1. LIFE AS A SLAVE.
1. CHAPTER I.
THE AUTHOR'S CHILDHOOD.
PLACE OF BIRTH—CHARACTER OF THE DISTRICT—TUCKAHOE—ORIGIN OF
THE NAME—CHOPTANK RIVER—TIME OF BIRTH—GENEALOGICAL TREES—MODE
OF COUNTING TIME—NAMES OF GRANDPARENTS—THEIR POSITION—GRAND-MOTHER ESPECIALLY ESTEEMED—"BORN TO GOOD LUCK"—SWEET
POTATOES—SUPERSTITION—THE LOG CABIN—ITS CHARMS—SEPARATING CHILDREN—MY
AUNTS—THEIR NAMES—FIRST KNOWLEDGE OF BEING A SLAVE—OLD MASTER—GRIEFS AND JOYS OF CHILDHOOD—COMPARATIVE HAPPINESS OF THE
SLAVE-BOY AND THE SON OF A SLAVEHOLDER.
In Talbot county, Eastern Shore, Maryland, near Easton,
the county town of that county, there is a small district of
country, thinly populated, and remarkable for nothing that I know
of more than for the worn-out, sandy, desert-like appearance of
its soil, the general dilapidation of its farms and fences, the
indigent and spiritless character of its inhabitants, and the
prevalence of ague and fever.
The name of this singularly unpromising and truly famine
stricken district is Tuckahoe, a name well known to all Marylanders, black and white. It was given to this section of
country probably, at the first, merely in derision; or it may
possibly have been
applied to it, as I have heard, because some
one of its earlier inhabitants had been guilty of the petty
meanness of stealing a hoe—or taking a hoe that did not belong
to him. Eastern Shore men usually pronounce the word
took, as
tuck; Took-a-hoe, therefore, is, in
Maryland parlance,
Tuckahoe. But, whatever may have been
its origin—and about this I will not be
positive—that name
has stuck to the district in question; and it is seldom mentioned
but with contempt and derision, on account of the barrenness of
its soil, and the ignorance, indolence, and poverty of its
people. Decay and ruin are everywhere visible, and the thin
population of the place would have quitted it long ago, but for
the Choptank river, which runs through it, from which they take
abundance of shad and herring, and plenty of ague and fever.
It was in this dull, flat, and unthrifty district, or
neighborhood, surrounded by a white population of the lowest
order, indolent and drunken to a proverb, and among slaves, who
seemed to ask, "Oh! what's the use?" every time they
lifted a hoe, that I—without any fault of mine was born, and
spent the first years of my childhood.
The reader will pardon so much about the place of my
birth, on the score that it is always a fact of some importance
to know where a man is born, if, indeed, it be important to know
anything about him. In regard to the time of my birth, I
cannot be as definite as I have been respecting the place.
Nor, indeed, can I impart much knowledge concerning my parents.
Genealogical trees do not flourish among slaves. A person of
some consequence here in the north, sometimes
designated
father, is literally abolished in slave law and slave
practice. It is only once in a while that an exception is found
to this statement. I never met with a slave who could tell me
how old he was. Few slave-mothers know anything of the months of
the year, nor of the days of the month. They keep no family
records, with marriages, births, and deaths. They measure the
ages of their children by spring time, winter time, harvest time,
planting time, and the like; but these soon become
undistinguishable and forgotten. Like other slaves, I cannot
tell how old I am. This destitution was among my earliest
troubles. I learned when I grew up, that my master—and this is
the case with masters generally—allowed no questions to be put
to him, by which a slave might learn his
age.
Such questions deemed evidence of impatience, and even of
impudent curiosity. From certain events, however, the dates of
which I have since learned, I suppose myself to have been born
about the year 1817.
The first experience of life with me that I now remember—and I remember it but hazily—began in the family of my
grandmother and grandfather. Betsey and Isaac Baily. They were quite
advanced in life, and had long lived on the spot where they then
resided. They were considered old settlers in the neighborhood,
and, from certain circumstances, I infer that my grandmother,
especially, was held in high esteem, far higher than is the lot
of most colored persons in the slave states. She was a good
nurse, and a capital hand at making nets for catching shad and
herring; and these nets were in great demand, not
only in
Tuckahoe, but at Denton and Hillsboro, neighboring villages. She
was not only good at making the nets, but was also somewhat
famous for her good fortune in taking the fishes referred to. I
have known her to be in the water half the day. Grandmother was
likewise more provident than most of her neighbors in the
preservation of seedling sweet potatoes, and it happened to her—as it will happen to any careful and thrifty person residing in
an ignorant and improvident community—to enjoy the reputation of
having been born to "good luck." Her "good luck" was owing to
the exceeding care which she took in preventing the succulent
root from getting bruised in the digging, and in placing it
beyond the reach of frost, by actually burying it under the
hearth of her cabin during the winter months. In the time of
planting sweet potatoes, "Grandmother Betty," as she was
familiarly called, was sent for in all directions, simply to
place the seedling potatoes in the hills; for superstition had
it, that if "Grandmamma Betty but touches them at planting, they
will be sure to grow and flourish." This high reputation was
full of advantage to her, and to the children around her. Though
Tuckahoe had but few of the good things of
life, yet of such
as it did possess grandmother got a full share, in the way of
presents. If good potato crops came after her planting, she was
not forgotten by those for whom she planted; and as she was
remembered by others, so she remembered the hungry little ones
around her.
The dwelling of my grandmother and grandfather had few
pretensions. It was a log hut, or cabin,
built of clay, wood,
and straw. At a distance it resembled—though it was smaller,
less commodious and less substantial—the cabins erected in the
western states by the first settlers. To my child's eye,
however, it was a noble structure, admirably adapted to promote
the comforts and conveniences of its inmates. A few rough,
Virginia fence-rails, flung loosely over the rafters above,
answered the triple purpose of floors, ceilings, and bedsteads.
To be sure, this upper apartment was reached only by a ladder—but what in the world for climbing could be better than a ladder?
To me, this ladder was really a high invention, and possessed a
sort of charm as I played with delight upon the rounds of it. In
this little hut there was a large family of children: I dare not
say how many. My grandmother—whether because too old for field
service, or because she had so faithfully discharged the duties
of her station in early life, I know not—enjoyed the high
privilege of living in a cabin, separate from the quarter, with
no other burden than her own support, and the necessary care of
the little children, imposed. She evidently esteemed it a great
fortune to live so. The children were not her own, but her
grandchildren—the children of her daughters. She took delight
in having them around her, and in attending to their few wants.
The practice of separating children from their mother, and hiring
the latter out at distances too great to admit of their meeting,
except at long intervals, is a marked feature of the cruelty and
barbarity of the slave system. But it is in harmony with the
grand aim of slavery, which, always and everywhere, is to
reduce
man to a level with the brute. It is a successful method of
obliterating from the mind and heart of the
slave, all just ideas of the sacredness of
the family, as
an institution.
Most of the children, however, in this instance, being the
children of my grandmother's daughters, the notions of family,
and the reciprocal duties and benefits of the relation, had a
better chance of being understood than where children are
placed—as they often are in the hands of strangers, who have no
care for them, apart from the wishes of their masters. The
daughters of my grandmother were five in number. Their names
were JENNY, ESTHER, MILLY, PRISCILLA, and HARRIET. The daughter
last named was my mother, of whom the reader shall learn more by-and-by.
Living here, with my dear old grandmother and grandfather,
it was a long time before I knew myself to be a slave. I
knew many other things before I knew that. Grandmother and
grandfather were the greatest people in the world to me; and
being with them so snugly in their own little cabin—I supposed
it be their own—knowing no higher authority over me or the other
children than the authority of grandmamma, for a time there was
nothing to disturb me; but, as I grew larger and older, I learned
by degrees the sad fact, that the "little hut," and the lot on
which it stood, belonged not to my dear old grandparents, but to
some person who lived a great distance off, and who was called,
by grandmother, "OLD MASTER." I further learned the sadder fact,
that not only the house and lot, but that grandmother herself,
(grandfather was free,) and all the little children around her,
belonged to this mysterious personage, called by grandmother,
with every mark of reverence, "Old Master." Thus early did
clouds and shadows begin to fall upon my path. Once on the
track—troubles never come singly—I was not long in finding out
another fact, still more grievous to my childish heart. I was
told that this "old master," whose name seemed ever to be mentioned with fear and shuddering, only allowed the children to
live with grandmother for a limited time, and that in fact as
soon as they were big enough, they were promptly taken away,
to live with the said "old master." These were distressing
revelations indeed; and though I was quite too young to
comprehend the full import of the intelligence, and mostly spent
my childhood days in gleesome sports with the other children, a
shade of disquiet rested upon me.
The absolute power of this distant "old master" had
touched my young spirit with but the point of its cold, cruel
iron, and left me something to brood over after the play and in
moments of repose. Grandmammy was, indeed, at that time, all the
world to me; and the thought of being separated from her, in any
considerable time, was more than an unwelcome intruder. It was
intolerable.
Children have their sorrows as well as men and women; and
it would be well to remember this in our dealings with them.
SLAVE-children are children, and prove no exceptions to
the general rule. The liability to be separated from my
grandmother, seldom or never to see her again, haunted me. I
dreaded
the thought of going to live with that mysterious "old
master," whose name I never heard mentioned with affection, but
always with fear. I look back to this as among the heaviest of
my childhood's sorrows. My grandmother! my grandmother! and the
little hut, and the joyous circle under her care, but especially
she, who made us sorry when she left us but for an hour,
and glad on her return,—how could I leave her and the good old
home?
But the sorrows of childhood, like the pleasures of after
life, are transient. It is not even within the power of slavery
to write indelible sorrow, at a single dash, over the
heart of a child.
"The tear down childhood's cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose—
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush—the flower is dry."
There is, after all, but little difference in the measure
of contentment felt by the slave-child neglected and the
slaveholder's
child cared for and
petted. The spirit of the All Just mercifully holds the balance
for the young.
The slaveholder, having nothing to fear from impotent
childhood, easily affords to refrain from cruel inflictions; and
if cold and hunger do not pierce the tender frame, the first
seven or eight years of the slave-boy's life are about as full of
sweet content as those of the most favored and petted
white children of the slaveholder. The slave-boy escapes
many troubles which befall and vex his white brother. He seldom
has to listen to lectures on propriety of behavior,
or on
anything else. He is never chided for handling his little knife
and fork improperly or awkwardly, for he uses none. He is never
reprimanded for soiling the table-cloth, for he takes his meals
on the clay floor. He never has the misfortune, in his games or
sports, of soiling or tearing his clothes, for he has almost none
to soil or tear. He is never expected to act like a nice little
gentleman, for he is only a rude little slave. Thus, freed from
all restraint, the slave-boy can be, in his life and conduct, a
genuine boy, doing whatever his boyish nature suggests; enacting,
by turns, all the strange antics and freaks of horses, dogs,
pigs, and barn-door fowls, without in any manner compromising his
dignity, or incurring reproach of any sort. He literally runs
wild; has no pretty little verses to learn in the nursery; no
nice little speeches to make for aunts, uncles, or cousins, to
show how smart he is; and, if he can only manage to keep out of
the way of the heavy feet and fists of the older slave boys, he
may trot on, in his joyous and roguish tricks, as happy as any
little heathen under the palm trees of Africa. To be sure, he is
occasionally reminded, when he stumbles in the path of his
master—and this he early learns to avoid—that he is eating his
"white bread," and that he will be made to
"see
sights" by-and-by. The threat is soon forgotten; the shadow
soon passes, and our sable boy continues to roll in the dust, or
play in the mud, as bests suits him, and in the veriest freedom.
If he feels uncomfortable, from mud or from dust, the coast is
clear; he can plunge into
the river or the pond, without the
ceremony of undressing, or the fear
of wetting his clothes; his
little tow-linen shirt—for that is all he has on—is easily
dried; and it needed ablution as much as did his skin. His food
is of the coarsest kind, consisting for the most part of cornmeal
mush, which often finds it way from the wooden tray to his mouth
in an oyster shell. His days, when the weather is warm, are
spent in the pure, open air, and in the bright sunshine. He
always sleeps in airy apartments; he seldom has to take powders,
or to be paid to swallow pretty little sugar-coated pills, to
cleanse his blood, or to quicken his appetite. He eats no
candies; gets no lumps of loaf sugar; always relishes his food;
cries but little, for nobody cares for his crying; learns to
esteem his bruises but slight, because others so esteem them. In
a word, he is, for the most part of the first eight years of his
life, a spirited, joyous, uproarious, and happy boy, upon whom
troubles fall only like water on a duck's back. And such a boy,
so far as I can now remember, was the boy whose life in slavery I
am now narrating.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE AUTHOR REMOVED FROM HIS FIRST HOME.
THE NAME "OLD MASTER" A TERROR—COLONEL LLOYD'S PLANTATION—WYE
RIVER—WHENCE ITS NAME—POSITION OF THE LLOYDS—HOME ATTRACTION—MEET OFFERING—JOURNEY FROM TUCKAHOE TO WYE RIVER—SCENE ON
REACHING OLD MASTER'S—DEPARTURE OF GRANDMOTHER—STRANGE MEETING
OF SISTERS AND BROTHERS—REFUSAL TO BE COMFORTED—SWEET SLEEP.
That mysterious individual referred to in the first
chapter as an object of terror among the inhabitants of our
little cabin, under the ominous title of "old master," was really
a man of some consequence. He owned several farms in Tuckahoe;
was the chief clerk and butler on the home plantation of Col.
Edward Lloyd; had overseers on his own farms; and gave directions
to overseers on the farms belonging to Col. Lloyd. This
plantation is situated on Wye river—the river receiving its
name, doubtless, from Wales, where the Lloyds originated. They
(the Lloyds) are an old and honored family in Maryland,
exceedingly wealthy. The home plantation, where they have
resided, perhaps for a century or more, is one of the largest,
most fertile, and best appointed, in the state.
About this plantation, and about that queer old master—who must be something more than a man,
and something worse than
an angel—the reader will easily imagine that I was not only
curious, but eager, to know all that could be known. Unhappily
for me, however, all the information I could get concerning him
increased my great dread of being carried thither—of being
separated from and deprived of the protection of my
grandmother and grandfather. It was, evidently, a great thing to
go to Col. Lloyd's; and I was not without a little curiosity to
see the place; but no amount of coaxing could induce in me the
wish to remain there. The fact is, such was my dread of leaving
the little cabin, that I wished to remain little forever, for I
knew the taller I grew the shorter my stay. The old cabin, with
its rail floor and rail bedsteads upstairs, and its clay floor
downstairs, and its dirt chimney, and windowless sides, and that
most curious piece of workmanship dug in front of the fireplace,
beneath which grandmammy placed the sweet potatoes to keep them
from the frost, was MY HOME—the only home I ever had; and I
loved it, and all connected with it. The old fences around it,
and the stumps in the edge of the woods near it, and the
squirrels that ran, skipped, and played upon them, were objects
of interest and affection. There, too, right at the side of the
hut, stood the old well, with its stately and skyward-pointing
beam, so aptly placed between the limbs of what had once been a
tree, and so nicely balanced that I could move it up and down
with only one hand, and could get a drink myself without calling
for help. Where else in the world could such a well be found,
and where could
such another home be met with? Nor were these
all the attractions of the place. Down in a little valley, not
far from grandmammy's cabin, stood Mr. Lee's mill, where the
people came often in large numbers to get their corn ground. It
was a watermill; and I never shall be able to tell the many
things thought and felt, while I sat on the bank and watched that
mill, and the turning of that ponderous wheel. The mill-pond,
too, had its charms; and with my pinhook, and thread line, I
could get
nibbles, if I could catch no fish. But, in all
my sports and plays, and in spite of them, there would,
occasionally, come the painful foreboding that I was not long to
remain there, and that I must soon be called away to the home of
old master.
I was A SLAVE—born a slave and though the fact was in
comprehensible to me, it conveyed to my
mind a sense of my entire dependence on the will of
somebody I had never seen; and, from some cause or other,
I had been made to fear this somebody above all else on earth.
Born for another's benefit, as the firstling of the cabin
flock I was soon to be selected as a meet offering to the fearful
and inexorable demigod, whose huge image on so many
occasions haunted my childhood's imagination. When the time of
my departure was decided upon, my grandmother, knowing my fears,
and in pity for them, kindly kept me ignorant of the dreaded
event about to transpire. Up to the morning (a beautiful summer
morning) when we were to start, and, indeed, during the whole
journey—a journey which, child as I was, I remember as well as
if it were yesterday—she kept the sad fact
hidden from me. This
reserve was necessary; for, could I have known all, I should have
given grandmother some trouble in getting me started. As it was,
I was helpless, and she—dear woman!—led me along by the hand,
resisting, with the reserve and solemnity of a priestess, all my
inquiring looks to the last.
The distance from Tuckahoe to Wye river—where my old
master lived—was full twelve miles, and the walk was quite a
severe test of the endurance of my young legs. The journey would
have proved too severe for me, but that my dear old grandmother—blessings on her memory!—afforded occasional relief by "toting"
me (as Marylanders have it) on her shoulder. My grandmother,
though advanced in years—as was evident from more than one gray
hair, which peeped from between the ample and graceful folds of
her newly-ironed bandana turban—was yet a woman of power and
spirit. She was marvelously straight in figure, elastic, and
muscular. I seemed hardly to be a burden to her. She would have
"toted" me farther, but that I felt myself too much of a man to
allow it, and insisted on walking. Releasing dear grandmamma
from carrying me, did not make me altogether independent of her,
when we happened to pass through portions of the somber woods
which lay between Tuckahoe and
Wye river. She often found me
increasing the energy of my grip, and holding her clothing, lest
something should come out of the woods and eat me up. Several
old logs and stumps imposed upon me, and got themselves taken for
wild beasts. I could see their legs, eyes, and ears,
or I could
see something like eyes, legs, and ears, till I got close enough
to them to see that the eyes were knots, washed white with rain,
and the legs were broken limbs, and the ears, only ears owing to
the point from which they were seen. Thus early I learned that
the point from which a thing is viewed is of some importance.
As the day advanced the heat increased; and it was not
until the afternoon that we reached the much dreaded end of the
journey. I found myself in the midst of a group of children of
many colors; black, brown, copper colored, and nearly white. I
had not seen so many children before. Great houses loomed up in
different directions, and a great many men and women were at work
in the fields. All this hurry, noise, and singing was very
different from the stillness of Tuckahoe. As a new comer, I was
an object of special interest; and, after laughing and yelling
around me, and playing all sorts of wild tricks, they (the children) asked me to go out and play with them. This I refused to
do, preferring to stay with grandmamma. I could not help feeling
that our being there boded no good to me. Grandmamma looked sad.
She was soon to lose another object of affection, as she had lost
many before. I knew she was unhappy, and the shadow fell from
her brow on me, though I knew not the cause.
All suspense, however, must have an end; and the end of
mine, in this instance, was at hand. Affectionately patting me
on the head, and exhorting me to be a good boy, grandmamma told
me to go and play with the little children. "They are kin to
you,"
said she; "go and play with them." Among a number of
cousins were Phil, Tom, Steve, and Jerry, Nance and Betty.
Grandmother pointed out my brother PERRY, my sister SARAH,
and my sister ELIZA, who stood in the group. I had never seen
my brother nor my sisters before; and,
though I had sometimes heard of them, and felt a curious interest
in them, I really did not understand what they were to me, or I
to them. We were brothers and sisters, but what of that? Why
should they be attached to me, or I to them? Brothers and
sisters we were by blood; but slavery had made us
strangers. I heard the words brother and sisters, and knew they
must mean something; but slavery had robbed these terms of their
true meaning. The experience through which I was passing, they
had passed through before. They had already been initiated into
the mysteries of old master's domicile, and they seemed to look
upon me with a certain degree of compassion; but my heart clave
to my grandmother. Think it not strange, dear reader, that so
little sympathy of feeling existed between us. The conditions of
brotherly and sisterly feeling were wanting—we had never nestled
and played together. My poor mother, like many other slave-women, had many children, but NO FAMILY! The domestic
hearth, with its holy lessons and precious endearments, is
abolished in the case of a slave-mother and her children.
"Little children, love one another," are words seldom heard in a
slave cabin.
I really wanted to play with my brother and sisters, but
they were strangers to me, and I was full of
fear that
grandmother might leave without taking me with her. Entreated to
do so, however, and that, too, by my dear grandmother, I went to
the back part of the house, to play with them and the other
children.
Play, however, I did not, but stood with my
back against the wall, witnessing the playing of the others. At
last, while standing there, one of the children, who had been in
the kitchen, ran up to me, in a sort of roguish glee, exclaiming,
"Fed, Fed! grandmammy gone! grandmammy gone!" I could not
believe it; yet, fearing the worst, I ran into the kitchen, to
see for myself, and found it even so. Grandmammy had indeed
gone, and was now far away, "clean" out of sight. I need not
tell all that happened now. Almost heart-broken at the
discovery, I fell upon the ground, and
wept a boy's bitter
tears, refusing to be comforted. My brother and sisters came
around me, and said, "Don't cry," and gave me peaches and pears,
but I flung them away, and refused all their kindly advances. I
had never been deceived before; and I felt not only grieved at
parting—as I supposed forever—with my grandmother, but
indignant that a trick had been played upon me in a matter so
serious.
It was now late in the afternoon. The day had been an
exciting and wearisome one, and I knew not how or where, but I
suppose I sobbed myself to sleep. There is a healing in the
angel wing of sleep, even for the slave-boy; and its balm was
never more welcome to any wounded soul than it was to mine, the
first night I spent at the domicile of old master. The reader
may be surprised that I narrate so minutely
an incident
apparently so trivial, and which must have occurred when I was
not more than seven years old; but as I wish to give a faithful
history of my experience in slavery, I cannot withhold a
circumstance which, at the time, affected me so deeply. Besides,
this was, in fact, my first introduction to the realities of
slavery.
3. CHAPTER III.
THE AUTHOR'S PARENTAGE.
MY FATHER SHROUDED IN MYSTERY—MY MOTHER—HER PERSONAL
APPEARANCE—INTERFERENCE OF SLAVERY WITH THE NATURAL AFFECTIONS
OF MOTHER AND CHILDREN—SITUATION OF MY MOTHER—HER NIGHTLY
VISITS TO HER BOY—STRIKING INCIDENT—HER DEATH—HER PLACE OF
BURIAL.
If the reader will now be kind enough to allow me time to
grow bigger, and afford me an opportunity for my experience to
become greater, I will tell him something, by-and-by, of slave
life, as I saw, felt, and heard it, on Col. Edward Lloyd's
plantation, and at the house of old master, where I had now,
despite of myself, most suddenly, but not unexpectedly, been
dropped. Meanwhile, I will redeem my promise to say something
more of my dear mother.
I say nothing of father, for he is shrouded in a
mystery I have never been able to penetrate. Slavery does away
with fathers, as it does away with families. Slavery has no use
for either fathers or families, and its laws do not recognize
their existence in the social arrangements of the plantation.
When they do exist, they are not the outgrowths of
slavery, but are antagonistic to that system. The order of
civilization is reversed here. The name of the child is not
expected to be that of its father, and his condition
does not
necessarily affect that of the child. He may be the slave of Mr.
Tilgman; and his child, when born, may be the slave of Mr. Gross.
He may be a
freeman; and yet his child may be a
chattel. He may be white, glorying in the purity of his
Anglo-Saxon blood; and his child may be ranked with the
blackest slaves. Indeed, he
may be, and often
is,
master and father to the same child. He can be father without
being a husband, and may sell his child without incurring
reproach, if the child be by a woman in whose veins courses one
thirty-second part of African blood. My father was a white man,
or nearly white. It was sometimes whispered that my master was
my father.
But to return, or rather, to begin. My knowledge of my
mother is very scanty, but very distinct. Her personal
appearance and bearing are ineffaceably stamped upon my memory.
She was tall, and finely proportioned; of deep black, glossy
complexion; had regular features, and, among the other slaves,
was remarkably sedate in her manners. There is in Prichard's
Natural History of Man, the head of a figure—on page 157—the features of which so resemble those of my mother, that I
often recur to it with something of the feeling which I suppose
others experience when looking upon the pictures of dear departed
ones.
Yet I cannot say that I was very deeply attached to my
mother; certainly not so deeply as I should have been had our
relations in childhood been different. We were separated,
according to the common custom, when I was but an infant, and, of
course, before I knew my mother from any one else.
The germs of affection with which the Almighty, in his
wisdom and mercy, arms the hopeless infant against the ills and
vicissitudes of his lot, had been directed in their growth toward
that loving old grandmother, whose gentle hand and kind deportment it was in the first effort of my infantile understanding
to comprehend and appreciate. Accordingly, the tenderest affection which a beneficent Father allows, as a partial compensation
to the mother for the pains and lacerations of her heart,
incident to the maternal relation, was, in my case, diverted from
its true and natural object, by the envious, greedy, and
treacherous hand of slavery. The slave-mother can be spared long
enough from
the field to endure all the bitterness
of a mother's anguish, when it adds another name to a master's
ledger, but not long enough to receive the joyous reward
afforded by the intelligent smiles of her child. I never think
of this terrible interference of slavery with my infantile
affections, and its diverting them from their natural course,
without feelings to which I can give no adequate expression.
I do not remember to have seen my mother at my grandmother's at any time. I remember her only in her visits to me at
Col. Lloyd's plantation, and in the kitchen of my old master.
Her visits to me there were few in number, brief in duration, and
mostly made in the night. The pains she took, and the toil she
endured, to see me, tells me that a true mother's heart was hers,
and that slavery had difficulty in paralyzing it with unmotherly
indifference.
My mother was hired out to a Mr. Stewart, who lived about
twelve miles from old master's, and, being
a field hand, she
seldom had leisure, by day, for the performance of the journey.
The nights and the distance were both obstacles to her visits.
She was obliged to walk, unless chance flung into her way an
opportunity to ride; and the latter was sometimes her good luck.
But she always had to walk one way or the other. It was a
greater luxury than slavery could afford, to allow a black slave-mother a horse or a mule, upon which to travel twenty-four miles,
when she could walk the distance. Besides, it is deemed a
foolish whim for a slave-mother to manifest concern to see her
children, and, in one point of view, the case is made out—she
can do nothing for them. She has no control over them; the
master is even more than the mother, in all matters touching the
fate of her child. Why, then, should she give herself any
concern? She has no responsibility. Such is the reasoning, and
such the practice. The iron rule of the plantation, always
passionately and violently enforced in that neighborhood, makes
flogging the penalty of
failing to be in the field before
sunrise in the morning, unless special permission be given to the
absenting slave. "I went to see my child," is no excuse to the
ear or heart of the overseer.
One of the visits of my mother to me, while at Col.
Lloyd's, I remember very vividly, as affording a bright gleam of
a mother's love, and the earnestness of a mother's care.
"I had on that day offended "Aunt Katy," (called "Aunt" by
way of respect,) the cook of old master's establishment. I do
not now remember the nature of my offense in this instance, for
my offenses were
numerous in that quarter, greatly depending,
however, upon the mood of Aunt Katy, as to their heinousness; but
she had adopted, that day, her favorite mode of punishing me,
namely, making me go without food all day—that is, from after
breakfast. The first hour or two after dinner, I succeeded
pretty well in keeping up my spirits; but though I made an
excellent stand against the foe, and fought bravely during the
afternoon, I knew I must be conquered at last, unless I got the
accustomed reenforcement of a slice of corn bread, at sundown.
Sundown came, but
no bread, and, in its stead, their came
the threat, with a scowl well suited to its terrible import, that
she "meant to
starve the life out of me!" Brandishing her
knife, she chopped off the heavy slices for the other children,
and put the loaf away, muttering, all the while, her savage
designs upon myself. Against this disappointment, for I was
expecting that her heart would relent at last, I made an extra
effort to maintain my dignity; but when I saw all the other
children around me with merry and satisfied faces, I could stand
it no longer. I went out behind the house, and cried like a fine
fellow! When tired of this, I returned to the kitchen, sat by
the fire, and brooded over my hard lot. I was too hungry to
sleep. While I sat in the corner, I caught sight of an ear of
Indian corn on an upper shelf of the kitchen. I watched my
chance, and got it, and, shelling off a few grains, I put it back
again. The grains in my hand, I quickly put in some ashes, and
covered them with embers, to roast them. All this I
did at the risk of getting a brutal thumping, for Aunt
Katy could beat, as well as starve me. My corn was not long in
roasting, and, with my keen appetite, it did not matter even if
the grains were not exactly done. I eagerly pulled them out, and
placed them on my stool, in a clever little pile. Just as I
began to help myself to my very dry meal, in came my dear mother.
And now, dear reader, a scene occurred which was altogether worth
beholding, and to me it was instructive as well as interesting.
The friendless and hungry boy, in his extremest need—and when he
did not dare to look for succor—found himself in the strong,
protecting arms of a mother; a mother who was, at the moment
(being endowed with high powers of manner as well as matter) more
than a match for all his enemies. I shall never forget the
indescribable expression of her countenance, when I told her that
I had had no food since morning; and that Aunt Katy said she
"meant to starve the life out of me." There was pity in her
glance at me, and a fiery indignation at Aunt Katy at the same
time; and, while she took the corn from me, and gave me a large
ginger cake, in its stead, she read Aunt Katy a lecture which she
never forgot. My mother threatened her with complaining to old
master in my behalf; for the latter, though harsh and cruel himself, at times, did not sanction the meanness, injustice,
partiality and oppressions enacted by Aunt Katy in the kitchen.
That night I learned the fact, that I was, not only a child, but
somebody's child. The "sweet cake" my mother gave me was
in the shape of a heart, with a rich, dark ring glazed upon the
edge of it. I was victorious, and well off for the moment;
prouder, on my mother's knee, than a king upon his throne. But
my triumph was short. I dropped off to
sleep, and waked in the
morning only to find my mother gone, and myself left at the mercy
of the sable virago, dominant in my old master's kitchen, whose
fiery wrath was my constant dread.
I do not remember to have seen my mother after this occurrence. Death soon ended the little communication that had
existed between us; and with it, I believe, a life judging
from her weary, sad, down-cast countenance and mute demeanor—full of heartfelt sorrow. I was not allowed to visit her during
any part of her long illness; nor did I see her for a long time
before she was taken ill and died. The heartless and ghastly
form of slavery rises between mother and child, even at
the bed of death. The mother, at the verge of the grave, may not
gather her children, to impart to them her holy admonitions, and
invoke for them her dying benediction. The bond-woman lives as a
slave, and is left to die as a beast; often with fewer attentions
than are paid to a favorite horse. Scenes of sacred tenderness,
around the death-bed, never forgotten, and which often arrest the
vicious and confirm the virtuous during life, must be looked for
among the free, though they sometimes occur among the slaves. It
has been a life-long, standing grief to me, that I knew so little
of my mother; and that I was so early separated from her. The
counsels of her love must have been beneficial to me. The side
view of her face is imaged on my memory, and I take few steps in
life, without feeling her presence; but the image is mute, and I
have no striking words of her's treasured up.
I learned, after my mother's death, that she could
read,
and that she was the
only one of all the slaves and
colored people in Tuckahoe who enjoyed that advantage. How she
acquired this knowledge, I know not, for Tuckahoe is the last
place in the world where she would be apt to find facilities for
learning. I can, therefore, fondly and proudly ascribe to her an
earnest love of knowledge. That a "field hand" should learn to
read, in any slave state, is remarkable; but the achievement of
my mother, considering the place, was very extraordinary; and, in
view of that fact, I am quite willing, and even happy, to
attribute any love of letters I possess, and for which I have
got—despite of prejudices only too much credit,
not to my
admitted Anglo-Saxon paternity, but to the native genius of my
sable, unprotected, and uncultivated
mother—a woman, who
belonged to a race
whose
mental endowments it is, at present, fashionable to hold in
disparagement and contempt.
Summoned away to her account, with the impassable gulf of
slavery between us during her entire illness, my mother died
without leaving me a single intimation of who my father
was. There was a whisper, that my master was my father; yet it
was only a whisper, and I cannot say that I ever gave it
credence. Indeed, I now have reason to think he was not;
nevertheless, the fact remains, in all its glaring odiousness,
that, by the laws of slavery, children, in all cases, are reduced
to the condition of their mothers. This arrangement admits of
the greatest license to brutal slaveholders, and their profligate
sons, brothers, relations and friends, and gives to the pleasure
of sin, the additional attraction of profit. A whole volume
might
be written on this single feature of slavery, as I have
observed it.
One might imagine, that the children of such connections,
would fare better, in the hands of their masters, than other
slaves. The rule is quite the other way; and a very little
reflection will satisfy the reader that such is the case. A man
who will enslave his own blood, may not be safely relied on for
magnanimity. Men do not love those who remind them of their sins
unless they have a mind to repent—and the mulatto child's face
is a standing accusation against him who is master and father to
the child. What is still worse, perhaps, such a child is a
constant offense to the wife. She hates its very presence, and
when a slaveholding woman hates, she wants not means to give that
hate telling effect. Women—white women, I mean—are IDOLS at
the south, not WIVES, for the slave women are preferred in many
instances; and if these idols but nod, or lift a finger,
woe to the poor victim: kicks, cuffs and stripes are sure to
follow. Masters are frequently compelled to sell this class of
their slaves, out of deference to the feelings of their white
wives; and shocking and scandalous as it may seem for a man to
sell his own blood to the traffickers in human flesh, it is often
an act of humanity
toward the slave-child to be thus removed
from his merciless tormentors.
It is not within the scope of the design of my simple
story, to comment upon every phase of slavery not within my
experience as a slave.
But, I may remark, that, if the lineal descendants of Ham
are only to be enslaved, according to the
scriptures, slavery in
this country will soon become an unscriptural institution; for
thousands are ushered into the world, annually, who—like
myself—owe their existence to white fathers, and, most
frequently, to their masters, and master's sons. The slave-woman
is at the mercy of the fathers, sons or brothers of her master.
The thoughtful know the rest.
After what I have now said of the circumstances of my
mother, and my relations to her, the reader will not be
surprised, nor be disposed to censure me, when I tell but the
simple truth, viz: that I received the tidings of her death with
no strong emotions of sorrow for her, and with very little regret
for myself on account of her loss. I had to learn the value of
my mother long after her death, and by witnessing the devotion of
other mothers to their children.
There is not, beneath the sky, an enemy to filial
affection so destructive as slavery. It had made my brothers and
sisters strangers to me; it converted the mother that bore me,
into a myth; it shrouded my father in mystery, and left me
without an intelligible beginning in the world.
My mother died when I could not have been more than eight
or nine years old, on one of old master's farms in Tuckahoe, in
the neighborhood of Hillsborough. Her grave is, as the grave of
the dead at sea, unmarked, and without stone or stake.
4. CHAPTER IV.
A GENERAL SURVEY OF THE SLAVE PLANTATION.
ISOLATION OF LLOYD S PLANTATION—PUBLIC OPINION THERE NO
PROTECTION TO THE SLAVE—ABSOLUTE POWER OF THE OVERSEER—NATURAL
AND ARTIFICIAL CHARMS OF THE PLACE—ITS BUSINESS-LIKE
APPEARANCE—SUPERSTITION ABOUT THE BURIAL GROUND—GREAT IDEAS OF
COL. LLOYD—ETIQUETTE AMONG SLAVES—THE COMIC SLAVE DOCTOR—PRAYING AND FLOGGING—OLD MASTER LOSING ITS TERRORS—HIS
BUSINESS—CHARACTER OF AUNT KATY—SUFFERINGS FROM HUNGER—OLD
MASTER'S HOME—JARGON OF THE PLANTATION—GUINEA SLAVES—MASTER
DANIEL—FAMILY OF COL. LLOYD—FAMILY OF CAPT. ANTHONY—HIS SOCIAL
POSITION—NOTIONS OF RANK AND STATION.
It is generally supposed that slavery, in the state of
Maryland, exists in its mildest form, and that it is totally
divested of those harsh and terrible peculiarities, which mark
and characterize the slave system, in the southern and south-western states of the American union. The argument in favor of
this opinion, is the contiguity of the free states, and the
exposed condition of slavery in Maryland to the moral, religious
and humane sentiment of the free states.
I am not about to refute this argument, so far as it
relates to slavery in that state, generally; on the contrary, I
am willing to admit that, to this general point, the arguments is
well grounded. Public opinion is, indeed, an unfailing restraint
upon the cruelty and barbarity of masters, overseers, and slave-drivers, whenever and wherever it can reach them; but there
are
certain secluded and out-of-the-way places, even in the state of
Maryland, seldom visited by a single ray of healthy public
sentiment—where slavery, wrapt in its own congenial,
midnight darkness,
can, and
does, develop all its
malign and shocking characteristics; where it can be indecent
without shame, cruel without shuddering, and murderous without
apprehension or fear of exposure.
Just such a secluded, dark, and out-of-the-way place, is
the "home plantation" of Col. Edward Lloyd, on the Eastern Shore,
Maryland. It is far away from all the great thoroughfares, and
is proximate to no town or village. There is neither school-house, nor town-house in its neighborhood. The school-house is
unnecessary, for there are no children to go to school. The
children and grand-children of Col. Lloyd were taught in the
house, by a private tutor—a Mr. Page a tall, gaunt sapling of a
man, who did not speak a dozen words to a slave in a whole year.
The overseers' children go off somewhere to school; and they,
therefore, bring no foreign or dangerous influence from abroad,
to embarrass the natural operation of the slave system of the
place. Not even the mechanics—through whom there is an
occasional out-burst of honest and telling indignation, at
cruelty and wrong on other plantations—are white men, on this
plantation. Its whole public is made up of, and divided into,
three classes—SLAVEHOLDERS, SLAVES and OVERSEERS. Its
blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers, and coopers, are
slaves. Not even commerce, selfish and iron-hearted at it is,
and ready, as it ever is, to side with the strong against the
weak—
the rich against the poor—is trusted or permitted within
its secluded precincts. Whether with a view of guarding against
the escape of its secrets, I know not, but it is a fact, the
every leaf and grain of the produce of this plantation, and those
of the neighboring farms belonging to Col. Lloyd, are transported
to Baltimore in Col. Lloyd's own vessels; every man and boy on
board of which—except the captain—are owned by him. In return,
everything brought to the plantation, comes through the same
channel. Thus, even the glimmering and unsteady light of trade,
which sometimes exerts a civilizing influence, is excluded from
this "tabooed" spot.
Nearly all the plantations or farms in the vicinity of the
"home plantation" of Col. Lloyd, belong to him; and those which
do not, are owned by personal friends of his, as deeply
interested in maintaining the slave system, in all its rigor, as
Col. Lloyd himself. Some of his neighbors are said to be even
more stringent than he. The Skinners, the Peakers, the Tilgmans,
the Lockermans, and the Gipsons, are in the same boat; being
slaveholding neighbors, they may have strengthened each other in
their iron rule. They are on intimate terms, and their interests
and tastes are identical.
Public opinion in such a quarter, the reader will see, is
not likely to very efficient in protecting the slave from
cruelty. On the contrary, it must increase and intensify his
wrongs. Public opinion seldom differs very widely from public
practice. To be a restraint upon cruelty and vice, public
opinion must emanate from a
humane and virtuous community. To no
such humane and virtuous community, is Col. Lloyd's plantation
exposed. That plantation is a little nation of its own, having
its own language, its own rules, regulations and customs. The
laws and institutions of the state, apparently touch it nowhere.
The troubles arising here, are not settled by the civil power of
the state. The overseer is generally accuser, judge, jury,
advocate and executioner. The criminal is always dumb. The
overseer attends to all sides of a case.
There are no conflicting rights of property, for all the
people are owned by one man; and they can themselves own no
property. Religion and politics are alike excluded. One class
of the population is too high to be reached by the preacher; and
the other class is too low to be cared for by the preacher. The
poor have the gospel preached to them, in this neighborhood, only
when they are able to pay for it. The slaves, having no money,
get no gospel. The politician keeps away, because the people
have no votes, and the preacher keeps away, because the people
have no money. The rich planter can afford to learn politics in
the parlor, and to dispense with religion altogether.
In its isolation, seclusion, and self-reliant
independence, Col. Lloyd's plantation resembles what the baronial
domains were during the middle ages in Europe. Grim, cold, and
unapproachable by all genial influences from communities without,
there it stands; full three hundred years behind the age,
in all that relates to humanity and morals.
This, however, is not the only view that the place
presents. Civilization is shut out, but nature cannot be.
Though separated from the rest of the world;
though public
opinion, as I have said, seldom gets a chance to penetrate its
dark domain; though the whole place is stamped with its own
peculiar, ironlike individuality; and though crimes, high-handed
and atrocious, may there be committed, with almost as much
impunity as upon the deck of a pirate ship—it is, nevertheless,
altogether, to outward seeming, a most strikingly interesting
place, full of life, activity, and spirit; and presents a very
favorable contrast to the indolent monotony and languor of
Tuckahoe. Keen as was my regret and great as was my sorrow at
leaving the latter, I was not long in adapting myself to this, my
new home. A man's troubles are always half disposed of, when he
finds endurance his only remedy. I found myself here; there was
no getting away; and what remained for me, but to make the best
of it? Here were plenty of children to play with, and plenty of
places of pleasant resort for boys of my age, and boys older.
The little tendrils of affection, so rudely and treacherously
broken from around the darling objects of my grandmother's hut,
gradually began to extend, and to entwine about the new objects
by which I now found myself surrounded.
There was a windmill (always a commanding object to a
child's eye) on Long Point—a tract of land dividing Miles river
from the Wye a mile or more from my old master's house. There
was a creek to swim in, at the bottom of an open flat space, of
twenty acres or more, called "the Long Green"—a very beautiful
play-ground for the children.
In the river, a short distance from the shore, lying
quietly at anchor, with her small boat dancing at her
stern, was
a large sloop—the Sally Lloyd; called by that name in honor of a
favorite daughter of the colonel. The sloop and the mill were
wondrous things, full of thoughts and ideas. A child cannot well
look at such objects without
thinking.
Then here were a great many houses; human habitations,
full of the mysteries of life at every stage of it. There was
the little red house, up the road, occupied by Mr. Sevier, the
overseer. A little nearer to my old master's, stood a very long,
rough, low building, literally alive with slaves, of all ages,
conditions and sizes. This was called "the Longe Quarter."
Perched upon a hill, across the Long Green, was a very tall,
dilapidated, old brick building—the architectural dimensions of
which proclaimed its erection for a different purpose—now
occupied by slaves, in a similar manner to the Long Quarter.
Besides these, there were numerous other slave houses and huts,
scattered around in the neighborhood, every nook and corner of
which was completely occupied. Old master's house, a long, brick
building, plain, but substantial, stood in the center of the
plantation life, and constituted one independent establishment on
the premises of Col. Lloyd.
Besides these dwellings, there were barns, stables, store-houses, and tobacco-houses; blacksmiths' shops, wheelwrights'
shops, coopers' shops—all objects of interest; but, above all,
there stood the grandest building my eyes had then ever beheld,
called, by every one on the plantation, the "Great House." This
was occupied by Col. Lloyd and his family. They occupied it; I
enjoyed it. The great house
was surrounded by numerous and
variously shaped out-buildings. There were kitchens, wash-houses, dairies, summer-house, green-houses, hen-houses,
turkey-houses, pigeon-houses, and arbors, of many sizes and devices, all
neatly painted, and altogether interspersed with grand old trees,
ornamental and primitive, which afforded delightful shade in
summer, and imparted to the scene a high degree of stately
beauty. The great house itself was a large, white, wooden building, with wings on three sides of it. In front, a large portico,
extending the entire length of the building, and supported by a
long range of columns, gave to the whole establishment an air of
solemn grandeur. It was a treat to my young and gradually
opening mind, to behold this elaborate exhibition of wealth,
power, and vanity. The carriage entrance to the house was a
large gate, more than a quarter of a mile distant from it; the
intermediate space was a beautiful lawn, very neatly trimmed, and
watched with the greatest care. It was dotted thickly over with
delightful trees, shrubbery, and flowers. The road, or lane,
from the gate to the great house, was richly paved with white
pebbles from the beach, and, in its course, formed a complete
circle around the beautiful lawn. Carriages going in and
retiring from the great house, made the circuit of the lawn, and
their passengers were permitted to behold a scene of almost Eden-like beauty. Outside this select inclosure, were parks, where as
about the residences of the English nobility—rabbits, deer, and
other wild game, might be seen, peering and playing about, with
none to molest them or make them afraid. The
tops of the stately
poplars were often covered with the red-winged black-birds,
making all nature vocal with the joyous life and beauty of their
wild, warbling notes. These all belonged to me, as well as to
Col. Edward Lloyd, and for a time I greatly enjoyed them.
A short distance from the great house, were the stately
mansions of the dead, a place of somber aspect. Vast tombs, embowered beneath the weeping willow and the fir tree, told of the
antiquities of the Lloyd family, as well as of their wealth.
