15. CHAPTER XV.
COVEY, THE NEGRO BREAKER.
JOURNEY TO MY NEW MASTER'S—MEDITATIONS BY THE WAY—VIEW OF
COVEY'S RESIDENCE—THE FAMILY—MY AWKWARDNESS AS A FIELD HAND—A
CRUEL BEATING—WHY IT WAS GIVEN—DESCRIPTION OF COVEY—FIRST
ADVENTURE AT OX DRIVING—HAIR BREADTH ESCAPES—OX AND MAN ALIKE
PROPERTY—COVEY'S MANNER OF PROCEEDING TO WHIP—HARD LABOR BETTER
THAN THE WHIP FOR BREAKING DOWN THE SPIRIT—CUNNING AND TRICKERY
OF COVEY—FAMILY WORSHIP—SHOCKING CONTEMPT FOR CHASTITY—I AM
BROKEN DOWN—GREAT MENTAL AGITATION IN CONTRASTING THE FREEDOM OF
THE SHIPS WITH HIS OWN SLAVERY—ANGUISH BEYOND DESCRIPTION.
The morning of the first of January, 1834, with its
chilling wind and pinching frost, quite in harmony with the
winter in my own mind, found me, with my little bundle of
clothing on the end of a stick, swung across my shoulder, on the
main road, bending my way toward Covey's, whither I had been
imperiously ordered by Master Thomas. The latter had been as
good as his word, and had committed me, without reserve, to the
mastery of Mr. Edward Covey. Eight or ten years had now passed
since I had been taken from my grandmother's cabin, in Tuckahoe;
and these years, for the most part, I had spent in Baltimore,
where—as the reader has already seen—I was treated with
comparative tenderness. I was now about to sound profounder
depths in slave life. The
rigors of a field, less tolerable than
the field of battle, awaited me. My new master was notorious for
his fierce and savage disposition, and my only consolation in
going to live with him was, the certainty of finding him
precisely as represented by common fame. There was neither joy
in my heart, nor elasticity in my step, as I started in search of
the tyrant's home. Starvation made me glad to leave Thomas
Auld's, and the cruel lash made me dread to go to Covey's.
Escape was impossible; so, heavy and sad, I paced the seven
miles, which separated Covey's house from St. Michael's—thinking
much by the solitary way—averse to my condition; but
thinking was all I could do. Like a fish in a net,
allowed to play for a time, I was now drawn rapidly to the shore,
secured at all points. "I am," thought I, "but the sport of a
power which makes no account, either of my welfare or of my
happiness. By a law which I can clearly comprehend, but cannot
evade nor resist, I am ruthlessly snatched from the hearth of a
fond grandmother, and hurried away to the home of a mysterious
`old master;' again I am removed from there, to a master in
Baltimore; thence am I snatched away to the Eastern Shore, to be
valued with the beasts of the field, and, with them, divided and
set apart for a possessor; then I am sent back to Baltimore; and
by the time I have formed new attachments, and have begun to hope
that no more rude shocks shall touch me, a difference arises
between brothers, and I am again broken up, and sent to St.
Michael's; and now, from the latter place, I am footing my way to
the home of a new master, where, I am given to understand, that,
like a wild young working animal, I am to be broken to the yoke
of a bitter and life-long bondage."
With thoughts and reflections like these, I came in sight
of a small wood-colored building, about a mile from the main
road, which, from the description I had received, at starting, I
easily recognized as my new home. The Chesapeake bay—upon the
jutting banks of which the little wood-colored house was
standing—white with foam, raised by the heavy north-west wind;
Poplar Island, covered with a thick, black pine forest, standing
out amid this half ocean; and Kent Point, stretching its sandy,
desert-like shores out into the foam-cested bay—were all in
COVEY'S RESIDENCE—THE FAMILY>
sight, and deepened the wild and
desolate aspect of my new home.
The good clothes I had brought with me from Baltimore were
now worn thin, and had not been replaced; for Master Thomas was
as little careful to provide us against cold, as against hunger.
