louisiana:

And whereas, it is made my duty, by the laws of this State, to take
such measures as I shall deem necessary to procure any citizen so
wrongfully held in slavery, to be restored to his liberty and returned
to this State:

Be it known, that in pursuance of chapter 375 of the laws of this
State, passed in 1840, I have constituted, appointed and employed
Henry B. Northup, Esquire, of the county of Washington, in this State,
an Agent, with full power to effect the restoration of said Solomon
Northup, and the said Agent is hereby authorized and empowered to
institute such proper and legal proceedings, to procure such evidence,
retain such counsel, and finally to take such measures as will be most
likely to accomplish the object of his said appointment.

He is also instructed to proceed to the State of Louisiana with all
convenient dispatch, to execute the agency hereby created.

          In witness whereof, I have hereunto subscribed my name, and
  [L.S.]  affixed the privy seal of the State, at Albany, this 23d day
          of November, in the year of our Lord 1852.

                                   (Signed,) WASHINGTON HUNT.

  JAMES F. RUGGLES, Private Secretary.


C.--Page 309.

  STATE OF LOUISIANA:
  Parish of Avoyelles.

Before me, Aristide Barbin, Recorder of the parish of Avoyelles,
personally came and appeared Henry B. Northup, of the county of
Washington, State of New-York, who hath declared that by virtue of a
commission to him as agent of the State of New-York, given and granted
by his excellency, Washington Hunt, Governor of the said State of
New-York, bearing date the 23d day of November, 1852, authorizing and
empowering him, the said Northup, to pursue and recover from slavery
a free man of color, called Solomon Northup, who is a free citizen of
the State of New-York, and who was kidnapped and sold into slavery,
in the State of Louisiana, and now in the possession of Edwin Epps,
of the State of Louisiana, of the Parish of Avoyelles; he, the said
agent, hereto signing, acknowledges that the said Edwin has this day
given and surrendered to him as such agent, the said Solomon Northup,
free man of color, as aforesaid, in order that he be restored to his
freedom, and carried back to the said State of New-York, pursuant to
said commission, the said Edwin Epps being satisfied from the proofs
produced by said agent, that the said Solomon Northup is entitled to
his freedom. The parties consenting that a certified copy of said
power of attorney be annexed to this act.

Done and signed at Marksville, parish of Avoyelles, this fourth day of
January, one thousand eight hundred and fifty-three, in the presence
of the undersigned, legal and competent witnesses, who have also
hereto signed.

                                   (Signed,) HENRY B. NORTHUP.
                                             EDWIN EPPS.
                                             ADE. BARBIN, Recorder.
  Witnesses:
      H. TAYLOR,
      JOHN P. WADDILL.

       *       *       *       *       *

  STATE OF LOUISIANA:
  Parish of Avoyelles.

I do hereby certify the foregoing to be a true and correct copy of the
original on file and of record in my office.

  [L.S.]  Given under my hand and seal of office as Recorder in and for the
          parish of Avoyelles, this 4th day of January, A. D. 1853.

                                   (Signed,) ADE. BARBIN, Recorder.


THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber's Notes:

The transcriber made these changes to the text:

   1. p.  xi., Chalenged --> Challenged
   2. p. xiii., Coversation --> Conversation
   3. p. xvi, expresssion --> expression
   4. p.  53, hight --> height
   5. p.  58, susually --> usually
   6. p.  86, She's not for sale. --> She's not for sale."
   7. p.  97, looded --> looked
   8. p, 103, capenter --> carpenter
   9. p. 106, aligators --> alligators
  10. p. 112, Chenyville --> Cheneyville
  11. p. 135, gripe --> grip
  12. p. 138, loose --> lose
  13. p. 149, listing --> listening
  14. p. 156, an one --> a one
  15. p. 224, maintin --> maintain
  16. p. 244, LEW CHEENEY --> LEW CHENEY
  17. p. 274, priviliges --> privileges
  18. p. 296, 'bringing down his hand emphatically on the table,' -->
              bringing down his hand emphatically on the table,
  19. p. 314, reppresented --> represented
  20. p. 316, offer- --> offered

End of Transcriber's Notes]





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