Superstition was rife among the slaves about this family burying
ground. Strange sights had been seen there by some of the older
slaves. Shrouded ghosts, riding on great black horses, had been
seen to enter; balls of fire had been seen to fly there at
midnight, and horrid sounds had been repeatedly heard. Slaves
know
enough of the rudiments of
theology to believe that those go to hell who die slaveholders;
and they often fancy such persons wishing themselves back again,
to wield the lash. Tales of sights and sounds, strange and
terrible, connected with the huge black tombs, were a very great
security to the grounds about them, for few of the slaves felt
like approaching them even in the day time. It was a dark,
gloomy and forbidding place, and it was difficult to feel that
the spirits of the sleeping dust there deposited, reigned with
the blest in the realms of eternal peace.
The business of twenty or thirty farms was transacted at
this, called, by way of eminence, "great house farm." These
farms all belonged to Col. Lloyd, as did, also, the slaves upon
them. Each farm was under the management of an overseer. As I
have
said of the overseer of the home plantation, so I may say of
the overseers on the smaller ones; they stand between the slave
and all civil constitutions—their word is law, and is implicitly
obeyed.
The colonel, at this time, was reputed to be, and he
apparently was, very rich. His slaves, alone, were an immense
fortune. These, small and great, could not have been fewer than
one thousand in number, and though scarcely a month passed
without the sale of one or more lots to the Georgia traders,
there was no apparent diminution in the number of his human
stock: the home plantation merely groaned at a removal of the
young increase, or human crop, then proceeded as lively as ever.
Horse-shoeing, cart-mending, plow-repairing, coopering, grinding,
and weaving, for all the neighboring farms, were performed here,
and slaves were employed in all these branches. "Uncle Tony" was
the blacksmith; "Uncle Harry" was the cartwright; "Uncle Abel"
was the shoemaker; and all these had hands to assist them in
their several departments.
These mechanics were called "uncles" by all the younger
slaves, not because they really sustained that relationship to
any, but according to plantation etiquette, as a mark of
respect, due
from the younger to the older slaves. Strange,
and even ridiculous as it may seem, among a people so
uncultivated, and with so many stern trials to look in the face,
there is not to be found, among any people, a more rigid
enforcement of the law of respect to elders, than they maintain.
I set this down as partly constitutional with my race, and partly
conventional. There is no better
material in the world for
making a gentleman, than is furnished in the African. He shows
to others, and exacts for himself, all the tokens of respect
which he is compelled to manifest toward his master. A young
slave must approach the company of the older with hat in hand,
and woe betide him, if he fails to acknowledge a favor, of any
sort, with the accustomed
"tank'ee," &c. So uniformly are
good manners enforced among slaves, I can easily detect a "bogus"
fugitive by his manners.
Among other slave notabilities of the plantation, was one
called by everybody Uncle Isaac Copper. It is seldom that a
slave gets a surname from anybody in Maryland; and so completely
has the south shaped the manners of the north, in this respect,
that even abolitionists make very little of the surname of a
Negro. The only improvement on the "Bills," "Jacks," "Jims," and
"Neds" of the south, observable here is, that "William," "John,"
"James," "Edward," are substituted. It goes against the grain to
treat and address a Negro precisely as they would treat and
address a white man. But, once in a while, in slavery as in the
free states, by some extraordinary circumstance, the Negro has a
surname fastened to him, and holds it against all conventionalities. This was the case with Uncle Isaac Copper. When
the "uncle" was dropped, he generally had the prefix "doctor," in
its stead. He was our doctor of medicine, and doctor of divinity
as well. Where he took his degree I am unable to say, for he was
not very communicative to inferiors, and I was emphatically such,
being but a boy seven or eight years old. He
was too well established in his profession to permit questions as to his native
skill, or his attainments. One qualification he undoubtedly
had—he
was a confirmed
cripple;
and he could neither work, nor would he bring anything if offered
for sale in the market. The old man, though lame, was no
sluggard. He was a man that made his crutches do him good
service. He was always on the alert, looking up the sick, and
all such as were supposed to need his counsel. His remedial
prescriptions embraced four articles. For diseases of the body,
Epsom salts and castor oil; for those of the soul,
the
Lord's Prayer, and
hickory switches!
I was not long at Col. Lloyd's before I was placed under
the care of Doctor Issac Copper. I was sent to him with twenty
or thirty other children, to learn the "Lord's Prayer." I found
the old gentleman seated on a huge three-legged oaken stool,
armed with several large hickory switches; and, from his
position, he could reach—lame as he was—any boy in the room.
After standing awhile to learn what was expected of us, the old
gentleman, in any other than a devotional tone, commanded us to
kneel down. This done, he commenced telling us to say everything
he said. "Our Father"—this was repeated after him with
promptness and uniformity; "Who art in heaven"—was less promptly
and uniformly repeated; and the old gentleman paused in the
prayer, to give us a short lecture upon the consequences of
inattention, both immediate and future, and especially those more
immediate. About these he was absolutely certain, for he held in
his right hand the means of
bringing all his predictions and
warnings to pass. On he proceeded with the prayer; and we with
our thick tongues and unskilled ears, followed him to the best of
our ability. This, however, was not sufficient to please the old
gentleman. Everybody, in the south, wants the privilege of
whipping somebody else. Uncle Isaac shared the common passion of
his country, and, therefore, seldom found any means of keeping
his disciples in order short of flogging. "Say everything I
say;" and bang would come the switch on some poor boy's
undevotional head.
"What you looking at there"—"Stop that
pushing"—and down again would come the lash.
The whip is all in all. It is supposed to secure
obedience to the slaveholder, and is held as a sovereign remedy
among the slaves themselves, for every form of disobedience,
temporal or spiritual. Slaves, as well as slaveholders, use it
with an unsparing hand. Our devotions at Uncle Isaac's combined
too much of the tragic and comic, to make them very salutary in a
spiritual point of view; and it is due to truth to say, I was
often a truant when the time for attending the praying and
flogging of Doctor Isaac Copper came on.
The windmill under the care of Mr. Kinney, a kind hearted
old Englishman, was to me a source of infinite interest and
pleasure. The old man always seemed pleased when he saw a troop
of darkey little urchins, with their tow-linen shirts fluttering
in the breeze, approaching to view and admire the whirling wings
of his wondrous machine. From the mill we could see other
objects of deep interest. These were,
the vessels from St.
Michael's, on their way to Baltimore. It was a source of much
amusement to view the flowing sails and complicated rigging, as
the little crafts dashed by, and to speculate upon Baltimore, as
to the kind and quality of the place. With so many sources of
interest around me, the reader may be prepared to learn that I
began to think very highly of Col. L.'s plantation. It was just
a place to my boyish taste. There were fish to be caught in the
creek, if one only had a hook and line; and crabs, clams and
oysters were to be caught by wading, digging and raking for them.
Here was a field for industry and enterprise, strongly inviting;
and the reader may be assured that I entered upon it with spirit.
Even the much dreaded old master, whose merciless fiat had
brought me from Tuckahoe, gradually, to my mind, parted with his
terrors. Strange enough, his reverence seemed to take no particular notice of me, nor of my coming. Instead of leaping out
and devouring me, he scarcely seemed conscious of my presence.
The fact is, he was occupied with matters more weighty and
important than either looking after or vexing me. He probably
thought as
little of my
advent, as he would have thought of the addition of a single pig
to his stock!
As the chief butler on Col. Lloyd's plantation, his duties
were numerous and perplexing. In almost all important matters he
answered in Col. Lloyd's stead. The overseers of all the farms
were in some sort under him, and received the law from his mouth.
The colonel himself seldom addressed an overseer, or allowed
an
overseer to address him. Old master carried the keys of all
store houses; measured out the allowance for each slave at the
end of every month; superintended the storing of all goods
brought to the plantation; dealt out the raw material to all the
handicraftsmen; shipped the grain, tobacco, and all saleable
produce of the plantation to market, and had the general over-sight of the coopers' shop, wheelwrights' shop, blacksmiths'
shop, and shoemakers' shop. Besides the care of these, he often
had business for the plantation which required him to be absent
two and three days.
Thus largely employed, he had little time, and perhaps as
little disposition, to interfere with the children individually.
What he was to Col. Lloyd, he made Aunt Katy to him. When he had
anything to say or do about us, it was said or done in a wholesale manner; disposing of us in classes or sizes, leaving all
minor details to Aunt Katy, a person of whom the reader has
already received no very favorable impression. Aunt Katy was a
woman who never allowed herself to act greatly within the margin
of power granted to her, no matter how broad that authority might
be. Ambitious, ill-tempered and cruel, she found in her present
position an ample field for the exercise of her ill-omened qualities. She had a strong hold on old master she was considered a
first rate cook, and she really was very industrious. She was,
therefore, greatly favored by old master, and as one mark of his
favor, she was the only mother who was permitted to retain her
children around her. Even to these children she was often
fiendish in her brutality.
She pursued her son Phil, one day, in
my presence, with a huge butcher knife, and dealt a blow with
its edge which left a shocking gash on his arm, near the wrist.
For this, old master did sharply rebuke her, and threatened that
if she ever should do the like again, he would take the skin off
her back. Cruel, however, as Aunt Katy was to her own children,
at times she was not destitute of maternal feeling, as I often
had occasion to know, in the bitter pinches of hunger I had to
endure. Differing from the practice of Col. Lloyd, old master,
instead of allowing so much for each slave, committed the
allowance for all to the care of Aunt Katy, to be divided after
cooking it, amongst us. The allowance, consisting of coarse
corn-meal, was not very abundant—indeed, it was very slender;
and in passing through Aunt Katy's hands, it was made more
slender still, for some of us. William, Phil and Jerry were her
children, and it is not to accuse her too severely, to allege
that she was often guilty of starving myself and the other
children, while she was literally cramming her own. Want of food
was my chief trouble the first summer at my old master's.
Oysters and clams would do very well, with an occasional supply
of bread, but they soon failed in the absence of bread. I speak
but the simple truth, when I say, I have often been so pinched
with hunger, that I have fought with the dog—"Old Nep"—for the
smallest crumbs that fell from the kitchen table, and have been
glad when I won a single crumb in the combat. Many times have I
followed, with eager step, the waiting-girl when she went out to
shake the table cloth, to get
the crumbs and small bones flung
out for the cats. The water, in which meat had been boiled, was
as eagerly sought for by me. It was a great thing to get the
privilege of dipping a piece of bread in such water; and the skin
taken from rusty bacon, was a positive luxury. Nevertheless, I
sometimes got full meals and kind words from sympathizing old
slaves, who knew my sufferings, and received the comforting
assurance that I should be a man some day. "Never mind, honey—better day comin'," was even then a solace, a cheering
consolation to me in my
troubles.
Nor were all the kind words I received from slaves. I had a
friend in the parlor, as well, and one to whom I shall be glad to
do justice, before I have finished this part of my story.
I was not long at old master's, before I learned that his
surname was Anthony, and that he was generally called "Captain
Anthony"—a title which he probably acquired by sailing a craft
in the Chesapeake Bay. Col. Lloyd's slaves never called Capt.
Anthony "old master," but always Capt. Anthony; and me
they called "Captain Anthony Fred." There is not, probably, in
the whole south, a plantation where the English language is more
imperfectly spoken than on Col. Lloyd's. It is a mixture of
Guinea and everything else you please. At the time of which I am
now writing, there were slaves there who had been brought from
the coast of Africa. They never used the "s" in indication of
the possessive case. "Cap'n Ant'ney Tom," "Lloyd Bill," "Aunt
Rose Harry," means "Captain Anthony's Tom," "Lloyd's Bill," &c.
"Oo you dem long to?" means, "Whom do you
belong to?"
"Oo dem got any peachy?" means, "Have you got any
peaches?" I could scarcely understand them when I first went
among them, so broken was their speech; and I am persuaded that I
could not have been dropped anywhere on the globe, where I could
reap less, in the way of knowledge, from my immediate associates,
than on this plantation. Even "MAS' DANIEL," by his association
with his father's slaves, had measurably adopted their dialect
and their ideas, so far as they had ideas to be adopted. The
equality of nature is strongly asserted in childhood, and childhood requires children for associates.
Color makes no
difference with a child. Are you a child with wants, tastes and
pursuits common to children, not put on, but natural? then, were
you black as ebony you would be welcome to the child of alabaster
whiteness. The law of compensation holds here, as well as
elsewhere. Mas' Daniel could not associate with ignorance
without sharing its shade; and he could not give his black
playmates his company, without giving them his intelligence, as
well. Without knowing
this, or caring about it, at the time,
I, for some cause or other, spent much of my time with Mas'
Daniel, in preference to spending it with most of the other boys.
Mas' Daniel was the youngest son of Col. Lloyd; his older
brothers were Edward and Murray—both grown up, and fine looking
men. Edward was especially esteemed by the children, and by me
among the rest; not that he ever said anything to us or for us,
which could be called especially kind;
it was enough for us, that
he never looked nor acted scornfully toward us. There were also
three sisters, all married; one to Edward Winder; a second to
Edward Nicholson; a third to Mr. Lownes.
The family of old master consisted of two sons, Andrew and
Richard; his daughter, Lucretia, and her newly married husband,
Capt. Auld. This was the house family. The kitchen family
consisted of Aunt Katy, Aunt Esther, and ten or a dozen children,
most of them older than myself. Capt. Anthony was not considered
a rich slaveholder, but was pretty well off in the world. He
owned about thirty "head" of slaves, and three farms in
Tuckahoe. The most valuable part of his property was his slaves,
of whom he could afford to sell one every year. This crop,
therefore, brought him seven or eight hundred dollars a year,
besides his yearly salary, and other revenue from his farms.
The idea of rank and station was rigidly maintained on
Col. Lloyd's plantation. Our family never visited the great
house, and the Lloyds never came to our home. Equal non-intercourse was observed between Capt. Anthony's family and that
of Mr. Sevier, the overseer.
Such, kind reader, was the community, and such the place,
in which my earliest and most lasting impressions of slavery, and
of slave-life, were received; of which impressions you will learn
more in the coming chapters of this book.
5. CHAPTER V.
GRADUAL INITIATION INTO THE MYSTERIES OF SLAVERY.
GROWING ACQUAINTANCE WITH OLD MASTER—HIS CHARACTER—EVILS OF UNRESTRAINED PASSION—APPARENT TENDERNESS—OLD MASTER A MAN OF
TROUBLE—CUSTOM OF MUTTERING TO HIMSELF—NECESSITY OF BEING AWARE
OF HIS WORDS—THE SUPPOSED OBTUSENESS OF SLAVE-CHILDREN—BRUTAL
OUTRAGE—DRUNKEN OVERSEER—SLAVEHOLDER'S IMPATIENCE—WISDOM OF
APPEALING TO SUPERIORS—THE SLAVEHOLDER S WRATH BAD AS THAT OF
THE OVERSEER—A BASE AND SELFISH ATTEMPT TO BREAK UP A
COURTSHIP—A HARROWING SCENE.
Although my old master—Capt. Anthony—gave me at first,
(as the reader will have already seen) very little attention, and
although that little was of a remarkably mild and gentle description, a few months only were sufficient to convince me that
mildness and gentleness were not the prevailing or governing traits
of his character. These excellent qualities were displayed only
occasionally. He could, when it suited him, appear to be
literally insensible to the claims of humanity, when appealed to
by the helpless against an aggressor, and he could himself commit
outrages, deep, dark and nameless. Yet he was not by nature
worse than other men. Had he been brought up in a free state,
surrounded by the just restraints of free society—restraints
which are necessary to the freedom of all its members, alike and
equally—Capt. Anthony might have been as humane
a man, and every
way as respectable, as many who now oppose the slave system;
certainly as humane and respectable as are members of society
generally. The slaveholder, as well as the slave, is the victim
of the slave
system. A man's character greatly takes its hue
and shape from the form and color of things about him. Under the
whole heavens there is no relation more unfavorable to the
development of honorable character, than that sustained by the
slaveholder to the slave. Reason is imprisoned here, and
passions run wild. Like the fires of the prairie, once lighted,
they are at the mercy of every wind, and must burn, till they
have consumed all that is combustible within their remorseless
grasp. Capt. Anthony could be kind, and, at times, he even
showed an affectionate disposition. Could the reader have seen
him gently leading me by the hand—as he sometimes did—patting
me on the head, speaking to me in soft, caressing tones and
calling me his "little Indian boy," he would have deemed him a
kind old man, and really, almost fatherly. But the pleasant
moods of a slaveholder are remarkably brittle; they are easily
snapped; they neither come often, nor remain long. His temper is
subjected to perpetual trials; but, since these trials are never
borne patiently, they add nothing to his natural stock of
patience.
Old master very early impressed me with the idea that he
was an unhappy man. Even to my child's eye, he wore a troubled,
and at times, a haggard aspect. His strange movements excited my
curiosity, and awakened my compassion. He seldom walked alone
without muttering to himself; and he occasionally stormed about,
as if defying an army of invisible foes. "He would do this,
that, and the other; he'd be d—d if he did not,"—was the usual
form of his threats. Most of his leisure was spent in walking,
cursing and gesticulating, like one possessed by a demon. Most
evidently, he was a wretched man, at war with his own soul, and
with all the world around him. To be overheard by the children,
disturbed him very little. He made no more of our presence, than
of that of the ducks and geese which he met on the green. He
little thought that the little black urchins around him, could
see, through those vocal crevices, the very secrets of his heart.
Slaveholders ever underrate the intelligence with which
they have to grapple. I
really understood the old man's mutterings, attitudes and
gestures, about as well as he did himself. But slaveholders
never encourage that kind of communication, with the slaves, by
which they might learn to measure the depths of his knowledge.
Ignorance is a high virtue in a human chattel; and as the master
studies to keep the slave ignorant, the slave is cunning enough
to make the master think he succeeds. The slave fully
appreciates the saying, "where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to
be wise." When old master's gestures were violent, ending with a
threatening shake of the head, and a sharp snap of his middle
finger and thumb, I deemed it wise to keep at a respectable distance from him; for, at such times, trifling faults stood, in his
eyes, as momentous offenses; and, having both the power and the
disposition, the victim had only to
be near him to catch the
punishment, deserved or undeserved.
One of the first circumstances that opened my eyes to the
cruelty and wickedness of slavery, and the heartlessness of my
old master, was the refusal of the latter to interpose his
authority, to protect and shield a young woman, who had been most
cruelly abused and beaten by his overseer in Tuckahoe. This
overseer—a Mr. Plummer—was a man like most of his class, little
better than a human brute; and, in addition to his general
profligacy and repulsive coarseness, the creature was a miserable
drunkard. He was, probably, employed by my old master, less on
account of the excellence of his services, than for the cheap
rate at which they could be obtained. He was not fit to have the
management of a drove of mules. In a fit of drunken madness, he
committed the outrage which brought the young woman in question
down to my old master's for protection. This young woman was the
daughter of Milly, an own aunt of mine. The poor girl, on arriving at our house, presented a pitiable appearance. She had left
in haste, and without preparation; and, probably, without the
knowledge of Mr. Plummer. She had traveled twelve miles, bare-footed, bare-necked and bare-headed. Her neck and shoulders
were covered with scars, newly made; and not content with
marring her neck and shoulders, with the cowhide, the cowardly
brute had dealt her a blow on the head with a hickory club, which
cut a horrible gash, and left her face literally covered with
blood. In this condition, the poor young woman came down, to
implore protection at
the hands of my old master. I expected to
see him boil over with rage at the revolting deed, and to hear
him fill the air with curses upon the brutal Plummer; but I was
disappointed. He sternly told her, in an angry tone, he
"believed she deserved every bit of it," and, if she did not go
home instantly, he would himself take the remaining skin from her
neck and back. Thus was the poor girl compelled to return,
without redress, and perhaps to receive an additional flogging
for daring to appeal to old master against the overseer.
Old master seemed furious at the thought of being troubled
by such complaints. I did not, at that time, understand the
philosophy of his treatment of my cousin. It was stern,
unnatural, violent. Had the man no bowels of compassion? Was he
dead to all sense of humanity? No. I think I now understand it.
This treatment is a part of the system, rather than a part of the
man. Were slaveholders to listen to complaints of this sort
against the overseers, the luxury of owning large numbers of
slaves, would be impossible. It would do away with the office of
overseer, entirely; or, in other words, it would convert the
master himself into an overseer. It would occasion great loss of
time and labor, leaving the overseer in fetters, and without the
necessary power to secure obedience to his orders. A privilege
so dangerous as that of appeal, is, therefore, strictly
prohibited; and any one exercising it, runs a fearful hazard.
Nevertheless, when a slave has nerve enough to exercise it, and
boldly approaches his master, with a well-founded
complaint
against an overseer, though he may be repulsed, and may even have
that of which he complains repeated at the time, and, though he
may be beaten by his master, as well as by the overseer, for his
temerity, in the end the
policy of
complaining is, generally, vindicated by the relaxed rigor of the
overseer's treatment. The latter becomes more careful, and less
disposed to use the lash upon such slaves thereafter. It is with
this final result in view, rather than with any expectation of
immediate good, that the outraged slave is induced to meet his
master with a complaint. The overseer very naturally dislikes to
have the ear of the master disturbed by complaints; and, either
upon this consideration, or upon advice and warning privately
given him by his employers, he generally modifies the rigor of
his rule, after an outbreak of the kind to which I have been
referring.
Howsoever the slaveholder may allow himself to act toward
his slave, and, whatever cruelty he may deem it wise, for example's sake, or for the gratification of his humor, to inflict, he
cannot, in the absence of all provocation, look with pleasure
upon the bleeding wounds of a defenseless slave-woman. When he
drives her from his presence without redress, or the hope of
redress, he acts, generally, from motives of policy, rather than
from a hardened nature, or from innate brutality. Yet, let but
his own temper be stirred, his own passions get loose, and the
slave-owner will go far beyond the overseer in cruelty.
He will convince the slave that his wrath is far more terrible
and boundless, and vastly more to be dreaded, than that of the
underling overseer. What may have been
mechanically and
heartlessly done by the overseer, is now done with a will. The
man who now wields the lash is irresponsible. He may, if he
pleases, cripple or kill, without fear of consequences; except in
so far as it may concern profit or loss. To a man of violent
temper—as my old master was—this was but a very slender and
inefficient restraint. I have seen him in a tempest of passion,
such as I have just described—a passion into which entered all
the bitter ingredients of pride, hatred, envy, jealousy, and the
thirst for revenge.
The circumstances which I am about to narrate, and which
gave rise to this fearful tempest of passion, are not singular
nor
isolated in slave life, but are common in every
slaveholding community in which I have lived. They are
incidental to the relation of master and slave, and exist in all
sections of slave-holding countries.
The reader will have noticed that, in enumerating the
names of the slaves who lived with my old master, Esther
is mentioned. This was a young woman who possessed that which is
ever a curse to the slave-girl; namely—personal beauty. She was
tall, well formed, and made a fine appearance. The daughters of
Col. Lloyd could scarcely surpass her in personal charms. Esther
was courted by Ned Roberts, and he was as fine looking a young
man, as she was a woman. He was the son of a favorite slave of
Col. Lloyd. Some slaveholders would have been glad to promote
the marriage of two such persons; but, for some reason or other,
my old master took it upon him to break up the growing intimacy
between Esther and Edward.
He strictly ordered her to quit the
company of said Roberts, telling her that he would punish her
severely if he ever found her again in Edward's company. This
unnatural and heartless order was, of course, broken. A woman's
love is not to be annihilated by the peremptory command of any
one, whose breath is in his nostrils. It was impossible to keep
Edward and Esther apart. Meet they would, and meet they did.
Had old master been a man of honor and purity, his motives, in
this matter, might have been viewed more favorably. As it was,
his motives were as abhorrent, as his methods were foolish and
contemptible. It was too evident that he was not concerned for
the girl's welfare. It is one of the damning characteristics of
the slave system, that it robs its victims of every earthly
incentive to a holy life. The fear of God, and the hope of
heaven, are found sufficient to sustain many slave-women, amidst
the snares and dangers of their strange lot; but, this side of
God and heaven, a slave-woman is at the mercy of the power,
caprice and passion of her owner. Slavery provides no means for
the honorable continuance of the race. Marriage as imposing
obligations on the parties to it—has no
existence here, except in such hearts as are purer and higher
than the standard morality around them. It is one of the
consolations of my life, that I know of many honorable instances
of persons who maintained their honor, where all around was
corrupt.
Esther was evidently much attached to Edward, and
abhorred—as she had reason to do—the tyrannical and base
behavior of old master. Edward was young, and fine looking, and
he loved and courted her.
He might have been her husband, in the
high sense just alluded to; but WHO and
what was this old
master? His attentions were plainly brutal and selfish, and it
was as natural that Esther should loathe him, as that she should
love Edward. Abhorred and circumvented as he was, old master,
having the power, very easily took revenge. I happened to see
this exhibition of his rage and cruelty toward Esther. The time
selected was singular. It was early in the morning, when all
besides was still, and before any of the family, in the house or
kitchen, had left their beds. I saw but few of the shocking
preliminaries, for the cruel work had begun before I awoke. I
was probably awakened by the shrieks and piteous cries of poor
Esther. My sleeping place was on the floor of a little, rough
closet, which opened into the kitchen; and through the cracks of
its unplaned boards, I could distinctly see and hear what was
going on, without being seen by old master. Esther's wrists were
firmly tied, and the twisted rope was fastened to a strong staple
in a heavy wooden joist above, near the fireplace. Here she
stood, on a bench, her arms tightly drawn over her breast. Her
back and shoulders were bare to the waist. Behind her stood old
master, with cowskin in hand, preparing his barbarous work with
all manner of harsh, coarse, and tantalizing epithets. The
screams of his victim were most piercing. He was cruelly
deliberate, and protracted the torture, as one who was delighted
with the scene. Again and again he drew the hateful whip through
his hand, adjusting it with a view of dealing the most pain-giving blow. Poor Esther had never yet been severely
whipped,
and her shoulders
were plump and tender. Each blow,
vigorously laid on, brought screams as well as blood.
"Have
mercy; Oh! have mercy" she cried;
"I won't do so no
more;" but her piercing cries seemed only to increase his
fury. His answers to them are too coarse and blasphemous to be
produced here. The whole scene, with all its attendants, was
revolting and shocking, to the last degree; and when the motives
of this brutal castigation are considered,—language has no power
to convey a just sense of its awful criminality. After laying on
some thirty or forty stripes, old master untied his suffering
victim, and let her get down. She could scarcely stand, when
untied. From my heart I pitied her, and—child though I was—the
outrage kindled in me a feeling far from peaceful; but I was
hushed, terrified, stunned, and could do nothing, and the fate of
Esther might be mine next. The scene here described was often
repeated in the case of poor Esther, and her life, as I knew it,
was one of wretchedness.
6. CHAPTER VI.
TREATMENT OF SLAVES ON LLOYD'S PLANTATION.
EARLY REFLECTIONS ON SLAVERY—PRESENTIMENT OF ONE DAY BEING A
FREEMAN—COMBAT BETWEEN AN OVERSEER AND A SLAVEWOMAN—THE ADVANTAGES OF RESISTANCE—ALLOWANCE DAY ON THE HOME PLANTATION—THE
SINGING OF SLAVES—AN EXPLANATION—THE SLAVES FOOD AND CLOTHING—NAKED CHILDREN—LIFE IN THE QUARTER—DEPRIVATION OF SLEEP—NURSING CHILDREN CARRIED TO THE FIELD—DESCRIPTION OF THE
COWSKIN—THE ASH-CAKE—MANNER OF MAKING IT—THE DINNER HOUR—THE CONTRAST.
The heart-rending incidents, related in the foregoing
chapter, led me, thus early, to inquire into the nature and
history of slavery. Why am I a slave? Why are some people
slaves, and others masters? Was there ever a time this was not
so? How did the relation commence? These were the
perplexing questions which began now to claim my thoughts, and to
exercise the weak powers of my mind, for I was still but a child,
and knew less than children of the same age in the free states.
As my questions concerning these things were only put to children
a little older, and little better informed than myself, I was not
rapid in reaching a solid footing. By some means I learned from
these inquiries that "God, up in the sky," made every
body; and that he made white people to be masters and
mistresses, and black people to be slaves. This did not
satisfy me, nor lessen my interest in the subject. I was told,
too,
that God was good, and that He knew what was best for me,
and best for everybody. This was less satisfactory than the
first statement; because it came, point blank, against all my
notions of goodness. It was not good to let old master cut
the flesh off Esther, and make her cry so. Besides, how did
people know that God made black people to be slaves? Did they go
up in the sky and learn it? or, did He come down and tell them
so? All was dark here. It was some relief to my hard notions of
the goodness of God, that, although he made white men to be
slaveholders, he did not make them to be
bad slaveholders,
and that, in due time, he would punish the bad slaveholders; that
he would, when they died, send them to the bad place, where they
would be "burnt up." Nevertheless, I could not reconcile the
relation of slavery with my crude notions of goodness.
Then, too, I found that there were puzzling exceptions to
this theory of slavery on both sides, and in the middle. I knew
of blacks who were not slaves; I knew of whites who were
not slaveholders; and I knew of persons who were
nearly white, who were slaves. Color, therefore,
was a very unsatisfactory basis for slavery.
Once, however, engaged in the inquiry, I was not very long
in finding out the true solution of the matter. It was not
color, but crime, not God, but man,
that afforded the true explanation of the existence of slavery;
nor was I long in finding out another important truth, viz: what
man can make, man can unmake. The appalling darkness faded away,
and I was master of the subject. There were slaves here,
direct
from Guinea; and there were many who could say that their fathers
and mothers were stolen from Africa—forced from their homes, and
compelled to serve as slaves. This, to me, was knowledge; but it
was a kind of knowledge which filled me with a burning hatred of
slavery, increased my suffering, and left me without the means of
breaking away from my bondage. Yet it was knowledge quite worth
possessing. I could not have been more than seven or eight years
old, when I began to make this subject my study. It was with me
in the woods and fields; along the shore of the river, and
wherever my boyish wanderings led me; and though I was, at that
time,
quite ignorant of the
existence of the free states, I distinctly remember being,
even then, most strongly impressed with the idea of being
a freeman some day. This cheering assurance was an inborn dream
of my human nature a constant menace to slavery—and one which
all the powers of slavery were unable to silence or extinguish.
Up to the time of the brutal flogging of my Aunt Esther—for she was my own aunt—and the horrid plight in which I had
seen my cousin from Tuckahoe, who had been so badly beaten by the
cruel Mr. Plummer, my attention had not been called, especially,
to the gross features of slavery. I had, of course, heard of
whippings and of savage rencontres between overseers and
slaves, but I had always been out of the way at the times and
places of their occurrence. My plays and sports, most of the
time, took me from the corn and tobacco fields, where the great
body of the hands were at work, and where scenes of cruelty were
enacted and witnessed. But, after the whipping of Aunt Esther, I
saw many cases of the same shocking nature, not only in my
master's house, but on Col. Lloyd's plantation. One of the first
which I saw, and which greatly agitated me, was the whipping of a
woman belonging to Col. Lloyd, named Nelly. The offense alleged
against Nelly, was one of the commonest and most indefinite in
the whole catalogue of offenses usually laid to the charge of
slaves, viz: "impudence." This may mean almost anything, or
nothing at all, just according to the caprice of the master or
overseer, at the moment. But, whatever it is, or is not, if it
gets the name of "impudence," the party charged with it is sure
of a flogging. This offense may be committed in various ways; in
the tone of an answer; in answering at all; in not answering; in
the expression of countenance; in the motion of the head; in the
gait, manner and bearing of the slave. In the case under
consideration, I can easily believe that, according to all
slaveholding standards, here was a genuine instance of impudence.
In Nelly there were all the necessary conditions for committing
the offense. She was
a bright mulatto, the recognized wife
of a favorite "hand" on board Col. Lloyd's sloop, and the mother
of five sprightly children. She was a vigorous and spirited
woman, and one of the most likely, on the plantation, to be
guilty of impudence. My attention was called to the scene, by
the noise, curses and screams that proceeded from it; and, on
going a little in that direction, I came upon the parties engaged
in the skirmish. Mr. Siever, the overseer, had hold of Nelly,
when I caught sight of them; he
was endeavoring to drag her
toward a tree, which endeavor Nelly was sternly resisting; but to
no purpose, except to retard the progress of the overseer's
plans. Nelly—as I have said—was the mother of five children;
three of them were present, and though quite small (from seven to
ten years old, I should think) they gallantly came to their
mother's defense, and gave the overseer an excellent pelting with
stones. One of the little fellows ran up, seized the overseer by
the leg and bit him; but the monster was too busily engaged with
Nelly, to pay any attention to the assaults of the children.
There were numerous bloody marks on Mr. Sevier's face, when I
first saw him, and they increased as the struggle went on. The
imprints of Nelly's fingers were visible, and I was glad to see
them. Amidst the wild screams of the children—
"Let my mammy
go"—"let my mammy go"—there escaped, from between the teeth
of the bullet-headed overseer, a few bitter curses, mingled with
threats, that "he would teach the d—d b—h how to give a white
man impudence." There is no doubt that Nelly felt herself
superior, in some respects, to the slaves around her. She was a
wife and a mother; her husband was a valued and favorite slave.
Besides, he was one of the first hands on board of the sloop, and
the sloop hands—since they had to represent the plantation
abroad—were generally treated tenderly. The overseer never was
allowed to whip Harry; why then should he be allowed to whip
Harry's wife? Thoughts of this kind, no doubt, influenced her;
but, for whatever reason, she nobly resisted, and, unlike most of
the slaves,
seemed
determined to make her whipping
cost Mr. Sevier as much as
possible. The blood on his (and her) face, attested her skill,
as well as her courage and dexterity in using her nails.
Maddened by her resistance, I expected to see Mr. Sevier level
her to the ground by a stunning blow; but no; like a savage bull-dog—which he resembled both in temper and appearance—he
maintained his grip, and steadily dragged his victim toward the
tree, disregarding alike her blows, and the cries of the children
for their mother's release. He would, doubtless, have knocked
her down with his hickory stick, but that such act might have
cost him his place. It is often deemed advisable to knock a
man slave down, in order to tie him, but it is considered
cowardly and inexcusable, in an overseer, thus to deal with a
woman. He is expected to tie her up, and to give her what
is called, in southern parlance, a "genteel flogging," without
any very great outlay of strength or skill. I watched, with
palpitating interest, the course of the preliminary struggle, and
was saddened by every new advantage gained over her by the
ruffian. There were times when she seemed likely to get the
better of the brute, but he finally overpowered her, and
succeeded in getting his rope around her arms, and in firmly
tying her to the tree, at which he had been aiming. This done,
and Nelly was at the mercy of his merciless lash; and now, what
followed, I have no heart to describe. The cowardly creature
made good his every threat; and wielded the lash with all the hot
zest of furious revenge. The cries of the woman, while
undergoing the terrible infliction, were mingled with those of
the children, sounds which I hope the reader
may never be called
upon to hear. When Nelly was untied, her back was covered with
blood. The red stripes were all over her shoulders. She was
whipped—severely whipped; but she was not subdued, for she
continued to denounce the overseer, and to call him every vile
name. He had bruised her flesh, but had left her invincible
spirit undaunted. Such floggings are seldom repeated by the same
overseer. They prefer to whip those
who are most easily
whipped. The old doctrine that submission is the very best cure
for outrage and wrong, does not hold good on the slave
plantation. He is whipped oftenest, who is whipped easiest; and
that slave who has the courage to stand up for himself against
the overseer, although he may have many hard stripes at the
first, becomes, in the end, a freeman, even though he sustain the
formal relation of a slave. "You can shoot me but you can't whip
me," said a slave to Rigby Hopkins; and the result was that he
was neither whipped nor shot. If the latter had been his fate,
it would have been less deplorable than the living and lingering
death to which cowardly and slavish souls are subjected. I do
not know that Mr. Sevier ever undertook to whip Nelly again. He
probably never did, for it was not long after his attempt to
subdue her, that he was taken sick, and died. The wretched man
died as he had lived, unrepentant; and it was said—with how much
truth I know not—that in the very last hours of his life, his
ruling passion showed itself, and that when wrestling with death,
he was uttering horrid oaths, and flourishing the cowskin, as
though he was tearing the flesh off some helpless slave. One
thing is certain,
that when he was in health, it was enough to
chill the blood, and to stiffen the hair of an ordinary man, to
hear Mr. Sevier talk. Nature, or his cruel habits, had given to
his face an expression of unusual savageness, even for a slave-driver. Tobacco and rage had worn his teeth short, and nearly
every sentence that escaped their compressed grating, was
commenced or concluded with some outburst of profanity. His
presence made the field alike the field of blood, and of
blasphemy. Hated for his cruelty, despised for his cowardice,
his death was deplored by no one outside his own house—if indeed
it was deplored there; it was regarded by the slaves as a
merciful interposition of Providence. Never went there a man to
the grave loaded with heavier curses. Mr. Sevier's place was
promptly taken by a Mr. Hopkins, and the change was quite a
relief, he being a very different man. He was, in
all respects, a better man than his
predecessor; as good as any man can be, and yet be an overseer.
His course was characterized by no extraordinary cruelty; and
when he whipped a slave, as he sometimes did, he seemed to take
no especial pleasure in it, but, on the contrary, acted as though
he felt it to be a mean business. Mr. Hopkins stayed but a short
time; his place much to the regret of the slaves generally—was
taken by a Mr. Gore, of whom more will be said hereafter. It is
enough, for the present, to say, that he was no improvement on
Mr. Sevier, except that he was less noisy and less profane.
I have already referred to the business-like aspect of
Col. Lloyd's plantation. This business-like appearance was much
increased on the two days at the end
of each month, when the
slaves from the different farms came to get their monthly
allowance of meal and meat. These were gala days for the slaves,
and there was much rivalry among them as to
who should be
elected to go up to the great house farm for the allowance, and,
indeed, to attend to any business at this (for them) the capital.
The beauty and grandeur of the place, its numerous slave population, and the fact that Harry, Peter and Jake the sailors of
the sloop—almost always kept, privately, little trinkets which
they bought at Baltimore, to sell, made it a privilege to come to
the great house farm. Being selected, too, for this office, was
deemed a high honor. It was taken as a proof of confidence and
favor; but, probably, the chief motive of the competitors for the
place, was, a desire to break the dull monotony of the field, and
to get beyond the overseer's eye and lash. Once on the road with
an ox team, and seated on the tongue of his cart, with no
overseer to look after him, the slave was comparatively free;
and, if thoughtful, he had time to think. Slaves are generally
expected to sing as well as to work. A silent slave is not liked
by masters or overseers.
"Make a noise," "make a noise,"
and
"bear a hand," are the words usually addressed to the
slaves when there is silence amongst them. This may account for
the almost constant singing
heard in the southern states.
There was, generally, more or less singing among the teamsters,
as it was one means of letting the overseer know where they were,
and that they were moving on with the work. But, on allowance
day, those who visited the great house farm were peculiarly
excited and noisy. While on their way, they would make the dense
old woods, for miles around, reverberate with their wild notes.
These were not always merry because they were wild. On the
contrary, they were mostly of a plaintive cast, and told a tale
of grief and sorrow. In the most boisterous outbursts of
rapturous sentiment, there was ever a tinge of deep melancholy.
I have never heard any songs like those anywhere since I left
slavery, except when in Ireland. There I heard the same
wailing notes, and was much affected by them. It was
during the famine of 1845-6. In all the songs of the slaves,
there was ever some expression in praise of the great house farm;
something which would flatter the pride of the owner, and,
possibly, draw a favorable glance from him.
"I am going away to the great house farm,
O yea! O yea! O yea!
My old master is a good old master,
O yea! O yea! O yea!"
This they would sing, with other words of their own
improvising—jargon to others, but full of meaning to themselves.
I have sometimes thought, that the mere hearing of those songs
would do more to impress truly spiritual-minded men and women
with the soul-crushing and death-dealing character of slavery,
than the reading of whole volumes of its mere physical cruelties.
They speak to the heart and to the soul of the thoughtful. I
cannot better express my sense of them now, than ten years ago,
when, in sketching my life, I thus spoke of this feature of my
plantation experience:
I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meanings of
those rude, and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within
the circle, so that I neither saw or heard as those without might
see and hear. They told a tale which was
then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension;
they were tones, loud, long and deep, breathing the prayer and
complaint of souls boiling over with the bitterest anguish.
Every tone was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God
for deliverance from chains. The hearing of those wild notes
always depressed my spirits, and filled my heart with ineffable
sadness. The mere recurrence, even now, afflicts my spirit, and
while I am writing these lines, my tears are falling. To those
songs I trace my first glimmering conceptions of the dehumanizing
character of slavery. I can never get rid of that conception.
Those songs still follow me, to deepen my hatred of slavery, and
quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds. If any one
wishes to be impressed with a sense of the soul-killing power of
slavery, let him go to Col. Lloyd's plantation, and, on allowance
day, place himself in the deep, pine woods, and there let him, in
silence, thoughtfully analyze the sounds that shall pass through
the chambers of his soul, and if he is not thus impressed, it
will only be because "there is no flesh in his obdurate heart."
The remark is not unfrequently made, that slaves are the
most contended and happy laborers in the world. They dance and
sing, and make all manner of joyful noises—so they do; but it is
a great mistake to suppose them happy because they sing. The
songs of the slave represent the sorrows, rather than the joys,
of his heart; and he is relieved by them, only as an aching heart
is relieved by its tears. Such is the constitution of the human
mind, that, when pressed
to extremes, it often avails itself of
the most opposite methods. Extremes meet in mind as in matter.
When the slaves on board of the "Pearl" were overtaken, arrested,
and carried to prison—their hopes for freedom blasted—as they
marched in chains they sang, and found (as Emily Edmunson tells
us) a melancholy relief in singing. The singing of a man cast
away on a desolate island, might be as appropriately considered
an evidence of his contentment and happiness, as the singing of a
slave. Sorrow and desolation have their songs, as well as joy
and peace. Slaves sing more to
make themselves happy,
than to express their happiness.
It is the boast of slaveholders, that their slaves enjoy
more of the physical comforts of life than the peasantry of any
country in the world. My experience contradicts this. The men
and the women slaves on Col. Lloyd's farm, received, as their
monthly
allowance of food, eight pounds of pickled pork, or
their equivalent in fish. The pork was often tainted, and the
fish was of the poorest quality—herrings, which would bring very
little if offered for sale in any northern market. With their
pork or fish, they had one bushel of Indian meal—unbolted—of
which quite fifteen per cent was fit only to feed pigs. With
this, one pint of salt was given; and this was the entire monthly
allowance of a full grown slave, working constantly in the open
field, from morning until night, every day in the month except
Sunday, and living on a fraction more than a quarter of a pound
of meat per day, and less than a peck of corn-meal per week.
There is no kind of work that a man can do
which requires a
better supply of food to prevent physical exhaustion, than the
field-work of a slave. So much for the slave's allowance of
food; now for his raiment. The yearly allowance of clothing for
the slaves on this plantation, consisted of two tow-linen
shirts—such linen as the coarsest crash towels are made of; one
pair of trowsers of the same material, for summer, and a pair of
trowsers and a jacket of woolen, most slazily put together, for
winter; one pair of yarn stockings, and one pair of shoes of the
coarsest description. The slave's entire apparel could not have
cost more than eight dollars per year. The allowance of food and
clothing for the little children, was committed to their mothers,
or to the older slavewomen having the care of them. Children who
were unable to work in the field, had neither shoes, stockings,
jackets nor trowsers given them. Their clothing consisted of two
coarse tow-linen shirts—already described—per year; and when
these failed them, as they often did, they went naked until the
next allowance day. Flocks of little children from five to ten
years old, might be seen on Col. Lloyd's plantation, as destitute
of clothing as any little heathen on the west coast of Africa;
and this, not merely during the summer months, but during the
frosty weather of March. The little girls were no better off
than the boys; all were nearly in a state of nudity.
As to beds to sleep on, they were known to none of the
field hands; nothing but a coarse blanket—not so good as those
used in the north to cover horses—was given them, and this only
to the men and women. The children stuck themselves in holes and
corners,
about the quarters; often in the corner of the huge
chimneys, with their feet in the ashes to keep them warm. The
want of beds, however, was not considered a very great privation.
Time to sleep was of far greater importance, for, when the day's
work is done, most of the slaves have their washing, mending and
cooking to do; and, having few or none of the ordinary facilities
for doing such things, very many of their sleeping hours are
consumed in necessary preparations for the duties of the coming
day.
The sleeping apartments—if they may be called such—have
little regard to comfort or decency. Old and young, male and
female, married and single, drop down upon the common clay floor,
each covering up with his or her blanket,—the only protection
they have from cold or exposure. The night, however, is
shortened at both ends. The slaves work often as long as they
can see, and are late in cooking and mending for the coming day;
and, at the first gray streak of morning, they are summoned to
the field by the driver's horn.