Met here by a north wind, sweeping through an open space of forty
miles, I was glad to make any port; and, therefore, I speedily
pressed on to the little wood-colored house. The family
consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Covey; Miss Kemp (a broken-backed
woman) a sister of Mrs. Covey; William Hughes, cousin to Edward
Covey; Caroline, the cook; Bill Smith, a hired man; and myself.
Bill Smith, Bill Hughes, and myself, were the working force of
the farm, which consisted of three or four hundred acres. I was
now, for the first time in my life, to be a field hand; and in my
new employment I found myself even more awkward than a green
country boy may be supposed to be,
upon his first entrance into
the bewildering scenes of city life; and my awkwardness gave me
much trouble. Strange and unnatural as it may seem, I had been
at my new home but three days, before Mr. Covey (my brother in
the Methodist church) gave me a bitter foretaste of what was in
reserve for me. I presume he thought, that since he had but a
single year in which to complete his work, the sooner he began,
the better. Perhaps he thought that by coming to blows at once,
we should mutually better understand our relations. But to
whatever motive, direct or indirect, the cause may be referred, I
had not been in his possession three whole days, before he
subjected me to a most brutal chastisement. Under his heavy
blows, blood flowed freely, and wales were left on my back as
large as my little finger. The sores on my back, from this
flogging, continued for weeks, for they were kept open by the
rough and coarse cloth which I wore for shirting. The occasion
and details of this first chapter of my experience as a field
hand, must be told, that the reader may see how unreasonable, as
well as how cruel, my new master, Covey, was.
The whole
thing I found to be characteristic of the man; and I was probably
treated no worse by him than scores of lads who had previously
been committed to him, for reasons similar to those which induced
my master to place me with him. But, here are the facts
connected with the affair, precisely as they occurred.
On one of the coldest days of the whole month of January,
1834, I was ordered, at day break, to get a load of wood, from a
forest about two miles from the
house. In order to perform this
work, Mr. Covey gave me a pair of unbroken oxen, for, it seems,
his breaking abilities had not been turned in this direction; and
I may remark, in passing, that working animals in the south, are
seldom so well trained as in the north. In due form, and with
all proper ceremony, I was introduced to this huge yoke of
unbroken oxen, and was carefully told which was "Buck," and which
was "Darby"—which was the "in hand," and which was the "off
hand" ox. The master of this important ceremony was no less a
person than Mr. Covey, himself; and the introduction was the
first of the kind I had ever had. My life, hitherto, had led me
away from horned cattle, and I had no knowledge of the art of
managing them. What was meant by the "in ox," as against the
"off ox," when both were equally fastened to one cart, and under
one yoke, I could not very easily divine; and the difference,
implied by the names, and the peculiar duties of each, were alike
Greek to me. Why was not the "off ox" called the "in ox?"
Where and what is the reason for this distinction in names, when
there is none in the things themselves? After initiating me into
the
"woa," "back" "gee," "hither"—the entire spoken
language between oxen and driver—Mr. Covey took a rope, about
ten feet long and one inch thick, and placed one end of it around
the horns of the "in hand ox," and gave the other end to me,
telling me that if the oxen started to run away, as the scamp
knew they would, I must hold on to the rope and stop them. I
need not tell any one who is acquainted with either the strength
of the disposition of an untamed ox, that
this order
was about as unreasonable as a command to
shoulder a mad bull! I had never driven oxen before, and I was
as awkward, as a driver, as it is possible to conceive. It did
not answer for me to plead ignorance, to Mr. Covey; there was
something in his manner that quite forbade that. He was a man to
whom a slave seldom felt any disposition to speak. Cold,
distant, morose, with a face wearing all the marks of captious
pride and malicious sternness, he repelled all advances. Covey
was not a large man; he was only about five feet ten inches in
height, I should think; short necked, round shoulders; of quick
and wiry motion, of thin and wolfish visage; with a pair of
small, greenish-gray eyes, set well back under a forehead without
dignity, and constantly in motion, and floating his passions,
rather than his thoughts, in sight, but denying them utterance in
words. The creature presented an appearance altogether ferocious
and sinister, disagreeable and forbidding, in the extreme. When
he spoke, it was from the corner of his mouth, and in a sort of
light growl, like a dog, when an attempt is made to take a bone
from him. The fellow had already made me believe him even
worse than he had been presented. With his directions,
and without stopping to question, I started for the woods, quite
anxious to perform my first exploit in driving, in a creditable
manner. The distance from the house to the woods gate a full
mile, I should think—was passed over with very little
difficulty; for although the animals ran, I was fleet enough, in
the open field, to keep pace with them; especially as they pulled
me along at the end of the
rope; but, on reaching the woods, I
was speedily thrown into a distressing plight. The animals took
fright, and started off ferociously into the woods, carrying the
cart, full tilt, against trees, over stumps, and dashing from
side to side, in a manner altogether frightful. As I held the
rope, I expected every moment to be crushed between the cart and
the huge trees, among which they were so furiously dashing.