More slaves are whipped for oversleeping than for any
other fault. Neither age nor sex finds any favor. The overseer
stands at the quarter door, armed with stick and cowskin, ready
to whip any who may be a few minutes behind time. When the horn
is blown, there is a rush for the door, and the hindermost one is
sure to get a blow from the overseer. Young mothers who worked
in the field, were allowed an hour, about ten o'clock in the
morning, to go home to nurse their children. Sometimes they were
compelled to take their children with them, and to leave them in
the
corner of the fences, to prevent loss of time in nursing
them. The overseer generally rides about the field on horseback.
A cowskin and a hickory stick are his constant companions. The
cowskin is a kind of whip seldom seen in the northern states.
It is made entirely of untanned, but dried, ox hide, and is about
as hard as a piece of well-seasoned live oak. It is made of
various sizes, but the usual length is about three feet. The
part held in the hand is nearly an inch in thickness; and, from
the extreme end of the butt or handle, the cowskin tapers its
whole length to a point. This makes it quite elastic and
springy. A blow with it, on the hardest back, will gash the
flesh, and make the blood start. Cowskins are painted red, blue
and green, and are the favorite slave whip. I think this whip
worse than the "cat-o'nine-tails." It condenses the whole
strength of the arm to a single point, and comes with a spring
that makes the air whistle. It is a terrible instrument, and is
so handy, that the overseer can always have it on his person, and
ready for use. The temptation to use it is ever strong; and an
overseer can, if disposed, always have cause for using it. With
him, it is literally a word and a blow, and, in most cases, the
blow comes first.
As a general rule, slaves do not come to the quarters for
either breakfast or dinner, but take their "ash cake" with them,
and eat it in the field. This was so on the home plantation;
probably, because the distance from the quarter to the field, was
sometimes two, and even three miles.
The dinner of the slaves consisted of a huge piece of ash
cake, and a small piece of pork, or two salt
herrings. Not
having ovens, nor any suitable cooking utensils, the slaves mixed
their meal with a little water, to such thickness that a spoon
would stand erect in it; and, after the wood had burned away to
coals and ashes, they would place the dough between oak leaves
and lay it carefully in the ashes, completely covering it; hence,
the bread is called ash cake. The surface of this peculiar bread
is covered with ashes, to the depth of a sixteenth part of an
inch, and the ashes, certainly, do not make it very grateful to
the teeth, nor render it very palatable. The bran, or coarse
part of the meal, is baked with the fine, and bright scales run
through the bread.
This bread, with its ashes
and bran, would disgust and choke a northern man, but it is quite
liked by the slaves. They eat it with avidity, and are more
concerned about the quantity than about the quality. They are
far too scantily provided for, and are worked too steadily, to be
much concerned for the quality of their food. The few minutes
allowed them at dinner time, after partaking of their coarse
repast, are variously spent. Some lie down on the "turning row,"
and go to sleep; others draw together, and talk; and others are
at work with needle and thread, mending their tattered garments.
Sometimes you may hear a wild, hoarse laugh arise from a circle,
and often a song. Soon, however, the overseer comes dashing
through the field.
"Tumble up! Tumble up, and to
work, work," is the cry; and, now, from twelve o'clock
(mid-day) till dark, the human cattle are in motion, wielding
their clumsy hoes; hurried on by no hope of reward, no sense of
gratitude, no love of children, no prospect of bettering
their
condition; nothing, save the dread and terror of the slave-driver's lash. So goes one day, and so comes and goes another.
But, let us now leave the rough usage of the field, where
vulgar coarseness and brutal cruelty spread themselves and
flourish, rank as weeds in the tropics; where a vile wretch, in
the shape of a man, rides, walks, or struts about, dealing blows,
and leaving gashes on broken-spirited men and helpless women, for
thirty dollars per month—a business so horrible, hardening and
disgraceful, that, rather, than engage in it, a decent man would
blow his own brains out—and let the reader view with me the
equally wicked, but less repulsive aspects of slave life; where
pride and pomp roll luxuriously at ease; where the toil of a
thousand men supports a single family in easy idleness and sin.
This is the great house; it is the home of the LLOYDS! Some idea
of its splendor has already been given—and, it is here that we
shall find that height of luxury which is the opposite of that
depth of poverty and physical wretchedness that we have just now
been contemplating. But, there is this difference in the two
extremes;
viz: that in the case of the slave, the miseries
and hardships of his lot are imposed by others, and, in the
master's case, they are imposed by himself. The slave is a
subject, subjected by others; the slaveholder is a subject, but
he is the author of his own subjection. There is more truth in
the saying, that slavery is a greater evil to the master than to
the slave, than many, who utter it, suppose. The self-executing
laws of eternal justice follow close on the heels of the evil-doer here, as well as elsewhere;
making escape from all its
penalties impossible. But, let others philosophize; it is my
province here to relate and describe; only allowing myself a word
or two, occasionally, to assist the reader in the proper
understanding of the facts narrated.
7. CHAPTER VII.
LIFE IN THE GREAT HOUSE.
COMFORTS AND LUXURIES—ELABORATE EXPENDITURE—HOUSE SERVANTS—MEN
SERVANTS AND MAID SERVANTS—APPEARANCES—SLAVE ARISTOCRACY—STABLE AND CARRIAGE HOUSE—BOUNDLESS HOSPITALITY—FRAGRANCE OF
RICH DISHES—THE DECEPTIVE CHARACTER OF SLAVERY—SLAVES SEEM
HAPPY—SLAVES AND SLAVEHOLDERS ALIKE WRETCHED—FRETFUL DISCONTENT
OF SLAVEHOLDERS—FAULT-FINDING—OLD BARNEY—HIS PROFESSION—WHIPPING—HUMILIATING SPECTACLE—CASE EXCEPTIONAL—WILLIAM
WILKS—SUPPOSED SON OF COL. LLOYD—CURIOUS INCIDENT—SLAVES
PREFER RICH MASTERS TO POOR ONES.
The close-fisted stinginess that fed the poor slave on
coarse corn-meal and tainted meat; that clothed him in crashy
tow-linen, and hurried him to toil through the field, in all
weathers, with wind and rain beating through his tattered
garments; that scarcely gave even the young slave-mother time to
nurse her hungry infant in the fence corner; wholly vanishes on
approaching the sacred precincts of the great house, the home of
the Lloyds. There the scriptural phrase finds an exact
illustration; the highly favored inmates of this mansion are
literally arrayed "in purple and fine linen," and fare
sumptuously every day! The table groans under the heavy and
blood-bought luxuries gathered with painstaking care, at home and
abroad. Fields, forests, rivers and seas, are made tributary
here. Immense wealth, and its lavish expenditure, fill the great
house with all that can please the
eye, or tempt the taste.
Here, appetite, not food, is the great
desideratum. Fish,
flesh and fowl, are here in profusion. Chickens, of
all
breeds; ducks, of all kinds, wild and tame, the common, and the
huge Muscovite; Guinea fowls, turkeys, geese, and pea fowls, are
in their several pens, fat and fatting for the destined vortex.
The graceful swan, the mongrels, the black-necked wild goose;
partridges, quails, pheasants and pigeons; choice water fowl,
with all their strange varieties, are caught in this huge family
net. Beef, veal, mutton and venison, of the most select kinds
and quality, roll bounteously to this grand consumer. The
teeming riches of the Chesapeake bay, its rock, perch, drums,
crocus, trout, oysters, crabs, and terrapin, are drawn hither to
adorn the glittering table of the great house. The dairy, too,
probably the finest on the Eastern Shore of Maryland—supplied by
cattle of the best English stock, imported for the purpose, pours
its rich donations of fragant cheese, golden butter, and
delicious cream, to heighten the attraction of the gorgeous,
unending round of feasting. Nor are the fruits of the earth
forgotten or neglected. The fertile garden, many acres in size,
constituting a separate establishment, distinct from the common
farm—with its scientific gardener, imported from Scotland (a Mr.
McDermott) with four men under his direction, was not behind,
either in the abundance or in the delicacy of its contributions
to the same full board. The tender asparagus, the succulent
celery, and the delicate cauliflower; egg plants, beets, lettuce,
parsnips, peas, and French beans, early and late; radishes,
cantelopes, melons of all kinds; the fruits and flowers of all
climes and of all descriptions, from the hardy apple of the
north, to the lemon and orange of the south, culminated at this
point. Baltimore gathered figs, raisins, almonds and juicy
grapes from Spain. Wines and brandies from France; teas of
various flavor, from China; and rich, aromatic coffee from Java,
all conspired to swell the tide of high life, where pride and
indolence rolled and lounged in magnificence and satiety.
Behind the tall-backed and elaborately wrought chairs,
stand the servants, men and maidens—fifteen in number—discriminately selected, not only with a view to their industry and
faith
fulness, but with special regard to their
personal appearance, their graceful agility and captivating
address. Some of these are armed with fans, and are fanning
reviving breezes toward the over-heated brows of the alabaster
ladies; others watch with eager eye, and with fawn-like step
anticipate and supply wants before they are sufficiently formed
to be announced by word or sign.
These servants constituted a sort of black aristocracy on
Col. Lloyd's plantation. They resembled the field hands in
nothing, except in color, and in this they held the advantage of
a velvet-like glossiness, rich and beautiful. The hair, too,
showed the same advantage. The delicate colored maid rustled in
the scarcely worn silk of her young mistress, while the servant
men were equally well attired from the over-flowing wardrobe of
their young masters; so that, in dress, as well as in form and
feature, in manner and speech, in tastes and habits, the distance
between these favored few, and the sorrow and hunger-smitten
multitudes of the quarter and the field, was immense; and this is
seldom passed over.
Let us now glance at the stables and the carriage house,
and we shall find the same evidences of pride and luxurious
extravagance. Here are three splendid coaches, soft within and
lustrous without. Here, too, are gigs, phaetons, barouches,
sulkeys and sleighs. Here are saddles and harnesses—beautifully
wrought and silver mounted—kept with every care. In the stable
you will find, kept only for pleasure, full thirty-five horses,
of the most approved blood for speed and beauty. There are two
men here constantly employed in taking care of these horses. One
of these men must be always in the stable, to answer every call
from the great house. Over the way from the stable, is a house
built expressly for the hounds—a pack of twenty-five or thirty—whose fare would have made glad the heart of a dozen slaves.
Horses and hounds are not the only consumers of the slave's toil.
There was practiced, at the Lloyd's, a hospitality which would
have
astonished and charmed any health-seeking northern
divine or merchant, who might have chanced to share it. Viewed
from his own table, and not from the field, the colonel
was a model of generous hospitality. His house was, literally, a
hotel, for weeks during the summer months. At these times,
especially, the air was freighted with the rich fumes of baking,
boiling, roasting and broiling. The odors I shared with the
winds; but the meats were under a more stringent monopoly except
that, occasionally, I got a cake from Mas' Daniel. In Mas'
Daniel I had a friend at court, from whom I learned many things
which my eager curiosity was excited to know. I always knew when
company was expected, and who they were, although I was an
outsider, being the property, not of Col. Lloyd, but of a servant
of the wealthy colonel. On these occasions, all that pride,
taste and money could do, to dazzle and charm, was done.
Who could say that the servants of Col. Lloyd were not
well clad and cared for, after witnessing one of his magnificent
entertainments? Who could say that they did not seem to glory in
being the slaves of such a master? Who, but a fanatic, could get
up any sympathy for persons whose every movement was agile, easy
and graceful, and who evinced a consciousness of high
superiority? And who would ever venture to suspect that Col.
Lloyd was subject to the troubles of ordinary mortals? Master
and slave seem alike in their glory here? Can it all be seeming?
Alas! it may only be a sham at last! This immense wealth; this
gilded splendor; this profusion of luxury; this exemption from
toil; this life of ease; this sea of plenty; aye, what of it all?
Are the pearly gates of happiness and sweet content flung open to
such suitors? far from it! The poor slave, on his hard,
pine plank, but scantily covered with his thin blanket, sleeps
more soundly than the feverish voluptuary who reclines upon his
feather bed and downy pillow. Food, to the indolent lounger, is
poison, not sustenance. Lurking beneath all their dishes, are
invisible spirits of evil, ready to feed the self-deluded
gormandizers
which aches,
pains, fierce temper, uncontrolled passions, dyspepsia,
rheumatism, lumbago and gout; and
of these the Lloyds got their
full share. To the pampered love of ease, there is no resting
place. What is pleasant today, is repulsive tomorrow; what is
soft now, is hard at another time; what is sweet in the morning,
is bitter in the evening. Neither to the wicked, nor to the
idler, is there any solid peace:
"Troubled, like the restless
sea."
I had excellent opportunities of witnessing the restless
discontent and the capricious irritation of the Lloyds. My
fondness for horses—not peculiar to me more than to other boys
attracted me, much of the time, to the stables. This
establishment was especially under the care of "old" and "young"
Barney—father and son. Old Barney was a fine looking old man,
of a brownish complexion, who was quite portly, and wore a
dignified aspect for a slave. He was, evidently, much devoted to
his profession, and held his office an honorable one. He was a
farrier as well as an ostler; he could bleed, remove lampers from
the mouths of the horses, and was well instructed in horse
medicines. No one on the farm knew, so well as Old Barney, what
to do with a sick horse. But his gifts and acquirements were of
little advantage to him. His office was by no means an enviable
one. He often got presents, but he got stripes as well; for in
nothing was Col. Lloyd more unreasonable and exacting, than in
respect to the management of his pleasure horses. Any supposed
inattention to these animals were sure to be visited with
degrading punishment. His horses and dogs fared better than his
men. Their beds must be softer and cleaner than those of his
human cattle. No excuse could shield
Old Barney, if the colonel
only suspected something wrong about his horses; and,
consequently, he was often punished when faultless. It was
absolutely painful to listen to the many unreasonable and fretful
scoldings, poured out at the stable, by Col. Lloyd, his sons and
sons-in-law. Of the latter, he had three—Messrs. Nicholson,
Winder and Lownes. These all
lived at the great house a
portion of the year, and enjoyed the luxury of whipping the
servants when they pleased, which was by no means unfrequently.
A horse was seldom brought out of the stable to which no
objection could be raised. "There was dust in his hair;" "there
was a twist in his reins;" "his mane did not lie straight;" "he
had not been properly grained;" "his head did not look well;"
"his fore-top was not combed out;" "his fetlocks had not been
properly trimmed;" something was always wrong. Listening to
complaints, however groundless, Barney must stand, hat in hand,
lips sealed, never answering a word. He must make no reply, no
explanation; the judgment of the master must be deemed
infallible, for his power is absolute and irresponsible. In a
free state, a master, thus complaining without cause, of his
ostler, might be told—"Sir, I am sorry I cannot please you, but,
since I have done the best I can, your remedy is to dismiss me."
Here, however, the ostler must stand, listen and tremble. One of
the most heart-saddening and humiliating scenes I ever witnessed,
was the whipping of Old Barney, by Col. Lloyd himself. Here were
two men, both advanced in years; there were the silvery locks of
Col. L., and there was the bald and toil-worn brow of Old Barney;
master and slave; superior and inferior here, but
equals
at the bar of God; and, in the common course of events, they must
both soon meet in another world, in a world where all
distinctions, except those based on obedience and disobedience,
are blotted out forever. "Uncover your head!" said the imperious
master; he was obeyed. "Take off your jacket, you old rascal!"
and off came Barney's jacket. "Down on your knees!" down knelt
the old man, his shoulders bare, his bald head glistening in the
sun, and his aged knees on the cold, damp ground. In his humble
and debasing attitude, the master—that master to whom he had
given the best years and the best strength of his life—came
forward, and laid on thirty lashes, with his horse whip. The old
man bore it patiently, to the last, answering each blow with a
slight shrug of the shoulders, and a groan. I cannot think that
Col. Lloyd succeeded in marring the
flesh of Old Barney very seriously, for the whip was a light,
riding whip; but the spectacle of an aged man—a husband and a
father—humbly kneeling before a worm of the dust, surprised and
shocked me at the time; and since I have grown old enough to
think on the wickedness of slavery, few facts have been of more
value to me than this, to which I was a witness. It reveals
slavery in its true color, and in its maturity of repulsive
hatefulness. I owe it to truth, however, to say, that this was
the first and the last time I ever saw Old Barney, or any other
slave, compelled to kneel to receive a whipping.
I saw, at the stable, another incident, which I will
relate, as it is illustrative of a phase of slavery to which I
have already referred in another connection. Besides
two other
coachmen, Col. Lloyd owned one named William, who, strangely
enough, was often called by his surname, Wilks, by white and
colored people on the home plantation. Wilks was a very fine
looking man. He was about as white as anybody on the plantation;
and in manliness of form, and comeliness of features, he bore a
very striking resemblance to Mr. Murray Lloyd. It was whispered,
and pretty generally admitted as a fact, that William Wilks was a
son of Col. Lloyd, by a highly favored slave-woman, who was still
on the plantation. There were many reasons for believing this
whisper, not only in William's appearance, but in the undeniable
freedom which he enjoyed over all others, and his apparent
consciousness of being something more than a slave to his master.
It was notorious, too, that William had a deadly enemy in Murray
Lloyd, whom he so much resembled, and that the latter greatly
worried his father with importunities to sell William. Indeed,
he gave his father no rest until he did sell him, to Austin
Woldfolk, the great slave-trader at that time. Before selling
him, however, Mr. L. tried what giving William a whipping would
do, toward making things smooth; but this was a failure. It was
a compromise, and defeated itself; for, immediately after the
infliction, the heart-sickened colonel atoned to William for the
abuse, by giving him a gold watch and chain. Another fact,
somewhat curious, is, that though sold to the remorseless
Woldfolk, taken in irons to Baltimore and cast into
prison, with a view to being driven to the south, William, by
some means—always a mystery to me—outbid all his
purchasers,
paid for himself,
and now resides in Baltimore,
a FREEMAN. Is there not room to suspect, that, as the gold
watch was presented to atone for the whipping, a purse of gold
was given him by the same hand, with which to effect his
purchase, as an atonement for the indignity involved in selling
his own flesh and blood. All the circumstances of William, on
the great house farm, show him to have occupied a different
position from the other slaves, and, certainly, there is nothing
in the supposed hostility of slaveholders to amalgamation, to
forbid the supposition that William Wilks was the son of Edward
Lloyd.
Practical amalgamation is common in every
neighborhood where I have been in slavery.
Col. Lloyd was not in the way of knowing much of the real
opinions and feelings of his slaves respecting him. The distance
between him and them was far too great to admit of such knowledge. His slaves were so numerous, that he did not know them
when he saw them. Nor, indeed, did all his slaves know him. In
this respect, he was inconveniently rich. It is reported of him,
that, while riding along the road one day, he met a colored man,
and addressed him in the usual way of speaking to colored people
on the public highways of the south: "Well, boy, who do you
belong to?" "To Col. Lloyd," replied the slave. "Well, does the
colonel treat you well?" "No, sir," was the ready reply. "What?
does he work you too hard?" "Yes, sir." "Well, don't he give
enough to eat?" "Yes, sir, he gives me enough, such as it is."
The colonel, after ascertaining where the slave belonged, rode
on; the slave
also went on about his business, not dreaming that
he had been conversing with his master. He thought, said and
heard nothing more of the matter, until two or three weeks
afterwards. The poor man was
then informed by his overseer, that, for having found fault with
his master, he was now to be sold to a Georgia trader. He was
immediately chained and handcuffed; and thus, without a moment's
warning he was snatched away, and forever sundered from his
family and friends, by a hand more unrelenting than that of
death.
This is the penalty of telling the simple truth,
in answer to a series of plain questions. It is partly in
consequence of such facts, that slaves, when inquired of as to
their condition and the character of their masters, almost
invariably say they are contented, and that their masters are
kind. Slaveholders have been known to send spies among their
slaves, to ascertain, if possible, their views and feelings in
regard to their condition. The frequency of this had the effect
to establish among the slaves the maxim, that a still tongue
makes a wise head. They suppress the truth rather than take the
consequence of telling it, and, in so doing, they prove
themselves a part of the human family. If they have anything to
say of their master, it is, generally, something in his favor,
especially when speaking to strangers. I was frequently asked,
while a slave, if I had a kind master, and I do not remember ever
to have given a negative reply. Nor did I, when pursuing this
course, consider myself as uttering what was utterly false; for I
always measured the kindness of my master by the standard of
kindness
set up by slaveholders around us. However, slaves are
like other people, and imbibe similar prejudices. They are apt
to think
their condition better than that of others.
Many, under the influence of this prejudice, think their own
masters are better than the masters of other slaves; and this,
too, in some cases, when the very reverse is true. Indeed, it is
not uncommon for slaves even to fall out and quarrel among
themselves about the relative kindness of their masters,
contending for the superior goodness of his own over that of
others. At the very same time, they mutually execrate their
masters, when viewed separately. It was so on our plantation.
When Col. Lloyd's slaves met those of Jacob Jepson, they
seldom parted without a quarrel about their masters; Col.
Lloyd's slaves contending that he was the richest, and Mr.
Jepson's slaves that he was the smartest, man of the two. Col.
Lloyd's slaves would boost his ability to buy and sell Jacob
Jepson; Mr. Jepson's slaves would boast his ability to whip Col.
Lloyd. These quarrels would almost always end in a fight between
the parties; those that beat were supposed to have gained the
point at issue. They seemed to think that the greatness of their
masters was transferable to themselves. To be a SLAVE, was
thought to be bad enough; but to be a
poor man's slave,
was deemed a disgrace, indeed.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
A CHAPTER OF HORRORS.
AUSTIN GORE—A SKETCH OF HIS CHARACTER—OVERSEERS AS A CLASS—THEIR PECULIAR CHARACTERISTICS—THE MARKED INDIVIDUALITY OF
AUSTIN GORE—HIS SENSE OF DUTY—HOW HE WHIPPED—MURDER OF POOR
DENBY—HOW IT OCCURRED—SENSATION—HOW GORE MADE PEACE WITH COL.
LLOYD—THE MURDER UNPUNISHED—ANOTHER DREADFUL MURDER NARRATED—NO LAWS FOR THE PROTECTION OF SLAVES CAN BE ENFORCED IN THE
SOUTHERN STATES.
As I have already intimated elsewhere, the slaves on Col.
Lloyd's plantation, whose hard lot, under Mr. Sevier, the reader
has already noticed and deplored, were not permitted to enjoy the
comparatively moderate rule of Mr. Hopkins. The latter was
succeeded by a very different man. The name of the new overseer
was Austin Gore. Upon this individual I would fix particular
attention; for under his rule there was more suffering from
violence and bloodshed than had—according to the older slaves
ever been experienced before on this plantation. I confess, I
hardly know how to bring this man fitly before the reader. He
was, it is true, an overseer, and possessed, to a large extent,
the peculiar characteristics of his class; yet, to call him
merely an overseer, would not give the reader a fair notion of
the man. I speak of overseers as a class. They are such. They
are as distinct from the slaveholding gentry of the south, as are
the fishwomen of Paris, and the coal-heavers of London,
distinct
from other members of society. They constitute a separate
fraternity at the south, not less marked than is the fraternity
of Park Lane bullies in New York. They have been arranged and
classified
by that great law of attraction, which determines
the spheres and affinities of men; which ordains, that men, whose
malign and brutal propensities predominate over their moral and
intellectual endowments, shall, naturally, fall into those
employments which promise the largest gratification to those
predominating instincts or propensities. The office of overseer
takes this raw material of vulgarity and brutality, and stamps it
as a distinct class of southern society. But, in this class, as
in all other classes, there are characters of marked
individuality, even while they bear a general resemblance to the
mass. Mr. Gore was one of those, to whom a general
characterization would do no manner of justice. He was an
overseer; but he was something more. With the malign and
tyrannical qualities of an overseer, he combined something of the
lawful master. He had the artfulness and the mean ambition of
his class; but he was wholly free from the disgusting swagger and
noisy bravado of his fraternity. There was an easy air of
independence about him; a calm self-possession, and a sternness
of glance, which might well daunt hearts less timid than those of
poor slaves, accustomed from childhood and through life to cower
before a driver's lash. The home plantation of Col. Lloyd
afforded an ample field for the exercise of the qualifications
for overseership, which he possessed in such an eminent degree.
Mr. Gore was one of those overseers, who could
torture the
slightest word or look into impudence; he had the nerve, not only
to resent, but to punish, promptly and severely. He never
allowed himself to be answered back, by a slave. In this, he was
as lordly and as imperious as Col. Edward Lloyd, himself; acting
always up to the maxim, practically maintained by slaveholders,
that it is better that a dozen slaves suffer under the lash,
without fault, than that the master or the overseer should
seem to have been wrong in the presence of the slave.
Everything must be absolute here. Guilty or not guilty,
it is enough to be accused, to be sure of a flogging. The very
presence of this man Gore was
painful, and I
shunned him as I would have shunned a rattlesnake. His piercing,
black eyes, and sharp, shrill voice, ever awakened sensations of
terror among the slaves. For so young a man (I describe him as
he was, twenty-five or thirty years ago) Mr. Gore was singularly
reserved and grave in the presence of slaves. He indulged in no
jokes, said no funny things, and kept his own counsels. Other
overseers, how brutal soever they might be, were, at times,
inclined to gain favor with the slaves, by indulging a little
pleasantry; but Gore was never known to be guilty of any such
weakness. He was always the cold, distant, unapproachable
overseer of Col. Edward Lloyd's plantation, and needed no
higher pleasure than was involved in a faithful discharge of the
duties of his office. When he whipped, he seemed to do so from a
sense of duty, and feared no consequences. What Hopkins did
reluctantly, Gore did with alacrity. There was a stern will, an
iron-like reality, about this Gore, which would have easily made
him the chief of a band of pirates, had his environments been
favorable to such a course of life. All the coolness, savage
barbarity and freedom from moral restraint, which are necessary
in the character of a pirate-chief, centered, I think, in this
man Gore. Among many other deeds of shocking cruelty which he
perpetrated, while I was at Mr. Lloyd's, was the murder of a
young colored man, named Denby. He was sometimes called Bill
Denby, or Demby; (I write from sound, and the sounds on Lloyd's
plantation are not very certain.) I knew him well. He was a
powerful young man, full of animal spirits, and, so far as I
know, he was among the most valuable of Col. Lloyd's slaves. In
something—I know not what—he offended this Mr. Austin Gore,
and, in accordance with the custom of the latter, he under took
to flog him. He gave Denby but few stripes; the latter broke
away from him and plunged into the creek, and, standing there to
the depth of his neck in water, he refused to come out at the
order of the overseer; whereupon, for this refusal,
Gore shot
him dead! It is said that Gore gave Denby three calls,
telling him that
if he did not obey the last call, he would
shoot him. When the third call was given, Denby stood his ground
firmly; and this raised the question, in the minds of the by-standing slaves—"Will he dare to shoot?" Mr. Gore, without
further parley, and without making any further effort to induce
Denby to come out of the water, raised his gun deliberately to
his face, took deadly aim at his standing victim, and, in an
instant, poor Denby was numbered with the dead. His mangled body
sank out of sight, and only his warm, red blood marked the place
where he had stood.
This devilish outrage, this fiendish murder, produced, as
it was well calculated to do, a tremendous sensation. A thrill
of horror flashed through every soul on the plantation, if I may
except the guilty wretch who had committed the hell-black deed.
While the slaves generally were panic-struck, and howling with
alarm, the murderer himself was calm and collected, and appeared
as though nothing unusual had happened. The atrocity roused my
old master, and he spoke out, in reprobation of it; but the whole
thing proved to be less than a nine days' wonder. Both Col.
Lloyd and my old master arraigned Gore for his cruelty in the
matter, but this amounted to nothing. His reply, or
explanation—as I remember to have heard it at the time was, that
the extraordinary expedient was demanded by necessity; that Denby
had become unmanageable; that he had set a dangerous example to
the other slaves; and that, without some such prompt measure as
that to which he had resorted, were adopted, there would be an
end to all rule and order on the plantation. That very
convenient covert for all manner of cruelty and outrage that
cowardly alarm-cry, that the slaves would "take the
place," was pleaded, in extenuation of this revolting crime,
just as it had been cited in defense of a thousand similar ones.
He argued, that if one slave refused to be corrected, and was
allowed to escape with his life, when he had been told that he
should lose it if he persisted in his course, the other slaves
would soon copy his example; the result of which would be, the
freedom of the slaves, and the enslavement of the
whites. I have every reason to
believe that Mr. Gore's defense, or explanation, was deemed
satisfactory—at least to Col. Lloyd. He was continued in his
office on the plantation. His fame as an overseer went abroad,
and his horrid crime was not even submitted to judicial
investigation. The murder was committed in the presence of
slaves, and they, of course, could neither institute a suit, nor
testify against the murderer. His bare word would go further in
a court of law, than the united testimony of ten thousand black
witnesses.
All that Mr. Gore had to do, was to make his peace with
Col. Lloyd. This done, and the guilty perpetrator of one of the
most foul murders goes unwhipped of justice, and uncensured by
the community in which he lives. Mr. Gore lived in St.
Michael's, Talbot county, when I left Maryland; if he is still
alive he probably yet resides there; and I have no reason to
doubt that he is now as highly esteemed, and as greatly
respected, as though his guilty soul had never been stained with
innocent blood. I am well aware that what I have now written
will by some be branded as false and malicious. It will be
denied, not only that such a thing ever did transpire, as I have
now narrated, but that such a thing could happen in
Maryland. I can only say—believe it or not—that I have
said nothing but the literal truth, gainsay it who may.
I speak advisedly when I say this,—that killing a slave,
or any colored person, in Talbot county, Maryland, is not treated
as a crime, either by the courts or the community. Mr. Thomas
Lanman, ship carpenter,
of St. Michael's, killed two slaves, one
of whom he butchered with a hatchet, by knocking his brains out.
He used to boast of the commission of the awful and bloody deed.
I have heard him do so, laughingly, saying, among other things,
that he was the only benefactor of his country in the company,
and that when "others would do as much as he had done, we should
be relieved of the d—d niggers."
As an evidence of the reckless disregard of human life
where the life is that of a slave I may state the notorious fact,
that the
wife of Mr. Giles Hicks, who lived but a short
distance from Col. Lloyd's, with her own hands murdered my wife's
cousin, a young girl between fifteen and sixteen years of age—mutilating her person in a most shocking manner. The atrocious
woman, in the paroxysm of her wrath, not content with murdering
her victim, literally mangled her face, and broke her breast
bone. Wild, however, and infuriated as she was, she took the
precaution to cause the slave-girl to be buried; but the facts of
the case coming abroad, very speedily led to the disinterment of
the remains of the murdered slave-girl. A coroner's jury was
assembled, who decided that the girl had come to her death by
severe beating. It was ascertained that the offense for which
this girl was thus hurried out of the world, was this: she had
been set that night, and several preceding nights, to mind Mrs.
Hicks's baby, and having fallen into a sound sleep, the baby
cried, waking Mrs. Hicks, but not the slave-girl. Mrs. Hicks,
becoming infuriated at the girl's tardiness, after calling
several times, jumped from her bed and seized a piece of firewood from the fireplace;
and then, as she lay fast asleep, she
deliberately pounded in her skull and breast-bone, and thus ended
her life. I will not say that this most horrid murder produced
no sensation in the community. It
did produce a
sensation; but, incredible to tell, the moral sense of the
community was blunted too entirely by the ordinary nature of
slavery horrors, to bring the murderess to punishment. A warrant
was issued for her arrest, but, for some reason or other, that
warrant was never served. Thus did Mrs. Hicks not only escape
condign punishment, but even the pain and mortification of being
arraigned before a court of justice.
Whilst I am detailing the bloody deeds that took place
during my stay on Col. Lloyd's plantation, I will briefly narrate
another dark transaction, which occurred about the same time as
the murder of Denby by Mr. Gore.
On the side of the river Wye, opposite from Col. Lloyd's,
there lived a Mr. Beal Bondley, a wealthy slaveholder. In the
direction
of his land, and near the
shore, there was an excellent oyster fishing ground, and to this,
some of the slaves of Col. Lloyd occasionally resorted in their
little canoes, at night, with a view to make up the deficiency of
their scanty allowance of food, by the oysters that they could
easily get there. This, Mr. Bondley took it into his head to
regard as a trespass, and while an old man belonging to Col.
Lloyd was engaged in catching a few of the many millions of
oysters that lined the bottom of that creek, to satisfy his
hunger, the villainous Mr. Bondley, lying in ambush, without the
slightest ceremony, discharged
the contents of his musket into
the back and shoulders of the poor old man. As good fortune
would have it, the shot did not prove mortal, and Mr. Bondley
came over, the next day, to see Col. Lloyd—whether to pay him
for his property, or to justify himself for what he had done, I
know not; but this I
can say, the cruel and dastardly
transaction was speedily hushed up; there was very little said
about it at all, and nothing was publicly done which looked like
the application of the principle of justice to the man whom
chance, only, saved from being an actual murderer. One of
the commonest sayings to which my ears early became accustomed,
on Col. Lloyd's plantation and elsewhere in Maryland, was, that
it was
"worth but half a cent to kill a nigger, and a half a
cent to bury him;" and the facts of my experience go far to
justify the practical truth of this strange proverb. Laws for
the protection of the lives of the slaves, are, as they must
needs be, utterly incapable of being enforced, where the very
parties who are nominally protected, are not permitted to give
evidence, in courts of law, against the only class of persons
from whom abuse, outrage and murder might be reasonably
apprehended. While I heard of numerous murders committed by
slaveholders on the Eastern Shores of Maryland, I never knew a
solitary instance in which a slaveholder was either hung or
imprisoned for having murdered a slave. The usual pretext for
killing a slave is, that the slave has offered resistance.
Should a slave, when assaulted, but raise his hand in self
defense, the white assaulting
party is fully justified by
southern, or Maryland, public opinion, in shooting the slave
down. Sometimes this is done, simply because it is alleged that
the slave has been saucy. But here I leave this phase of the
society of my early childhood, and will relieve the kind reader
of these heart-sickening details.
9. CHAPTER IX.
PERSONAL TREATMENT OF THE AUTHOR.
MISS LUCRETIA—HER KINDNESS—HOW IT WAS MANIFESTED—"IKE"—A
BATTLE WITH HIM—THE CONSEQUENCES THEREOF—MISS LUCRETIA'S
BALSAM—BREAD—HOW I OBTAINED IT—BEAMS OF SUNLIGHT AMIDST THE
GENERAL DARKNESS—SUFFERING FROM COLD—HOW WE TOOK OUR MEALS—ORDERS TO PREPARE FOR BALTIMORE—OVERJOYED AT THE THOUGHT OF
QUITTING THE PLANTATION—EXTRAORDINARY CLEANSING—COUSIN TOM'S
VERSION OF BALTIMORE—ARRIVAL THERE—KIND RECEPTION GIVEN ME BY
MRS. SOPHIA AULD—LITTLE TOMMY—MY NEW POSITION—MY NEW DUTIES—A
TURNING POINT IN MY HISTORY.
I have nothing cruel or shocking to relate of my own
personal experience, while I remained on Col. Lloyd's plantation,
at the home of my old master. An occasional cuff from Aunt Katy,
and a regular whipping from old master, such as any heedless and
mischievous boy might get from his father, is all that I can mention of this sort. I was not old enough to work in the field,
and, there being little else than field work to perform, I had
much leisure. The most I had to do, was, to drive up the cows in
the evening, to keep the front yard clean, and to perform small
errands for my young mistress, Lucretia Auld. I have reasons for
thinking this lady was very kindly disposed toward me, and,
although I was not often the object of her attention, I
constantly regarded her as my friend, and was always glad when it
was my privilege to do her a service. In a family where there
was so much that was harsh, cold and indifferent, the slightest
word or look of kindness passed, with me, for its full value.
Miss Lucretia—as we all continued to call her long after
her marriage—had bestowed upon me such words and looks as taught
me that she pitied me, if she did not love me. In addition to
words and looks, she sometimes gave me a piece of bread and
butter; a thing not set down in the bill of fare, and which must
have been an extra ration, planned aside from either Aunt Katy or
old master, solely out of the tender regard and friendship she
had for me. Then, too, I one day got into the wars with Uncle
Able's son, "Ike," and had got sadly worsted; in fact, the little
rascal had struck me directly in the forehead with a sharp piece
of cinder, fused with iron, from the old blacksmith's forge,
which made a cross in my forehead very plainly to be seen now.
The gash bled very freely, and I roared very loudly and betook
myself home. The coldhearted Aunt Katy paid no attention either
to my wound or my roaring, except to tell me it served me right;
I had no business with Ike; it was good for me; I would now keep
away
"from dem Lloyd niggers." Miss Lucretia, in this
state of the case, came forward; and, in quite a different spirit
from that manifested by Aunt Katy, she called me into the parlor
(an extra privilege of itself) and, without using toward me any
of the hard-hearted and reproachful epithets of my kitchen
tormentor, she quietly acted the good Samaritan. With her own
soft hand she washed the blood from my head and face, fetched her
own balsam bottle, and with the balsam wetted a nice piece of
white
linen, and bound up my head. The balsam was not more
healing to the wound in my head, than her kindness was healing to
the wounds in my spirit, made by the unfeeling words of Aunt
Katy. After this, Miss Lucretia was my friend. I felt her to be
such; and I have no doubt that the simple act of binding up my
head, did much to awaken in her mind an interest in my welfare.
It is quite true, that this interest was never very marked, and
it seldom showed itself in anything more than in giving me a
piece of bread when I was hungry; but this was a great favor on a
slave plantation, and I was the only one of the children to whom
such attention was paid.
When very
hungry, I would go into the back yard and play under Miss
Lucretia's window. When pretty severely pinched by hunger, I had
a habit of singing, which the good lady very soon came to
understand as a petition for a piece of bread. When I sung under
Miss Lucretia's window, I was very apt to get well paid for my
music. The reader will see that I now had two friends, both at
important points—Mas' Daniel at the great house, and Miss
Lucretia at home. From Mas' Daniel I got protection from the
bigger boys; and from Miss Lucretia I got bread, by singing when
I was hungry, and sympathy when I was abused by that termagant,
who had the reins of government in the kitchen. For such friendship I felt deeply grateful, and bitter as are my recollections
of slavery, I love to recall any instances of kindness, any
sunbeams of humane treatment, which found way to my soul through
the iron grating of my house of bondage. Such beams seem all the
brighter from
the general darkness into which they penetrate, and
the impression they make is vividly distinct and beautiful.
As I have before intimated, I was seldom whipped—and
never severely—by my old master. I suffered little from the
treatment I received, except from hunger and cold. These were my
two great physical troubles. I could neither get a sufficiency
of food nor of clothing; but I suffered less from hunger than
from cold. In hottest summer and coldest winter, I was kept
almost in a state of nudity; no shoes, no stockings, no jacket,
no trowsers; nothing but coarse sackcloth or tow-linen, made into
a sort of shirt, reaching down to my knees. This I wore night
and day, changing it once a week. In the day time I could
protect myself pretty well, by keeping on the sunny side of the
house; and in bad weather, in the corner of the kitchen chimney.
The great difficulty was, to keep warm during the night. I had
no bed. The pigs in the pen had leaves, and the horses in the
stable had straw, but the children had no beds. They lodged
anywhere in the ample kitchen. I slept, generally, in a little
closet, without even a blanket to cover me. In very cold
weather. I sometimes got down the bag in which corn
meal was
usually carried to the mill, and crawled into that. Sleeping
there, with my head in and feet out, I was partly protected,
though not comfortable. My feet have been so cracked with the
frost, that the pen with which I am writing might be laid in the
gashes. The manner of taking our meals at old master's, indicated but little refinement. Our corn-meal mush, when
sufficiently
cooled, was placed in a large wooden tray, or
trough, like those used in making maple sugar here in the north.
This tray was set down, either on the floor of the kitchen, or
out of doors on the ground; and the children were called, like so
many pigs; and like so many pigs they would come, and literally
devour the mush—some with oyster shells, some with pieces of
shingles, and none with spoons. He that eat fastest got most,
and he that was strongest got the best place; and few left the
trough really satisfied. I was the most unlucky of any, for Aunt
Katy had no good feeling for me; and if I pushed any of the other
children, or if they told her anything unfavorable of me, she
always believed the worst, and was sure to whip me.
As I grew older and more thoughtful, I was more and more
filled with a sense of my wretchedness. The cruelty of Aunt
Katy, the hunger and cold I suffered, and the terrible reports of
wrong and outrage which came to my ear, together with what I
almost daily witnessed, led me, when yet but eight or nine years
old, to wish I had never been born. I used to contrast my
condition with the black-birds, in whose wild and sweet songs I
fancied them so happy! Their apparent joy only deepened the
shades of my sorrow. There are thoughtful days in the lives of
children—at least there were in mine when they grapple with all
the great, primary subjects of knowledge, and reach, in a moment,
conclusions which no subsequent experience can shake. I was just
as well aware of the unjust, unnatural and murderous character of
slavery, when nine years old, as I am now. Without
any appeal to
books, to laws, or to authorities of any kind, it was enough to
accept God as a father, to regard slavery as a crime.
I was not ten years old when I left Col. Lloyd's
plantation for Baltimore. I left that plantation with
inexpressible joy. I never shall forget the ecstacy with which I
received the intelligence from my friend, Miss Lucretia, that my
old master had determined to let me go to Baltimore to live with
Mr. Hugh Auld, a brother to Mr. Thomas Auld, my old master's son-in-law. I received this information about three days before my
departure. They were three of the happiest days of my childhood.
I spent the largest part of these three days in the creek,
washing off the plantation scurf, and preparing for my new home.
Mrs. Lucretia took a lively interest in getting me ready. She
told me I must get all the dead skin off my feet and knees,
before I could go to Baltimore, for the people there were very
cleanly, and would laugh at me if I looked dirty; and, besides,
she was intending to give me a pair of trowsers, which I should
not put on unless I got all the dirt off. This was a warning to
which I was bound to take heed; for the thought of owning a pair
of trowsers, was great, indeed. It was almost a sufficient
motive, not only to induce me to scrub off the mange (as
pig drovers would call it) but the skin as well. So I went at it
in good earnest, working for the first time in the hope of
reward. I was greatly excited, and could hardly consent to
sleep, lest I should be left. The ties that, ordinarily, bind
children to their homes, were all severed, or they never had any
existence in
my case, at least so far as the home plantation of
Col. L. was concerned. I therefore found no severe trail at the
moment of my departure, such as I had experienced when separated
from my home in Tuckahoe. My home at my old master's was
charmless to me; it was not home, but a prison to me; on parting
from it, I could not feel that I was leaving anything which I
could have enjoyed by staying. My mother was now long dead; my
grandmother was far away, so that I seldom saw her; Aunt Katy was
my unrelenting tormentor; and my two sisters and brothers, owing
to our early separation in life, and the family-destroying power
of slavery, were, comparatively, stran
gers to me. The fact
of our relationship was almost blotted out. I looked for
home elsewhere, and was confident of finding none which I
should relish less than the one I was leaving. If, however, I
found in my new home to which I was going with such blissful
anticipations—hardship, whipping and nakedness, I had the
questionable consolation that I should not have escaped any one
of these evils by remaining under the management of Aunt Katy.
Then, too, I thought, since I had endured much in this line on
Lloyd's plantation, I could endure as much elsewhere, and especially at Baltimore; for I had something of the feeling about
that city which is expressed in the saying, that being "hanged in
England, is better than dying a natural death in Ireland." I had
the strongest desire to see Baltimore. My cousin Tom—a boy two
or three years older than I—had been there, and though not
fluent (he stuttered immoderately) in speech, he had inspired me
with that desire, by his
eloquent description of the place. Tom
was, sometimes, Capt. Auld's cabin boy; and when he came from
Baltimore, he was always a sort of hero amongst us, at least till
his Baltimore trip was forgotten. I could never tell him of anything, or point out anything that struck me as beautiful or
powerful, but that he had seen something in Baltimore far
surpassing it. Even the great house itself, with all its
pictures within, and pillars without, he had the hardihood to say
"was nothing to Baltimore." He bought a trumpet (worth six
pence) and brought it home; told what he had seen in the windows
of stores; that he had heard shooting crackers, and seen
soldiers; that he had seen a steamboat; that there were ships in
Baltimore that could carry four such sloops as the "Sally Lloyd."
He said a great deal about the market-house; he spoke of the
bells ringing; and of many other things which roused my curiosity
very much; and, indeed, which heightened my hopes of happiness in
my new home.
We sailed out of Miles river for Baltimore early on a
Saturday morning. I remember only the day of the week; for, at
that time,
I had no knowledge of the
days of the month, nor, indeed, of the months of the year. On
setting sail, I walked aft, and gave to Col. Lloyd's plantation
what I hoped would be the last look I should ever give to it, or
to any place like it. My strong aversion to the great farm, was
not owing to my own personal suffering, but the daily suffering
of others, and to the certainty that I must, sooner or later, be
placed under the barbarous rule of an overseer, such as the
accomplished Gore, or the
brutal and drunken Plummer. After
taking this last view, I quitted the quarter deck, made my way to
the bow of the sloop, and spent the remainder of the day in
looking ahead; interesting myself in what was in the distance,
rather than what was near by or behind. The vessels, sweeping
along the bay, were very interesting objects. The broad bay
opened like a shoreless ocean on my boyish vision, filling me
with wonder and admiration.
Late in the afternoon, we reached Annapolis, the capital
of the state, stopping there not long enough to admit of my going
ashore. It was the first large town I had ever seen; and though
it was inferior to many a factory village in New England, my
feelings, on seeing it, were excited to a pitch very little below
that reached by travelers at the first view of Rome. The dome of
the state house was especially imposing, and surpassed in
grandeur the appearance of the great house. The great world was
opening upon me very rapidly, and I was eagerly acquainting
myself with its multifarious lessons.
We arrived in Baltimore on Sunday morning, and landed at
Smith's wharf, not far from Bowly's wharf. We had on board the
sloop a large flock of sheep, for the Baltimore market; and,
after assisting in driving them to the slaughter house of Mr.
Curtis, on Loudon Slater's Hill, I was speedily conducted by
Rich—one of the hands belonging to the sloop—to my new home in
Alliciana street, near Gardiner's ship-yard, on Fell's Point.
Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Auld, my new mistress and master, were both at
home, and met me at the door with their rosy cheeked little son,
Thomas, to take
care of whom was to constitute my future
occupation. In fact, it was to "little Tommy," rather than to
his parents, that old master made a present of me; and though
there was no
legal form or arrangement entered into, I
have no doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Auld felt that, in due time, I
should be the legal property of their bright-eyed and beloved
boy, Tommy. I was struck with the appearance, especially, of my
new mistress. Her face was lighted with the kindliest emotions;
and the reflex influence of her countenance, as well as the
tenderness with which she seemed to regard me, while asking me
sundry little questions, greatly delighted me, and lit up, to my
fancy, the pathway of my future. Miss Lucretia was kind; but my
new mistress, "Miss Sophy," surpassed her in kindness of manner.
Little Thomas was affectionately told by his mother, that
"there was his Freddy," and that "Freddy would take care
of him;" and I was told to "be kind to little Tommy"—an
injunction I scarcely needed, for I had already fallen in love
with the dear boy; and with these little ceremonies I was
initiated into my new home, and entered upon my peculiar duties,
with not a cloud above the horizon.
I may say here, that I regard my removal from Col. Lloyd's
plantation as one of the most interesting and fortunate events of
my life. Viewing it in the light of human likelihoods, it is
quite probable that, but for the mere circumstance of being thus
removed before the rigors of slavery had fastened upon me; before
my young spirit had been crushed under the iron control of the
slave-driver, instead of being, today,
a FREEMAN, I might have
been wearing the galling chains of slavery. I have sometimes
felt, however, that there was something more intelligent than
chance, and something more certain than
luck, to be
seen in the circumstance. If I have made any progress in
knowledge; if I have cherished any honorable aspirations, or
have, in any manner, worthily discharged the duties of a member
of an oppressed people; this little circumstance must be allowed
its due weight in giving my
life that direction. I have ever regarded it as the first plain
manifestation of that
"Divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will."
I was not the only boy on the plantation that might have
been sent to live in Baltimore. There was a wide margin from
which to select. There were boys younger, boys older, and boys
of the same age, belonging to my old master some at his own
house, and some at his farm—but the high privilege fell to my
lot.
I may be deemed superstitious and egotistical, in
regarding this event as a special interposition of Divine
Providence in my favor; but the thought is a part of my history,
and I should be false to the earliest and most cherished
sentiments of my soul, if I suppressed, or hesitated to avow that
opinion, although it may be characterized as irrational by the
wise, and ridiculous by the scoffer. From my earliest
recollections of serious matters, I date the entertainment of
something like an ineffaceable conviction, that slavery would not
always be able to
hold me within its foul embrace; and this
conviction, like a word of living faith, strengthened me through
the darkest trials of my lot. This good spirit was from God; and
to him I offer thanksgiving and praise.
10. CHAPTER X.
LIFE IN BALTIMORE.
CITY ANNOYANCES—PLANTATION REGRETS—MY MISTRESS, MISS SOPHA—HER
HISTORY—HER KINDNESS TO ME—MY MASTER, HUGH AULD—HIS SOURNESS—MY INCREASED SENSITIVENESS—MY COMFORTS—MY OCCUPATION—THE BANEFUL EFFECTS OF SLAVEHOLDING ON MY DEAR AND GOOD MISTRESS—HOW SHE
COMMENCED TEACHING ME TO READ—WHY SHE CEASED TEACHING ME—CLOUDS
GATHERING OVER MY BRIGHT PROSPECTS—MASTER AULD'S EXPOSITION OF
THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY OF SLAVERY—CITY SLAVES—PLANTATION SLAVES—THE CONTRAST—EXCEPTIONS—MR. HAMILTON'S TWO SLAVES, HENRIETTA
AND MARY—MRS. HAMILTON'S CRUEL TREATMENT OF THEM—THE PITEOUS
ASPECT THEY PRESENTED—NO POWER MUST COME BETWEEN THE SLAVE AND
THE SLAVEHOLDER.
Once in Baltimore, with hard brick pavements under my
feet, which almost raised blisters, by their very heat, for it
was in the height of summer; walled in on all sides by towering
brick buildings; with troops of hostile boys ready to pounce upon
me at every street corner; with new and strange objects glaring
upon me at every step, and with startling sounds reaching my ears
from all directions, I for a time thought that, after all, the
home plantation was a more desirable place of residence than my
home on Alliciana street, in Baltimore. My country eyes and ears
were confused and bewildered here; but the boys were my chief
trouble. They chased me, and called me "Eastern Shore
man," till really I almost wished myself back on the Eastern
Shore. I had to undergo a sort
of moral acclimation, and when
that was over, I did much better. My new mistress happily proved
to be all she
seemed to be, when, with her husband, she
met me at the door, with a most
beaming, benignant countenance. She was, naturally, of an
excellent disposition, kind, gentle and cheerful. The
supercilious contempt for the rights and feelings of the slave,
and the petulance and bad humor which generally characterize
slaveholding ladies, were all quite absent from kind "Miss"
Sophia's manner and bearing toward me. She had, in truth, never
been a slaveholder, but had—a thing quite unusual in the south—depended almost entirely upon her own industry for a living. To
this fact the dear lady, no doubt, owed the excellent preservation of her natural goodness of heart, for slavery can change a
saint into a sinner, and an angel into a demon. I hardly knew
how to behave toward "Miss Sopha," as I used to call Mrs. Hugh
Auld. I had been treated as a
pig on the plantation; I
was treated as a
child now. I could not even approach her
as I had formerly approached Mrs. Thomas Auld. How could I hang
down my head, and speak with bated breath, when there was no
pride to scorn me, no coldness to repel me, and no hatred to
inspire me with fear? I therefore soon learned to regard her as
something more akin to a mother, than a slaveholding mistress.
The crouching servility of a slave, usually so acceptable a
quality to the haughty slaveholder, was not understood nor
desired by this gentle woman. So far from deeming it impudent in
a slave to look her straight in the face, as some slaveholding
ladies do, she seemed ever to say, "look up,
child; don't be
afraid; see, I am full of kindness and good will toward you."
The hands belonging to Col. Lloyd's sloop, esteemed it a great
privilege to be the bearers of parcels or messages to my new
mistress; for whenever they came, they were sure of a most kind
and pleasant reception. If little Thomas was her son, and her
most dearly beloved child, she, for a time, at least, made me
something like his half-brother in her affections. If dear Tommy
was exalted to a place on his mother's knee, "Feddy" was honored
by a place at his mother's side. Nor did he lack the caressing
strokes of her gentle hand, to convince him that, though
motherless, he was not
friendless. Mrs. Auld
was not only a kind-hearted woman, but she was remarkably
pious; frequent in her attendance of public worship, much given
to reading the bible, and to chanting hymns of praise, when
alone. Mr. Hugh Auld was altogether a different character. He
cared very little about religion, knew more of the world, and was
more of the world, than his wife. He set out, doubtless to be—as the world goes—a respectable man, and to get on by becoming a
successful ship builder, in that city of ship building. This was
his ambition, and it fully occupied him. I was, of course, of
very little consequence to him, compared with what I was to good
Mrs. Auld; and, when he smiled upon me, as he sometimes did, the
smile was borrowed from his lovely wife, and, like all borrowed
light, was transient, and vanished with the source whence it was
derived. While I must characterize Master Hugh as being a very
sour man, and of forbidding appearance, it is due to him to
acknowledge, that he was never
very cruel to me, according to the
notion of cruelty in Maryland. The first year or two which I
spent in his house, he left me almost exclusively to the management of his wife. She was my law-giver. In hands so tender as
hers, and in the absence of the cruelties of the plantation, I
became, both physically and mentally, much more sensitive to good
and ill treatment; and, perhaps, suffered more from a frown from
my mistress, than I formerly did from a cuff at the hands of Aunt
Katy. Instead of the cold, damp floor of my old master's
kitchen, I found myself on carpets; for the corn bag in winter, I
now had a good straw bed, well furnished with covers; for the
coarse corn-meal in the morning, I now had good bread, and mush
occasionally; for my poor tow-lien shirt, reaching to my knees, I
had good, clean clothes. I was really well off. My employment
was to run errands, and to take care of Tommy; to prevent his
getting in the way of carriages, and to keep him out of harm's
way generally. Tommy, and I, and his mother, got on swimmingly
together, for a time. I say
for a time, because the fatal
poison of irresponsible power, and the natural influence
of slavery customs, were not long in making a
suitable impression on the gentle and loving disposition of my
excellent mistress. At first, Mrs. Auld evidently regarded me
simply as a child, like any other child; she had not come to
regard me as
property. This latter thought was a thing of
conventional growth. The first was natural and spontaneous. A
noble nature, like hers, could not, instantly, be wholly
perverted; and it took several years to change the natural
sweetness of her
temper into fretful bitterness. In her worst
estate, however, there were, during the first seven years I lived
with her, occasional returns of her former kindly disposition.
The frequent hearing of my mistress reading the bible for
she often read aloud when her husband was absent soon awakened my
curiosity in respect to this mystery of reading, and
roused in me the desire to learn. Having no fear of my kind
mistress before my eyes, (she had then given me no reason to
fear,) I frankly asked her to teach me to read; and, without
hesitation, the dear woman began the task, and very soon, by her
assistance, I was master of the alphabet, and could spell words
of three or four letters. My mistress seemed almost as proud of
my progress, as if I had been her own child; and, supposing that
her husband would be as well pleased, she made no secret of what
she was doing for me. Indeed, she exultingly told him of the
aptness of her pupil, of her intention to persevere in teaching
me, and of the duty which she felt it to teach me, at least to
read the bible. Here arose the first cloud over my
Baltimore prospects, the precursor of drenching rains and
chilling blasts.
Master Hugh was amazed at the simplicity of his spouse,
and, probably for the first time, he unfolded to her the true
philosophy of slavery, and the peculiar rules necessary to be
observed by masters and mistresses, in the management of their
human chattels. Mr. Auld promptly forbade continuance of her
instruction; telling her, in the first place, that the thing
itself was unlawful; that it was also unsafe, and could only lead
to mischief. To use his own words,
further, he said, "if
you give a nigger an inch, he will take an ell;" "he should know
nothing but the will of his master, and learn to obey it." "if
you teach that nigger—speaking of myself—how to read the bible,
there will be no keeping him;" "it would forever unfit him for
the duties of a slave;" and "as to himself, learning would do him
no good, but probably, a great deal of harm—making him
disconsolate and unhappy." "If you learn him now to read, he'll
want to know how to write; and, this accomplished, he'll be
running away with himself." Such was the tenor of Master Hugh's
oracular exposition of the true philosophy of training a human
chattel; and it must be confessed that he very clearly
comprehended the nature and the requirements of the relation of
master and slave. His discourse was the first decidedly anti-slavery lecture to which it had been my lot to listen. Mrs. Auld
evidently felt the force of his remarks; and, like an obedient
wife, began to shape her course in the direction indicated by her
husband. The effect of his words,
on me, was neither
slight nor transitory. His iron sentences—cold and harsh—sunk
deep into my heart, and stirred up not only my feelings into a
sort of rebellion, but awakened within me a slumbering train of
vital thought. It was a new and special revelation, dispelling a
painful mystery, against which my youthful understanding had
struggled, and struggled in vain, to wit: the
white man's
power to perpetuate the enslavement of the
black man.
"Very well," thought I; "knowledge unfits a child to be a slave."
I instinctively assented to the proposition;
and from that moment
I understood the direct pathway from slavery to freedom. This
was just what I needed; and I got it at a time, and from a
source, whence I least expected it. I was saddened at the
thought of losing the assistance of my kind mistress; but the
information, so instantly derived, to some extent compensated me
for the loss I had sustained in this direction. Wise as Mr. Auld
was, he evidently underrated my comprehension, and had little
idea of the use to which I was capable of putting
the impressive lesson he was giving to
his wife.
He wanted me to be
a slave; I had
already voted against that on the home plantation of Col. Lloyd.
That which he most loved I most hated; and the very determination
which he expressed to keep me in ignorance, only rendered me the
more resolute in seeking intelligence. In learning to read,
therefore, I am not sure that I do not owe quite as much to the
opposition of my master, as to the kindly assistance of my
amiable mistress. I acknowledge the benefit rendered me by the
one, and by the other; believing, that but for my mistress, I
might have grown up in ignorance.
I had resided but a short time in Baltimore, before I
observed a marked difference in the manner of treating slaves,
generally, from which I had witnessed in that isolated and out-of-the-way part of the country where I began life. A city slave
is almost a free citizen, in Baltimore, compared with a slave on
Col. Lloyd's plantation. He is much better fed and clothed, is
less dejected in his appearance, and enjoys privileges altogether
unknown to the whip-driven slave on the plantation. Slavery
dislikes a dense population,
in which there is a majority of non-slaveholders. The general sense of decency that must pervade
such a population, does much to check and prevent those outbreaks
of atrocious cruelty, and those dark crimes without a name,
almost openly perpetrated on the plantation. He is a desperate
slaveholder who will shock the humanity of his non-slaveholding
neighbors, by the cries of the lacerated slaves; and very few in
the city are willing to incur the odium of being cruel masters.
I found, in Baltimore, that no man was more odious to the white,
as well as to the colored people, than he, who had the reputation
of starving his slaves. Work them, flog them, if need be, but
don't starve them. These are, however, some painful exceptions
to this rule. While it is quite true that most of the
slaveholders in Baltimore feed and clothe their slaves well,
there are others who keep up their country cruelties in the city.
An instance of this sort is furnished in the case of a
family who lived directly opposite to our house, and were
named Hamilton. Mrs. Hamilton owned two slaves. Their names
were Henrietta and Mary. They had always been house slaves. One
was aged about twenty-two, and the other about fourteen. They
were a fragile couple by nature, and the treatment they received
was enough to break down the constitution of a horse. Of all the
dejected, emaciated, mangled and excoriated creatures I ever saw,
those two girls—in the refined, church going and Christian city
of Baltimore were the most deplorable. Of stone must that heart
be made, that could look upon Henrietta and Mary, without being
sickened
to the core with sadness. Especially was Mary a heart-sickening object. Her head, neck and shoulders, were literally
cut to pieces. I have frequently felt her head, and found it
nearly covered over with festering sores, caused by the lash of
her cruel mistress. I do not know that her master ever whipped
her, but I have often been an eye witness of the revolting and
brutal inflictions by Mrs. Hamilton; and what lends a deeper
shade to this woman's conduct, is the fact, that, almost in the
very moments of her shocking outrages of humanity and decency,
she would charm you by the sweetness of her voice and her seeming
piety. She used to sit in a large rocking chair, near the middle
of the room, with a heavy cowskin, such as I have elsewhere
described; and I speak within the truth when I say, that these
girls seldom passed that chair, during the day, without a blow
from that cowskin, either upon their bare arms, or upon their
shoulders. As they passed her, she would draw her cowskin and
give them a blow, saying,
"move faster, you black jip!"
and, again,
"take that, you black jip!" continuing,
"if
you don't move faster, I will give you more." Then the lady
would go on, singing her sweet hymns, as though her
righteous soul were sighing for the holy realms of
paradise.
Added to the cruel lashings to which these poor slave-girls were subjected—enough in themselves to crush the spirit of
men—they were, really, kept nearly half starved; they seldom
knew what it was to
eat a full meal, except when they got it in the kitchens of
neighbors, less mean and stingy than the
psalm-singing Mrs.
Hamilton. I have seen poor Mary contending for the offal, with
the pigs in the street. So much was the poor girl pinched,
kicked, cut and pecked to pieces, that the boys in the street
knew her only by the name of
"pecked," a name derived from
the scars and blotches on her neck, head and shoulders.
It is some relief to this picture of slavery in Baltimore,
to say—what is but the simple truth—that Mrs. Hamilton's
treatment of her slaves was generally condemned, as disgraceful
and shocking; but while I say this, it must also be remembered,
that the very parties who censured the cruelty of Mrs. Hamilton,
would have condemned and promptly punished any attempt to
interfere with Mrs. Hamilton's right to cut and slash her
slaves to pieces. There must be no force between the slave and
the slaveholder, to restrain the power of the one, and protect
the weakness of the other; and the cruelty of Mrs. Hamilton is as
justly chargeable to the upholders of the slave system, as
drunkenness is chargeable on those who, by precept and example,
or by indifference, uphold the drinking system.
11. CHAPTER XI.
"A CHANGE CAME O'ER THE SPIRIT OF MY DREAM."
HOW I LEARNED TO READ—MY MISTRESS—HER SLAVEHOLDING DUTIES—THEIR DEPLORABLE EFFECTS UPON HER ORIGINALLY NOBLE NATURE—THE
CONFLICT IN HER MIND—HER FINAL OPPOSITION TO MY LEARNING TO
READ—TOO LATE—SHE HAD GIVEN ME THE INCH, I WAS RESOLVED TO TAKE
THE ELL—HOW I PURSUED MY EDUCATION—MY TUTORS—HOW I COMPENSATED
THEM—WHAT PROGRESS I MADE—SLAVERY—WHAT I HEARD SAID ABOUT IT—THIRTEEN YEARS OLD—THE Columbian Orator—A RICH SCENE—A
DIALOGUE—SPEECHES OF CHATHAM, SHERIDAN, PITT AND FOX—KNOWLEDGE
EVER INCREASING—MY EYES OPENED—LIBERTY—HOW I PINED FOR IT—MY
SADNESS—THE DISSATISFACTION OF MY POOR MISTRESS—MY HATRED OF
SLAVERY—ONE UPAS TREE OVERSHADOWED US BOTH.
I lived in the family of Master Hugh, at Baltimore, seven
years, during which time—as the almanac makers say of the
weather—my condition was variable. The most interesting feature
of my history here, was my learning to read and write, under
somewhat marked disadvantages. In attaining this knowledge, I
was compelled to resort to indirections by no means congenial to
my nature, and which were really humiliating to me. My
mistress—who, as the reader has already seen, had begun to teach
me was suddenly checked in her benevolent design, by the strong
advice of her husband. In faithful compliance with this advice,
the good lady had not only ceased to instruct me, herself, but
had set her face as a flint against my learning to read by any
means. It is due,
however, to my mistress to say, that she did
not adopt this course in all its stringency at the first. She
either thought it unnecessary, or she lacked the depravity
indispensable to shutting me up in
mental darkness. It was, at least, necessary for
her to have some training, and some hardening, in the exercise of
the slaveholder's prerogative, to make her equal to forgetting my
human nature and character, and to treating me as a thing
destitute of a moral or an intellectual nature. Mrs. Auld—my
mistress—was, as I have said, a most kind and tender-hearted
woman; and, in the humanity of her heart, and the simplicity of
her mind, she set out, when I first went to live with her, to
treat me as she supposed one human being ought to treat another.
It is easy to see, that, in entering upon the duties of a
slaveholder, some little experience is needed. Nature has done
almost nothing to prepare men and women to be either slaves or
slaveholders. Nothing but rigid training, long persisted in, can
perfect the character of the one or the other. One cannot easily
forget to love freedom; and it is as hard to cease to respect
that natural love in our fellow creatures. On entering upon the
career of a slaveholding mistress, Mrs. Auld was singularly
deficient; nature, which fits nobody for such an office, had done
less for her than any lady I had known. It was no easy matter to
induce her to think and to feel that the curly-headed boy, who
stood by her side, and even leaned on her lap; who was loved by
little Tommy, and who loved little Tommy in turn; sustained to
her only the relation of a chattel. I was more than that,
and she felt
me to be more than that. I could talk and sing; I
could laugh and weep; I could reason and remember; I could love
and hate. I was human, and she, dear lady, knew and felt me to
be so. How could she, then, treat me as a brute, without a
mighty struggle with all the noble powers of her own soul. That
struggle came, and the will and power of the husband was
victorious. Her noble soul was overthrown; but, he that
overthrew it did not, himself, escape the consequences. He, not
less than the other parties, was injured in his domestic peace by
the fall.
When I went into their family, it was the abode of
happiness and contentment. The mistress of the house was a model
of affec
tion and tenderness. Her fervent piety and watchful
uprightness made it impossible to see her without thinking and
feeling—"that woman is a Christian." There was no sorrow
nor suffering for which she had not a tear, and there was no
innocent joy for which she did not a smile. She had bread for
the hungry, clothes for the naked, and comfort for every mourner
that came within her reach. Slavery soon proved its ability to
divest her of these excellent qualities, and her home of its
early happiness. Conscience cannot stand much violence. Once
thoroughly broken down, who is he that can repair the
damage? It may be broken toward the slave, on Sunday, and toward
the master on Monday. It cannot endure such shocks. It must
stand entire, or it does not stand at all. If my condition waxed
bad, that of the family waxed not better. The first step, in the
wrong direction, was the violence done to nature
and to
conscience, in arresting the benevolence that would have
enlightened my young mind. In ceasing to instruct me, she must
begin to justify herself
to herself; and, once consenting
to take sides in such a debate, she was riveted to her position.
One needs very little knowledge of moral philosophy, to see
where my mistress now landed. She finally became even
more violent in her opposition to my learning to read, than was
her husband himself. She was not satisfied with simply doing as
well as her husband had commanded her, but seemed resolved
to better his instruction. Nothing appeared to make my poor
mistress—after her turning toward the downward path—more angry,
than seeing me, seated in some nook or corner, quietly reading a
book or a newspaper. I have had her rush at me, with the utmost
fury, and snatch from my hand such newspaper or book, with
something of the wrath and consternation which a traitor might be
supposed to feel on being discovered in a plot by some dangerous
spy.
Mrs. Auld was an apt woman, and the advice of her husband,
and her own experience, soon demonstrated, to her entire satisfaction, that education and slavery are incompatible with each
other. When this conviction was thoroughly established, I was
most narrowly watched in all my
movements. If I remained in a separate room from the family for
any considerable length of time, I was sure to be suspected of
having a book, and was at once called upon to give an account of
myself. All this, however, was entirely too late. The
first, and never to be retraced, step had been taken. In
teaching me the alphabet, in the
days of her simplicity and
kindness, my mistress had given me the
"inch," and now, no
ordinary precaution could prevent me from taking the
"ell."
Seized with a determination to learn to read, at any cost,
I hit upon many expedients to accomplish the desired end. The
plea which I mainly adopted, and the one by which I was most
successful, was that of using my young white playmates, with whom
I met in the streets as teachers. I used to carry, almost constantly, a copy of Webster's spelling book in my pocket; and,
when sent of errands, or when play time was allowed me, I would
step, with my young friends, aside, and take a lesson in
spelling. I generally paid my tuition fee to the boys,
with bread, which I also carried in my pocket. For a single
biscuit, any of my hungry little comrades would give me a lesson
more valuable to me than bread. Not every one, however, demanded
this consideration, for there were those who took pleasure in
teaching me, whenever I had a chance to be taught by them. I am
strongly tempted to give the names of two or three of those
little boys, as a slight testimonial of the gratitude and
affection I bear them, but prudence forbids; not that it would
injure me, but it might, possibly, embarrass them; for it is
almost an unpardonable offense to do any thing, directly or
indirectly, to promote a slave's freedom, in a slave state. It
is enough to say, of my warm-hearted little play fellows, that
they lived on Philpot street, very near Durgin & Bailey's
shipyard.
Although slavery was a delicate subject, and very
cautiously talked about among grown up people in Maryland, I
frequently talked about it—and that very
freely—with the white
boys. I would, sometimes, say to them, while seated on a
curb stone or a cellar door, "I wish I could be free, as you will
be when you get to be men." "You will be free, you know, as soon
as you are twenty-one, and can go where you like, but I am a
slave for life. Have I not as good a right to be free as you
have?" Words like these, I observed, always troubled them; and I
had no small satisfaction in wringing from the boys,
occasionally, that fresh and bitter condemnation of slavery, that
springs from nature, unseared and unperverted. Of all
consciences let me have those to deal with which have not been
bewildered by the cares of life. I do not remember ever to have
met with a
boy, while I was in slavery, who defended the
slave system; but I have often had boys to console me, with the
hope that something would yet occur, by which I might be made
free. Over and over again, they have told me, that "they
believed I had as good a right to be free as
they had;"
and that "they did not believe God ever made any one to be a
slave." The reader will easily see, that such little
conversations with my play fellows, had no tendency to weaken my
love of liberty, nor to render me contented with my condition as
a slave.
When I was about thirteen years old, and had succeeded in
learning to read, every increase of knowledge, especially
respecting the FREE STATES, added something to the almost
intolerable burden of the thought—I AM A SLAVE FOR LIFE. To my
bondage I saw no end. It was a terrible reality, and I shall
never be able to tell how sadly that thought chafed my young
spirit. Fortunately, or unfortunately,
about this time in my
life, I had made enough money to buy what was then a very popular
school book, viz: the
Columbian Orator. I bought this
addition to my library, of Mr. Knight, on Thames street, Fell's
Point, Baltimore, and paid him fifty cents for it. I was first
led to buy this book, by hearing some little boys say they were
going to learn some little pieces out of it for the Exhibition.
This volume was, indeed, a rich treasure, and every opportunity
afforded me, for
a time, was spent in diligently perusing it. Among much other
interesting matter, that which I had perused and reperused with
unflagging satisfaction, was a short dialogue between a master
and his slave. The slave is represented as having been recaptured, in a second attempt to run away; and the master opens the
dialogue with an upbraiding speech, charging the slave with
ingratitude, and demanding to know what he has to say in his own
defense. Thus upbraided, and thus called upon to reply, the
slave rejoins, that he knows how little anything that he can say
will avail, seeing that he is completely in the hands of his
owner; and with noble resolution, calmly says, "I submit to my
fate." Touched by the slave's answer, the master insists upon
his further speaking, and recapitulates the many acts of kindness
which he has performed toward the slave, and tells him he is
permitted to speak for himself. Thus invited to the debate, the
quondam slave made a spirited defense of himself, and thereafter
the whole argument, for and against slavery, was brought out.
The master was vanquished at every turn in the argument; and
seeing himself to be thus vanquished, he
generously and meekly
emancipates the slave, with his best wishes for his prosperity.
It is scarcely necessary to say, that a dialogue, with such
an origin, and such an ending—read when the fact of my being a
slave was a constant burden of grief—powerfully affected me; and
I could not help feeling that the day might come, when the well-directed answers made by the slave to the master, in this
instance, would find their counterpart in myself.
This, however, was not all the fanaticism which I found in
this Columbian Orator. I met there one of Sheridan's
mighty speeches, on the subject of Catholic Emancipation, Lord
Chatham's speech on the American war, and speeches by the great
William Pitt and by Fox. These were all choice documents to me,
and I read them, over and over again, with an interest that was
ever increasing, because it was ever gaining in intelligence; for
the more I read them, the better I understood them. The reading
of these speeches added much to my limited stock of
language, and enabled me to give tongue to many interesting
thoughts, which had frequently flashed through my soul, and died
away for want of utterance. The mighty power and heart-searching
directness of truth, penetrating even the heart of a slaveholder,
compelling him to yield up his earthly interests to the claims of
eternal justice, were finely illustrated in the dialogue, just
referred to; and from the speeches of Sheridan, I got a bold and
powerful denunciation of oppression, and a most brilliant
vindication of the rights of man. Here was, indeed, a noble
acquisition. If I ever wavered under the consideration, that the
Almighty,
in some way, ordained slavery, and willed my
enslavement for his own glory, I wavered no longer. I had now
penetrated the secret of all slavery and oppression, and had
ascertained their true foundation to be in the pride, the power
and the avarice of man. The dialogue and the speeches were all
redolent of the principles of liberty, and poured floods of light
on the nature and character of slavery. With a book of this kind
in my hand, my own human nature, and the facts of my experience,
to help me, I was equal to a contest with the religious advocates
of slavery, whether among the whites or among the colored people,
for blindness, in this matter, is not confined to the former. I
have met many religious colored people, at the south, who are
under the delusion that God requires them to submit to slavery,
and to wear their chains with meekness and humility. I could
entertain no such nonsense as this; and I almost lost my patience
when I found any colored man weak enough to believe such stuff.
Nevertheless, the increase of knowledge was attended with bitter,
as well as sweet results. The more I read, the more I was led to
abhor and detest slavery, and my enslavers. "Slaveholders,"
thought I, "are only a band of successful robbers, who left their
homes and went into Africa for the purpose of stealing and
reducing my people to slavery." I loathed them as the meanest
and the most wicked of men. As I read, behold! the very
discontent so graphically predicted by Master
Hugh, had already come upon me. I was no longer the light-hearted, gleesome boy, full of mirth and play, as when I landed
first at Baltimore. Knowledge had
come; light had penetrated the
moral dungeon where I dwelt; and, behold! there lay the bloody
whip, for my back, and here was the iron chain; and my good,
kind master, he was the author of my situation. The
revelation haunted me, stung me, and made me gloomy and
miserable. As I writhed under the sting and torment of this
knowledge, I almost envied my fellow slaves their stupid contentment. This knowledge opened my eyes to the horrible pit, and
revealed the teeth of the frightful dragon that was ready to
pounce upon me, but it opened no way for my escape. I have often
wished myself a beast, or a bird—anything, rather than a slave.
I was wretched and gloomy, beyond my ability to describe. I was
too thoughtful to be happy. It was this everlasting thinking
which distressed and tormented me; and yet there was no getting
rid of the subject of my thoughts. All nature was redolent of
it. Once awakened by the silver trump of knowledge, my spirit
was roused to eternal wakefulness. Liberty! the inestimable
birthright of every man, had, for me, converted every object into
an asserter of this great right. It was heard in every sound,
and beheld in every object. It was ever present, to torment me
with a sense of my wretched condition. The more beautiful and
charming were the smiles of nature, the more horrible and
desolate was my condition. I saw nothing without seeing it, and
I heard nothing without hearing it. I do not exaggerate, when I
say, that it looked from every star, smiled in every calm,
breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.
I have no doubt that my state of mind had something
to do
with the change in the treatment adopted, by my once kind mistress toward me. I can easily believe, that my leaden, downcast,
and discontented look, was very offensive to her. Poor lady!
She did not know my trouble, and I dared not tell her. Could I
have freely made her acquainted with the real state of my mind,
and given her the reasons therefor, it might have been well
for both of us. Her abuse of me fell upon me like the blows of
the false prophet upon his ass; she did not know that an
angel stood in the way; and—such is the relation of
master and slave I could not tell her. Nature had made us
friends; slavery made us
enemies. My interests
were in a direction opposite to hers, and we both had our private
thoughts and plans. She aimed to keep me ignorant; and I
resolved to know, although knowledge only increased my
discontent. My feelings were not the result of any marked
cruelty in the treatment I received; they sprung from the
consideration of my being a slave at all. It was
slavery—not its mere
incidents—that I hated. I
had been cheated. I saw through the attempt to keep me in
ignorance; I saw that slaveholders would have gladly made me
believe that they were merely acting under the authority of God,
in making a slave of me, and in making slaves of others; and I
treated them as robbers and deceivers. The feeding and clothing
me well, could not atone for taking my liberty from me. The
smiles of my mistress could not remove the deep sorrow that dwelt
in my young bosom. Indeed, these, in time, came only to deepen
my sorrow. She had changed; and the reader will see that I had
changed, too. We
were both victims to the same overshadowing
evil—
she, as mistress, I, as slave. I will not censure
her harshly; she cannot censure me, for she knows I speak but the
truth, and have acted in my opposition to slavery, just as she
herself would have acted, in a reverse of circumstances.
12. CHAPTER XII.
RELIGIOUS NATURE AWAKENED.
ABOLITIONISTS SPOKEN OF—MY EAGERNESS TO KNOW WHAT THIS WORD
MEANT—MY CONSULTATION OF THE DICTIONARY—INCENDIARY
INFORMATION—HOW AND WHERE DERIVED—THE ENIGMA SOLVED—NATHANIEL
TURNER'S INSURRECTION—THE CHOLERA—RELIGION—FIRST AWAKENED BY A
METHODIST MINISTER NAMED HANSON—MY DEAR AND GOOD OLD COLORED
FRIEND, LAWSON—HIS CHARACTER AND OCCUPATION—HIS INFLUENCE OVER
ME—OUR MUTUAL ATTACHMENT—THE COMFORT I DERIVED FROM HIS
TEACHING—NEW HOPES AND ASPIRATIONS—HEAVENLY LIGHT AMIDST
EARTHLY DARKNESS—THE TWO IRISHMEN ON THE WHARF—THEIR
CONVERSATION—HOW I LEARNED TO WRITE—WHAT WERE MY AIMS.
Whilst in the painful state of mind described in the
foregoing chapter, almost regretting my very existence, because
doomed to a life of bondage, so goaded and so wretched, at times,
that I was even tempted to destroy my own life, I was keenly
sensitive and eager to know any, and every thing that transpired,
having any relation to the subject of slavery. I was all ears,
all eyes, whenever the words slave, slavery, dropped from
the lips of any white person, and the occasions were not
unfrequent when these words became leading ones, in high, social
debate, at our house. Every little while, I could hear Master
Hugh, or some of his company, speaking with much warmth and
excitement about "abolitionists." Of who or
what these were, I was totally ignorant. I found,
however, that whatever they might be, they were most
cordially
hated and soundly abused by slaveholders, of every grade. I very
soon discovered, too, that slavery was, in some
sort, under
consideration, whenever the abolitionists were alluded to. This
made the term a very interesting one to me. If a slave, for
instance, had made good his escape from slavery, it was generally
alleged, that he had been persuaded and assisted by the
abolitionists. If, also, a slave killed his master—as was
sometimes the case—or struck down his overseer, or set fire to
his master's dwelling, or committed any violence or crime, out of
the common way, it was certain to be said, that such a crime was
the legitimate fruits of the abolition movement. Hearing such
charges often repeated, I, naturally enough, received the impression that abolition—whatever else it might be—could not be
unfriendly to the slave, nor very friendly to the slaveholder. I
therefore set about finding out, if possible,
who and
what the abolitionists were, and
why they were so
obnoxious to the slaveholders. The dictionary afforded me very
little help. It taught me that abolition was the "act of
abolishing;" but it left me in ignorance at the very point where
I most wanted information—and that was, as to the
thing
to be abolished. A city newspaper, the
Baltimore
American, gave me the incendiary information denied me by the
dictionary. In its columns I found, that, on a certain day, a
vast number of petitions and memorials had been presented to
congress, praying for the abolition of slavery in the District of
Columbia, and for the abolition of the slave trade between the
states of the Union. This was enough. The vindictive
bitterness,
the marked caution, the studied reverse, and the cumbrous ambiguity, practiced by our white folks, when alluding to
this subject, was now fully explained. Ever, after that, when I
heard the words "abolition," or "abolition movement," mentioned,
I felt the matter one of a personal concern; and I drew near to
listen, when I could do so, without seeming too solicitous and
prying. There was HOPE in those words. Ever and anon, too, I
could see some terrible denunciation of slavery, in our papers—copied from abolition papers at the north—and the injustice of
such denunciation commented on. These I read with avidity.
ABOLITIONISM—THE ENIGMA SOLVED>
I had a deep satisfaction in the
thought, that the rascality of slaveholders was not concealed
from the eyes of the world, and that I was not alone in abhorring
the cruelty and brutality of slavery. A still deeper train of
thought was stirred. I saw that there was
fear, as well
as
rage, in the manner of speaking of the abolitionists.
The latter, therefore, I was compelled to regard as having some
power in the country; and I felt that they might, possibly,
succeed in their designs. When I met with a slave to whom I
deemed it safe to talk on the subject, I would impart to him so
much of the mystery as I had been able to penetrate. Thus, the
light of this grand movement broke in upon my mind, by degrees;
and I must say, that, ignorant as I then was of the philosophy of
that movement, I believe in it from the first—and I believed in
it, partly, because I saw that it alarmed the consciences of
slaveholders. The insurrection of Nathaniel Turner had been
quelled, but the alarm and terror had not subsided. The cholera
was on its way,
and the thought was present, that God was angry
with the white people because of their slaveholding wickedness,
and, therefore, his judgments were abroad in the land. It was
impossible for me not to hope much from the abolition movement,
when I saw it supported by the Almighty, and armed with DEATH!
Previous to my contemplation of the anti-slavery movement,
and its probable results, my mind had been seriously awakened to
the subject of religion. I was not more than thirteen years old,
when I felt the need of God, as a father and protector. My religious nature was awakened by the preaching of a white Methodist
minister, named Hanson. He thought that all men, great and
small, bond and free, were sinners in the sight of God; that they
were, by nature, rebels against His government; and that they
must repent of their sins, and be reconciled to God, through
Christ. I cannot say that I had a very distinct notion of what
was required of me; but one thing I knew very well—I was
wretched, and had no means of making myself otherwise. Moreover,
I knew that I could pray for light. I consulted a good colored
man, named
Charles Johnson; and, in tones of holy affection,
he told me to pray, and what to pray for. I was, for weeks, a
poor, brokenhearted mourner, traveling through the darkness and
misery of doubts and fears. I finally found that change of heart
which comes by "casting all one's care" upon God, and by having
faith in Jesus Christ, as the Redeemer, Friend, and Savior of
those who diligently seek Him.
After this, I saw the world in a new light. I
seemed to
live in a new world, surrounded by new objects, and to be
animated by new hopes and desires. I loved all mankind—slaveholders not excepted; though I abhorred slavery more than
ever. My great concern was, now, to have the world converted.
The desire for knowledge increased, and especially did I want a
thorough acquaintance with the contents of the bible. I have
gathered scattered pages from this holy book, from the filthy
street gutters of Baltimore, and washed and dried them, that in
the moments of my leisure, I might get a word or two of wisdom
from them. While thus religiously seeking knowledge, I became
acquainted with a good old colored man, named Lawson. A more
devout man than he, I never saw. He drove a dray for Mr. James
Ramsey, the owner of a rope-walk on Fell's Point, Baltimore.
This man not only prayed three time a day, but he prayed as he
walked through the streets, at his work—on his dray everywhere.
His life was a life of prayer, and his words (when he spoke to
his friends,) were about a better world. Uncle Lawson lived near
Master Hugh's house; and, becoming deeply attached to the old
man, I went often with him to prayer-meeting, and spent much of
my leisure time with him on Sunday. The old man could read a
little, and I was a great help to him, in making out the hard
words, for I was a better reader than he. I could teach him
"the letter," but he could teach me
"the spirit;"
and high, refreshing times we had together, in singing, praying
and glorifying God. These meetings with Uncle Lawson went on for
a long time, without the knowledge of Master Hugh or
my mistress.
Both knew, however, that I had
become religious, and they seemed to respect my conscientious
piety. My mistress was still a professor of religion, and
belonged to class. Her leader was no less a person than the Rev.
Beverly Waugh, the presiding elder, and now one of the bishops of
the Methodist Episcopal church. Mr. Waugh was then stationed
over Wilk street church. I am careful to state these facts, that
the reader may be able to form an idea of the precise influences
which had to do with shaping and directing my mind.
In view of the cares and anxieties incident to the life
she was then leading, and, especially, in view of the separation
from religious associations to which she was subjected, my
mistress had, as I have before stated, become lukewarm, and
needed to be looked up by her leader. This brought Mr. Waugh to
our house, and gave me an opportunity to hear him exhort and
pray. But my chief instructor, in matters of religion, was Uncle
Lawson. He was my spiritual father; and I loved him intensely,
and was at his house every chance I got.
This pleasure was not long allowed me. Master Hugh became
averse to my going to Father Lawson's, and threatened to whip me
if I ever went there again. I now felt myself persecuted by a
wicked man; and I would go to Father Lawson's,
notwithstanding the threat. The good old man had told me, that
the "Lord had a great work for me to do;" and I must prepare to
do it; and that he had been shown that I must preach the gospel.
His words made a deep impression on my mind, and I verily felt
that some such
work was before me, though I could not see
how I should ever engage in its performance. "The good
Lord," he said, "would bring it to pass in his own good time,"
and that I must go on reading and studying the scriptures. The
advice and the suggestions of Uncle Lawson, were not without
their influence upon my character and destiny. He threw my
thoughts into a channel from which they have never entirely
diverged. He fanned my already intense love of knowledge into a
flame, by assuring me that I was to be a useful man in the world.
When I would say to him, "How can these things be and what
can _I_ do?" his simple reply was,
"Trust in the Lord."
When I told him that "I was a slave, and a slave FOR LIFE," he
said, "the Lord can make you free, my dear. All things are
possible with him, only
have faith in God." "Ask, and it
shall be given." "If you want liberty," said the good old man,
"ask the Lord for it,
in faith, AND HE WILL GIVE IT TO
YOU."
Thus assured, and cheered on, under the inspiration of
hope, I worked and prayed with a light heart, believing that my
life was under the guidance of a wisdom higher than my own. With
all other blessings sought at the mercy seat, I always prayed
that God would, of His great mercy, and in His own good time,
deliver me from my bondage.
I went, one day, on the wharf of Mr. Waters; and seeing
two Irishmen unloading a large scow of stone, or ballast I went
on board, unasked, and helped them. When we had finished the
work, one of the men came to me, aside, and asked me a number of
questions, and among them, if I were a slave. I told him
"I was
a slave, and a slave for life." The good Irishman gave his
shoulders a shrug, and seemed deeply affected by the statement.
He said, "it was a pity so fine a little fellow as myself should
be a slave for life." They both had much to say about the
matter, and expressed the deepest sympathy with me, and the most
decided hatred of slavery. They went so far as to tell me that I
ought to run away, and go to the north; that I should find
friends there, and that I would be as free as anybody. I,
however, pretended not to be interested in what they said, for I
feared they might be treacherous. White men have been known to
encourage slaves to escape, and then—to get the reward—they
have kidnapped them, and returned them to their masters. And
while I mainly inclined to the notion that these men were honest
and meant me no ill, I feared it might be otherwise. I
nevertheless remembered their words and their advice, and looked
forward to an escape to the north, as a possible means of gaining
the liberty
for which my heart
panted. It was not my enslavement, at the then present time,
that most affected me; the being a slave
for life, was the
saddest thought. I was too young to think of running away
immediately; besides, I wished to learn how to write, before
going, as I might have occasion to write my own pass. I now not
only had the hope of freedom, but a foreshadowing of the means by
which I might, some day, gain that inestimable boon. Meanwhile,
I resolved to add to my educational attainments the art of
writing.
After this manner I began to learn to write: I was much in
the ship yard—Master Hugh's, and that of
Durgan & Bailey—and I
observed that the carpenters, after hewing and getting a piece of
timber ready for use, wrote on it the initials of the name of
that part of the ship for which it was intended. When, for
instance, a piece of timber was ready for the starboard side, it
was marked with a capital "S." A piece for the larboard side was
marked "L;" larboard forward, "L. F.;" larboard aft, was marked
"L. A.;" starboard aft, "S. A.;" and starboard forward "S. F." I
soon learned these letters, and for what they were placed on the
timbers.
My work was now, to keep fire under the steam box, and to
watch the ship yard while the carpenters had gone to dinner.