After running thus for several minutes, my oxen were, finally,
brought to a stand, by a tree, against which they dashed
themselves with great violence, upsetting the cart, and
entangling themselves among sundry young saplings. By the shock,
the body of the cart was flung in one direction, and the wheels
and tongue in another, and all in the greatest confusion. There
I was, all alone, in a thick wood, to which I was a stranger; my
cart upset and shattered; my oxen entangled, wild, and enraged;
and I, poor soul! but a green hand, to set all this disorder
right. I knew no more of oxen than the ox driver is supposed to
know of wisdom. After standing a few moments surveying the
damage and disorder, and not without a presentiment that this
trouble would draw after it others, even more distressing, I took
one end of the cart body, and, by an extra outlay of strength, I
lifted it toward the axle-tree, from which it had been violently
flung; and after much pulling and straining, I succeeded in
getting the body of the cart in its place. This was an important
step out of the difficulty, and its performance increased my
courage for the work which remained to be done. The cart was
provided with an ax, a tool with which I had become pretty
well acquainted in the ship yard at Baltimore. With this, I cut down
the saplings by which my oxen were entangled, and again pursued
my journey, with my heart in my mouth, lest the oxen should again
take it into their senseless heads to cut up a caper. My fears
were groundless. Their spree was over for the present, and the
rascals now moved off as soberly as though their behavior had
been natural and exemplary. On reaching the part of the forest
where I had been, the day before, chopping wood, I filled the
cart with a heavy load, as a security against another running
away. But, the neck of an ox is equal in strength to iron. It
defies all ordinary burdens, when excited. Tame and docile to a
proverb, when
well trained, the ox is the most sullen and
intractable of animals when but half broken to the yoke.
I now saw, in my situation, several points of similarity
with that of the oxen. They were property, so was I; they were
to be broken, so was I. Covey was to
break me, I was to break them; break and be broken—such is life.
Half the day already gone, and my face not yet homeward!
It required only two day's experience and observation to teach
me, that such apparent waste of time would not be lightly over-looked by Covey. I therefore hurried toward home; but, on
reaching the lane gate, I met with the crowning disaster for the
day. This gate was a fair specimen of southern handicraft.
There were two huge posts, eighteen inches in diameter, rough
hewed and square, and the heavy gate was so hung on one of these,
that it opened only about half the proper distance. On
arriving here, it was necessary for me to let go the end of the rope on
the horns of the "in hand ox;" and now as soon as the gate was
open, and I let go of it to get the rope, again, off went my
oxen—making nothing of their load—full tilt; and in doing so
they caught the huge gate between the wheel and the cart body,
literally crushing it to splinters, and coming only within a few
inches of subjecting me to a similar crushing, for I was just in
advance of the wheel when it struck the left gate post. With
these two hair-breadth escape, I thought I could successfully
explain to Mr. Covey the delay, and avert apprehended punishment.