This interval gave me a fine opportunity for copying the letters
named. I soon astonished myself with the ease with which I made
the letters; and the thought was soon present, "if I can make
four, I can make more." But having made these easily, when I met
boys about Bethel church, or any of our play-grounds, I entered
the lists with them in the art of writing, and would make the
letters which I had been so fortunate as to learn, and ask them
to "beat that if they could." With playmates for my teachers,
fences and pavements for my copy books, and chalk for my pen and
ink, I learned the art of writing. I, however, afterward adopted
various methods of improving my hand. The most successful, was
copying the italics in Webster's spelling book, until
I could make them all without looking on the book. By this
time, my little "Master Tommy" had grown to be a big boy, and had
written over a number of copy books, and brought them
home. They
had been shown to the neighbors, had elicited due praise, and
were now laid carefully away. Spending my time between the ship
yard and house, I was as often the lone keeper of the latter as
of the former. When my mistress left me in charge of the house,
I had a grand time; I got Master Tommy's copy books and a pen and
ink, and, in the ample spaces between the lines, I wrote other
lines, as nearly like his as possible. The process was a tedious
one, and I ran the risk of getting a flogging for marring the
highly prized copy books of the oldest son. In addition to those
opportunities, sleeping, as I did, in the kitchen loft—a room
seldom visited by any of the family—I got a flour barrel up
there, and a chair; and upon the head of that barrel I have
written (or endeavored to write) copying from the bible and the
Methodist hymn book, and other books which had accumulated on my
hands, till late at night, and when all the family were in bed
and asleep. I was supported in my endeavors by renewed advice,
and by holy promises from the good Father Lawson, with whom I
continued to meet, and pray, and read the scriptures. Although
Master Hugh was aware of my going there, I must say, for his
credit, that he never executed his threat to whip me, for having
thus, innocently, employed-my leisure time.
13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE VICISSITUDES OF SLAVE LIFE.
DEATH OF OLD MASTER'S SON RICHARD, SPEEDILY FOLLOWED BY THAT OF
OLD MASTER—VALUATION AND DIVISION OF ALL THE PROPERTY, INCLUDING
THE SLAVES—MY PRESENCE REQUIRED AT HILLSBOROUGH TO BE APPRAISED
AND ALLOTTED TO A NEW OWNER—MY SAD PROSPECTS AND GRIEF—PARTING—THE UTTER POWERLESSNESS OF THE SLAVES TO DECIDE THEIR
OWN DESTINY—A GENERAL DREAD OF MASTER ANDREW—HIS WICKEDNESS AND
CRUELTY—MISS LUCRETIA MY NEW OWNER—MY RETURN TO BALTIMORE—JOY
UNDER THE ROOF OF MASTER HUGH—DEATH OF MRS. LUCRETIA—MY POOR
OLD GRANDMOTHER—HER SAD FATE—THE LONE COT IN THE WOODS—MASTER
THOMAS AULD'S SECOND MARRIAGE—AGAIN REMOVED FROM MASTER HUGH'S—REASONS FOR REGRETTING THE CHANGE—A PLAN OF ESCAPE ENTERTAINED.
I must now ask the reader to go with me a little back in
point of time, in my humble story, and to notice another
circumstance that entered into my slavery experience, and which,
doubtless, has had a share in deepening my horror of slavery, and
increasing my hostility toward those men and measures that
practically uphold the slave system.
It has already been observed, that though I was, after my
removal from Col. Lloyd's plantation, in form the slave of
Master Hugh, I was, in fact, and in law, the slave
of my old master, Capt. Anthony. Very well.
In a very short time after I went to Baltimore, my old
master's youngest son, Richard, died; and, in
three years and six
months after his death, my old master himself died, leaving only
his son, Andrew, and his daughter, Lucretia, to share his estate.
The old man died while on a visit to his daughter, in
Hillsborough, where Capt. Auld and Mrs. Lucretia now lived. The
former, having given up the command of Col. Lloyd's sloop, was
now keeping a store in that town.
Cut off, thus unexpectedly, Capt. Anthony died intestate;
and his property must now be equally divided between his two
children, Andrew and Lucretia.
The valuation and the division of slaves, among contending
heirs, is an important incident in slave life. The character and
tendencies of the heirs, are generally well understood among the
slaves who are to be divided, and all have their aversions and
preferences. But, neither their aversions nor their preferences
avail them anything.
On the death of old master, I was immediately sent for, to
be valued and divided with the other property. Personally, my
concern was, mainly, about my possible removal from the home of
Master Hugh, which, after that of my grandmother, was the most
endeared to me. But, the whole thing, as a feature of slavery,
shocked me. It furnished me anew insight into the unnatural
power to which I was subjected. My detestation of slavery, already great, rose with this new conception of its enormity.
That was a sad day for me, a sad day for little Tommy, and
a sad day for my dear Baltimore mistress and teacher, when I left
for the Eastern Shore, to be valued and divided. We, all three,
wept bitterly that
day; for we might be parting, and we feared we
were parting, forever. No one could tell among which pile of
chattels I should be flung. Thus early, I got a foretaste of
that painful uncertainty which slavery brings to the ordinary lot
of mortals. Sickness, adversity and death may interfere with the
plans and purposes of all; but the slave has the added danger of
changing homes, changing hands, and of having separations unknown
to other men. Then, too, there was the intensified degradation
of the spectacle. What an assemblage! Men and women, young and
old, married and single; moral and intellectual beings, in open
contempt of their humanity, level at a blow with
OLD MASTER'S PROPERTY>
horses, sheep, horned cattle and swine!
Horses and men—cattle and women—pigs and children—all holding
the same rank in the scale of social existence; and all subjected
to the same narrow inspection, to ascertain their value in gold
and silver—the only standard of worth applied by slaveholders to
slaves! How vividly, at that moment, did the brutalizing power
of slavery flash before me! Personality swallowed up in the
sordid idea of property! Manhood lost in chattelhood!
After the valuation, then came the division. This was an
hour of high excitement and distressing anxiety. Our destiny was
now to be fixed for life, and we had no more voice in the
decision of the question, than the oxen and cows that stood
chewing at the haymow. One word from the appraisers, against all
preferences or prayers, was enough to sunder all the ties of
friendship and affection, and even to separate husbands and
wives, parents and children. We were all
appalled before that
power, which, to human seeming, could bless or blast us in a
moment. Added to the dread of separation, most painful to the
majority of the slaves, we all had a decided horror of the
thought of falling into the hands of Master Andrew. He was
distinguished for cruelty and intemperance.
Slaves generally dread to fall into the hands of drunken
owners. Master Andrew was almost a confirmed sot, and had
already, by his reckless mismanagement and profligate
dissipation, wasted a large portion of old master's property. To
fall into his hands, was, therefore, considered merely as the
first step toward being sold away to the far south. He would
spend his fortune in a few years, and his farms and slaves would
be sold, we thought, at public outcry; and we should be hurried
away to the cotton fields, and rice swamps, of the sunny south.
This was the cause of deep consternation.
The people of the north, and free people generally, I
think, have less attachment to the places where they are born and
brought up, than have the slaves. Their freedom to go and come,
to be here and there, as they list, prevents any extravagant
attachment to any one particular place, in their case. On the
other hand, the slave is a fixture; he has no choice, no goal, no
destination; but is pegged down to a single spot, and must take
root here, or nowhere. The idea of removal elsewhere, comes,
generally, in the shape of a threat, and in punishment of crime.
It is, therefore, attended with fear and dread. A slave seldom
thinks of bettering his condition by being sold, and hence he
looks upon separation from his native place, with
none of the
enthusiasm which animates the bosoms of young freemen, when they
contemplate a life in the far west, or in some distant country
where they intend to rise to wealth and distinction. Nor can
those from whom they separate, give them up with that
cheerfulness with which friends and relations yield each other
up, when they feel that it is for the good of the departing one
that he is removed from his native place. Then, too, there is
correspondence, and there is, at least, the hope of reunion,
because reunion is
possible. But, with the slave, all
these mitigating circumstances are wanting. There is no improvement in his condition
probable,—no correspondence
possible,—no reunion attainable. His going out into the
world, is like a living man going into the tomb, who, with open
eyes, sees himself buried out of sight and hearing of wife,
children and friends of kindred tie.
In contemplating the likelihoods and possibilities of our
circumstances, I probably suffered more than most of my fellow
servants. I had known what it was to experience kind, and even
tender treatment; they had known nothing of the sort. Life, to
them, had been rough and thorny, as well as dark. They had—most
of them—lived on my old master's farm in Tuckahoe, and had felt
the reign of Mr. Plummer's rule. The overseer had written his
character on the living parchment of most of their backs, and
left them callous; my back (thanks to my early removal from the
plantation to Baltimore) was yet tender. I had left a kind
mistress at Baltimore, who was
almost a mother to me. She was in tears when we parted, and the
probabilities of ever seeing her again, trembling
in the balance
as they did, could not be viewed without alarm and agony. The
thought of leaving that kind mistress forever, and, worse still,
of being the slave of Andrew Anthony—a man who, but a few days
before the division of the property, had, in my presence, seized
my brother Perry by the throat, dashed him on the ground, and
with the heel of his boot stamped him on the head, until the
blood gushed from his nose and ears—was terrible! This fiendish
proceeding had no better apology than the fact, that Perry had
gone to play, when Master Andrew wanted him for some trifling
service. This cruelty, too, was of a piece with his general
character. After inflicting his heavy blows on my brother, on
observing me looking at him with intense astonishment, he said,
"That is the way I will serve you, one of these days;"
meaning, no doubt, when I should come into his possession. This
threat, the reader may well suppose, was not very tranquilizing
to my feelings. I could see that he really thirsted to get hold
of me. But I was there only for a few days. I had not received
any orders, and had violated none, and there was, therefore, no
excuse for flogging me.
At last, the anxiety and suspense were ended; and they
ended, thanks to a kind Providence, in accordance with my wishes.
I fell to the portion of Mrs. Lucretia—the dear lady who bound
up my head, when the savage Aunt Katy was adding to my sufferings
her bitterest maledictions.
Capt. Thomas Auld and Mrs. Lucretia at once decided on my
return to Baltimore. They knew how sincerely and warmly Mrs.
Hugh Auld was attached
to me, and how delighted Mr. Hugh's son
would be to have me back; and, withal, having no immediate use
for one so young, they willingly let me off to Baltimore.
I need not stop here to narrate my joy on returning to
Baltimore, nor that of little Tommy; nor the tearful joy of his
mother; nor the evident satisfaction of Master Hugh. I
was just one month absent from Baltimore, before the matter was
decided; and the time really seemed full six months.
One trouble over, and on comes another. The slave's life
is full of uncertainty. I had returned to Baltimore but a short
time, when the tidings reached me, that my friend, Mrs. Lucretia,
who was only second in my regard to Mrs. Hugh Auld, was dead,
leaving her husband and only one child—a daughter, named Amanda.
Shortly after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, strange to say,
Master Andrew died, leaving his wife and one child. Thus, the
whole family of Anthonys was swept away; only two children
remained. All this happened within five years of my leaving Col.
Lloyd's.
No alteration took place in the condition of the slaves,
in consequence of these deaths, yet I could not help feeling less
secure, after the death of my friend, Mrs. Lucretia, than I had
done during her life. While she lived, I felt that I had a
strong friend to plead for me in any emergency. Ten years ago,
while speaking of the state of things in our family, after the
events just named, I used this language:
"Now all the property of my old master, slaves included,
was in the hands of strangers—strangers who had nothing to do in
accumulating it. Not a slave was left free. All remained
slaves, from youngest to oldest. If any one thing in my
experience, more than another, served to deepen my conviction of
the infernal character of slavery, and to fill me with
unutterable loathing of slaveholders, it was their base
ingratitude to my poor old grandmother. She had served my old
master faithfully from youth to old age. She had been the source
of all his wealth; she had peopled his plantation with slaves;
she had become a great-grandmother in his service. She had
rocked him in infancy, attended him in childhood, served him
through life, and at his death wiped from his icy brow the cold
death-sweat, and closed his eyes forever. She was nevertheless
left a slave—a slave for life—a slave in the hands of
strangers; and in their hands she saw her children, her
grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren, divided, like so many
sheep, without being gratified with the small privilege of a
single word, as to their or her own destiny. And, to cap the
climax of their base ingratitude and fiendish barbarity, my
grandmother, who was now very old, having outlived my old master
and all his children, having seen the beginning and end of all of
them, and her present owners finding she
was of but little value, her frame already racked with
the pains of old age, and complete helplessness fast stealing
over her once active limbs, they took her to the woods, built her
a little hut, put up a little mud-chimney, and then made her
welcome to the privilege of supporting herself there in perfect
loneliness; thus virtually turning her out to die! If my poor
old grandmother now lives, she lives to suffer in utter
loneliness; she lives to remember and mourn over the loss of
children, the loss of grandchildren, and the loss of great-grandchildren. They are, in the language of the slave's poet,
Whittier—
'Gone,
gone, sold and gone,
To the
rice swamp dank and lone,
Where
the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where
the noisome insect stings,
Where
the fever-demon strews
Poison
with the falling dews,
Where
the sickly sunbeams glare
Through
the hot and misty air:—
Gone,
gone, sold and gone
To
the rice swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia hills and waters—
Woe is me,
my stolen daughters!'
"The hearth
is desolate. The children, the unconscious children, who once sang and danced in her presence, are gone.
She gropes her way, in the darkness of age, for a drink of water.
Instead of the voices of her children, she hears by day the moans
of the dove, and by night the screams of the hideous owl. All is
gloom. The grave is at the door. And now, when weighed down by
the pains and aches of old age, when the head inclines to the
feet, when the beginning and ending of human existence meet, and
helpless infancy and painful old age combine together—at this
time, this most needful time, the time for the exercise of that
tenderness and affection which children only can exercise toward
a declining parent—my poor old grandmother, the devoted mother
of twelve children, is left all alone, in yonder little hut,
before a few dim embers."
Two years after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, Master Thomas
married his second wife. Her name was Rowena Hamilton, the
eldest daughter of Mr. William Hamilton, a rich slaveholder on
the Eastern Shore of Maryland, who lived about five miles from
St. Michael's, the then place of my master's residence.
Not long after his marriage, Master Thomas had a
misunderstanding with Master Hugh, and, as a means of punishing his
brother, he ordered him to send me home.
As the ground of misunderstanding will serve to illustrate
the character of southern chivalry, and humanity, I will relate
it.
Among the children of my Aunt Milly, was a daughter, named
Henny. When quite a child, Henny had fallen into the fire, and
burnt her hands so bad that they were of very little use to her.
Her fingers were drawn almost into the palms of her hands. She
could make out to do something, but she was considered hardly
worth the having—of little more value than a horse with a broken
leg. This unprofitable piece of human property, ill shapen, and
disfigured, Capt. Auld sent off to Baltimore, making his brother
Hugh welcome to her services.
After giving poor Henny a fair trial, Master Hugh and his
wife came to the conclusion, that they had no use for the
crippled servant, and they sent her back to Master Thomas. Thus,
the latter took as an act of ingratitude, on the part of his
brother; and, as a mark of his displeasure, he required him to
send me immediately to St. Michael's, saying, if he cannot keep
"Hen," he shall not have "Fred."
Here was another shock to my nerves, another breaking up
of my plans, and another severance of my religious and social
alliances. I was now a big boy. I had become quite useful to
several young colored men, who had made me their teacher. I had
taught some of them to read, and was accustomed to spend many of
my leisure hours with them. Our attachment
was strong, and I
greatly dreaded the separation. But regrets, especially in a
slave, are unavailing. I was only a slave; my wishes were
nothing, and my happiness was the sport of my masters.
My regrets at now leaving Baltimore, were not for the same
reasons as when I before left that city, to be valued and handed
over to my proper owner. My home was not now the pleasant place
it had formerly been. A change had taken place, both in Master
Hugh, and in his once pious and affectionate wife. The influence
of brandy and bad company on him, and the influence of slavery
and social isolation upon her, had wrought disastrously upon the
characters of both.
Thomas was no longer "little Tommy," but was a big boy, and had
learned to assume the airs of his class toward me. My condition,
therefore, in the house of Master Hugh, was not, by any means, so
comfortable as in former years. My attachments were now outside
of our family. They were felt to those to whom I imparted
instruction, and to those little white boys from whom I
received instruction. There, too, was my dear old father,
the pious Lawson, who was, in christian graces, the very
counterpart of "Uncle" Tom. The resemblance is so perfect, that
he might have been the original of Mrs. Stowe's christian hero.
The thought of leaving these dear friends, greatly troubled me,
for I was going without the hope of ever returning to Baltimore
again; the feud between Master Hugh and his brother being bitter
and irreconcilable, or, at least, supposed to be so.
In addition to thoughts of friends from whom I was
parting, as I supposed, forever, I had the grief of
neglected chances of escape to brood over. I had put off running
away, until now I was to be placed where the opportunities for
escaping were much fewer than in a large city like Baltimore.
On my way from Baltimore to St. Michael's, down the
Chesapeake bay, our sloop—the "Amanda"—was passed by the
steamers plying between that city and Philadelphia, and I watched
the course of those steamers, and, while going to St. Michael's,
I formed a plan to escape from slavery; of which plan, and
matters connected therewith the kind reader shall learn more
hereafter.
14. CHAPTER XIV.
EXPERIENCE IN ST. MICHAEL'S
THE VILLAGE—ITS INHABITANTS—THEIR OCCUPATION AND LOW
PROPENSITIES—CAPTAIN THOMAS AULD—HIS CHARACTER—HIS SECOND
WIFE, ROWENA—WELL MATCHED—SUFFERINGS FROM HUNGER—OBLIGED TO
TAKE FOOD—MODE OF ARGUMENT IN VINDICATION THEREOF—NO MORAL CODE
OF FREE SOCIETY CAN APPLY TO SLAVE SOCIETY—SOUTHERN CAMP
MEETING—WHAT MASTER THOMAS DID THERE—HOPES—SUSPICIONS ABOUT
HIS CONVERSION—THE RESULT—FAITH AND WORKS ENTIRELY AT
VARIANCE—HIS RISE AND PROGRESS IN THE CHURCH—POOR COUSIN
"HENNY"—HIS TREATMENT OF HER—THE METHODIST PREACHERS—THEIR
UTTER DISREGARD OF US—ONE EXCELLENT EXCEPTION—REV. GEORGE
COOKMAN—SABBATH SCHOOL—HOW BROKEN UP AND BY WHOM—A FUNERAL
PALL CAST OVER ALL MY PROSPECTS—COVEY THE NEGRO-BREAKER.
St. Michael's, the village in which was now my new home,
compared favorably with villages in slave states, generally.
There were a few comfortable dwellings in it, but the place, as a
whole, wore a dull, slovenly, enterprise-forsaken aspect. The
mass of the buildings were wood; they had never enjoyed the
artificial adornment of paint, and time and storms had worn off
the bright color of the wood, leaving them almost as black as
buildings charred by a conflagration.
St. Michael's had, in former years, (previous to 1833, for
that was the year I went to reside there,) enjoyed some
reputation as a ship building community, but that business had
almost entirely given place to oyster fishing, for the Baltimore
and Philadelphia markets—a course of life highly unfavorable to
morals,
industry, and manners. Miles river was broad, and its
oyster fishing grounds were
extensive; and the fishermen were out, often, all day, and a part
of the night, during autumn, winter and spring. This exposure
was an excuse for carrying with them, in considerable
quantities, spirituous liquors, the then supposed best
antidote for cold. Each canoe was supplied with its jug of rum;
and tippling, among this class of the citizens of St. Michael's,
became general. This drinking habit, in an ignorant population,
fostered coarseness, vulgarity and an indolent disregard for the
social improvement of the place, so that it was admitted, by the
few sober, thinking people who remained there, that St. Michael's
had become a very
unsaintly, as well as unsightly place,
before I went there to reside.
I left Baltimore for St. Michael's in the month of March,
1833. I know the year, because it was the one succeeding the
first cholera in Baltimore, and was the year, also, of that
strange phenomenon, when the heavens seemed about to part with
its starry train. I witnessed this gorgeous spectacle, and was
awe-struck. The air seemed filled with bright, descending
messengers from the sky. It was about daybreak when I saw this
sublime scene. I was not without the suggestion, at the moment,
that it might be the harbinger of the coming of the Son of Man;
and, in my then state of mind, I was prepared to hail Him as my
friend and deliverer. I had read, that the "stars shall fall
from heaven"; and they were now falling. I was suffering much in
my mind. It did seem that every time the young tendrils of my
affection became attached, they were rudely
broken by some
unnatural outside power; and I was beginning to look away to
heaven for the rest denied me on earth.
But, to my story. It was now more than seven years since
I had lived with Master Thomas Auld, in the family of my old
master, on Col. Lloyd's plantation. We were almost entire
strangers to each other; for, when I knew him at the house of my
old master, it was not as a master, but simply as "Captain
Auld," who had married old master's daughter. All my lessons
concerning his
temper and disposition, and the best methods
of pleasing him, were yet to be learnt. Slaveholders, however,
are not very ceremonious in approaching a slave; and my ignorance
of the new material in shape of a master was but transient. Nor
was my mistress long in making known her animus. She was not a
"Miss Lucretia," traces of whom I yet remembered, and the more
especially, as I saw them shining in the face of little Amanda,
her daughter, now living under a step-mother's government. I had
not forgotten the soft hand, guided by a tender heart, that bound
up with healing balsam the gash made in my head by Ike, the son
of Abel. Thomas and Rowena, I found to be a well-matched pair.
He was stingy, and she was cruel; and—what was
quite natural in such cases—she possessed the ability to make
him as cruel as herself, while she could easily descend to the
level of his meanness. In the house of Master Thomas, I was
made—for the first time in seven years to feel the pinchings of
hunger, and this was not very easy to bear.
For, in all the changes of Master Hugh's family,
there was
no change in the bountifulness with which they supplied me with
food. Not to give a slave enough to eat, is meanness
intensified, and it is so recognized among slaveholders
generally, in Maryland. The rule is, no matter how coarse the
food, only let there be enough of it. This is the theory, and—in the part of Maryland I came from—the general practice accords
with this theory. Lloyd's plantation was an exception, as was,
also, the house of Master Thomas Auld.
All know the lightness of Indian corn-meal, as an article
of food, and can easily judge from the following facts whether
the statements I have made of the stinginess of Master Thomas,
are borne out. There were four slaves of us in the kitchen, and
four whites in the great house Thomas Auld, Mrs. Auld, Hadaway
Auld (brother of Thomas Auld) and little Amanda. The names of
the slaves in the kitchen, were Eliza, my sister; Priscilla, my
aunt; Henny, my cousin; and myself. There were eight persons
in the family. There was,
each week, one half bushel of corn-meal brought from the mill;
and in the kitchen, corn-meal was almost our exclusive food, for
very little else was allowed us. Out of this bushel of corn-meal, the family in the great house had a small loaf every
morning; thus leaving us, in the kitchen, with not quite a half a
peck per week, apiece. This allowance was less than half the
allowance of food on Lloyd's plantation. It was not enough to
subsist upon; and we were, therefore, reduced to the wretched
necessity of living at the expense of our neighbors. We were
compelled either to beg, or to steal, and we did both. I frankly
confess, that while
I hated everything like stealing,
as
such, I nevertheless did not hesitate to take food, when I
was hungry, wherever I could find it. Nor was this practice the
mere result of an unreasoning instinct; it was, in my case, the
result of a clear apprehension of the claims of morality. I
weighed and considered the matter closely, before I ventured to
satisfy my hunger by such means. Considering that my labor and
person were the property of Master Thomas, and that I was by him
deprived of the necessaries of life necessaries obtained by my
own labor—it was easy to deduce the right to supply myself with
what was my own. It was simply appropriating what was my own to
the use of my master, since the health and strength derived from
such food were exerted in
his service. To be sure, this
was stealing, according to the law and gospel I heard from St.
Michael's pulpit; but I had already begun to attach less
importance to what dropped from that quarter, on that point,
while, as yet, I retained my reverence for religion. It was not
always convenient to steal from master, and the same reason why I
might, innocently, steal from him, did not seem to justify me in
stealing from others. In the case of my master, it was only a
question of
removal—the taking his meat out of one tub,
and putting it into another; the ownership of the meat was not
affected by the transaction. At first, he owned it in the
tub, and last, he owned it in
me. His meat house
was not always open. There was a strict watch kept on that
point, and the key was on a large bunch in Rowena's pocket.
A great many times have we, poor creatures, been severely pinched
with hunger,
when meat and bread have been moulding under the
lock, while the key was in the pocket of our mistress. This had
been so when she
knew we were nearly half starved; and
yet, that mistress, with saintly air, would kneel with her
husband, and pray each morning that a merciful God would bless
them in basket and in store, and save them, at last, in his
kingdom. But I proceed with the argument.
It was necessary that right to steal from others
should be established; and this could only rest upon a wider
range of generalization than that which supposed the right to
steal from my master.
It was sometime before I arrived at this clear right. The
reader will get some idea of my train of reasoning, by a brief
statement of the case. "I am," thought I, "not only the slave of
Thomas, but I am the slave of society at large. Society at large
has bound itself, in form and in fact, to assist Master Thomas in
robbing me of my rightful liberty, and of the just reward of my
labor; therefore, whatever rights I have against Master Thomas, I
have, equally, against those confederated with him in robbing me
of liberty. As society has marked me out as privileged plunder,
on the principle of self-preservation I am justified in
plundering in turn. Since each slave belongs to all; all must,
therefore, belong to each."
I shall here make a profession of faith which may shock
some, offend others, and be dissented from by all. It is this:
Within the bounds of his just earnings, I hold that the slave is
fully justified in helping himself to the gold and silver, and
the best apparel of
his master, or that of any other slaveholder;
and that such taking is not stealing in any just sense of that
word.
The morality of free society can have no
application to slave society. Slaveholders have made it
almost impossible for the slave to commit any crime, known either
to the laws of God or to the laws of man. If he steals, he takes
his own; if he kills his master,
he imitates only the heroes of the revolution.
Slaveholders I hold to be individually and collectively
responsible for all the evils which grow out of the horrid
relation, and I believe they will be so held at the judgment, in
the sight of a just God. Make a man a slave, and you rob him of
moral responsibility. Freedom of choice is the essence of all
accountability. But my kind readers are, probably, less
concerned about my opinions, than about that which more nearly
touches my personal experience; albeit, my opinions have, in some
sort, been formed by that experience.
Bad as slaveholders are, I have seldom met with one so entirely destitute of every element of character capable of
inspiring respect, as was my present master, Capt. Thomas Auld.
When I lived with him, I thought him incapable of a noble
action. The leading trait in his character was intense
selfishness. I think he was fully aware of this fact himself,
and often tried to conceal it. Capt. Auld was not a born
slaveholder—not a birthright member of the slaveholding
oligarchy. He was only a slaveholder by marriage-right;
and, of all slaveholders, these latter are, by far, the
most exacting. There was in him all the love of domination, the
pride of mastery, and the swagger of authority,
but his rule
lacked the vital element of consistency. He could be cruel; but
his methods of showing it were cowardly, and evinced his meanness
rather than his spirit. His commands were strong, his
enforcement weak.
Slaves are not insensible to the whole-souled
characteristics of a generous, dashing slaveholder, who is
fearless of consequences; and they prefer a master of this bold
and daring kind—even with the risk of being shot down for
impudence to the fretful, little soul, who never uses the lash
but at the suggestion of a love of gain.
Slaves, too, readily distinguish between the birthright
bearing of the original slaveholder and the assumed attitudes of
the accidental slaveholder; and while they cannot respect either,
they certainly despise the latter more than the former.
The luxury of having slaves wait upon him was something
new to Master Thomas; and for it he was wholly unprepared. He
was a slaveholder, without the ability to hold or manage his
slaves. We seldom called him "master," but generally addressed
him by his "bay craft" title—Capt. Auld." It is easy to
see that such conduct might do much to make him appear awkward,
and, consequently, fretful. His wife was especially solicitous
to have us call her husband "master." Is your master at
the store?"—"Where is your master?"—"Go and tell your
master"—"I will make your master acquainted with
your conduct"—she would say; but we were inapt scholars.
Especially were I and my sister Eliza inapt in this particular.
Aunt Priscilla was less stubborn
and defiant in her spirit than
Eliza and myself; and, I think, her road was less rough than
ours.
In the month of August, 1833, when I had almost become
desperate under the treatment of Master Thomas, and when I
entertained more strongly than ever the oft-repeated determination to run away, a circumstance occurred which seemed to promise
brighter and better days for us all. At a Methodist camp-meeting, held in the Bay Side (a famous place for campmeetings)
about eight miles from St. Michael's, Master Thomas came out with
a profession of religion. He had long been an object of interest
to the church, and to the ministers, as I had seen by the
repeated visits and lengthy exhortations of the latter. He was a
fish quite worth catching, for he had money and standing. In the
community of St. Michael's he was equal to the best citizen. He
was strictly temperate; perhaps, from principle, but most
likely, from interest. There was very little to do for him, to
give him the appearance of piety, and to make him a pillar in the
church. Well, the camp-meeting continued a week; people gathered
from all parts of the county, and two steamboat loads came from
Baltimore. The ground was happily chosen; seats were arranged; a
stand erected; a rude altar fenced in, fronting the preachers'
stand, with straw in it for the accommodation of
mourners. This latter would hold at least one
hundred persons. In front, and on the sides of the preachers'
stand, and outside the long rows of seats, rose the first class
of stately tents, each vieing with the other in strength,
neatness, and capacity for accommodating its inmates. Behind
this
first circle of tents was another, less imposing, which
reached round the camp-ground to the speakers' stand. Outside
this second class of tents were covered wagons, ox carts, and
vehicles of every shape and size. These served as tents to their
owners. Outside of these, huge fires were burning, in all
directions, where roasting, and boiling, and frying, were going
on, for the benefit of those who were attending to their own
spiritual welfare within the circle.
Behind the preachers' stand, a narrow space was marked out for the use of the
colored people. There were no seats provided for this class of
persons; the preachers addressed them,
"over the left," if
they addressed them at all. After the preaching was over, at
every service, an invitation was given to mourners to come into
the pen; and, in some cases, ministers went out to persuade men
and women to come in. By one of these ministers, Master Thomas
Auld was persuaded to go inside the pen. I was deeply interested
in that matter, and followed; and, though colored people were not
allowed either in the pen or in front of the preachers' stand, I
ventured to take my stand at a sort of half-way place between the
blacks and whites, where I could distinctly see the movements of
mourners, and especially the progress of Master Thomas.
"If he has got religion," thought I, "he will emancipate
his slaves; and if he should not do so much as this, he will, at
any rate, behave toward us more kindly, and feed us more
generously than he has heretofore done." Appealing to my own
religious experience, and judging my master by what was
true in
my own case, I could not regard him as soundly converted, unless
some such good results followed his profession of religion.
But in my expectations I was doubly disappointed; Master
Thomas was Master Thomas still. The fruits of his
righteousness were to show themselves in no such way as I
had anticipated. His conversion was not to change his relation
toward men—at any rate not toward BLACK men—but toward God. My
faith, I confess, was not great. There was something in his
appearance that, in my mind, cast a doubt over his conversion.
Standing where I did, I could see his every movement. I watched
narrowly while he remained in the little pen; and although I saw
that his face was extremely red, and his hair disheveled, and
though I heard him groan, and saw a stray tear halting on his
cheek, as if inquiring "which way shall I go?"—I could not
wholly confide in the genuineness of his conversion. The
hesitating behavior of that tear-drop and its loneliness,
distressed me, and cast a doubt upon the whole transaction, of
which it was a part. But people said, "Capt. Auld had come
through," and it was for me to hope for the best. I was
bound to do this, in charity, for I, too, was religious, and had
been in the church full three years, although now I was not more
than sixteen years old. Slaveholders may, sometimes, have
confidence in the piety of some of their slaves; but the slaves
seldom have confidence in the piety of their masters. "He
cant go to heaven with our blood in his skirts," is a settled
point in the creed of every slave; rising superior to all
teaching to the contrary, and standing
forever as a fixed fact.
The highest evidence the slaveholder can give the slave of his
acceptance with God, is the emancipation of his slaves. This is
proof that he is willing to give up all to God, and for the sake
of God. Not to do this, was, in my estimation, and in the
opinion of all the slaves, an evidence of half-heartedness, and
wholly inconsistent with the idea of genuine conversion. I had
read, also, somewhere in the Methodist Discipline, the following
question and answer:
"Question. What shall be done for the extirpation
of slavery?
"Answer. We declare that we are much as ever
convinced of the great evil of slavery; therefore, no slaveholder
shall be eligible to any official station in our church."
These words sounded in my ears for a long time, and encouraged me to hope. But, as I have
before said, I was doomed to disappointment. Master Thomas
seemed to be aware of my hopes and expectations concerning him.
I have thought, before now, that he looked at me in answer to my
glances, as much as to say, "I will teach you, young man, that,
though I have parted with my sins, I have not parted with my
sense. I shall hold my slaves, and go to heaven too."
Possibly, to convince us that we must not presume too
much upon his recent conversion, he became rather more rigid
and stringent in his exactions. There always was a scarcity of
good nature about the man; but now his whole countenance was
soured over with the seemings of piety. His religion,
therefore, neither made him emancipate his slaves, nor caused him
to treat them with greater humanity. If religion had any effect
on his character at all, it made him more cruel and hateful in
all his ways. The natural wickedness of his heart had not been
removed, but only reinforced, by the profession of religion. Do
I judge him harshly? God forbid. Facts
are facts. Capt.
Auld made the greatest profession of piety. His house was,
literally, a house of prayer. In the morning, and in the
evening, loud prayers and hymns were heard there, in which both
himself and his wife joined; yet,
no more meal was brought
from the mill,
no more attention was paid to the moral
welfare of the kitchen; and nothing was done to make us feel that
the heart of Master Thomas was one whit better than it was before
he went into the little pen, opposite to the preachers' stand, on
the camp ground.
Our hopes (founded on the discipline) soon vanished; for
the authorities let him into the church at once, and
before he was out of his term of probation, I heard of his
leading class! He distinguished himself greatly among the
brethren, and was soon an exhorter. His progress was almost as
rapid as the growth of the fabled vine of Jack's bean. No man
was more active than he, in revivals. He would go many miles to
assist in carrying them on, and in getting outsiders interested
in religion. His house being
one of the holiest, if not the
happiest in St. Michael's, became the "preachers' home." These
preachers evidently liked to share Master Thomas's hospitality;
for while he starved us, he stuffed them. Three or
four of these
ambassadors of the gospel—according to slavery—have been there at a time; all living on the fat of the land,
while we, in the kitchen, were nearly starving. Not often did we
get a smile of recognition from these holy men. They seemed
almost as unconcerned about our getting to heaven, as they were
about our getting out of slavery. To this general charge there
was one exception—the Rev. GEORGE COOKMAN. Unlike Rev. Messrs.
Storks, Ewry, Hickey, Humphrey and Cooper (all whom were on the
St. Michael's circuit) he kindly took an interest in our temporal
and spiritual welfare. Our souls and our bodies were all alike
sacred in his sight; and he really had a good deal of genuine
anti-slavery feeling mingled with his colonization ideas. There
was not a slave in our neighborhood that did not love, and almost
venerate, Mr. Cookman. It was pretty generally believed that he
had been chiefly instrumental in bringing one of the largest
slaveholders—Mr. Samuel Harrison—in that neighborhood, to
emancipate all his slaves, and, indeed, the general impression
was, that Mr. Cookman had labored faithfully with slaveholders,
whenever he met them, to induce them to emancipate their bondmen,
and that he did this as a religious duty. When this good man was
at our house, we were all sure to be called in to prayers in the
morning; and he was not slow in making inquiries as to the state
of our minds, nor in giving us a word of exhortation and of
encouragement. Great was the sorrow of all the slaves, when this
faithful preacher of the gospel was removed from the Talbot
county circuit. He was an eloquent preacher, and possessed what
few ministers,
south of Mason Dixon's line, possess, or
dare to show, viz: a warm and philanthropic heart. The
Mr. Cookman, of whom I speak, was an Englishman by birth, and
perished while on his way to England, on board the ill-fated
"President". Could the thousands of slaves
in Maryland know the fate of the good man, to whose words
of comfort they were so largely indebted, they would thank me for
dropping a tear on this page, in memory of their favorite
preacher, friend and benefactor.
But, let me return to Master Thomas, and to my experience,
after his conversion. In Baltimore, I could, occasionally, get
into a Sabbath school, among the free children, and receive
lessons, with the rest; but, having already learned both to read
and to write, I was more of a teacher than a pupil, even there.
When, however, I went back to the Eastern Shore, and was at the
house of Master Thomas, I was neither allowed to teach, nor to be
taught. The whole community—with but a single exception, among
the whites—frowned upon everything like imparting instruction
either to slaves or to free colored persons. That single
exception, a pious young man, named Wilson, asked me, one day, if
I would like to assist him in teaching a little Sabbath school,
at the house of a free colored man in St. Michael's, named James
Mitchell. The idea was to me a delightful one, and I told him I
would gladly devote as much of my Sabbath as I could command, to
that most laudable work. Mr. Wilson soon mustered up a dozen old
spelling books, and a few testaments; and we commenced
operations, with some twenty scholars, in our
Sunday school.
Here, thought I, is something worth living for; here is an excellent chance for usefulness; and I shall soon have a company of
young friends, lovers of knowledge, like some of my Baltimore
friends, from whom I now felt parted forever.
Our first Sabbath passed delightfully, and I spent the
week after very joyously. I could not go to Baltimore, but I
could make a little Baltimore here. At our second meeting, I
learned that there was some objection to the existence of the
Sabbath school; and, sure enough, we had scarcely got at work—good work, simply teaching a few colored children how to
read the gospel of the Son of God—when in rushed a mob, headed
by Mr. Wright Fairbanks and Mr. Garrison West—two class-leaders—and Master Thomas; who, armed with sticks and other
missiles, drove us off, and commanded us never to meet for such a
purpose again. One of this pious crew told me, that as for my
part, I wanted to be another Nat Turner; and if I did not look
out, I should get as many balls into me, as Nat did into him.
Thus ended the infant Sabbath school, in the town of St.
Michael's. The reader will not be surprised when I say, that the
breaking up of my Sabbath school, by these class-leaders, and
professedly holy men, did not serve to strengthen my religious
convictions. The cloud over my St. Michael's home grew heavier
and blacker than ever.
It was not merely the agency of Master Thomas, in breaking
up and destroying my Sabbath school, that shook my confidence in
the power of southern religion to make men wiser or better; but I
saw in him all the cruelty and meanness, after his
conversion,
which he had exhibited before he made a profession of
religion. His cruelty and meanness were especially displayed in
his treatment of my unfortunate cousin, Henny, whose lameness
made her a burden to him. I have no extraordinary personal hard
usage toward myself to complain of, against him, but I have seen
him tie up the lame and maimed woman, and whip her in a manner
most brutal, and shocking; and then, with blood-chilling
blasphemy, he would quote the passage of scripture, "That servant
which knew his lord's will, and prepared not himself, neither did
according to his will, shall be beaten with many stripes."
Master would keep this lacerated woman tied up by her wrists, to
a bolt in the joist, three, four and five hours at a time. He
would tie her up early in the morning, whip her with a cowskin
before breakfast; leave her tied up; go to his store, and,
returning to his dinner, repeat the castigation; laying on the
rugged lash, on flesh already made raw by repeated blows. He
seemed desirous to get the poor girl out of existence, or, at any
rate, off his hands. In proof of this, he afterwards gave her
away to his sister Sarah (Mrs. Cline) but, as in the case of
Master Hugh, Henny was soon
returned on his hands. Finally, upon a pretense that he could do
nothing with her (I use his own words) he "set her adrift, to
take care of herself." Here was a recently converted man,
holding, with tight grasp, the well-framed, and able bodied
slaves left him by old master—the persons, who, in freedom,
could have taken care of themselves; yet, turning loose the only
cripple among them, virtually to starve and die.
No doubt, had Master Thomas been asked, by some pious
northern brother, why he continued to sustain the relation
of a slaveholder, to those whom he retained, his answer would
have been precisely the same as many other religious slaveholders
have returned to that inquiry, viz: "I hold my slaves for their
own good."
Bad as my condition was when I lived with Master Thomas, I
was soon to experience a life far more goading and bitter. The
many differences springing up between myself and Master Thomas,
owing to the clear perception I had of his character, and the
boldness with which I defended myself against his capricious
complaints, led him to declare that I was unsuited to his wants;
that my city life had affected me perniciously; that, in fact, it
had almost ruined me for every good purpose, and had fitted me
for everything that was bad. One of my greatest faults, or
offenses, was that of letting his horse get away, and go down to
the farm belonging to his father-in-law. The animal had a liking
for that farm, with which I fully sympathized. Whenever I let it
out, it would go dashing down the road to Mr. Hamilton's, as if
going on a grand frolic. My horse gone, of course I must go
after it. The explanation of our mutual attachment to the place
is the same; the horse found there good pasturage, and I found
there plenty of bread. Mr. Hamilton had his faults, but starving
his slaves was not among them. He gave food, in abundance, and
that, too, of an excellent quality. In Mr. Hamilton's cook—Aunt
Mary—I found a most generous and considerate friend. She never
allowed me to go
there without giving me bread enough
to make good the deficiencies of a day or two. Master Thomas at
last resolved to endure my behavior no longer; he could neither
keep me, nor his horse, we liked so well to be at his father-in-law's farm. I had now lived with him nearly nine months, and he
had given me a number of severe whippings, without any visible
improvement in my character, or my conduct; and now he was
resolved to put me out—as he said—
"to be broken."
There was, in the Bay Side, very near the camp ground,
where my master got his religious impressions, a man named Edward
Covey, who enjoyed the execrated reputation, of being a first
rate hand at breaking young Negroes. This Covey was a poor man,
a farm renter; and this reputation (hateful as it was to the
slaves and to all good men) was, at the same time, of immense advantage to him. It enabled him to get his farm tilled with very
little expense, compared with what it would have cost him without
this most extraordinary reputation. Some slaveholders thought it
an advantage to let Mr. Covey have the government of their slaves
a year or two, almost free of charge, for the sake of the
excellent training such slaves got under his happy management!
Like some horse breakers, noted for their skill, who ride the
best horses in the country without expense, Mr. Covey could have
under him, the most fiery bloods of the neighborhood, for the
simple reward of returning them to their owners, well
broken. Added to the natural fitness of Mr. Covey for the
duties of his profession, he was said to "enjoy religion,"
and was as strict in the cultivation of piety, as he was in the
cultivation of his farm. I was made aware of his character by
some who had been under his hand; and while I could not look
forward to going to him with any pleasure, I was glad to get away
from St. Michael's. I was sure of getting enough to eat at
Covey's, even if I suffered in other respects.
This, to a
hungry man, is not a prospect to be regarded with indifference.
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.
16. CHAPTER XVI.
ANOTHER PRESSURE OF THE TYRANT'S VICE.
EXPERIENCE AT COVEY'S SUMMED UP—FIRST SIX MONTHS SEVERER THAN
THE SECOND—PRELIMINARIES TO THE CHANCE—REASONS FOR NARRATING
THE CIRCUMSTANCES—SCENE IN TREADING YARD—TAKEN ILL—UNUSUAL
BRUTALITY OF COVEY—ESCAPE TO ST. MICHAEL'S—THE PURSUIT—SUFFERING IN THE WOODS—DRIVEN BACK AGAIN TO COVEY'S—BEARING OF
MASTER THOMAS—THE SLAVE IS NEVER SICK—NATURAL TO EXPECT SLAVES
TO FEIGN SICKNESS—LAZINESS OF SLAVEHOLDERS.
The foregoing chapter, with all its horrid incidents and
shocking features, may be taken as a fair representation of the
first six months of my life at Covey's. The reader has but to
repeat, in his own mind, once a week, the scene in the woods,
where Covey subjected me to his merciless lash, to have a true
idea of my bitter experience there, during the first period of
the breaking process through which Mr. Covey carried me. I have
no heart to repeat each separate transaction, in which I was
victim of his violence and brutality. Such a narration would
fill a volume much larger than the present one. I aim only to
give the reader a truthful impression of my slave life, without
unnecessarily affecting him with harrowing details.
As I have elsewhere intimated that my hardships were much
greater during the first six months of my stay at Covey's, than
during the remainder of the year,
and as the change in my condition was owing to causes which may help the reader to a better
understanding of human nature, when subjected to the terrible
extremities of slavery, I will narrate the circumstances of this
change, although I may seem
thereby to applaud my own courage. You have, dear reader, seen
me humbled, degraded, broken down, enslaved, and brutalized, and
you understand how it was done; now let us see the converse of
all this, and how it was brought about; and this will take us
through the year 1834.
On one of the hottest days of the month of August, of the
year just mentioned, had the reader been passing through Covey's
farm, he might have seen me at work, in what is there called the
"treading yard"—a yard upon which wheat is trodden out from the
straw, by the horses' feet. I was there, at work, feeding the
"fan," or rather bringing wheat to the fan, while Bill Smith was
feeding. Our force consisted of Bill Hughes, Bill Smith, and a
slave by the name of Eli; the latter having been hired for this
occasion. The work was simple, and required strength and
activity, rather than any skill or intelligence, and yet, to one
entirely unused to such work, it came very hard. The heat was
intense and overpowering, and there was much hurry to get the
wheat, trodden out that day, through the fan; since, if that work
was done an hour before sundown, the hands would have, according
to a promise of Covey, that hour added to their night's rest. I
was not behind any of them in the wish to complete the day's work
before sundown, and, hence, I struggled with all my might to get
the work forward. The
promise of one hour's repose on a week
day, was sufficient to quicken my pace, and to spur me on to
extra endeavor. Besides, we had all planned to go fishing, and I
certainly wished to have a hand in that. But I was disappointed,
and the day turned out to be one of the bitterest I ever
experienced. About three o'clock, while the sun was pouring down
his burning rays, and not a breeze was stirring, I broke down; my
strength failed me; I was seized with a violent aching of the
head, attended with extreme dizziness, and trembling in every
limb. Finding what was coming, and feeling it would never do to
stop work, I nerved myself up, and staggered on until I fell by
the side of the wheat fan, feeling that the earth had fallen
upon me. This brought the entire work to a dead stand.
There was work for four; each one had his part to perform, and
each part depended on the other, so that when one stopped, all
were compelled to stop. Covey, who had now become my dread, as
well as my tormentor, was at the house, about a hundred yards
from where I was fanning, and instantly, upon hearing the fan
stop, he came down to the treading yard, to inquire into the
cause of our stopping. Bill Smith told him I was sick, and that
I was unable longer to bring wheat to the fan.
I had, by this time, crawled away, under the side of a
post-and-rail fence, in the shade, and was exceeding ill. The
intense heat of the sun, the heavy dust rising from the fan, the
stooping, to take up the wheat from the yard, together with the
hurrying, to get through, had caused a rush of blood to my head.
In this condition, Covey finding out where I was, came
to me;
and, after standing over me a while, he asked me what the matter
was. I told him as well as I could, for it was with difficulty
that I could speak. He then gave me a savage kick in the side,
which jarred my whole frame, and commanded me to get up. The man
had obtained complete control over me; and if he had commanded me
to do any possible thing, I should, in my then state of mind,
have endeavored to comply. I made an effort to rise, but fell
back in the attempt, before gaining my feet. The brute now gave
me another heavy kick, and again told me to rise. I again tried
to rise, and succeeded in gaining my feet; but upon stooping to
get the tub with which I was feeding the fan, I again staggered
and fell to the ground; and I must have so fallen, had I been
sure that a hundred bullets would have pierced me, as the consequence. While down, in this sad condition, and perfectly
helpless, the merciless Negro breaker took up the hickory slab,
with which Hughes had been striking off the wheat to a level with
the sides of the half bushel measure (a very hard weapon) and
with the sharp edge of it, he dealt me a heavy blow on my head
which made a large gash, and caused the blood to run freely,
saying, at the same time, "If
you
have got the headache, I'll cure you." This done, he ordered
me again to rise, but I made no effort to do so; for I had made
up my mind that it was useless, and that the heartless monster
might now do his worst; he could but kill me, and that might put
me out of my misery. Finding me unable to rise, or rather
despairing of my doing so, Covey left me, with a view to getting
on with the work without me. I
was bleeding very freely, and my
face was soon covered with my warm blood. Cruel and merciless as
was the motive that dealt that blow, dear reader, the wound was
fortunate for me. Bleeding was never more efficacious. The pain
in my head speedily abated, and I was soon able to rise. Covey
had, as I have said, now left me to my fate; and the question
was, shall I return to my work, or shall I find my way to St.
Michael's, and make Capt. Auld acquainted with the atrocious
cruelty of his brother Covey, and beseech him to get me another
master? Remembering the object he had in view, in placing me
under the management of Covey, and further, his cruel treatment
of my poor crippled cousin, Henny, and his meanness in the matter
of feeding and clothing his slaves, there was little ground to
hope for a favorable reception at the hands of Capt. Thomas Auld.
Nevertheless, I resolved to go straight to Capt. Auld, thinking
that, if not animated by motives of humanity, he might be induced
to interfere on my behalf from selfish considerations. "He
cannot," thought I, "allow his property to be thus bruised and
battered, marred and defaced; and I will go to him, and tell him
the simple truth about the matter." In order to get to St.
Michael's, by the most favorable and direct road, I must walk
seven miles; and this, in my sad condition, was no easy
performance. I had already lost much blood; I was exhausted by
over exertion; my sides were sore from the heavy blows planted
there by the stout boots of Mr. Covey; and I was, in every way,
in an unfavorable plight for the journey. I however watched my
chance, while the cruel and
cunning Covey was looking in an
opposite direction, and started
off, across the field, for
St. Michael's. This was a daring step; if it failed, it would
only exasperate Covey, and increase the rigors of my bondage,
during the remainder of my term of service under him; but the
step was taken, and I must go forward. I succeeded in getting
nearly half way across the broad field, toward the woods, before
Mr. Covey observed me. I was still bleeding, and the exertion of
running had started the blood afresh.
"Come back! Come
back!" vociferated Covey, with threats of what he would do if
I did not return instantly. But, disregarding his calls and his
threats, I pressed on toward the woods as fast as my feeble state
would allow. Seeing no signs of my stopping, Covey caused his
horse to be brought out and saddled, as if he intended to pursue
me. The race was now to be an unequal one; and, thinking I might
be overhauled by him, if I kept the main road, I walked nearly
the whole distance in the woods, keeping far enough from the road
to avoid detection and pursuit. But, I had not gone far, before
my little strength again failed me, and I laid down. The blood
was still oozing from the wound in my head; and, for a time, I
suffered more than I can describe. There I was, in the deep
woods, sick and emaciated, pursued by a wretch whose character
for revolting cruelty beggars all opprobrious speech—bleeding,
and almost bloodless. I was not without the fear of bleeding to
death. The thought of dying in the woods, all alone, and of
being torn to pieces by the buzzards, had not yet been rendered
tolerable by my many troubles and hardships,
and I was glad when
the shade of the trees, and the cool evening breeze, combined
with my matted hair to stop the flow of blood. After lying there
about three quarters of an hour, brooding over the singular and
mournful lot to which I was doomed, my mind passing over the
whole scale or circle of belief and unbelief, from faith in the
overruling providence of God, to the blackest atheism, I again
took up my journey toward St. Michael's, more weary and sad than
in the morning when I left Thomas Auld's for the home of Mr.
Covey. I was bare-footed and bare-headed, and in
MASTER THOMAS>
my shirt sleeves. The way was through bogs and
briers, and I tore my feet often during the journey. I was full
five hours in going the seven or eight miles; partly, because of
the difficulties of the way, and partly, because of the
feebleness induced by my illness, bruises and loss of blood. On
gaining my master's store, I presented an appearance of
wretchedness and woe, fitted to move any but a heart of stone.
From the crown of my head to the sole of my feet, there were
marks of blood. My hair was all clotted with dust and blood, and
the back of my shirt was literally stiff with the same. Briers
and thorns had scarred and torn my feet and legs, leaving blood
marks there. Had I escaped from a den of tigers, I could not
have looked worse than I did on reaching St. Michael's. In this
unhappy plight, I appeared before my professedly
Christian
master, humbly to invoke the interposition of his power and
authority, to protect me from further abuse and violence. I had
begun to hope, during the latter part of my tedious journey
toward St. Michael's, that Capt. Auld would
now show himself in a
nobler light than I had ever before seen him. I was
disappointed. I had jumped from a sinking ship into the sea; I
had fled from the tiger to something worse. I told him all the
circumstances, as well as I could; how I was endeavoring to
please Covey; how hard I was at work in the present instance; how
unwilling I sunk down under the heat, toil and pain; the brutal
manner in which Covey had kicked me in the side; the gash cut in
my head; my hesitation about troubling him (Capt. Auld) with
complaints; but, that now I felt it would not be best longer to
conceal from him the outrages committed on me from time to time
by Covey. At first, master Thomas seemed somewhat affected by
the story of my wrongs, but he soon repressed his feelings and
became cold as iron. It was impossible—as I stood before him at
the first—for him to seem indifferent. I distinctly saw his
human nature asserting its conviction against the slave system,
which made cases like mine
possible; but, as I have said,
humanity fell before the systematic tyranny of slavery. He first
walked the floor, apparently much agitated by my story, and
the sad spectacle I presented; but, presently, it was
his
turn to talk. He began moderately, by finding excuses for Covey,
and ending with a full justification of him, and a passionate
condemnation of me. "He had no doubt I deserved the flogging.
He did not believe I was sick; I was only endeavoring to get rid
of work. My dizziness was laziness, and Covey did right to flog
me, as he had done." After thus fairly annihilating me, and
rousing himself by his own eloquence,
he fiercely demanded what I
wished
him to do in the case!
With such a complete knock-down to all my hopes, as he had
given me, and feeling, as I did, my entire subjection to his
power, I had very little heart to reply. I must not affirm my
innocence of the allegations which he had piled up against me;
for that would be impudence, and would probably call down fresh
violence as well as wrath upon me. The guilt of a slave is
always, and everywhere, presumed; and the innocence of the
slaveholder or the slave employer, is always asserted. The word
of the slave, against this presumption, is generally treated as
impudence, worthy of punishment. "Do you contradict me, you
rascal?" is a final silencer of counter statements from the lips
of a slave.
Calming down a little in view of my silence and
hesitation, and, perhaps, from a rapid glance at the picture of
misery I presented, he inquired again, "what I would have him
do?" Thus invited a second time, I told Master Thomas I wished
him to allow me to get a new home and to find a new master; that,
as sure as I went back to live with Mr. Covey again, I should be
killed by him; that he would never forgive my coming to him
(Capt. Auld) with a complaint against him (Covey); that, since I
had lived with him, he almost crushed my spirit, and I believed
that he would ruin me for future service; that my life was not
safe in his hands. This, Master Thomas (my brother in the
church) regarded as "nonsense." "There was no danger of
Mr. Covey's killing me; he was a good man, industrious and
religious,
and he would not think of
removing me from that home; "besides," said he and this I
found was the most distressing thought of all to him—"if you
should leave Covey now, that your year has but half expired, I
should lose your wages for the entire year. You belong to Mr.
Covey for one year, and you
must go back to him, come what
will. You must not trouble me with any more stories about Mr.
Covey; and if you do not go immediately home, I will get hold of
you myself." This was just what I expected, when I found he had
prejudged the case against me. "But, Sir," I said, "I am
sick and tired, and I cannot get home to-night." At this, he
again relented, and finally he allowed me to remain all night at
St. Michael's; but said I must be off early in the morning, and
concluded his directions by making me swallow a huge dose of
epsom salts—about the only medicine ever administered to
slaves.
It was quite natural for Master Thomas to presume I was
feigning sickness to escape work, for he probably thought that
were he in the place of a slave with no wages for his
work, no praise for well doing, no motive for toil but the lash—he would try every possible scheme by which to escape labor. I
say I have no doubt of this; the reason is, that there are not,
under the whole heavens, a set of men who cultivate such an
intense dread of labor as do the slaveholders. The charge of
laziness against the slave is ever on their lips, and is the
standing apology for every species of cruelty and brutality.
These men literally "bind heavy burdens, grievous to be borne,
and lay them
on men's shoulders; but they, themselves, will not
move them with one of their fingers."
My kind readers shall have, in the next chapter—what they
were led, perhaps, to expect to find in this—namely: an account
of my partial disenthrallment from the tyranny of Covey, and the
marked change which it brought about.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE LAST FLOGGING.
A SLEEPLESS NIGHT—RETURN TO COVEY'S—PURSUED BY COVEY—THE CHASE
DEFEATED—VENGEANCE POSTPONED—MUSINGS IN THE WOODS—THE ALTERNATIVE—DEPLORABLE SPECTACLE—NIGHT IN THE WOODS—EXPECTED
ATTACK—ACCOSTED BY SANDY, A FRIEND, NOT A HUNTER—SANDY'S
HOSPITALITY—THE "ASH CAKE" SUPPER—THE INTERVIEW WITH SANDY—HIS ADVICE—SANDY A CONJURER AS WELL AS A CHRISTIAN—THE MAGIC ROOT—STRANGE
MEETING WITH COVEY—HIS MANNER—COVEY'S SUNDAY FACE—MY DEFENSIVE
RESOLVE—THE FIGHT—THE VICTORY, AND ITS RESULTS.
Sleep itself does not always come to the relief of the
weary in body, and the broken in spirit; especially when past
troubles only foreshadow coming disasters. The last hope had
been extinguished. My master, who I did not venture to hope
would protect me as a man, had even now refused to protect
me as his property; and had cast me back, covered with
reproaches and bruises, into the hands of a stranger to that
mercy which was the soul of the religion he professed. May the
reader never spend such a night as that allotted to me, previous
to the morning which was to herald my return to the den of
horrors from which I had made a temporary escape.
I remained all night—sleep I did not—at St. Michael's;
and in the morning (Saturday) I started off, according to the
order of Master Thomas, feeling that
I had no friend on earth,
and doubting if I had one in heaven. I reached Covey's about
nine o'clock; and just as I stepped into the field, before I had
reached the house, Covey, true to his snakish habits, darted out
at me from a fence corner, in which he had
secreted himself, for the purpose of securing me. He was amply
provided with a cowskin and a rope; and he evidently intended to
tie me up, and to wreak his vengeance on me to the fullest
extent. I should have been an easy prey, had he succeeded in
getting his hands upon me, for I had taken no refreshment since
noon on Friday; and this, together with the pelting, excitement,
and the loss of blood, had reduced my strength. I, however,
darted back into the woods, before the ferocious hound could get
hold of me, and buried myself in a thicket, where he lost sight
of me. The corn-field afforded me cover, in getting to the
woods. But for the tall corn, Covey would have overtaken me, and
made me his captive. He seemed very much chagrined that he did
not catch me, and gave up the chase, very reluctantly; for I
could see his angry movements, toward the house from which he had
sallied, on his foray.
Well, now I am clear of Covey, and of his wrathful lash,
for present. I am in the wood, buried in its somber gloom, and
hushed in its solemn silence; hid from all human eyes; shut in
with nature and nature's God, and absent from all human
contrivances. Here was a good place to pray; to pray for help
for deliverance—a prayer I had often made before. But how could
I pray? Covey could pray—Capt. Auld could pray—I would fain
pray; but doubts (arising
partly from my own neglect of the means
of grace, and partly from the sham religion which everywhere
prevailed, cast in my mind a doubt upon all religion, and led me
to the conviction that prayers were unavailing and delusive)
prevented my embracing the opportunity, as a religious one.
Life, in itself, had almost become burdensome to me. All my
outward relations were against me; I must stay here and starve (I
was already hungry) or go home to Covey's, and have my flesh torn
to pieces, and my spirit humbled under the cruel lash of Covey.
This was the painful alternative presented to me. The day was
long and irksome. My physical condition was deplorable. I was
weak, from the toils of the previous day, and from the want of
food and rest; and had been so little concerned about my
appearance, that I had not yet washed the blood from my garments.
I was an object of horror, even to myself. Life, in Baltimore,
when most oppressive, was a paradise to this. What had I done,
what had my parents done, that such a life as this should be
mine? That day, in the woods, I would have exchanged my manhood
for the brutehood of an ox.
Night came. I was still in the woods, unresolved what to
do. Hunger had not yet pinched me to the point of going home,
and I laid myself down in the leaves to rest; for I had been
watching for hunters all day, but not being molested during the
day, I expected no disturbance during the night. I had come to
the conclusion that Covey relied upon hunger to drive me home;
and in this I was quite correct—the
facts showed that he had
made no effort to catch me, since morning.
During the night, I heard the step of a man in the woods.
He was coming toward the place where I lay. A person lying still
has the advantage over one walking in the woods, in the day time,
and this advantage is much greater at night. I was not able to
engage in a physical struggle, and I had recourse to the common
resort of the weak. I hid myself in the leaves to prevent
discovery. But, as the night rambler in the woods drew nearer, I
found him to be a friend, not an enemy; it was a slave of
Mr. William Groomes, of Easton, a kind hearted fellow, named
"Sandy." Sandy lived with Mr. Kemp that year, about four miles
from St. Michael's. He, like myself had been hired out by the
year; but, unlike myself, had not been hired out to be broken.
Sandy was the husband of a free woman, who lived in the lower
part of "Potpie Neck," and he was now on his way through
the woods, to see her, and to spend the Sabbath with her.
As soon as I had ascertained that the disturber of my
solitude was not an enemy, but the good-hearted Sandy—a man as
famous among the slaves of the neighborhood for his good nature,
as for his good sense I came out from my hiding place, and made
myself known to him. I explained the
circumstances of the past two days, which had driven me to the
woods, and he deeply compassionated my distress. It was a bold
thing for him to shelter me, and I could not ask him to do so;
for, had I been found in his hut, he would have suffered the
penalty of thirty-nine lashes on his bare back, if not something
worse. But
Sandy was too generous to permit the fear of
punishment to prevent his relieving a brother bondman from hunger
and exposure; and, therefore, on his own motion, I accompanied
him to his home, or rather to the home of his wife—for the house
and lot were hers. His wife was called up—for it was now about
midnight—a fire was made, some Indian meal was soon mixed with
salt and water, and an ash cake was baked in a hurry to relieve
my hunger. Sandy's wife was not behind him in kindness—both
seemed to esteem it a privilege to succor me; for, although I was
hated by Covey and by my master, I was loved by the colored
people, because
they thought I was hated for my knowledge,
and persecuted because I was feared. I was the
only slave
now in that region who could read and write. There had
been one other man, belonging to Mr. Hugh Hamilton, who could
read (his name was "Jim"), but he, poor fellow, had, shortly
after my coming into the neighborhood, been sold off to the far
south. I saw Jim ironed, in the cart, to be carried to Easton
for sale—pinioned like a yearling for the slaughter. My knowledge was now the pride of my brother slaves; and, no doubt, Sandy
felt something of the general interest in me on that account.
The supper was soon ready, and though I have feasted since, with
honorables, lord mayors and aldermen, over the sea, my supper on
ash cake and cold water, with Sandy, was the meal, of all my
life, most sweet to my taste, and now most vivid in my memory.
Supper over, Sandy and I went into a discussion of what
was possible for me, under the perils and hardships
which
now overshadowed my path. The question was, must I go back to
Covey, or must I now tempt to run away? Upon a careful survey,
the latter was found to be impossible; for I was on a narrow neck
of land, every avenue from which would bring me in sight of
pursuers. There was the Chesapeake bay to the right, and "Pot-pie" river to the left, and St. Michael's and its neighborhood
occupying the only space through which there was any retreat.
I found Sandy an old advisor. He was not only a religious
man, but he professed to believe in a system for which I have no
name. He was a genuine African, and had inherited some of the
so-called magical powers, said to be possessed by African and
eastern nations. He told me that he could help me; that, in
those very woods, there was an herb, which in the morning might
be found, possessing all the powers required for my protection (I
put his thoughts in my own language); and that, if I would take
his advice, he would procure me the root of the herb of which he
spoke. He told me further, that if I would take that root and
wear it on my right side, it would be impossible for Covey to
strike me a blow; that with this root about my person, no white
man could whip me. He said he had carried it for years, and that
he had fully tested its virtues. He had never received a blow
from a slaveholder since he carried it; and he never expected to
receive one, for he always meant to carry that root as a
protection. He knew Covey well, for Mrs. Covey was the daughter
of Mr. Kemp; and he (Sandy) had heard of the barbarous treatment
to which I was subjected, and he wanted to do something for me.
Now all this talk about the root, was to me, very absurd
and ridiculous, if not positively sinful. I at first rejected
the idea that the simple carrying a root on my right side (a
root, by the way, over which I walked every time I went into the
woods) could possess any such magic power as he ascribed to it,
and I was, therefore, not disposed to cumber my pocket with it.
I had a positive aversion to all pretenders to
"divination." It was beneath one of my intelligence to
countenance such dealings with the devil, as this power implied.
But, with all my learning—it was really precious little—Sandy
was more than a match for me. "My book learning," he said, "had
not kept Covey off me" (a powerful
argument
just then) and he entreated me, with flashing eyes, to try this.
If it did me no good, it could do me no harm, and it would cost
me nothing, any way. Sandy was so earnest, and so confident of
the good qualities of this weed, that, to please him, rather than
from any conviction of its excellence, I was induced to take it.
He had been to me the good Samaritan, and had, almost providentially, found me, and helped me when I could not help myself; how
did I know but that the hand of the Lord was in it? With
thoughts of this sort, I took the roots from Sandy, and put them
in my right hand pocket.
This was, of course, Sunday morning. Sandy now urged me
to go home, with all speed, and to walk up bravely to the house,
as though nothing had happened. I saw in Sandy too deep an insight into human
nature, with all his superstition, not to have
some respect for his advice; and perhaps, too, a slight gleam or
shadow of his superstition had fallen upon me. At any rate, I
started off toward Covey's, as directed by Sandy. Having, the
previous night, poured my griefs into Sandy's ears, and got him
enlisted in my behalf, having made his wife a sharer in my
sorrows, and having, also, become well refreshed by sleep and
food, I moved off, quite courageously, toward the much dreaded
Covey's. Singularly enough, just as I entered his yard gate, I
met him and his wife, dressed in their Sunday best—looking as
smiling as angels—on their way to church. The manner of Covey
astonished me. There was something really benignant in his
countenance. He spoke to me as never before; told me that the
pigs had got into the lot, and he wished me to drive them out;
inquired how I was, and seemed an altered man. This
extraordinary conduct of Covey, really made me begin to think
that Sandy's herb had more virtue in it than I, in my pride, had
been willing to allow; and, had the day been other than Sunday, I
should have attributed Covey's altered manner solely to the magic
power of the root. I suspected, however, that the
Sabbath, and not the
root, was the real explanation
of Covey's manner. His religion hindered him from breaking the
Sabbath, but not from breaking my skin. He had more respect
for the
day than for the
man, for whom the day was
mercifully given; for while he would cut and slash my body during
the week, he would not hesitate, on Sunday, to teach me the value
of my soul, or the way of life and salvation by Jesus Christ.
All went well with me till Monday morning; and then,
whether the root had lost its virtue, or whether my tormentor had
gone deeper into the black art than myself (as was sometimes said
of him), or whether he had obtained a special indulgence, for his
faithful Sabbath day's worship, it is not necessary for me to
know, or to inform the reader; but, this I may say—the
pious and benignant smile which graced Covey's face on
Sunday, wholly disappeared on Monday. Long before
daylight, I was called up to go and feed, rub, and curry the
horses. I obeyed the call, and would have so obeyed it, had it
been made at an earlier hour, for I had brought my mind to
a firm resolve, during that Sunday's reflection, viz: to obey
every order, however unreasonable, if it were possible, and, if
Mr. Covey should then undertake to beat me, to defend and protect
myself to the best of my ability. My religious views on the
subject of resisting my master, had suffered a serious shock, by
the savage persecution to which I had been subjected, and my
hands were no longer tied by my religion. Master Thomas's
indifference had served the last link. I had now to this extent
"backslidden" from this point in the slave's religious creed; and
I soon had occasion to make my fallen state known to my Sunday-pious brother, Covey.
Whilst I was obeying his order to feed and get the horses
ready for the field, and when in the act of going up the stable
loft for the purpose of throwing down some blades, Covey sneaked
into the stable, in his
peculiar snake-like way, and seizing me
suddenly by the leg, he brought me to the stable floor, giving my
newly mended body a fearful jar. I now forgot my roots, and
remembered my pledge to
stand up in my own defense. The
brute was endeavoring skillfully to get a slip-knot on my legs,
before I could draw up my feet. As soon as I
found what he was up to, I gave a sudden spring (my two day's
rest had been of much service to me,) and by that means, no
doubt, he was able to bring me to the floor so heavily. He was
defeated in his plan of tying me. While down, he seemed to think
he had me very securely in his power. He little thought he was—as the rowdies say—"in" for a "rough and tumble" fight; but such
was the fact. Whence came the daring spirit necessary to grapple
with a man who, eight-and-forty hours before, could, with his
slightest word have made me tremble like a leaf in a storm, I do
not know; at any rate,
I was resolved to fight, and, what
was better still, I was actually hard at it. The fighting
madness had come upon me, and I found my strong fingers firmly
attached to the throat of my cowardly tormentor; as heedless of
consequences, at the moment, as though we stood as equals before
the law. The very color of the man was forgotten. I felt as
supple as a cat, and was ready for the snakish creature at every
turn. Every blow of his was parried, though I dealt no blows in
turn. I was strictly on the
defensive, preventing him
from injuring me, rather than trying to injure him. I flung him
on the ground several times, when he meant to have hurled me
there. I held him
so firmly by the throat, that his blood
followed my nails. He held me, and I held him.
All was fair, thus far, and the contest was about equal.
My resistance was entirely unexpected, and Covey was taken all
aback by it, for he trembled in every limb. "Are you going to
resist, you scoundrel?" said he. To which, I returned a
polite "Yes sir;" steadily gazing my interrogator in the
eye, to meet the first approach or dawning of the blow, which I
expected my answer would call forth. But, the conflict did not
long remain thus equal. Covey soon cried out lustily for help;
not that I was obtaining any marked advantage over him, or was
injuring him, but because he was gaining none over me, and was
not able, single handed, to conquer me. He called for his cousin
Hughs, to come to his assistance, and now the scene was changed.
I was compelled to
give blows, as well as to parry them;
and, since I was, in any case, to suffer for resistance, I felt
(as the musty proverb goes) that "I might as well be hanged for
an old sheep as a lamb." I was still defensive toward
Covey, but aggressive toward Hughs; and, at the first
approach of the latter, I dealt a blow, in my desperation, which
fairly sickened my youthful assailant. He went off, bending over
with pain, and manifesting no disposition to come within my reach
again. The poor fellow was in the act of trying to catch and tie
my right hand, and while flattering himself with success, I gave
him the kick which sent him staggering away in pain, at the same
time that I held Covey with a firm hand.
Taken completely by surprise, Covey seemed to
have lost
his usual strength and coolness. He was frightened, and stood
puffing and blowing, seemingly unable to command words or blows.
When he saw that poor Hughes was standing half bent with pain—his courage quite gone the cowardly tyrant asked if I "meant to
persist in my resistance." I told him
"I did mean to resist,
come what might;" that I had been by him treated like a
brute, during the last six months; and that I should stand
it
no longer. With that, he gave me a shake, and
attempted to drag me toward a stick of wood, that was lying just
outside the stable door. He meant to knock me down with it; but,
just as he leaned over to get the stick, I seized him with both
hands by the collar, and, with a vigorous and sudden snatch, I
brought my assailant harmlessly, his full length, on the
not overclean ground—for we were now in the cow yard. He
had selected the place for the fight, and it was but right that
he should have all the advantages of his own selection.
By this time, Bill, the hiredman, came home. He had been
to Mr. Hemsley's, to spend the Sunday with his nominal wife, and
was coming home on Monday morning, to go to work. Covey and I
had been skirmishing from before daybreak, till now, that the sun
was almost shooting his beams over the eastern woods, and we were
still at it. I could not see where the matter was to terminate.
He evidently was afraid to let me go, lest I should again
make off to the woods; otherwise, he
would probably have obtained arms from the house, to frighten me.
Holding me, Covey called upon Bill for assistance. The scene
here, had something comic about it. "Bill," who knew
precisely
what Covey wished him to do, affected ignorance,
and pretended he did not know what to do. "What shall I do, Mr.
Covey," said Bill. "Take hold of him—take hold of him!" said
Covey. With a toss of his head, peculiar to Bill, he said,
"indeed, Mr. Covey I want to go to work."
"This is your
work," said Covey; "take hold of him." Bill replied, with
spirit, "My master hired me here, to work, and
not to help
you whip Frederick." It was now my turn to speak. "Bill," said
I, "don't put your hands on me." To which he replied, "My GOD!
Frederick, I ain't goin' to tech ye," and Bill walked off,
leaving Covey and myself to settle our matters as best we might.
But, my present advantage was threatened when I saw
Caroline (the slave-woman of Covey) coming to the cow yard to
milk, for she was a powerful woman, and could have mastered me
very easily, exhausted as I now was. As soon as she came into
the yard, Covey attempted to rally her to his aid. Strangely—and, I may add, fortunately—Caroline was in no humor to take a
hand in any such sport. We were all in open rebellion, that
morning. Caroline answered the command of her master to "take
hold of me," precisely as Bill had answered, but in
her, it was at greater peril so to answer; she was the
slave of Covey, and he could do what he pleased with her. It was
not so with Bill, and Bill knew it. Samuel Harris, to
whom Bill belonged, did not allow his slaves to be beaten, unless
they were guilty of some crime which the law would punish. But,
poor Caroline, like myself, was at the mercy of the merciless
Covey; nor
did she escape the dire effects of her refusal. He
gave her several sharp blows.
Covey at length (two hours had elapsed) gave up the
contest. Letting me go, he said—puffing and blowing at a great
rate—"Now, you scoundrel, go to your work; I would not have
whipped you half so much as I have had you not resisted." The
fact was, he had not whipped me at all. He had not,
in all the scuffle, drawn a single drop of blood from me. I had
drawn blood from him; and, even without this satisfaction, I
should have been victorious, because my aim had not been to
injure him, but to prevent his injuring me.
During the whole six months that I lived with Covey, after
this transaction, he never laid on me the weight of his finger in
anger. He would, occasionally, say he did not want to have to
get hold of me again—a declaration which I had no difficulty in
believing; and I had a secret feeling, which answered, "You need
not wish to get hold of me again, for you will be likely to come
off worse in a second fight than you did in the first."
Well, my dear reader, this battle with Mr. Covey—undignified as it was, and as I fear my narration of it is—was the
turning point in my "life as a slave." It rekindled in my
breast the smouldering embers of liberty; it brought up my
Baltimore dreams, and revived a sense of my own manhood. I was a
changed being after that fight. I was nothing before; I
WAS A MAN NOW. It recalled to life my crushed self-respect and
my self-confidence, and inspired me with a renewed determination
to be A FREEMAN. A man, without
force, is without the essential
dignity of humanity. Human nature is so constituted, that it
cannot
honor a helpless man, although it can
pity
him; and even this it cannot do long, if the signs of power do
not arise.
He can only understand the effect of this combat on my
spirit, who has himself incurred something, hazarded something,
in repelling the unjust and cruel aggressions of a tyrant. Covey
was a tyrant, and a cowardly one, withal. After resisting him, I
felt as I had never felt before. It was a resurrection from the
dark and pestiferous tomb of slavery, to the heaven of comparative freedom. I was no longer a servile coward, trembling
under the frown of a brother worm of the dust, but, my long-cowed
spirit was roused to an attitude of manly independence. I had
reached the point, at which I was not afraid to die. This
spirit made me a freeman in
fact, while I remained a slave in form. When a
slave cannot be flogged he is more than half free. He has a
domain as broad as his own manly heart to defend, and he is
really "a power on earth." While slaves prefer their
lives, with flogging, to instant death, they will always find
Christians enough, like unto Covey, to accommodate that
preference. From this time, until that of my escape from
slavery, I was never fairly whipped. Several attempts were made
to whip me, but they were always unsuccessful. Bruises I did
get, as I shall hereafter inform the reader; but the case I have
been describing, was the end of the brutification to which
slavery had subjected me.
The reader will be glad to know why, after I had
so grievously offended Mr. Covey, he did not have me taken in hand
by the authorities; indeed, why the law of Maryland, which
assigns hanging to the slave who resists his master, was not put
in force against me; at any rate, why I was not taken up, as is
usual in such cases, and publicly whipped, for an example to
other slaves, and as a means of deterring me from committing the
same offense again. I confess, that the easy manner in which I
got off, for a long time, a surprise to me, and I cannot, even
now, fully explain the cause.
The only explanation I can venture to suggest, is the
fact, that Covey was, probably, ashamed to have it known and
confessed that he had been mastered by a boy of sixteen. Mr.
Covey enjoyed the unbounded and very valuable reputation, of
being a first rate overseer and Negro breaker. By means
of this reputation, he was able to procure his hands for very
trifling compensation, and with very great ease. His
interest and his pride mutually suggested the wisdom of passing
the matter by, in silence. The story that he had undertaken to
whip a lad, and had been resisted, was, of itself, sufficient to
damage him; for his bearing should, in the estimation of
slaveholders, be of that imperial order that should make such an
occurrence impossible. I judge from these circumstances,
that Covey deemed it best to give me the go-by. It is,
perhaps, not altogether creditable to my natural temper, that,
after this conflict with Mr. Covey, I did, at times, purposely
aim to provoke him to an attack, by refusing to keep with the
other hands in the field,
but I could never bully him to another
battle. I had made up my mind to do him serious damage, if he
ever again attempted to lay violent hands on me.
"Hereditary bondmen, know ye not
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
NEW RELATIONS AND DUTIES.
CHANGE OF MASTERS—BENEFITS DERIVED BY THE CHANGE—FAME OF THE
FIGHT WITH COVEY—RECKLESS UNCONCERN—MY ABHORRENCE OF
SLAVERY—ABILITY TO READ A CAUSE OF PREJUDICE—THE HOLIDAYS—HOW
SPENT—SHARP HIT AT SLAVERY—EFFECTS OF HOLIDAYS—A DEVICE OF
SLAVERY—DIFFERENCE BETWEEN COVEY AND FREELAND—AN IRRELIGIOUS MASTER
PREFERRED TO A RELIGIOUS ONE—CATALOGUE OF FLOGGABLE
OFFENSES—HARD LIFE AT COVEY'S USEFUL—IMPROVED CONDITION NOT FOLLOWED BY
CONTENTMENT—CONGENIAL SOCIETY AT FREELAND'S—SABBATH SCHOOL
INSTITUTED—SECRECY NECESSARY—AFFECTIONATE RELATIONS OF TUTOR
AND PUPILS—CONFIDENCE AND FRIENDSHIP AMONG SLAVES—I DECLINE
PUBLISHING PARTICULARS OF CONVERSATIONS WITH MY FRIENDS—SLAVERY
THE INVITER OF VENGEANCE.
My term of actual service to Mr. Edward Covey ended on
Christmas day, 1834. I gladly left the snakish Covey, although
he was now as gentle as a lamb. My home for the year 1835 was
already secured—my next master was already selected. There is
always more or less excitement about the matter of changing
hands, but I had become somewhat reckless. I cared very little
into whose hands I fell—I meant to fight my way. Despite of
Covey, too, the report got abroad, that I was hard to whip; that
I was guilty of kicking back; that though generally a good tempered Negro, I sometimes "got the devil in me." These
sayings were rife in Talbot county, and they distinguished me
among my servile brethren. Slaves, generally,
will fight each
other, and die at each other's hands; but there are few who are
not held in awe by a white man. Trained from the cradle up, to
think and feel that their masters are superior, and invested
with a sort of sacredness, there are few who can outgrow or rise
above the control which that sentiment exercises. I had now got
free from it, and the thing was known. One bad sheep will spoil
a whole flock. Among the slaves, I was a bad sheep. I hated
slavery, slaveholders, and all pertaining to them; and I did not
fail to inspire others with the same feeling, wherever and
whenever opportunity was presented. This made me a marked lad
among the slaves, and a suspected one among the slaveholders. A
knowledge of my ability to read and write, got pretty widely
spread, which was very much against me.
The days between Christmas day and New Year's, are allowed
the slaves as holidays. During these days, all regular work was
suspended, and there was nothing to do but to keep fires, and
look after the stock. This time was regarded as our own, by the
grace of our masters, and we, therefore used it, or abused it, as
we pleased. Those who had families at a distance, were now
expected to visit them, and to spend with them the entire week.
The younger slaves, or the unmarried ones, were expected to see
to the cattle, and attend to incidental duties at home. The
holidays were variously spent. The sober, thinking and
industrious ones of our number, would employ themselves in
manufacturing corn brooms, mats, horse collars and baskets, and
some of these were very well made. Another class spent their
time in hunting
opossums, coons, rabbits, and other game. But
the majority spent the holidays in sports, ball playing,
wrestling, boxing, running foot races, dancing, and drinking
whisky; and this latter mode of spending the time was generally
most agreeable to their masters. A slave who would work during
the holidays, was thought, by his master, undeserving of
holidays. Such an one had rejected the favor of his master.
There was, in this simple act of continued work, an accusation
against slaves; and a slave could not help thinking, that if he
made three dollars during the holidays, he might make three
hundred during the year. Not to be drunk during the holi
EFFECTS OF HOLIDAYS>
days, was disgraceful; and he was esteemed a
lazy and improvident man, who could not afford to drink whisky
during Christmas.
The fiddling, dancing and "jubilee beating," was
going on in all directions. This latter performance is strictly
southern. It supplies the place of a violin, or of other musical
instruments, and is played so easily, that almost every farm has
its "Juba" beater. The performer improvises as he beats, and
sings his merry songs, so ordering the words as to have them fall
pat with the movement of his hands. Among a mass of nonsense and
wild frolic, once in a while a sharp hit is given to the meanness
of slaveholders. Take the following, for an example:
"We raise de wheat,
Dey gib us de corn;
We bake de bread,
Dey gib us de cruss;
We sif de meal,
Dey gib us de huss;
We peal de meat,
Dey gib us de skin,
And dat's de way
Dey takes us in.
We skim de pot,
Dey gib us the liquor,
And say dat's good enough for nigger.
Walk over! walk over!
Tom butter and de fat;
Poor nigger you can't get over dat;
Walk over!"
This is not a bad summary of the palpable injustice and
fraud of slavery, giving—as it does—to the lazy and idle, the
comforts which God designed should be given solely to the honest
laborer. But to the holiday's.
Judging from my own observation and experience, I believe
these holidays to be among the most effective means, in the hands
of slaveholders, of keeping down the spirit of insurrection among
the slaves.
To enslave men, successfully and safely, it is necessary
to have their minds occupied with thoughts and aspirations
short of the liberty of which they are deprived. A certain
degree of attainable good must be kept before them. These
holidays serve the purpose of keeping the minds of the slaves
occupied with prospective pleasure, within the limits of slavery.
The young man can go wooing; the married man can visit his wife;
the father and mother can see their children; the industrious and
money loving can make a few dollars; the great wrestler can win
laurels; the young people can meet, and enjoy each other's
society; the drunken man can get plenty of whisky;
and the
religious man can hold prayer meetings, preach, pray and exhort
during the holidays. Before the holidays, these are pleasures in
prospect; after the holidays, they become pleasures of memory,
and they serve to keep out thoughts and wishes of a more
dangerous character. Were slaveholders at once to abandon the
practice of allowing their slaves these liberties, periodically,
and to keep them, the year round, closely confined to the narrow
circle of their homes, I doubt not that the south would blaze
with insurrections. These holidays are conductors or safety
valves to carry off the explosive elements inseparable from the
human mind, when reduced to the condition of slavery. But for
these, the rigors of bondage would become too severe for
endurance, and the slave would be forced up to dangerous
desperation. Woe to the slaveholder when he undertakes to hinder
or to prevent the operation of these electric conductors. A
succession of earthquakes would be less destructive, than the
insurrectionary fires which would be sure to burst forth in
different parts of the south, from such interference.
Thus, the holidays, became part and parcel of the gross
fraud, wrongs and inhumanity of slavery. Ostensibly, they are
institutions of benevolence, designed to mitigate the rigors of
slave life, but, practically, they are a fraud, instituted by
human selfishness, the better to secure the ends of injustice and
oppression. The slave's happiness is not the end sought, but,
rather, the master's safety. It is not
from a generous unconcern for the slave's labor that this
cessation from labor is allowed, but from a prudent regard to the
safety of the slave system. I am strengthened in this opinion,
by the fact, that most slaveholders like to have their slaves
spend the holidays in such a manner as to be of no real benefit
to the slaves. It is plain, that everything like rational
enjoyment among the slaves, is frowned upon; and only those wild
and low sports, peculiar to semi-civilized people, are encouraged. All the license allowed, appears to have no other
object than to disgust the slaves with their temporary freedom,
and to make them as glad to return to their work, as they were to
leave it. By plunging them into exhausting depths of drunkenness
and dissipation, this effect is almost certain to follow. I have
known slaveholders resort to cunning tricks, with a view of
getting their slaves deplorably drunk. A usual plan is, to make
bets on a slave, that he can drink more whisky than any other;
and so to induce a rivalry among them, for the mastery in this
degradation. The scenes, brought about in this way, were often
scandalous and loathsome in the extreme. Whole multitudes might
be found stretched out in brutal drunkenness, at once helpless
and disgusting. Thus, when the slave asks for a few hours of
virtuous freedom, his cunning master takes advantage of his
ignorance, and cheers him with a dose of vicious and revolting
dissipation, artfully labeled with the name of LIBERTY. We were
induced to drink, I among the rest, and when the holidays were
over, we all staggered up from our filth and wallowing, took a
long breath, and went away to our various fields of work;
feeling, upon the whole, rather glad to go from that which our
masters artfully deceived us into the belief was freedom,
back again to the arms of slavery. It was not what we had taken it to
be, nor what it might have been, had it not been abused by us.
It was about as well to be a slave to
master, as to be a
slave to
rum and
whisky.
I am the more induced to take this view of the holiday
system, adopted by slaveholders, from what I know of their
treatment of slaves, in regard to other things. It is the
commonest thing for them to try to disgust their slaves with what
they do not want them to have, or to enjoy. A slave, for
instance, likes molasses; he steals some; to cure him of the
taste for it, his master, in many cases, will go away to town,
and buy a large quantity of the poorest quality, and set
it before his slave, and, with whip in hand, compel him to eat
it, until the poor fellow is made to sicken at the very thought
of molasses. The same course is often adopted to cure slaves of
the disagreeable and inconvenient practice of asking for more
food, when their allowance has failed them. The same disgusting
process works well, too, in other things, but I need not cite
them. When a slave is drunk, the slaveholder has no fear that he
will plan an insurrection; no fear that he will escape to the
north. It is the sober, thinking slave who is dangerous, and
needs the vigilance of his master, to keep him a slave. But, to
proceed with my narrative.
On the first of January, 1835, I proceeded from St.
Michael's to Mr. William Freeland's, my new home. Mr. Freeland
lived only three miles from St. Michael's, on an old worn out
farm, which required much labor
to restore it to anything like a
self-supporting establishment.
I was not long in finding Mr. Freeland to be a very
different man from Mr. Covey. Though not rich, Mr. Freeland was
what may be called a well-bred southern gentleman, as different
from Covey, as a well-trained and hardened Negro breaker is from
the best specimen of the first families of the south. Though
Freeland was a slaveholder, and shared many of the vices of his
class, he seemed alive to the sentiment of honor. He had some
sense of justice, and some feelings of humanity. He was fretful,
impulsive and passionate, but I must do him the justice to say,
he was free from the mean and selfish characteristics which distinguished the creature from which I had now, happily, escaped.
He was open, frank, imperative, and practiced no concealments,
disdaining to play the spy. In all
this, he was the opposite of the crafty Covey.
Among the many advantages gained in my change from Covey's
to Freeland's—startling as the statement may be—was the fact
that the latter gentleman made no profession of religion. I
assert most unhesitatingly, that the religion of the
south—as I have observed it and proved it—is a mere covering
for the most horrid crimes; the justifier of the most appalling
barbarity; a sanctifier of the most hateful frauds; and a secure
shelter, under which the darkest, foulest, grossest, and most
infernal abominations fester and flourish. Were I again to be
reduced to the condition of a slave, next to that
calamity, I should regard the fact of being the slave of a
religious slaveholder, the
greatest that could befall me. For
all slaveholders with whom I have ever met, religious
slaveholders are the worst. I have found them, almost
invariably, the vilest, meanest and basest of their class.
Exceptions there may be, but this is true of religious
slaveholders,
as a class. It is not for me to explain the
fact. Others may do that; I simply state it as a fact, and leave
the theological, and psychological inquiry, which it raises, to
be decided by others more competent than myself. Religious
slaveholders, like religious persecutors, are ever extreme in
their malice and violence. Very near my new home, on an
adjoining farm, there lived the Rev. Daniel Weeden, who was both
pious and cruel after the real Covey pattern. Mr. Weeden was a
local preacher of the Protestant Methodist persuasion, and a most
zealous supporter of the ordinances of religion, generally. This
Weeden owned a woman called "Ceal," who was a standing proof of
his mercilessness. Poor Ceal's back, always scantily clothed,
was kept literally raw, by the lash of this religious man and
gospel minister. The most notoriously wicked man—so called in
distinction from church members—could hire hands more easily
than this brute. When sent out to find a home, a slave would
never enter the gates of the preacher Weeden, while a sinful
sinner needed a hand. Behave ill, or behave well, it was
the known maxim of Weeden, that it is the duty of a master to use
the lash. If, for no other reason, he contended that this was
essential to remind a slave of his condition, and of his master's
authority. The good slave must be whipped, to be
kept
good, and the bad slave must be
whipped, to be
made good.