I was not without a faint hope of being commended for the stern
resolution which I had displayed in accomplishing the difficult
task—a task which, I afterwards learned, even Covey himself
would not have undertaken, without first driving the oxen for
some time in the open field, preparatory to their going into the
woods. But, in this I was disappointed. On coming to him, his
countenance assumed an aspect of rigid displeasure, and, as I
gave him a history of the casualties of my trip, his wolfish
face, with his greenish eyes, became intensely ferocious. "Go
back to the woods again," he said, muttering something else about
wasting time. I hastily obeyed; but I had not gone far on my
way, when I saw him coming after me. My oxen now behaved
themselves with singular propriety, opposing their present
conduct to my representation of their former antics. I almost
wished, now that Covey was coming, they would do something in
keeping with the character I had given them; but no, they had
already
had their spree, and they could afford now to be extra
good, readily obeying my orders, and seeming to understand them
quite as well as I did myself. On reaching the woods, my
tormentor—who seemed all the way to be remarking upon the good
behavior of his oxen—came up to me, and ordered me to stop the
cart, accompanying the same with the threat that he would now
teach me how to break gates, and idle away my time, when he sent
me to the woods. Suiting the action to the word, Covey paced
off, in his own wiry fashion, to a large, black gum tree, the
young shoots of which are generally used for ox
goads,
they being exceedingly tough. Three of these
goads, from
four to six feet long, he cut off, and trimmed up, with his large
jack-knife. This done, he ordered me to take off my clothes. To
this unreasonable order I made no reply, but sternly refused to
take off my clothing. "If you will beat me," thought I, "you
shall do so over my clothes." After many threats, which made no
impression on me, he rushed at me with something of the savage
fierceness of a wolf, tore off the few and thinly worn clothes I
had on, and proceeded to wear out, on my back, the heavy goads
which he had cut from the gum tree. This flogging was the first
of a series of floggings; and though very severe, it was less so
than many which came after it, and these, for offenses far
lighter than the gate breaking
I remained with Mr. Covey one year (I cannot say I
lived with him) and during the first six months that I was
there, I was whipped, either with sticks or cowskins, every week.
Aching bones and a sore back
were my constant companions.
Frequent as the lash was used, Mr. Covey thought less of it, as a
means of breaking down my spirit, than that of hard and long
continued labor. He worked me steadily, up to the point of my
powers of endurance. From the dawn of day in the morning, till
the darkness was complete in
the evening, I was kept at hard work, in the field or the woods.
At certain seasons of the year, we were all kept in the field
till eleven and twelve o'clock at night. At these times, Covey
would attend us in the field, and urge us on with words or blows,
as it seemed best to him. He had, in his life, been an overseer,
and he well understood the business of slave driving. There was
no deceiving him. He knew just what a man or boy could do, and
he held both to strict account. When he pleased, he would work
himself, like a very Turk, making everything fly before him. It
was, however, scarcely necessary for Mr. Covey to be really
present in the field, to have his work go on industriously. He
had the faculty of making us feel that he was always present. By
a series of adroitly managed surprises, which he practiced, I was
prepared to expect him at any moment. His plan was, never to
approach the spot where his hands were at work, in an open, manly
and direct manner. No thief was ever more artful in his devices
than this man Covey. He would creep and crawl, in ditches and
gullies; hide behind stumps and bushes, and practice so much of
the cunning of the serpent, that Bill Smith and I—between
ourselves—never called him by any other name than
"the
snake." We fancied that in his eyes and his gait we could
see a
snakish resemblance. One half of his proficiency in the
art of Negro breaking, consisted, I should think, in this species
of cunning. We were never secure. He could see or hear us
nearly all the time. He was, to us, behind every stump, tree,
bush and fence on the plantation. He carried this kind of
trickery so far, that he would sometimes mount his horse, and
make believe he was going to St. Michael's; and, in thirty
minutes afterward, you might find his horse tied in the woods,
and the snake-like Covey lying flat in the ditch, with his head
lifted above its edge, or in a fence corner, watching every
movement of the slaves! I have known him walk up to us and give
us special orders, as to our work, in advance, as if he were
leaving home with a view to being absent several days; and before
he got half way to the
house, he would avail himself of our
inattention to his movements, to turn short on his heels, conceal
himself behind a fence corner or a tree, and watch us until the
going down of the sun. Mean and contemptible as is all this, it
is in keeping with the character which the life of a slaveholder
is calculated to produce. There is no earthly inducement, in the
slave's condition, to incite him to labor faithfully. The fear
of punishment is the sole motive for any sort of industry, with
him. Knowing this fact, as the slaveholder does, and judging the
slave by himself, he naturally concludes the slave will be idle
whenever the cause for this fear is absent. Hence, all sorts of
petty deceptions are practiced, to inspire this fear.
But, with Mr. Covey, trickery was natural. Everything in
the shape of learning or religion, which
he possessed, was made
to conform to this semi-lying propensity. He did not seem
conscious that the practice had anything unmanly, base or
contemptible about it. It was a part of an important system,
with him, essential to the relation of master and slave. I
thought I saw, in his very religious devotions, this controlling
element of his character. A long prayer at night made up for the
short prayer in the morning; and few men could seem more
devotional than he, when he had nothing else to do.
Mr. Covey was not content with the cold style of family
worship, adopted in these cold latitudes, which begin and end
with a simple prayer. No! the voice of praise, as well as of
prayer, must be heard in his house, night and morning. At first,
I was called upon to bear some part in these exercises; but the
repeated flogging given me by Covey, turned the whole thing into
mockery. He was a poor singer, and mainly relied on me for
raising the hymn for the family, and when I failed to do so, he
was thrown into much confusion. I do not think that he ever
abused me on account of these vexations. His religion was a
thing altogether apart from his worldly concerns. He knew
nothing of it as a holy principle, directing and controlling his
daily life, making the latter
conform to the requirements of the gospel. One or two facts will
illustrate his character better than a volume of
generalities.
I have already said, or implied, that Mr. Edward Covey was
a poor man. He was, in fact, just commencing to lay the foundation of his fortune, as fortune is regarded in a slave state.
The first condition of wealth
and respectability there, being the
ownership of human property, every nerve is strained, by the poor
man, to obtain it, and very little regard is had to the manner of
obtaining it. In pursuit of this object, pious as Mr. Covey was,
he proved himself to be as unscrupulous and base as the worst of
his neighbors. In the beginning, he was only able—as he said—"to buy one slave;" and, scandalous and shocking as is the fact,
he boasted that he bought her simply
"as a breeder." But
the worst is not told in this naked statement. This young woman
(Caroline was her name) was virtually compelled by Mr. Covey to
abandon herself to the object for which he had purchased her; and
the result was, the birth of twins at the end of the year. At
this addition to his human stock, both Edward Covey and his wife,
Susan, were ecstatic with joy. No one dreamed of reproaching the
woman, or of finding fault with the hired man—Bill Smith—the
father of the children, for Mr. Covey himself had locked the two
up together every night, thus inviting the result.
But I will pursue this revolting subject no further. No
better illustration of the unchaste and demoralizing character of
slavery can be found, than is furnished in the fact that this
professedly Christian slaveholder, amidst all his prayers and
hymns, was shamelessly and boastfully encouraging, and actually
compelling, in his own house, undisguised and unmitigated
fornication, as a means of increasing his human stock. I may
remark here, that, while this fact will be read with disgust and
shame at the north, it will be laughed at, as smart and
praiseworthy in Mr. Covey, at the
south; for a man is no more
condemned there for buying a woman and devoting her to this life
of dishonor, than for buying a cow, and raising stock from
her. The same rules are observed, with a view to increasing the
number and quality of the former, as of the latter.