Such was Weeden's theory, and such was his practice. The back of
his slave-woman will, in the judgment, be the swiftest witness
against him.
While I am stating particular cases, I might as well
immortalize another of my neighbors, by calling him by name, and
putting him in print. He did not think that a "chiel" was near,
"taking notes," and will, doubtless, feel quite angry at having
his character touched off in the ragged style of a slave's pen.
I beg to introduce the reader to REV. RIGBY HOPKINS. Mr. Hopkins
resides between Easton and St. Michael's, in Talbot county,
Maryland. The severity of this man made him a perfect terror to
the slaves of his neighborhood. The peculiar feature of his
government, was, his system of whipping slaves, as he said, in
advance of deserving it. He always managed to have one or
two slaves to whip on Monday morning, so as to start his hands to
their work, under the inspiration of a new assurance on Monday,
that his preaching about kindness, mercy, brotherly love, and the
like, on Sunday, did not interfere with, or prevent him from
establishing his authority, by the cowskin. He seemed to wish to
assure them, that his tears over poor, lost and ruined sinners,
and his pity for them, did not reach to the blacks who tilled his
fields. This saintly Hopkins used to boast, that he was the best
hand to manage a Negro in the county. He whipped for the
smallest offenses, by way of preventing the commission of large
ones.
The reader might imagine a difficulty in finding faults
enough for such frequent whipping. But this
is because you have
no idea how easy a matter it is to offend a man who is on the
look-out for offenses. The man, unaccustomed to slaveholding,
would be astonished to observe how many
foggable offenses
there are in the slaveholder's catalogue of crimes; and how easy it is to commit
any one of them, even when the slave least intends it. A
slaveholder, bent on finding fault, will hatch up a dozen a day,
if he chooses to do so, and each one of these shall be of a
punishable description. A mere look, word, or motion, a mistake,
accident, or want of power, are all matters for which a slave may
be whipped at any time. Does a slave look dissatisfied with his
condition? It is said, that he has the devil in him, and it must
be whipped out. Does he answer
loudly, when spoken to by
his master, with an air of self-consciousness? Then, must he be
taken down a button-hole lower, by the lash, well laid on. Does
he forget, and omit to pull off his hat, when approaching a white
person? Then, he must, or may be, whipped for his bad manners.
Does he ever venture to vindicate his conduct, when harshly and
unjustly accused? Then, he is guilty of impudence, one of the
greatest crimes in the social catalogue of southern society. To
allow a slave to escape punishment, who has impudently attempted
to exculpate himself from unjust charges, preferred against him
by some white person, is to be guilty of great dereliction of
duty. Does a slave ever venture to suggest a better way of doing
a thing, no matter what? He is, altogether, too officious—wise
above what is written—and he deserves, even if he does not get,
a flogging for his presumption. Does he, while plowing,
break a plow, or while hoeing, break a hoe, or while chopping, break an
ax? No matter what were the imperfections of the implement
broken, or the natural liabilities for breaking, the slave can be
whipped for carelessness. The
reverend slaveholder could
always find something of this sort, to justify him in using the
lash several times during the week. Hopkins—like Covey and
Weeden—were shunned by slaves who had the privilege (as many
had) of finding their own masters at the end of each year; and
yet, there was not a man in all that section of country, who made
a louder profession of religion, than did MR. RIGBY HOPKINS.
But, to continue the thread of my story, through my
experience when at Mr. William Freeland's.
My poor, weather-beaten bark now reached smoother water,
and gentler breezes. My stormy life at Covey's had been of
service to me. The things that would have seemed very hard, had
I gone direct to Mr. Freeland's, from the home of Master Thomas,
were now (after the hardships at Covey's) "trifles light as air."
I was still a field hand, and had come to prefer the severe labor
of the field, to the enervating duties of a house servant. I had
become large and strong; and had begun to take pride in the fact,
that I could do as much hard work as some of the older men.
There is much rivalry among slaves, at times, as to which can do
the most work, and masters generally seek to promote such
rivalry. But some of us were too wise to race with each other
very long. Such racing, we had the sagacity to see, was not
likely to pay. We had our times for measuring
each other's
strength, but we knew too much to keep up the competition so long
as to produce an extraordinary day's work. We knew that if, by
extraordinary exertion, a large quantity of work was done in one
day, the fact, becoming known to the master, might lead him to
require the same amount every day. This thought was enough to
bring us to a dead halt when over so much excited for the race.
At Mr. Freeland's, my condition was every way improved. I
was no longer the poor scape-goat that I was when at Covey's,
where every wrong thing done was saddled upon me, and where other
slaves were whipped over my shoulders. Mr. Freeland was too just
a man thus to impose upon me, or upon any one else.
It is quite usual to make one slave the object of especial
abuse, and to beat him often, with a view to its effect upon
others, rather than with any expectation that the slave whipped
will be improved by it, but the man with whom I now was, could
descend to no such meanness and wickedness. Every man here was
held individually responsible for his own conduct.
This was a vast improvement on the rule at Covey's.
There, I was the general pack horse. Bill
Smith was protected, by a positive prohibition made by his rich
master, and the command of the rich slaveholder is LAW to the
poor one; Hughes was favored, because of his relationship to
Covey; and the hands hired temporarily, escaped flogging, except
as they got it over my poor shoulders. Of course, this
comparison refers to the time when Covey could whip me.
Mr. Freeland, like Mr. Covey, gave his hands enough to
eat, but, unlike Mr. Covey, he gave them
time to take their
meals; he worked us hard during the day, but gave us the night
for rest—another advantage to be set to the credit of the
sinner, as against that of the saint. We were seldom in the
field after dark in the evening, or before sunrise in the
morning. Our implements of husbandry were of the most improved
pattern, and much superior to those used at Covey's.
Nothwithstanding the improved condition which was now
mine, and the many advantages I had gained by my new home, and my
new master, I was still restless and discontented. I was about
as hard to please by a master, as a master is by slave. The
freedom from bodily torture and unceasing labor, had given my
mind an increased sensibility, and imparted to it greater activity. I was not yet exactly in right relations. "How be it,
that was not first which is spiritual, but that which is natural,
and afterward that which is spiritual." When entombed at
Covey's, shrouded in darkness and physical wretchedness, temporal
wellbeing was the grand desideratum; but, temporal wants
supplied, the spirit puts in its claims. Beat and cuff your
slave, keep him hungry and spiritless, and he will follow the
chain of his master like a dog; but, feed and clothe him well—work him moderately—surround him with physical comfort—and
dreams of freedom intrude. Give him a bad master, and he
aspires to a good master; give him a good master, and he
wishes to become his own master. Such is human nature.
You may hurl a man so low, beneath the level of his kind, that he
loses all just ideas of his natural position; but elevate
him a little, and
the clear conception of rights arises to life
and power, and leads him onward. Thus elevated, a little, at
Freeland's, the dreams called into being by that good man, Father
Lawson, when in Baltimore, began to visit me; and shoots from the
tree of liberty began to put forth tender buds, and dim hopes of
the future began to dawn.
I found myself in congenial society, at Mr. Freeland's.
There were Henry Harris, John Harris, Handy Caldwell, and Sandy
Jenkins.[6]
Henry and John were brothers, and belonged to Mr.
Freeland. They were both remarkably bright and intelligent,
though neither of them could read. Now for mischief! I had not
been long at Freeland's before I was up to my old tricks. I
early began to address my companions on the subject of education,
and the advantages of intelligence over ignorance, and, as far as
I dared, I tried to show the agency of ignorance in keeping men
in slavery. Webster's spelling book and the Columbian
Orator were looked into again. As summer came on, and the
long Sabbath days stretched themselves over our idleness, I
became uneasy, and wanted a Sabbath school, in which to exercise
my gifts, and to impart the little knowledge of letters which I
possessed, to my brother slaves. A house was hardly necessary in
the summer time; I could hold my school under the shade
of an old oak tree, as well as any where else. The thing was, to get the
scholars, and to have them thoroughly imbued with the desire to
learn. Two such boys were quickly secured, in Henry and John,
and from them the contagion spread. I was not long bringing
around me twenty or thirty young men, who enrolled themselves,
gladly, in my Sabbath school, and were willing to meet me
regularly, under the trees or elsewhere, for the purpose of
learning to read. It was surprising with what ease they
provided themselves with spelling books. These were mostly the
cast off books of their young masters or mistresses. I taught,
at first, on our own farm. All were impressed with the necessity
of keeping the matter as private as possible, for the fate of the
St. Michael's attempt was notorious, and fresh in the minds of
all. Our pious masters, at St. Michael's, must not know that a
few of their dusky brothers were learning to read the word of
God, lest they should come down upon us with the lash and chain.
We might have met to drink whisky, to wrestle, fight, and to do
other unseemly things, with no fear of interruption from the
saints or sinners of St. Michael's.
But, to meet for the purpose of improving the mind and
heart, by learning to read the sacred scriptures, was esteemed a
most dangerous nuisance, to be instantly stopped. The
slaveholders of St. Michael's, like slaveholders elsewhere, would
always prefer to see the slaves engaged in degrading sports,
rather than to see them acting like moral and accountable beings.
Had any one asked a religious white man, in St.
Michael's, twenty years ago, the names of three men in that town, whose
lives were most after the pattern of our Lord and Master, Jesus
Christ, the first three would have been as follows:
GARRISON WEST,
Class Leader.
WRIGHT FAIRBANKS,
Class Leader.
THOMAS AULD,
Class Leader.
And yet, these were men who ferociously rushed in upon my Sabbath
school, at St. Michael's, armed with mob-like missiles, and I
must say, I thought him a Christian, until he took part in bloody
by the lash. This same Garrison West was my class leader, and I
must say, I thought him a Christian, until he took part in
breaking up my school. He led me no more after that. The plea
for this outrage was then, as it is now and at all times—the
danger to good order. If the slaves learnt to read, they would
learn something else, and something worse. The peace of slavery
would be disturbed; slave rule would be endangered. I leave the
reader to
characterize a system which is endangered by such
causes. I do not dispute the soundness of the reasoning. It is
perfectly sound; and, if slavery be
right, Sabbath schools
for teaching slaves to read the bible are
wrong, and ought
to be put down. These Christian class leaders were, to this
extent, consistent. They had settled the question, that slavery
is
right, and, by that standard, they determined that
Sabbath schools are wrong. To be sure, they were Protestant, and
held to the great Protestant right of every man to
"search the
scriptures" for himself; but, then, to all general rules,
there are
exceptions. How convenient! What crimes may
not
be committed under the doctrine of the last remark. But, my
dear, class leading Methodist brethren, did not condescend to
give me a reason for breaking up the Sabbath school at St.
Michael's; it was enough that they had determined upon its
destruction. I am, however, digressing.
After getting the school cleverly into operation, the
second time holding it in the woods, behind the barn, and in the
shade of trees—I succeeded in inducing a free colored man, who
lived several miles from our house, to permit me to hold my
school in a room at his house. He, very kindly, gave me this
liberty; but he incurred much peril in doing so, for the
assemblage was an unlawful one. I shall not mention, here, the
name of this man; for it might, even now, subject him to
persecution, although the offenses were committed more than
twenty years ago. I had, at one time, more than forty scholars,
all of the right sort; and many of them succeeded in learning to
read. I have met several slaves from Maryland, who were once my
scholars; and who obtained their freedom, I doubt not, partly in
consequence of the ideas imparted to them in that school. I have
had various employments during my short life; but I look back to
none with more satisfaction, than to that afforded by my
Sunday school. An attachment, deep and lasting, sprung up
between me and my persecuted pupils, which made parting from them
intensely grievous; and, when I
think that most of these dear souls are yet shut up in this
abject thralldom, I am overwhelmed with grief.
Besides my Sunday school, I devoted three evenings
a week to my fellow slaves, during the winter. Let the reader reflect
upon the fact, that, in this christian country, men and women are
hiding from professors of religion, in barns, in the woods and
fields, in order to learn to read the
holy bible. Those
dear souls, who came to my Sabbath school, came
not
because it was popular or reputable to attend such a place, for
they came under the liability of having forty stripes laid on
their naked backs. Every moment they spend in my school, they
were under this terrible liability; and, in this respect, I was
sharer with them. Their minds had been cramped and starved by
their cruel masters; the light of education had been completely
excluded; and their hard earnings had been taken to educate their
master's children. I felt a delight in circumventing the
tyrants, and in blessing the victims of their curses.
The year at Mr. Freeland's passed off very smoothly, to
outward seeming. Not a blow was given me during the whole year.
To the credit of Mr. Freeland—irreligious though he was—it must
be stated, that he was the best master I ever had, until I became
my own master, and assumed for myself, as I had a right to do,
the responsibility of my own existence and the exercise of my own
powers. For much of the happiness—or absence of misery—with
which I passed this year with Mr. Freeland, I am indebted to the
genial temper and ardent friendship of my brother slaves. They
were, every one of them, manly, generous and brave, yes; I say
they were brave, and I will add, fine looking. It is seldom the
lot of mortals to have truer and better friends than were the
slaves
on this farm. It is not uncommon to charge slaves with
great treachery toward each other, and to believe them incapable
of confiding in each other; but I must say, that I never loved,
esteemed, or confided in men, more than I did in these. They
were as true as steel, and no band of brothers could have been
more loving. There were no mean advantages taken of each
other, as is sometimes the case where slaves are situated as we
were; no tattling; no giving each other bad names to Mr.
Freeland; and no elevating one at the expense of the other. We
never undertook to do any thing, of any importance, which was
likely to affect each other, without mutual consultation. We
were generally a unit, and moved together. Thoughts and
sentiments were exchanged between us, which might well be called
very incendiary, by oppressors and tyrants; and perhaps the time
has not even now come, when it is safe to unfold all the flying
suggestions which arise in the minds of intelligent slaves.
Several of my friends and brothers, if yet alive, are still in
some part of the house of bondage; and though twenty years have
passed away, the suspicious malice of slavery might punish them
for even listening to my thoughts.
The slaveholder, kind or cruel, is a slaveholder still—the every hour violator of the just and inalienable rights of
man; and he is, therefore, every hour silently whetting the knife
of vengeance for his own throat. He never lisps a syllable in
commendation of the fathers of this republic, nor denounces any
attempted oppression of himself, without inviting the knife to
his
own throat, and asserting the rights of rebellion for his own
slaves.
The year is ended, and we are now in the midst of the
Christmas holidays, which are kept this year as last, according
to the general description previously given.
[[6]]
This is the same man who gave me the roots to prevent my
being whipped by Mr. Covey. He was "a clever soul." We used
frequently to talk about the fight with Covey, and as often as we
did so, he would claim my success as the result of the roots
which he gave me. This superstition is very common among the
more ignorant slaves. A slave seldom dies, but that his death is
attributed to trickery.
19. CHAPTER XIX.
THE RUN-AWAY PLOT.
NEW YEAR'S THOUGHTS AND MEDITATIONS—AGAIN BOUGHT BY FREELAND—NO
AMBITION TO BE A SLAVE—KINDNESS NO COMPENSATION FOR SLAVERY—INCIPIENT STEPS TOWARD ESCAPE—CONSIDERATIONS LEADING
THERETO—IRRECONCILABLE HOSTILITY TO SLAVERY—SOLEMN VOW TAKEN—PLAN
DIVULGED TO THE SLAVES—Columbian Orator—SCHEME GAINS
FAVOR, DESPITE PRO-SLAVERY PREACHING—DANGER OF DISCOVERY—SKILL
OF SLAVEHOLDERS IN READING THE MINDS OF THEIR SLAVES—SUSPICION
AND COERCION—HYMNS WITH DOUBLE MEANING—VALUE, IN DOLLARS, OF
OUR COMPANY—PRELIMINARY CONSULTATION—PASS-WORD—CONFLICTS OF
HOPE AND FEAR—DIFFICULTIES TO BE OVERCOME—IGNORANCE OF
GEOGRAPHY—SURVEY OF IMAGINARY DIFFICULTIES—EFFECT ON OUR
MINDS—PATRICK HENRY—SANDY BECOMES A DREAMER—ROUTE TO THE NORTH
LAID OUT—OBJECTIONS CONSIDERED—FRAUDS PRACTICED ON FREEMEN—PASSES WRITTEN—ANXIETIES AS THE TIME DREW NEAR—DREAD OF
FAILURE—APPEALS TO COMRADES—STRANGE PRESENTIMENT—COINCIDENCE—THE BETRAYAL DISCOVERED—THE MANNER OF ARRESTING US—RESISTANCE
MADE BY HENRY HARRIS—ITS EFFECT—THE UNIQUE SPEECH OF MRS.
FREELAND—OUR SAD PROCESSION TO PRISON—BRUTAL JEERS BY THE
MULTITUDE ALONG THE ROAD—PASSES EATEN—THE DENIAL—SANDY TOO
WELL LOVED TO BE SUSPECTED—DRAGGED BEHIND HORSES—THE JAIL A
RELIEF—A NEW SET OF TORMENTORS—SLAVE-TRADERS—JOHN, CHARLES AND
HENRY RELEASED—ALONE IN PRISON—I AM TAKEN OUT, AND SENT TO
BALTIMORE.
I am now at the beginning of the year 1836, a time
favorable for serious thoughts. The mind naturally occupies
itself with the mysteries of life in all its phases—the ideal,
the real and the actual. Sober people look both ways at the
beginning of the year, surveying the errors of the past, and
providing against possible errors of the future. I, too, was
thus exercised. I had little pleasure in retrospect, and the
prospect was not very brilliant. "Notwithstanding," thought
I, "the many resolutions and prayers I have made, in behalf of
freedom, I am, this first day of the year 1836, still a slave,
still wandering in the depths of spirit-devouring thralldom. My
faculties and powers of body and soul are not my own, but are the
property of a fellow mortal, in no sense superior to me, except
that he has the physical power to compel me to be owned and
controlled by him. By the combined physical force of the
community, I am his slave—a slave for life." With thoughts like
these, I was perplexed and chafed; they rendered me gloomy and
disconsolate. The anguish of my mind may not be written.
At the close of the year 1835, Mr. Freeland, my temporary
master, had bought me of Capt. Thomas Auld, for the year 1836.
His promptness in securing my services, would have been flattering to my vanity, had I been ambitious to win the reputation of
being a valuable slave. Even as it was, I felt a slight degree
of complacency at the circumstance. It showed he was as well
pleased with me as a slave, as I was with him as a master. I
have already intimated my regard for Mr. Freeland, and I may say
here, in addressing northern readers—where is no selfish motive
for speaking in praise of a slaveholder—that Mr. Freeland was a
man of many excellent qualities, and to me quite preferable to
any master I ever had.
But the kindness of the slavemaster only gilds the chain
of slavery, and detracts nothing from its weight or power. The
thought that men are made for other
and better uses than slavery,
thrives best under the gentle treatment of a kind master. But
the grim visage of slavery can assume no smiles which can
fascinate the partially enlightened slave, into a forgetfulness
of his bondage, nor of the desirableness of liberty.
I was not through the first month of this, my second year
with the kind and gentlemanly Mr. Freeland, before I was
earnestly considering and advising plans for gaining that
freedom, which,
when I was
but a mere child, I had ascertained to be the natural and inborn
right of every member of the human family. The desire for this
freedom had been benumbed, while I was under the brutalizing
dominion of Covey; and it had been postponed, and rendered
inoperative, by my truly pleasant Sunday school engagements with
my friends, during the year 1835, at Mr. Freeland's. It had,
however, never entirely subsided. I hated slavery, always, and
the desire for freedom only needed a favorable breeze, to fan it
into a blaze, at any moment. The thought of only being a
creature of the present and the past, troubled me,
and I longed to have a future—a future with hope in it.
To be shut up entirely to the past and present, is abhorrent to
the human mind; it is to the soul—whose life and happiness is
unceasing progress—what the prison is to the body; a blight and
mildew, a hell of horrors. The dawning of this, another year,
awakened me from my temporary slumber, and roused into life my
latent, but long cherished aspirations for freedom. I was now
not only ashamed to be contented in slavery, but ashamed to
seem to be contented, and in my present favorable
condition, under the mild rule of
Mr. F., I am not sure that some
kind reader will not condemn me for being over ambitious, and
greatly wanting in proper humility, when I say the truth, that I
now drove from me all thoughts of making the best of my lot, and
welcomed only such thoughts as led me away from the house of
bondage. The intense desires, now felt,
to be free,
quickened by my present favorable circumstances, brought me to
the determination to act, as well as to think and speak.
Accordingly, at the beginning of this year 1836, I took upon me a
solemn vow, that the year which had now dawned upon me should not
close, without witnessing an earnest attempt, on my part, to gain
my liberty. This vow only bound me to make my escape
individually; but the year spent with Mr. Freeland had attached
me, as with "hooks of steel," to my brother slaves. The most
affectionate and confiding friendship existed between us; and I
felt it my duty to give them an opportunity to share in my
virtuous determination by frankly disclosing to them my
plans and purposes. Toward Henry and John Harris, I felt a
friendship as strong as one man can feel for another; for I could
have died with and for them. To them, therefore, with a suitable
degree of caution, I began to disclose my sentiments and plans;
sounding them, the while on the subject of running away, provided
a good chance should offer. I scarcely need tell the reader,
that I did my
very best to imbue the minds of my dear
friends with my own views and feelings. Thoroughly awakened,
now, and with a definite vow upon me, all my little reading,
which had any bearing on the subject of human rights, was
rendered
available in my communications with my friends. That
(to me) gem of a book, the
Columbian Orator, with its
eloquent orations and spicy dialogues, denouncing oppression and
slavery—telling of what had been dared, done and suffered by
men, to obtain the inestimable boon of liberty—was still fresh
in my memory, and whirled into the ranks of my speech with the
aptitude of well trained soldiers, going through the drill. The
fact is, I here began my public speaking. I canvassed, with
Henry and John, the subject of slavery, and dashed against it the
condemning brand of God's eternal justice, which it every hour
violates. My fellow servants were neither indifferent, dull, nor
inapt. Our feelings were more alike than our opinions. All,
however, were ready to act, when a feasible plan should be
proposed. "Show us
how the thing is to be done," said
they, "and all is clear."
We were all, except Sandy, quite free from slaveholding
priestcraft. It was in vain that we had been taught from the
pulpit at St. Michael's, the duty of obedience to our masters; to
recognize God as the author of our enslavement; to regard running
away an offense, alike against God and man; to deem our
enslavement a merciful and beneficial arrangement; to esteem our
condition, in this country, a paradise to that from which we had
been snatched in Africa; to consider our hard hands and dark
color as God's mark of displeasure, and as pointing us out as the
proper subjects of slavery;
that the relation of master and slave was one of reciprocal
benefits; that our work was not more serviceable to our masters,
than our master's thinking was serviceable to us. I
say, it was
in vain that the pulpit of St. Michael's had constantly
inculcated these plausib]e doctrine. Nature laughed them to
scorn. For my own part, I had now become altogether too big for
my chains. Father Lawson's solemn words, of what I ought to be,
and might be, in the providence of God, had not fallen dead on my
soul. I was fast verging toward manhood, and the prophecies of
my childhood were still unfulfilled. The thought, that year
after year had passed away, and my resolutions to run away had
failed and faded—that I was
still a slave, and a slave,
too, with chances for gaining my freedom diminished and still
diminishing—was not a matter to be slept over easily; nor did I
easily sleep over it.
But here came a new trouble. Thoughts and purposes so incendiary as those I now cherished, could not agitate the mind
long, without danger of making themselves manifest to scrutinizing and unfriendly beholders. I had reason to fear that my
sable face might prove altogether too transparent for the safe
concealment of my hazardous enterprise. Plans of greater moment
have leaked through stone walls, and revealed their projectors.
But, here was no stone wall to hide my purpose. I would have
given my poor, tell tale face for the immoveable countenance of
an Indian, for it was far from being proof against the daily,
searching glances of those with whom I met.
It is the interest and business of slaveholders to study
human nature, with a view to practical results, and many of them
attain astonishing proficiency in discerning the thoughts and
emotions of slaves. They have to deal not with earth, wood, or
stone, but with
men; and, by every regard they have for
their safety and prosperity, they must study to know the material
on which they are at work. So much intellect as the slaveholder
has around him, requires watching. Their safety depends upon
their vigilance. Conscious of the injustice and wrong they are
every hour perpetrating, and knowing what they themselves
would do if made the victims of such wrongs, they are looking out
for the first signs of the dread retribution of justice. They
watch, therefore, with skilled and practiced eyes, and have
learned to read, with great accuracy, the state of mind and heart
of the slaves, through his sable face. These uneasy sinners are
quick to inquire into the matter, where the slave is concerned.
Unusual sobriety, apparent abstraction, sullenness and
indifference—indeed, any mood out of the common way—afford
ground for suspicion and inquiry. Often relying on their
superior position and wisdom, they hector and torture the slave
into a confession, by affecting to know the truth of their
accusations. "You have got the devil in you," say they, "and we
will whip him out of you." I have often been put thus to the
torture, on bare suspicion. This system has its disadvantages as
well as their opposite. The slave is sometimes whipped into the
confession of offenses which he never committed. The reader will
see that the good old rule—"a man is to be held innocent until
proved to be guilty"—does not hold good on the slave plantation.
Suspicion and torture are the approved methods of getting at the
truth, here. It was necessary for me, therefore, to
keep a watch
over my deportment, lest the enemy should get the better of me.
But with all our caution and studied reserve, I am not
sure that Mr. Freeland did not suspect that all was not right
with us. It did seem that he watched us more narrowly,
after the plan of escape had been conceived and discussed amongst
us. Men seldom see themselves as others see them; and while, to
ourselves, everything connected with our contemplated escape
appeared concealed, Mr. Freeland may have, with the peculiar
prescience of a slaveholder, mastered the huge thought which was
disturbing our peace in slavery.
I am the more inclined to think that he suspected us,
because, prudent as we were, as I now look back, I can see that
we did many silly things, very well calculated to awaken
suspicion. We were, at times,
remarkably buoyant, singing hymns and making joyous exclamations,
almost as triumphant in their tone as if we reached a land of
freedom and safety. A keen observer might have detected in our
repeated singing of
"O Canaan, sweet Canaan,
I am bound for the land of Canaan,"
something more than a hope of reaching heaven. We meant to reach
the north—and the north was our Canaan.
"I thought I heard them say,
There were lions in the way,
I don't expect to stay
Much longer here.
Run to Jesus—shun the danger—
I don't expect to stay
Much longer here,"
was a favorite air, and had a double meaning. In the lips of
some, it meant the expectation of a speedy summons to a world of
spirits; but, in the lips of our company, it simply meant,
a speedy pilgrimage toward a free state, and deliverance from all
the evils and dangers of slavery.
I had succeeded in winning to my (what slaveholders would
call wicked) scheme, a company of five young men, the very flower
of the neighborhood, each one of whom would have commanded one
thousand dollars in the home market. At New Orleans, they would
have brought fifteen hundred dollars a piece, and, perhaps, more.
The names of our party were as follows: Henry Harris; John
Harris, brother to Henry; Sandy Jenkins, of root memory; Charles
Roberts, and Henry Bailey. I was the youngest, but one, of the
party. I had, however, the advantage of them all, in experience,
and in a knowledge of letters. This gave me great influence over
them. Perhaps not one of them, left to himself, would have
dreamed of escape as a possible thing. Not one of them was self-moved in the matter. They all wanted to be free; but the serious
thought of running away, had not entered into their minds,
until I won them to the undertaking. They all were tolerably
well off—for slaves—and had dim hopes of being set free, some
day, by their masters. If any one is to blame for disturbing the
quiet of the slaves and slave-masters of the neighborhood of St.
Michael's, I am the man.
I claim to be the instigator of
the high crime (as the slaveholders regard it) and I kept life in
it, until life could be kept in it no longer.
Pending the time of our contemplated departure out of our
Egypt, we met often by night, and on every Sunday. At these
meetings we talked the matter over; told our hopes and fears, and
the difficulties discovered or imagined; and, like men of sense,
we counted the cost of the enterprise to which we were committing
ourselves.
These meetings must have resembled, on a small scale, the
meetings of revolutionary conspirators, in their primary condition. We were plotting against our (so called) lawful rulers;
with this difference that we sought our own good, and not the
harm of our enemies. We did not seek to overthrow them, but to
escape from them. As for Mr. Freeland, we all liked him, and
would have gladly remained with him, as freeman. LIBERTY
was our aim; and we had now come to think that we had a right to
liberty, against every obstacle even against the lives of our
enslavers.
We had several words, expressive of things, important to
us, which we understood, but which, even if distinctly heard by
an outsider, would convey no certain meaning. I have reasons for
suppressing these pass-words, which the reader will easily
divine. I hated the secrecy; but where slavery is powerful, and
liberty is weak, the latter is driven to concealment or to
destruction.
The prospect was not always a bright one. At times, we
were almost tempted to abandon the enterprise, and to get back to
that comparative peace of
mind, which even a man under the
gallows might feel, when all hope of escape had vanished. Quiet
bondage was felt to be better than the doubts, fears and uncertainties, which now so sadly perplexed and disturbed us.
The infirmities of humanity, generally, were represented
in our little band. We were confident, bold and determined, at
times; and, again, doubting, timid and wavering; whistling, like
the boy in the graveyard, to keep away the spirits.
To look at the map, and observe the proximity of Eastern
Shore, Maryland, to Delaware and Pennsylvania, it may seem to the
reader quite absurd, to regard the proposed escape as a
formidable undertaking. But to understand, some one has
said a man must stand under. The real distance was great
enough, but the imagined distance was, to our ignorance, even
greater. Every slaveholder seeks to impress his slave with a
belief in the boundlessness of slave territory, and of his own
almost illimitable power. We all had vague and indistinct
notions of the geography of the country.
The distance, however, is not the chief trouble. The
nearer are the lines of a slave state and the borders of a free
one, the greater the peril. Hired kidnappers infest these
borders. Then, too, we knew that merely reaching a free state
did not free us; that, wherever caught, we could be returned to
slavery. We could see no spot on this side the ocean, where we
could be free. We had heard of Canada, the real Canaan of the
American bondmen, simply as a country to which the wild goose and
the swan repaired at
the end of winter, to escape the heat of
summer, but not as the home of man. I knew something of
theology, but nothing of geography. I really did not, at that
time, know that there was a state of New York, or a state of
Massachusetts. I had heard of Pennsylvania, Delaware and New
Jersey, and all the southern states, but was ignorant of the free
states, generally. New York city was our northern limit, and to
go there, and be forever harassed with the liability of being
hunted down and returned to slavery—with the certainty of being
treated ten times worse than we had ever been treated before was
a prospect far from delightful, and it might well cause some
hesitation about engaging in the enterprise. The case,
sometimes, to our excited visions,
stood thus: At every
gate through which we had to pass, we saw a watchman; at every
ferry, a guard; on every bridge, a sentinel; and in every wood, a
patrol or slave-hunter. We were hemmed in on every side. The
good to be sought, and the evil to be shunned, were flung in the
balance, and weighed against each other. On the one hand, there
stood slavery; a stern reality, glaring frightfully upon us, with
the blood of millions in his polluted skirts—terrible to
behold—greedily devouring our hard earnings and feeding himself
upon our flesh. Here was the evil from which to escape. On the
other hand, far away, back in the hazy distance, where all forms
seemed but shadows, under the flickering light of the north
star—behind some craggy hill or snow-covered mountain—stood a
doubtful freedom, half frozen, beckoning us to her icy domain.
This was the good to be sought. The inequality was as
great as
that between certainty and uncertainty. This, in itself, was
enough to stagger us; but when we came to survey the untrodden
road, and conjecture the many possible difficulties, we were
appalled, and at times, as I have said, were upon the point of
giving over the struggle altogether.
The reader can have little idea of the phantoms of trouble
which flit, in such circumstances, before the uneducated mind of
the slave. Upon either side, we saw grim death assuming a
variety of horrid shapes. Now, it was starvation, causing us, in
a strange and friendless land, to eat our own flesh. Now, we
were contending with the waves (for our journey was in part by
water) and were drowned. Now, we were hunted by dogs, and
overtaken and torn to pieces by their merciless fangs. We were
stung by scorpions—chased by wild beasts—bitten by snakes; and,
worst of all, after having succeeded in swimming rivers—encountering wild beasts—sleeping in the woods—suffering
hunger, cold, heat and nakedness—we supposed ourselves to be
overtaken by hired kidnappers, who, in the name of the law, and
for their thrice accursed reward, would, perchance, fire upon
us—kill some, wound others, and capture all. This dark pic
ture, drawn by ignorance and fear, at
times greatly shook our determination, and not unfrequently
caused us to
"Rather bear those ills we had
Than fly to others which we knew not of."
I am not disposed to magnify this circumstance in my
experience, and yet I think I shall seem to be so
disposed, to
the reader. No man can tell the intense agony which is felt by
the slave, when wavering on the point of making his escape. All
that he has is at stake; and even that which he has not, is at
stake, also. The life which he has, may be lost, and the liberty
which he seeks, may not be gained.
Patrick Henry, to a listening senate, thrilled by his
magic eloquence, and ready to stand by him in his boldest
flights, could say, GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME DEATH, and this
saying was a sublime one, even for a freeman; but, incomparably
more sublime, is the same sentiment, when practically
asserted by men accustomed to the lash and chain—men whose
sensibilities must have become more or less deadened by their
bondage. With us it was a doubtful liberty, at best, that
we sought; and a certain, lingering death in the rice swamps and
sugar fields, if we failed. Life is not lightly regarded by men
of sane minds. It is precious, alike to the pauper and to the
prince—to the slave, and to his master; and yet, I believe there
was not one among us, who would not rather have been shot down,
than pass away life in hopeless bondage.
In the progress of our preparations, Sandy, the root man,
became troubled. He began to have dreams, and some of them were
very distressing. One of these, which happened on a Friday
night, was, to him, of great significance; and I am quite ready
to confess, that I felt somewhat damped by it myself. He said,
"I dreamed, last night, that I was roused from sleep, by strange
noises, like the voices of a swarm of angry birds, that caused a
roar as they passed, which fell
upon my ear like a coming gale
over the tops of the trees. Looking up to see what it could
mean," said Sandy, "I saw you, Frederick, in the claws of a huge
bird, surrounded by a large number of birds, of all colors and
sizes. These were all picking at you, while you, with your arms,
seemed to be trying to protect your eyes. Passing over me, the
birds flew in a south-westerly direction, and I watched them
until they were clean out of sight. Now, I saw this as plainly
as I now see you; and furder, honey, watch de Friday night dream;
dare is sumpon in it, shose you born; dare is, indeed, honey."
I confess I did not like this dream; but I threw off
concern about it, by attributing it to the general excitement and
perturbation consequent upon our contemplated plan of escape. I
could not, however, shake off its effect at once. I felt that it
boded me no good. Sandy was unusually emphatic and oracular, and
his manner had much to do with the impression made upon me.
The plan of escape which I recommended, and to which my
comrades assented, was to take a large canoe, owned by Mr. Hamilton, and, on the Saturday night previous to the Easter
holidays, launch out into the Chesapeake bay, and paddle for its
head—a distance of seventy miles with all our might. Our
course, on reaching this point, was, to turn the canoe adrift,
and bend our steps toward the north star, till we reached a free
state.
There were several objections to this plan. One was, the
danger from gales on the bay. In rough weather, the waters of
the Chesapeake are much agitated,
and there is danger, in a
canoe, of being swamped by the waves. Another objection was,
that the canoe would soon be missed; the absent persons would, at
once, be suspected of having taken it; and we should be pursued
by some of the fast sailing bay craft out of St. Michael's.
Then, again, if we reached the head of the bay, and turned the
canoe adrift, she might prove a guide to our track, and bring the
land hunters after us.
These and other objections were set aside, by the stronger
ones which could be urged against every other plan that could
then be
suggested. On the water, we had a
chance of being regarded as fishermen, in the service of a
master. On the other hand, by taking the land route, through the
counties adjoining Delaware, we should be subjected to all manner
of interruptions, and many very disagreeable questions, which
might give us serious trouble. Any white man is authorized to
stop a man of color, on any road, and examine him, and arrest
him, if he so desires.
By this arrangement, many abuses (considered such even by
slaveholders) occur. Cases have been known, where freemen have
been called upon to show their free papers, by a pack of
ruffians—and, on the presentation of the papers, the ruffians
have torn them up, and seized their victim, and sold him to a
life of endless bondage.
The week before our intended start, I wrote a pass for
each of our party, giving them permission to visit Baltimore,
during the Easter holidays. The pass ran after this manner:
"This is to certify, that I, the undersigned, have given
the bearer, my servant, John, full liberty to go to Baltimore, to
spend the Easter holidays.
"W. H.
"Near St. Michael's, Talbot county, Maryland."
Although we were not going to Baltimore, and were
intending to land east of North Point, in the direction where I
had seen the Philadelphia steamers go, these passes might be made
useful to us in the lower part of the bay, while steering toward
Baltimore. These were not, however, to be shown by us, until all
other answers failed to satisfy the inquirer. We were all fully
alive to the importance of being calm and self-possessed, when
accosted, if accosted we should be; and we more times than one
rehearsed to each other how we should behave in the hour of
trial.
These were long, tedious days and nights. The suspense
was painful, in the extreme. To balance probabilities, where
life and liberty hang on the result, requires steady nerves. I
panted for action, and was glad when the day, at the close of
which we were to start, dawned upon us. Sleeping, the night
before, was out of the question. I probably felt more
deeply than any of my companions, because I was the instigator of
the movement. The responsibility of the whole enterprise rested
on my shoulders. The glory of success, and the shame and
confusion of failure, could not be matters of indifference to me.
Our food was prepared; our clothes were packed up; we were all
ready to go, and impatient for Saturday morning—considering that
the last morning of our bondage.
I cannot describe the tempest and tumult of my brain, that
morning. The reader will please to bear in mind, that, in a
slave state, an unsuccessful runaway is not only subjected to
cruel torture, and sold away to the far south, but he is
frequently execrated by the other slaves. He is charged with
making the condition of the other slaves intolerable, by laying
them all under the suspicion of their masters—subjecting them to
greater vigilance, and imposing greater limitations on their
privileges. I dreaded murmurs from this quarter. It is
difficult, too, for a slavemaster to believe that slaves escaping
have not been aided in their flight by some one of their fellow
slaves. When, therefore, a slave is missing, every slave on the
place is closely examined as to his knowledge of the undertaking;
and they are sometimes even tortured, to make them disclose what
they are suspected of knowing of such escape.
Our anxiety grew more and more intense, as the time of our
intended departure for the north drew nigh. It was truly felt to
be a matter of life and death with us; and we fully intended to
fight as well as run, if necessity should occur for
that extremity. But the trial hour was not yet to come. It was
easy to resolve, but not so easy to act. I expected there might
be some drawing back, at the last. It was natural that there
should be; therefore, during the intervening time, I lost no
opportunity to explain away difficulties, to remove doubts, to
dispel fears, and to inspire all with firmness. It was too late
to look back; and now was the time to go forward. Like
most other men, we had done the talking part
of our
work, long and well; and the time had come to
act as if we were in earnest, and meant to be as true in
action as in words. I did not forget to appeal to the pride of
my comrades, by telling them that, if after having solemnly
promised to go, as they had done, they now failed to make the
attempt, they would, in effect, brand themselves with cowardice,
and might as well sit down, fold their arms, and acknowledge
themselves as fit only to be
slaves. This detestable
character, all were unwilling to assume. Every man except Sandy
(he, much to our regret, withdrew) stood firm; and at our last
meeting we pledged ourselves afresh, and in the most solemn
manner, that, at the time appointed, we
would certainly
start on our long journey for a free country. This meeting was
in the middle of the week, at the end of which we were to start.
Early that morning we went, as usual, to the field, but
with hearts that beat quickly and anxiously. Any one intimately
acquainted with us, might have seen that all was not well with
us, and that some monster lingered in our thoughts. Our work
that morning was the same as it had been for several days past—drawing out and spreading manure. While thus engaged, I had a
sudden presentiment, which flashed upon me like lightning in a
dark night, revealing to the lonely traveler the gulf before, and
the enemy behind. I instantly turned to Sandy Jenkins, who was
near me, and said to him, "Sandy, we are betrayed;
something has just told me so." I felt as sure of it, as if the
officers were there in sight. Sandy said, "Man, dat is strange;
but I feel just as you do." If my mother—then long in her
grave—had appeared
before me, and told me that we were betrayed,
I could not, at that moment, have felt more certain of the fact.
In a few minutes after this, the long, low and distant
notes of the horn summoned us from the field to breakfast. I
felt as one may be supposed to feel before being led forth to be
executed for some great offense. I wanted no breakfast; but I
went with the other slaves toward the house, for form's sake. My
feelings were
not disturbed as to the right of running away;
on that point I had no trouble, whatever. My anxiety arose from
a sense of the consequences of failure.
In thirty minutes after that vivid presentiment came the
apprehended crash. On reaching the house, for breakfast, and
glancing my eye toward the lane gate, the worst was at once made
known. The lane gate off Mr. Freeland's house, is nearly a half
mile from the door, and shaded by the heavy wood which bordered
the main road. I was, however, able to descry four white men,
and two colored men, approaching. The white men were on
horseback, and the colored men were walking behind, and seemed to
be tied. "It is all over with us," thought I, "we are
surely betrayed." I now became composed, or at least
comparatively so, and calmly awaited the result. I watched the
ill-omened company, till I saw them enter the gate. Successful
flight was impossible, and I made up my mind to stand, and meet
the evil, whatever it might be; for I was not without a slight
hope that things might turn differently from what I at first
expected. In a few moments, in
came Mr. William Hamilton, riding
very rapidly, and evidently much excited. He was in the habit of
riding very slowly, and was seldom known to gallop his horse.
This time, his horse was nearly at full speed, causing the dust
to roll thick behind him. Mr. Hamilton, though one of the most
resolute men in the whole neighborhood, was, nevertheless, a
remarkably mild spoken man; and, even when greatly excited, his
language was cool and circumspect. He came to the door, and
inquired if Mr. Freeland was in. I told him that Mr. Freeland
was at the barn. Off the old gentleman rode, toward the barn,
with unwonted speed. Mary, the cook, was at a loss to know what
was the matter, and I did not profess any skill in making her
understand. I knew she would have united, as readily as any one,
in cursing me for bringing trouble into the family; so I held my
peace, leaving matters to develop themselves, without my
assistance. In a few moments, Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Freeland came
down from the barn to the house; and, just as they
made their appearance in the front yard,
three men (who proved to be constables) came dashing into the
lane, on horseback, as if summoned by a sign requiring quick
work. A few seconds brought them into the front yard, where they
hastily dismounted, and tied their horses. This done, they
joined Mr. Freeland and Mr. Hamilton, who were standing a short
distance from the kitchen. A few moments were spent, as if in
consulting how to proceed, and then the whole party walked up to
the kitchen door. There was now no one in the kitchen but myself
and John Harris. Henry and Sandy were yet at the barn.
Mr. Freeland came inside the kitchen door, and with an agitated
voice, called me by name, and told me to come forward; that there
was some gentlemen who wished to see me. I stepped toward them,
at the door, and asked what they wanted, when the constables
grabbed me, and told me that I had better not resist; that I had
been in a scrape, or was said to have been in one; that they were
merely going to take me where I could be examined; that they were
going to carry me to St. Michael's, to have me brought before my
master. They further said, that, in case the evidence against me
was not true, I should be acquitted. I was now firmly tied, and
completely at the mercy of my captors. Resistance was idle.
They were five in number, armed to the very teeth. When they had
secured me, they next turned to John Harris, and, in a few
moments, succeeded in tying him as firmly as they had already
tied me. They next turned toward Henry Harris, who had now
returned from the barn. "Cross your hands," said the constables,
to Henry. "I won't" said Henry, in a voice so firm and clear,
and in a manner so determined, as for a moment to arrest all
proceedings. "Won't you cross your hands?" said Tom Graham, the
constable.
"No I won't," said Henry, with increasing
emphasis. Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Freeland, and the officers, now came
near to Henry. Two of the constables drew out their shining
pistols, and swore by the name of God, that he should cross his
hands, or they would shoot him down. Each of these hired
ruffians now cocked their pistols, and, with fingers
apparently on the triggers, presented their deadly weapons to the
breast of the unarmed
slave, saying, at the same time, if he did
not cross his hands, they would "blow his d—d heart out of him."