I will here reproduce what I said of my own experience in
this wretched place, more than ten years ago:
"If at any one time of my life, more than another, I was
made to drink the bitterest dregs of slavery, that time was
during the first six months of my stay with Mr. Covey. We were
worked all weathers. It was never too hot or too cold; it could
never rain, blow, snow, or hail too hard for us to work in the
field. Work, work, work, was scarcely more the order of the day
than the night. The longest days were too short for him, and the
shortest nights were too long for him. I was somewhat
unmanageable when I first went there; but a few months of his
discipline tamed me. Mr. Covey succeeded in breaking me. I was
broken in body, soul and spirit. My natural elasticity was
crushed; my intellect languished; the disposition to read
departed; the cheerful spark that lingered about my eye died; the
dark night of slavery closed in upon me; and behold a man
transformed into a brute!
"Sunday was my only leisure time. I spent this in a sort
of beast-like stupor, between sleep and wake, under some large
tree. At times, I would rise up, a flash of energetic freedom
would dart through my soul, accompanied with a faint beam of
hope, flickered for a moment, and then vanished. I sank down
again, mourning over my wretched condition. I was sometimes
prompted to take my life, and that of Covey, but was prevented by
a combination of hope and fear. My sufferings on this plantation
seem now like a dream rather than a stern reality.
"Our house stood within a few rods of the Chesapeake bay,
whose broad bosom was ever white with sails from every quarter of
the habitable globe. Those beautiful vessels, robed in purest
white, so delightful to the eye of freemen, were to me so many
shrouded ghosts, to terrify and torment me with thoughts of my
wretched condition. I have often, in the deep stillness of a
summer's Sabbath, stood all alone upon the banks of that noble
bay, and traced, with saddened heart and tearful eye, the
countless number of sails moving off to the mighty ocean. The
sight of these always affected me powerfully. My thoughts would
compel utterance; and there, with no audience but the Almighty, I
would pour out my soul's complaint in my rude way, with an
apostrophe to the moving multitude of ships:
"'You are loosed from your moorings, and free; I am fast in
my chains, and am a slave! You move merrily before the gentle
gale, and I sadly before the bloody whip! You are freedom's
swift-winged angels, that fly around the world; I am confined in
bands of iron! O, that I were free! O, that I were on one of
your gallant decks, and under your protecting wing! Alas!
betwixt me and you the turbid
waters roll. Go on, go on. O that I could also go! Could I but
swim! If I could fly! O, why was I born a man, of whom to make
a brute! The glad ship is gone; she hides in the dim distance.
I am left in the hottest hell of unending slavery. O God, save
me! God, deliver me! Let me be free! Is there any God? Why am
I a slave? I will run away. I will not stand it. Get caught,
or get clear, I'll try it. I had as well die with ague as with
fever. I have only one life to lose. I had as well be killed
running as die standing. Only think of it; one hundred miles
straight north, and I am free! Try it? Yes! God helping me, I
will. It cannot be that I shall live and die a slave. I will
take to the water. This very bay shall yet bear me into freedom.
The steamboats steered in a north-east coast from North
Point. I
will do the same; and when I get to the head of the bay, I will
turn my canoe adrift, and walk straight through Delaware into
Pennsylvania. When I get there, I shall not be required to have
a pass; I will travel without being disturbed. Let but the first
opportunity offer, and come what will, I am off. Meanwhile, I
will try to bear up under the yoke. I am not the only slave in
the world. Why should I fret? I can bear as much as any of
them. Besides, I am but a boy, and all boys are bound to some
one. It may be that my misery in slavery will only increase my
happiness when I get free. There is a better day coming.'"
I shall never be able to narrate the mental experience
through which it was my lot to pass during my stay at Covey's. I
was completely wrecked, changed and bewildered; goaded almost to
madness at one time, and at another reconciling myself to my
wretched condition. Everything in the way of kindness, which I
had experienced at Baltimore; all my former hopes and aspirations
for usefulness in the world, and the happy moments spent in the
exercises of religion, contrasted with my then present lot, but
increased my anguish.
I suffered bodily as well as mentally. I had neither
sufficient time in which to eat or to sleep, except on Sundays.
The overwork, and the brutal chastisements of which I was the
victim, combined with that ever-gnawing and soul-devouring
thought—"I am a slave—a slave for life—a slave with no
rational ground to hope for freedom"—rendered me a living
embodiment of mental and physical wretchedness.