"Shoot! shoot me!" said Henry. "You can't kill
me but once. Shoot!—shoot! and be d—d. I won't be
tied." This, the brave fellow said in a voice as defiant and
heroic in its tone, as was the language itself; and, at the
moment of saying this, with the pistols at his very breast, he
quickly raised his arms, and dashed them from the puny hands of
his assassins, the weapons flying in opposite directions. Now
came the struggle. All hands was now rushed upon the brave
fellow, and, after beating him for some time, they succeeded in
overpowering and tying him. Henry put me to shame; he fought,
and fought bravely. John and I had made no resistance. The fact
is, I never see much use in fighting, unless there is a
reasonable probability of whipping somebody. Yet there was
something almost providential in the resistance made by the
gallant Henry. But for that resistance, every soul of us would
have been hurried off to the far south. Just a moment previous
to the trouble with Henry, Mr. Hamilton mildly said—and
this gave me the unmistakable clue to the cause of our arrest—"Perhaps we had now better make a search for those protections,
which we understand Frederick has written for himself and the
rest." Had these passes been found, they would have been point
blank proof against us, and would have confirmed all the statements of our betrayer. Thanks to the resistance of Henry, the
excitement produced by the scuffle drew all attention in that
direction, and I succeeded in flinging my pass, unobserved, into
the fire.
The confusion attendant upon the scuffle, and the
apprehension of further trouble, perhaps, led our captors to
forego, for the present, any search for
"those protections"
which Frederick was said to have written for his companions;
so we were not yet convicted of the purpose to run away; and it
was evident that there was some doubt, on the part of all,
whether we had been guilty of such a purpose.
Just as we were all completely tied, and about ready to
start toward St. Michael's, and thence to jail, Mrs. Betsey
Freeland (mother to William, who was very much attached—after
the southern fashion—to Henry and John, they having been reared
from childhood in her house) came to the kitchen door, with her
hands full of biscuits—for we had not had time to take our
breakfast that morning—and divided them between Henry and John.
This done, the lady made the following parting address to me,
looking and pointing her bony finger at me. "You devil! you
yellow devil! It was you that put it into the heads of Henry and
John to run away. But for you, you long legged yellow
devil, Henry and John would never have thought of running
away." I gave the lady a look, which called forth a scream of
mingled wrath and terror, as she slammed the kitchen door, and
went in, leaving me, with the rest, in hands as harsh as her own
broken voice.
Could the kind reader have been quietly riding along the
main road to or from Easton, that morning, his eye would have met
a painful sight. He would have seen five young men, guilty of no
crime, save that of preferring liberty to a life of
bondage, drawn
along the public highway—firmly bound
together—tramping through dust and heat, bare-footed and bare-headed—fastened to three strong horses, whose riders were armed
to the teeth, with pistols and daggers—on their way to prison,
like felons, and suffering every possible insult from the crowds
of idle, vulgar people, who clustered around, and heartlessly
made their failure the occasion for all manner of ribaldry and
sport. As I looked upon this crowd of vile persons, and saw
myself and friends thus assailed and persecuted, I could not help
seeing the fulfillment of Sandy's dream. I was in the hands of
moral vultures, and firmly held in their sharp talons, and was
hurried away toward Easton, in a south-easterly direction, amid
the jeers of new birds of the same feather, through every
neighborhood we passed. It seemed to me (and this shows the good
understanding between the slaveholders and their allies) that
every body we met knew
the cause of our arrest, and were
out, awaiting our passing by, to feast their vindictive eyes on
our misery and to gloat over our ruin. Some said,
I ought to
be hanged, and others,
I ought to be burnt, others, I
ought to have the
"hide" taken from my back; while no one
gave us a kind word or sympathizing look, except the poor slaves,
who were lifting their heavy hoes, and who cautiously glanced at
us through the post-and-rail fences, behind which they were at
work. Our sufferings, that morning, can be more easily imagined
than described. Our hopes were all blasted, at a blow. The
cruel injustice, the victorious crime, and the helplessness of
innocence, led me to ask, in my ignorance and weakness "Where now
is the God
of justice and mercy? And why have these wicked men
the power thus to trample upon our rights, and to insult our
feelings?" And yet, in the next moment, came the consoling
thought,
"The day of oppressor will come at last." Of one
thing I could be glad—not one of my dear friends, upon whom I
had brought this great calamity, either by word or look,
reproached me for having led them into it. We were a band of
brothers, and never dearer to each other than now. The thought
which gave us the most pain, was the probable separation which
would now take place, in case we were sold off to the far south,
as we were likely to be. While the constables were looking
forward, Henry and I, being fastened together, could occasionally
exchange a word, without being observed by the kidnappers who had
us in charge. "What shall I do with my pass?" said Henry. "Eat
it with your biscuit," said I; "it won't do to tear it up." We
were now near St. Michael's. The direction concerning the passes
was passed around, and executed.
"Own nothing!" said I.
"Own nothing!" was passed around and enjoined, and
assented to. Our confidence in each other was unshaken; and we
were quite resolved to succeed or fail together—as much after
the calamity which had befallen us, as before.
On reaching St. Michael's, we underwent a sort of
examination at my master's store, and it was evident to my mind,
that Master Thomas suspected the truthfulness of
the evidence upon which they had acted in arresting us; and that
he only affected, to some extent, the positiveness with which he
asserted our guilt. There was nothing said by any of our
company, which
could, in any manner, prejudice our cause; and
there was hope, yet, that we should be able to return to our
homes—if for nothing else, at least to find out the guilty man
or woman who had betrayed us.
To this end, we all denied that we had been guilty of
intended flight. Master Thomas said that the evidence he had of
our intention to run away, was strong enough to hang us, in a
case of murder. "But," said I, "the cases are not equal. If
murder were committed, some one must have committed it—the thing
is done! In our case, nothing has been done! We have not run
away. Where is the evidence against us? We were quietly at our
work." I talked thus, with unusual freedom, to bring out the
evidence against us, for we all wanted, above all things, to know
the guilty wretch who had betrayed us, that we might have
something tangible upon which to pour the execrations. From
something which dropped, in the course of the talk, it appeared
that there was but one witness against us—and that that witness
could not be produced. Master Thomas would not tell us
who his informant was; but we suspected, and suspected
one person only. Several circumstances seemed to
point SANDY out, as our betrayer. His entire knowledge of our
plans his participation in them—his withdrawal from us—his
dream, and his simultaneous presentiment that we were betrayed—the taking us, and the leaving him—were calculated to turn
suspicion toward him; and yet, we could not suspect him. We all
loved him too well to think it possible that he could have
betrayed us. So we rolled the guilt on other shoulders.
We were literally dragged, that morning, behind horses, a
distance of fifteen miles, and placed in the Easton jail. We
were glad to reach the end of our journey, for our pathway had
been the scene of insult and mortification. Such is the power of
public opinion, that it is hard, even for the innocent, to
feel the happy consolations of innocence, when they fall under
the maledictions of this power. How could we regard ourselves as
in the right, when all about us denounced us as criminals, and
had the power and the disposition to treat us as such.
In jail, we were placed under the care of Mr. Joseph
Graham, the sheriff of the county. Henry, and John, and myself,
were placed in one room, and Henry Baily and Charles Roberts, in
another, by themselves. This separation was intended to deprive
us of the advantage of concert, and to prevent trouble in jail.
Once shut up, a new set of tormentors came upon us. A
swarm of imps, in human shape the slave-traders, deputy slave-traders, and agents of slave-traders—that gather in every
country town of the state, watching for chances to buy human
flesh (as buzzards to eat carrion) flocked in upon us, to
ascertain if our masters had placed us in jail to be sold. Such
a set of debased and villainous creatures, I never saw before,
and hope never to see again. I felt myself surrounded as by a
pack of fiends, fresh from perdition. They
laughed, leered, and grinned at us; saying, "Ah! boys, we've got
you, havn't we? So you were about to make your escape? Where
were you going to?" After taunting us, and jeering at us,
as long as they liked, they one by one subjected us to an
examination, with a view to ascertain our value; feeling our arms
and legs, and shaking us by the shoulders to see if we were sound
and healthy; impudently asking us, "how we would like to have
them for masters?" To such questions, we were, very much to
their annoyance, quite dumb, disdaining to answer them. For one,
I detested the whisky-bloated gamblers in human flesh; and I
believe I was as much detested by them in turn. One fellow told
me, "if he had me, he would cut the devil out of me pretty
quick."
These Negro buyers are very offensive to the genteel
southern Christian public. They are looked upon, in respectable
Maryland society, as necessary, but detestable characters. As a
class, they
are hardened ruffians, made such
by nature and by occupation. Their ears are made quite familiar
with the agonizing cry of outraged and woe-smitted humanity.
Their eyes are forever open to human misery. They walk amid
desecrated affections, insulted virtue, and blasted hopes. They
have grown intimate with vice and blood; they gloat over the
wildest illustrations of their soul-damning and earth-polluting
business, and are moral pests. Yes; they are a legitimate fruit
of slavery; and it is a puzzle to make out a case of greater
villainy for them, than for the slaveholders, who make such a
class possible. They are mere hucksters of the surplus
slave produce of Maryland and Virginia coarse, cruel, and
swaggering bullies, whose very breathing is of blasphemy and
blood.
Aside from these slave-buyers, who infested the
prison, from time to time, our quarters were much more comfortable than
we had any right to expect they would be. Our allowance of food
was small and coarse, but our room was the best in the jail—neat
and spacious, and with nothing about it necessarily reminding us
of being in prison, but its heavy locks and bolts and the black,
iron lattice-work at the windows. We were prisoners of state,
compared with most slaves who are put into that Easton jail. But
the place was not one of contentment. Bolts, bars and grated
windows are not acceptable to freedom-loving people of any color.
The suspense, too, was painful. Every step on the stairway was
listened to, in the hope that the comer would cast a ray of light
on our fate. We would have given the hair off our heads for half
a dozen words with one of the waiters in Sol. Lowe's hotel. Such
waiters were in the way of hearing, at the table, the probable
course of things. We could see them flitting about in their
white jackets in front of this hotel, but could speak to none of
them.
Soon after the holidays were over, contrary to all our
expectations, Messrs. Hamilton and Freeland came up to Easton;
not to make a bargain with the "Georgia traders," nor to send us
up to Austin Woldfolk, as is usual in the case of run-away
salves, but to release Charles, Henry Harris, Henry Baily
and John Harris, from prison, and this, too, without the
infliction of a single blow. I was now left entirely alone in
prison. The innocent had been taken, and the guilty left. My
friends were separated from me, and apparently forever. This
circumstance caused me
more pain than any other incident
connected with our capture and imprisonment. Thirty-nine lashes
on my naked and bleeding back, would have been joyfully borne, in
preference to this separation from these, the friends of my
youth. And yet, I could not but feel that I was the victim of
something like justice. Why should these young men, who were led
into this scheme by me, suffer as much as the instigator? I felt
glad that they were leased from prison, and from the dread
prospect of a life (or death I should rather say) in the rice
swamps. It is due to the noble Henry, to say, that he seemed
almost as reluctant to leave the prison with me in it, as he was
to be tied and dragged to prison. But he and the rest knew that
we should, in all the likelihoods of the case, be separated, in
the event of being sold; and since we were now completely in the
hands of our owners, we all concluded it would be best to go
peaceably home.
Not until this last separation, dear reader, had I touched
those profounder depths of desolation, which it is the lot of
slaves often to reach. I was solitary in the world, and alone
within the walls of a stone prison, left to a fate of life-long
misery. I had hoped and expected much, for months before, but my
hopes and expectations were now withered and blasted. The ever
dreaded slave life in Georgia, Louisiana and Alabama—from which
escape is next to impossible now, in my loneliness, stared me in
the face. The possibility of ever becoming anything but an
abject slave, a mere machine in the hands of an owner, had now
fled, and it seemed to me it had fled forever. A life of living
death, beset with the innumerable
horrors of the cotton field,
and the sugar plantation, seemed to be my doom. The fiends, who
rushed into the prison when we were first put there, continued to
visit me, and to ply me with questions
and with their tantalizing remarks. I was insulted, but
helpless; keenly alive to the demands of justice and liberty, but
with no means of asserting them. To talk to those imps about
justice and mercy, would have been as absurd as to reason with
bears and tigers. Lead and steel are the only arguments that
they understand.
After remaining in this life of misery and despair about a
week, which, by the way, seemed a month, Master Thomas, very much
to my surprise, and greatly to my relief, came to the prison, and
took me out, for the purpose, as he said, of sending me to
Alabama, with a friend of his, who would emancipate me at the end
of eight years. I was glad enough to get out of prison; but I
had no faith in the story that this friend of Capt. Auld would
emancipate me, at the end of the time indicated. Besides, I
never had heard of his having a friend in Alabama, and I took the
announcement, simply as an easy and comfortable method of
shipping me off to the far south. There was a little scandal,
too, connected with the idea of one Christian selling another to
the Georgia traders, while it was deemed every way proper for
them to sell to others. I thought this friend in Alabama was an
invention, to meet this difficulty, for Master Thomas was quite
jealous of his Christian reputation, however unconcerned he might
be about his real Christian character. In these remarks,
however, it is possible that I do Master
Thomas Auld injustice.
He certainly did not exhaust his power upon me, in the case, but
acted, upon the whole, very generously, considering the nature of
my offense. He had the power and the provocation to send me,
without reserve, into the very everglades of Florida, beyond the
remotest hope of emancipation; and his refusal to exercise that
power, must be set down to his credit.
After lingering about St. Michael's a few days, and no
friend from Alabama making his appearance, to take me there,
Master Thomas decided to send me back again to Baltimore, to live
with his brother Hugh, with whom he was now at peace; possibly he
became so by his profession of religion, at the camp-meeting
in the Bay Side. Master Thomas told me that he wished me to go
to Baltimore, and learn a trade; and that, if I behaved myself
properly, he would emancipate me at twenty-five! Thanks
for this one beam of hope in the future. The promise had but one
fault; it seemed too good to be true.
20. CHAPTER XX.
APPRENTICESHIP LIFE.
NOTHING LOST BY THE ATTEMPT TO RUN AWAY—COMRADES IN THEIR OLD
HOMES—REASONS FOR SENDING ME AWAY—RETURN TO BALTIMORE—CONTRAST
BETWEEN TOMMY AND THAT OF HIS COLORED COMPANION—TRIALS IN
GARDINER'S SHIP YARD—DESPERATE FIGHT—ITS CAUSES—CONFLICT
BETWEEN WHITE AND BLACK LABOR—DESCRIPTION OF THE OUTRAGE—COLORED TESTIMONY NOTHING—CONDUCT OF MASTER HUGH—SPIRIT OF
SLAVERY IN BALTIMORE—MY CONDITION IMPROVES—NEW ASSOCIATIONS—SLAVEHOLDER'S RIGHT TO TAKE HIS WAGES—HOW TO MAKE A CONTENTED
SLAVE.
Well! dear reader, I am not, as you may have already
inferred, a loser by the general upstir, described in the
foregoing chapter. The little domestic revolution,
notwithstanding the sudden snub it got by the treachery of
somebody—I dare not say or think who—did not, after all, end so
disastrously, as when in the iron cage at Easton, I conceived it
would. The prospect, from that point, did look about as dark as
any that ever cast its gloom over the vision of the anxious, out-looking, human spirit. "All is well that ends well." My
affectionate comrades, Henry and John Harris, are still with Mr.
William Freeland. Charles Roberts and Henry Baily are safe at
their homes. I have not, therefore, any thing to regret on their
account. Their masters have mercifully forgiven them, probably
on the ground suggested in the spirited little speech of Mrs.
Freeland, made to me just before leaving
for the jail—namely:
that they had been allured into the wicked scheme of making their
escape, by me; and that, but for me, they would never have
dreamed of a thing so shocking! My friends had nothing to
regret, either; for while they were watched more closely on
account of what had happened, they were, doubtless, treated more
kindly than before, and got new assurances that they would be
legally emancipated, some day, provided their behavior should
make them deserving, from that time forward. Not a blow, as I
learned, was struck any one of them. As for Master William
Freeland, good, unsuspecting soul, he did not believe that we
were intending to run away at all. Having given—as he thought—no occasion to his boys to leave him, he could not think it
probable that they had entertained a design so grievous. This,
however, was not the view taken of the matter by "Mas' Billy," as
we used to call the soft spoken, but crafty and resolute Mr.
William Hamilton. He had no doubt that the crime had been
meditated; and regarding me as the instigator of it, he frankly
told Master Thomas that he must remove me from that neighborhood,
or he would shoot me down. He would not have one so dangerous as
"Frederick" tampering with his slaves. William Hamilton was not
a man whose threat might be safely disregarded. I have no doubt
that he would have proved as good as his word, had the warning
given not been promptly taken. He was furious at the thought of
such a piece of high-handed
theft, as we were about to
perpetrate the stealing of our own bodies and souls! The
feasibility of the plan, too,
could the first steps have been
taken, was marvelously plain. Besides, this was a
new
idea, this use of the bay. Slaves escaping, until now, had taken
to the woods; they had never dreamed of profaning and abusing the
waters of the noble Chesapeake, by making them the highway from
slavery to freedom. Here was a broad road of destruction to
slavery, which, before, had been looked upon as a wall of
security by slaveholders. But Master Billy could not get Mr.
Freeland to see matters precisely as he did; nor could he get
Master Thomas so excited as he was himself. The latter—I must
say it to his credit—showed much humane feeling in his part of
the transaction, and atoned for much that had been harsh, cruel
and unreasonable in his former
treatment of me and others. His clemency was quite unusual and
unlooked for. "Cousin Tom" told me that while I was in jail,
Master Thomas was very unhappy; and that the night before his
going up to release me, he had walked the floor nearly all night,
evincing great distress; that very tempting offers had been made
to him, by the Negro-traders, but he had rejected them all,
saying that
money could not tempt him to sell me to the far
south. All this I can easily believe, for he seemed quite
reluctant to send me away, at all. He told me that he only
consented to do so, because of the very strong prejudice against
me in the neighborhood, and that he feared for my safety if I
remained there.
Thus, after three years spent in the country, roughing it
in the field, and experiencing all sorts of hardships, I was
again permitted to return to Baltimore, the very place, of all
others, short of a free state, where I
most desired to live. The
three years spent in the country, had made some difference in me,
and in the household of Master Hugh. "Little Tommy" was no
longer
little Tommy; and I was not the slender lad who had
left for the Eastern Shore just three years before. The loving
relations between me and Mas' Tommy were broken up. He was no
longer dependent on me for protection, but felt himself a
man, with other and more suitable associates. In
childhood, he scarcely considered me inferior to himself
certainly, as good as any other boy with whom he played; but the
time had come when his
friend must become his
slave. So we were cold, and we parted. It was a sad
thing to me, that, loving each other as we had done, we must now
take different roads. To him, a thousand avenues were open.
Education had made him acquainted with all the treasures of the
world, and liberty had flung open the gates thereunto; but I, who
had attended him seven years, and had watched over him with the
care of a big brother, fighting his battles in the street, and
shielding him from harm, to an extent which had induced his
mother to say, "Oh! Tommy is always safe, when he is with
Freddy," must be confined to a single condition. He could
grow, and become a MAN; I could grow, though I could
not
become a man, but must remain, all my life, a minor—a mere boy.
Thomas Auld, Junior, obtained a situation on board the brig
"Tweed," and went to sea. I know not what has become of him; he
certainly has my good wishes for his welfare and prosperity.
There were few persons to whom I was more sincerely attached
than to him, and there are few in the world I would be more pleased to
meet.
Very soon after I went to Baltimore to live, Master Hugh
succeeded in getting me hired to Mr. William Gardiner, an extensive ship builder on Fell's Point. I was placed here to learn
to calk, a trade of which I already had some knowledge, gained
while in Mr. Hugh Auld's ship-yard, when he was a master builder.
Gardiner's, however, proved a very unfavorable place for the
accomplishment of that object. Mr. Gardiner was, that season,
engaged in building two large man-of-war vessels, professedly for
the Mexican government. These vessels were to be launched in the
month of July, of that year, and, in failure thereof, Mr. G.
would forfeit a very considerable sum of money. So, when I
entered the ship-yard, all was hurry and driving. There were in
the yard about one hundred men; of these about seventy or eighty
were regular carpenters—privileged men. Speaking of my
condition here I wrote, years ago—and I have now no reason to
vary the picture as follows:
"There was no time to learn any thing. Every man had to do
that which he knew how to do. In entering the ship-yard, my
orders from Mr. Gardiner were, to do whatever the carpenters
commanded me to do. This was placing me at the beck and call of
about seventy-five men. I was to regard all these as masters.
Their word was to be my law. My situation was a most trying one.
At times I needed a dozen pair of hands. I was called a dozen
ways in the space of a single minute. Three or four voices would
strike my ear at the same moment. It was—'Fred., come help me
to cant this timber here.' 'Fred., come carry this timber
yonder.'—
'Fred., bring that roller here.'—'Fred., go get a
fresh can of water.'—'Fred., come help saw off the end of this
timber.'—'Fred., go quick and get the crow bar.'—'Fred., hold
on the end of this fall.'—'Fred., go to the blacksmith's shop,
and get a new punch.'—'Hurra, Fred.! run and bring me a cold chisel.'—'I say,
Fred., bear a hand, and get up a fire as quick as lightning under
that steam-box.'—'Halloo, nigger! come, turn this grindstone.'—'Come, come! move, move! and
bowse this timber
forward.'—'I say, darkey, blast your eyes, why don't you heat up some
pitch?'—'Halloo! halloo! halloo!' (Three voices at the same
time.) 'Come here!—Go there!—Hold on where you are! D—n you,
if you move, I'll knock your brains out!'"
Such, dear reader, is a glance at the school which was
mine, during, the first eight months of my stay at Baltimore. At
the end of the eight months, Master Hugh refused longer to allow
me to remain with Mr. Gardiner. The circumstance which led to
his taking me away, was a brutal outrage, committed upon me by
the white apprentices of the ship-yard. The fight was a
desperate one, and I came out of it most shockingly mangled. I
was cut and bruised in sundry places, and my left eye was nearly
knocked out of its socket. The facts, leading to this barbarous
outrage upon me, illustrate a phase of slavery destined to become
an important element in the overthrow of the slave system, and I
may, therefore state them with some minuteness. That phase is
this: the conflict of slavery with the interests of the white
mechanics and laborers of the south. In the country, this
conflict is not so apparent; but, in cities, such as Baltimore,
Richmond, New Orleans, Mobile, &c., it is seen pretty clearly.
The slaveholders, with a craftiness peculiar
to themselves, by
encouraging the enmity of the poor, laboring white man against
the blacks, succeeds in making the said white man almost as much
a slave as the black slave himself. The difference between the
white slave, and the black slave, is this: the latter belongs to
one slaveholder, and the former belongs to
all the
slaveholders, collectively. The white slave has taken from him,
by indirection, what the black slave has taken from him,
directly, and without ceremony. Both are plundered, and by the
same plunderers. The slave is robbed, by his master, of all his
earnings, above what is required for his bare physical
necessities; and the white man is robbed by the slave system, of
the just results of his labor, because he is flung into
competition with a class of laborers who work without wages.
The competition, and its injurious consequences, will, one day,
array the nonslaveholding white people of the slave states,
against the slave system, and make them the most effective
workers against the great evil. At present, the slaveholders
blind them to this competition, by keeping alive their prejudice
against the slaves,
as men—not against them
as
slaves. They appeal to their pride, often denouncing
emancipation, as tending to place the white man, on an equality
with Negroes, and, by this means, they succeed in drawing off the
minds of the poor whites from the real fact, that, by the rich
slave-master, they are already regarded as but a single remove
from equality with the slave. The impression is cunningly made,
that slavery is the only power that can prevent the laboring
white man from falling to the level of the slave's poverty and
degradation. To make this enmity deep and broad, between the
slave and the poor white man, the latter is allowed to abuse and
whip the former, without hinderance. But—as I have suggested—this state of facts prevails
mostly in the country. In
the city of Baltimore, there are not unfrequent murmurs, that
educating the slaves to be mechanics may, in the end, give slave-masters power to dispense with the services of the poor white man
altogether. But, with characteristic dread of offending the
slaveholders, these poor, white mechanics in Mr. Gardiner's ship-yard—instead of applying the natural, honest remedy for the
apprehended evil, and objecting at once to work there by the side
of slaves—made a cowardly attack upon the free colored
mechanics, saying
they were eating the bread which should
be eaten by American freemen, and swearing that they would not
work with them. The feeling was,
really, against having
their labor brought into competition with that of the colored
people at all; but it was too much to strike directly at the
interest of the slaveholders; and, therefore proving their
servility and cowardice they dealt their blows on the poor,
colored freeman, and aimed to prevent
him from serving
himself, in the evening of life, with the trade
with which he had served his
master, during the more vigorous portion of his days. Had they
succeeded in driving the black freemen out of the ship-yard, they
would have determined also upon the removal of the black slaves.
The feeling was very bitter toward all colored people in
Baltimore, about this time (1836), and they—free and slave
suffered all manner of insult and wrong.
Until a very little before I went there, white and black
ship carpenters worked side by side, in the ship yards of Mr.
Gardiner, Mr. Duncan, Mr. Walter Price, and Mr. Robb. Nobody
seemed to see any impropriety in it. To outward seeming, all
hands were well satisfied. Some of the blacks were first rate
workmen, and were given jobs requiring highest skill. All at
once, however, the white carpenters knocked off, and swore that
they would no longer work on the same stage with free Negroes.
Taking advantage of the heavy contract resting upon Mr. Gardiner,
to have the war vessels for Mexico ready to launch in July, and
of the difficulty of getting other hands at that season of the
year, they swore they would not strike another blow for him,
unless he would discharge his free colored workmen.
Now, although this movement did not extend to me, in
form, it did reach me, in fact. The spirit which it
awakened was one of malice and bitterness, toward colored people
generally, and I suffered with the rest, and suffered
severely. My fellow apprentices very soon began to feel it to be
degrading to work with me. They began to put on high looks, and
to talk contemptuously and maliciously of "the Niggers;"
saying, that "they would take the country," that "they ought to
be killed." Encouraged by the cowardly workmen, who, knowing me
to be a slave, made no issue with Mr. Gardiner about my being
there, these young men did their utmost to make it impossible for
me to stay. They seldom called me to do any thing, without
coupling the call with a curse, and Edward North, the biggest in
every thing, rascality
included, ventured to strike me, whereupon
I picked him up, and threw him into the dock. Whenever any
of them struck me, I struck back again, regardless of
consequences. I could manage any of them
singly, and,
while I could keep them from combining, I succeeded very well.
In the conflict which ended my stay at Mr. Gardiner's, I was
beset by four of them at once—Ned North, Ned Hays, Bill Stewart,
and Tom Humphreys. Two of them were as large as myself, and they
came near killing me, in broad day light. The attack was made
suddenly, and simultaneously. One came in front, armed with a
brick; there was one at each side, and one behind, and they
closed up around me. I was struck on all sides; and, while I was
attending to those in front, I received a blow on my head, from
behind, dealt with a heavy hand-spike. I was completely stunned
by the blow, and fell, heavily, on the ground, among the timbers.
Taking advantage of my fall, they rushed upon me, and began to
pound me with their fists. I let them lay on, for a while, after
I came to myself, with a view of gaining strength. They did me
little damage, so far; but, finally, getting tired of that sport,
I gave a sudden surge, and, despite their weight, I rose to my
hands and knees. Just as I did this, one of their number (I know
not which) planted a blow with his boot in my left eye, which,
for a time, seemed to have burst my eyeball. When they saw my
eye completely closed, my face covered with blood, and I
staggering under the stunning blows they had given me, they left
me. As soon as I gathered sufficient strength, I picked up the
hand-spike, and, madly enough, attempted
to pursue them; but here
the carpenters interfered, and compelled me to give up my
frenzied pursuit. It was impossible to stand against so many.
Dear reader, you can hardly believe the statement, but it
is true, and, therefore, I write it down: not fewer than fifty
white men stood by, and saw this brutal and shameless outrage
committed, and not a man of them all interposed a single word of
mercy. There were four against one, and that one's face was
beaten and battered most horribly, and no one said, "that is
enough;" but some cried out, "Kill him—kill him—kill the d—d
nigger! knock his brains out—he
struck a white person." I mention this inhuman outcry, to show
the character of the men, and the spirit of the times, at
Gardiner's ship yard, and, indeed, in Baltimore generally, in
1836. As I look back to this period, I am almost amazed that I
was not murdered outright, in that ship yard, so murderous was
the spirit which prevailed there. On two occasions, while there,
I came near losing my life. I was driving bolts in the hold,
through the keelson, with Hays. In its course, the bolt bent.
Hays cursed me, and said that it was my blow which bent the bolt.
I denied this, and charged it upon him. In a fit of rage he
seized an adze, and darted toward me. I met him with a maul, and
parried his blow, or I should have then lost my life. A son of
old Tom Lanman (the latter's double murder I have elsewhere
charged upon him), in the spirit of his miserable father, made an
assault upon me, but the blow with his maul missed me. After the
united assault of North, Stewart, Hays and Humphreys, finding
that the carpenters
were as bitter toward me as the apprentices,
and that the latter were probably set on by the former, I found
my only chances for life was in flight. I succeeded in getting
away, without an additional blow. To strike a white man, was
death, by Lynch law, in Gardiner's ship yard; nor was there much
of any other law toward colored people, at that time, in any
other part of Maryland. The whole sentiment of Baltimore was
murderous.
After making my escape from the ship yard, I went straight
home, and related the story of the outrage to Master Hugh Auld;
and it is due to him to say, that his conduct—though he was not
a religious man—was every way more humane than that of his
brother, Thomas, when I went to the latter in a somewhat similar
plight, from the hands of "Brother Edward Covey." He
listened attentively to my narration of the circumstances leading
to the ruffianly outrage, and gave many proofs of his strong
indignation at what was done. Hugh was a rough, but manly-hearted fellow, and, at this time, his best nature showed itself.
The heart of my once almost over-kind mistress, Sophia,
was again melted in pity toward me. My puffed-out eye, and my
scarred and blood-covered face, moved the dear lady to tears.
She kindly drew a chair by me, and with friendly, consoling
words, she took water, and washed the blood from my face. No
mother's hand could have been more tender than hers. She bound
up my head, and covered my wounded eye with a lean piece of fresh
beef. It was almost compensation for the murderous assault, and
my suffering, that it furnished and occasion for the
manifestation, once more, of the originally characteristic
kindness of my mistress. Her affectionate heart was not yet
dead, though much hardened by time and by circumstances.
As for Master Hugh's part, as I have said, he was furious
about it; and he gave expression to his fury in the usual forms
of speech in that locality. He poured curses on the heads of the
whole ship yard company, and swore that he would have
satisfaction for the outrage. His indignation was really strong
and healthy; but, unfortunately, it resulted from the thought
that his rights of property, in my person, had not been
respected, more than from any sense of the outrage committed on
me as a man. I inferred as much as this, from the fact
that he could, himself, beat and mangle when it suited him to do
so. Bent on having satisfaction, as he said, just as soon as I
got a little the better of my bruises, Master Hugh took me to
Esquire Watson's office, on Bond street, Fell's Point, with a
view to procuring the arrest of those who had assaulted me. He
related the outrage to the magistrate, as I had related it to
him, and seemed to expect that a warrant would, at once, be
issued for the arrest of the lawless ruffians.
Mr. Watson heard it all, and instead of drawing up his
warrant, he inquired.—
"Mr. Auld, who saw this assault of which you speak?"
"It was done, sir, in the presence of a ship yard full of
hands."
"Sir," said Watson, "I am sorry, but I cannot move
in this
matter except upon the oath of white witnesses."
"But here's the boy; look at his head and face," said the
excited Master Hugh; "they show what has been
done."
But Watson insisted that he was not authorized to do
anything, unless white witnesses of the transaction would
come forward, and testify to what had taken place. He could
issue no warrant on my word, against white persons; and, if I had
been killed in the presence of a thousand blacks, their
testimony, combined would have been insufficient to arrest a
single murderer. Master Hugh, for once, was compelled to say,
that this state of things was too bad; and he left the
office of the magistrate, disgusted.
Of course, it was impossible to get any white man to
testify against my assailants. The carpenters saw what was done;
but the actors were but the agents of their malice, and only what
the carpenters sanctioned. They had cried, with one accord,
"Kill the nigger!" "Kill the nigger!" Even those who may
have pitied me, if any such were among them, lacked the moral
courage to come and volunteer their evidence. The slightest
manifestation of sympathy or justice toward a person of color,
was denounced as abolitionism; and the name of abolitionist,
subjected its bearer to frightful liabilities. "D—n
abolitionists," and "Kill the niggers," were the
watch-words of the foul-mouthed ruffians of those days. Nothing
was done, and probably there would not have been any thing done,
had I been killed in the affray. The laws and the morals of the
Christian city of Baltimore,
afforded no protection to the sable
denizens of that city.
Master Hugh, on finding he could get no redress for the
cruel wrong, withdrew me from the employment of Mr. Gardiner, and
took me into his own family, Mrs. Auld kindly taking care of me,
and dressing my wounds, until they were healed, and I was ready
to go again to work.
While I was on the Eastern Shore, Master Hugh had met with
reverses, which overthrew his business; and he had given up ship
building in his own yard, on the City Block, and was now acting
as foreman of Mr. Walter Price. The best he could now do for me,
was to take me into Mr. Price's yard, and afford me the
facilities there, for completing the trade which I had began to
learn at Gardiner's. Here I rapidly became expert in the use of
my calking tools; and, in the course of a single year, I was able
to command the highest wages paid to journeymen calkers in
Baltimore.
The reader will observe that I was now of some pecuniary
value to my master. During the busy season, I was bringing six
and seven dollars per week. I have, sometimes, brought him as
much as nine dollars a week, for the wages were a dollar and a
half per day.
After learning to calk, I sought my own employment, made
my own contracts, and collected my own earnings; giving Master
Hugh no trouble in any part of the transactions to which I was a
party.
Here, then, were better days for the Eastern Shore
slave. I was now free from the vexatious assaults of
the apprentices at Mr. Gardiner's; and free from the perils of
plantation life, and once more in a favorable condition to
increase my little stock of education, which had been at a dead
stand since my removal from Baltimore. I had, on the Eastern
Shore, been only a teacher, when in company with other slaves,
but now there were colored persons who could instruct me. Many
of the young calkers could read, write and cipher. Some of them
had high notions about mental improvement; and the free ones, on
Fell's Point, organized what they called the
"East Baltimore
Mental Improvement Society." To this society,
notwithstanding it was intended that only free persons should
attach themselves, I was admitted, and was, several times,
assigned a prominent part in its debates. I owe much to the
society of these young men.
The reader already knows enough of the ill effects
of good treatment on a slave, to anticipate what was now the case
in my improved condition. It was not long before I began to show
signs of disquiet with slavery, and to look around for means to
get out of that condition by the shortest route. I was living
among freemen; and was,
in all respects, equal to them by nature and by attainments.
Why should I be a slave? There was no reason why I
should be the thrall of any man.
Besides, I was now getting—as I have said—a dollar and
fifty cents per day. I contracted for it, worked for it, earned
it, collected it; it was paid to me, and it was rightfully
my own; and yet, upon every returning Saturday night, this
money—my
own hard earnings, every cent of it—was demanded of
me, and taken from me by Master Hugh. He did not earn it; he had
no hand in earning it; why, then, should he have it? I owed him
nothing. He had given me no schooling, and I had received from
him only my food and raiment; and for these, my services were
supposed to pay, from the first. The right to take my earnings,
was the right of the robber. He had the power to compel me to
give him the fruits of my labor, and this power was his only
right in the case. I became more and more dissatisfied with this
state of things; and, in so becoming, I only gave proof of the
same human nature which every reader of this chapter in my life—slaveholder, or nonslaveholder—is conscious of possessing.
To make a contented slave, you must make a thoughtless
one. It is necessary to darken his moral and mental vision, and,
as far as possible, to annihilate his power of reason. He must
be able to detect no inconsistencies in slavery. The man that
takes his earnings, must be able to convince him that he has a
perfect right to do so. It must not depend upon mere force; the
slave must know no Higher Law than his master's will. The whole
relationship must not only demonstrate, to his mind, its
necessity, but its absolute rightfulness. If there be one
crevice through which a single drop can fall, it will certainly
rust off the slave's chain.
21. CHAPTER XXI.
MY ESCAPE FROM SLAVERY.
CLOSING INCIDENTS OF "MY LIFE AS A SLAVE"—REASONS WHY FULL
PARTICULARS OF THE MANNER OF MY ESCAPE WILL NOT BE GIVEN—CRAFTINESS AND MALICE OF SLAVEHOLDERS—SUSPICION OF AIDING A
SLAVE'S ESCAPE ABOUT AS DANGEROUS AS POSITIVE EVIDENCE—WANT OF
WISDOM SHOWN IN PUBLISHING DETAILS OF THE ESCAPE OF THE
FUGITIVES—PUBLISHED ACCOUNTS REACH THE MASTERS, NOT THE SLAVES—SLAVEHOLDERS STIMULATED TO GREATER WATCHFULNESS—MY
CONDITION—DISCONTENT—SUSPICIONS IMPLIED BY MASTER HUGH'S MANNER, WHEN
RECEIVING MY WAGES—HIS OCCASIONAL GENEROSITY!—DIFFICULTIES IN
THE WAY OF ESCAPE—EVERY AVENUE GUARDED—PLAN TO OBTAIN MONEY—I
AM ALLOWED TO HIRE MY TIME—A GLEAM OF HOPE—ATTENDS CAMP-MEETING, WITHOUT PERMISSION—ANGER OF MASTER HUGH THEREAT—THE
RESULT—MY PLANS OF ESCAPE ACCELERATED THERBY—THE DAY FOR MY
DEPARTURE FIXED—HARASSED BY DOUBTS AND FEARS—PAINFUL THOUGHTS
OF SEPARATION FROM FRIENDS—THE ATTEMPT MADE—ITS SUCCESS.
I will now make the kind reader acquainted with the
closing incidents of my "Life as a Slave," having already
trenched upon the limit allotted to my "Life as a Freeman."
Before, however, proceeding with this narration, it is, perhaps,
proper that I should frankly state, in advance, my intention to
withhold a part of the facts connected with my escape from
slavery. There are reasons for this suppression, which I trust
the reader will deem altogether valid. It may be easily
conceived, that a full and complete statement of all facts
pertaining to the flight of a bondman, might implicate and
embarrass some who may
have, wittingly or unwittingly, assisted
him; and no one can wish me to involve any man or
woman who has befriended me, even in the
liability of embarrassment or trouble.
Keen is the scent of the slaveholder; like the fangs of
the rattlesnake, his malice retains its poison long; and,
although it is now nearly seventeen years since I made my escape,
it is well to be careful, in dealing with the circumstances
relating to it. Were I to give but a shadowy outline of the
process adopted, with characteristic aptitude, the crafty and
malicious among the slaveholders might, possibly, hit upon the
track I pursued, and involve some one in suspicion which, in a
slave state, is about as bad as positive evidence. The colored
man, there, must not only shun evil, but shun the very
appearance of evil, or be condemned as a criminal. A
slaveholding community has a peculiar taste for ferreting out
offenses against the slave system, justice there being more
sensitive in its regard for the peculiar rights of this system,
than for any other interest or institution. By stringing
together a train of events and circumstances, even if I were not
very explicit, the means of escape might be ascertained, and,
possibly, those means be rendered, thereafter, no longer
available to the liberty-seeking children of bondage I have left
behind me. No antislavery man can wish me to do anything
favoring such results, and no slaveholding reader has any right
to expect the impartment of such information.
While, therefore, it would afford me pleasure, and perhaps
would materially add to the interest of my
story, were I at
liberty to gratify a curiosity which I know to exist in the minds
of many, as to the manner of my escape, I must deprive myself of
this pleasure, and the curious of the gratification, which such a
statement of facts would afford. I would allow myself to suffer
under the greatest imputations that evil minded men might
suggest, rather than exculpate myself by explanation, and thereby
run the hazards of closing the slightest avenue by which a
brother in suffering might clear himself of the chains and
fetters of slavery.
The practice of publishing every new invention by which a
slave is known to have escaped from slavery, has neither
wisdom nor necessity to sustain it. Had not Henry Box Brown and
his friends attracted slaveholding attention to the manner of his
escape, we might have had a thousand Box Browns per annum.
The singularly original plan adopted by William and Ellen Crafts,
perished with the first using, because every slaveholder in the
land was apprised of it. The salt water slave who hung in
the guards of a steamer, being washed three days and three
nights—like another Jonah—by the waves of the sea, has, by the
publicity given to the circumstance, set a spy on the guards of
every steamer departing from southern ports.
I have never approved of the very public manner, in which
some of our western friends have conducted what they call
the "Under-ground Railroad," but which, I think, by their
open declarations, has been made, most emphatically, the
"Upper-ground Railroad." Its stations are far better
known to the slaveholders than to the slaves. I honor those good
men and women for their noble daring, in willingly subjecting
themselves to persecution, by openly avowing their participation
in the escape of slaves; nevertheless, the good resulting from
such avowals, is of a very questionable character. It may kindle
an enthusiasm, very pleasant to inhale; but that is of no
practical benefit to themselves, nor to the slaves escaping.
Nothing is more evident, than that such disclosures are a
positive evil to the slaves remaining, and seeking to escape. In
publishing such accounts, the anti-slavery man addresses the
slaveholder,
not the slave; he stimulates the former to
greater watchfulness, and adds to his facilities for capturing
his slave. We owe something to the slaves, south of Mason and
Dixon's line, as well as to those north of it; and, in
discharging the duty of aiding the latter, on their way to
freedom, we should be careful to do nothing which would be likely
to hinder the former, in making their escape from slavery. Such
is my detestation of slavery, that I would keep the merciless
slaveholder profoundly ignorant of the means of flight adopted by
the slave. He should be left to
imagine himself surrounded by myriads of invisible tormentors,
ever ready to snatch, from his infernal grasp, his trembling
prey. In pursuing his victim, let him be left to feel his way in
the dark; let shades of darkness, commensurate with his crime,
shut every ray of light from his pathway; and let him be made to
feel, that, at every step he takes, with the hellish purpose of
reducing a brother man to slavery, he is running the frightful
risk of having his hot brains dashed out by an invisible hand.
But, enough of this. I will now proceed to the
statement
of those facts, connected with my escape, for which I am alone
responsible, and for which no one can be made to suffer but
myself.
My condition in the year (1838) of my escape, was,
comparatively, a free and easy one, so far, at least, as the
wants of the physical man were concerned; but the reader will
bear in mind, that my troubles from the beginning, have been less
physical than mental, and he will thus be prepared to find, after
what is narrated in the previous chapters, that slave life was
adding nothing to its charms for me, as I grew older, and became
better acquainted with it. The practice, from week to week, of
openly robbing me of all my earnings, kept the nature and
character of slavery constantly before me. I could be robbed by
indirection, but this was too open and barefaced to
be endured. I could see no reason why I should, at the end of
each week, pour the reward of my honest toil into the purse of
any man. The thought itself vexed me, and the manner in which
Master Hugh received my wages, vexed me more than the original
wrong. Carefully counting the money and rolling it out, dollar
by dollar, he would look me in the face, as if he would search my
heart as well as my pocket, and reproachfully ask me, "Is that
all?"—implying that I had, perhaps, kept back part of my
wages; or, if not so, the demand was made, possibly, to make me
feel, that, after all, I was an "unprofitable servant." Draining
me of the last cent of my hard earnings, he would, however,
occasionally—when I brought home an extra large sum—dole
out to me a sixpence or a shilling, with a view, perhaps, of
kindling up my gratitude;
but this practice had the opposite
effect—it was an admission of
my right to the whole sum.
The fact, that he gave me any part of my wages, was proof that he
suspected that I had a right
to the whole of them. I
always felt uncomfortable, after having received anything in this
way, for I feared that the giving me a few cents, might, possibly, ease his conscience, and make him feel himself a pretty
honorable robber, after all!
Held to a strict account, and kept under a close watch—the old suspicion of my running away not having been entirely
removed—escape from slavery, even in Baltimore, was very
difficult. The railroad from Baltimore to Philadelphia was under
regulations so stringent, that even free colored travelers
were almost excluded. They must have free papers; they
must be measured and carefully examined, before they were allowed
to enter the cars; they only went in the day time, even when so
examined. The steamboats were under regulations equally
stringent. All the great turnpikes, leading northward, were
beset with kidnappers, a class of men who watched the newspapers
for advertisements for runaway slaves, making their living by the
accursed reward of slave hunting.
My discontent grew upon me, and I was on the look-out for
means of escape. With money, I could easily have managed the
matter, and, therefore, I hit upon the plan of soliciting the
privilege of hiring my time. It is quite common, in Baltimore,
to allow slaves this privilege, and it is the practice, also, in
New Orleans. A slave who is considered trustworthy,
can, by
paying his master a definite sum regularly, at the end of each
week, dispose of his time as he likes. It so happened that I was
not in very good odor, and I was far from being a trustworthy
slave. Nevertheless, I watched my opportunity when Master Thomas
came to Baltimore (for I was still his property, Hugh only acted
as his agent) in the spring of 1838, to purchase his spring
supply of goods,
and applied to him,
directly, for the much-coveted privilege of hiring my time. This
request Master Thomas unhesitatingly refused to grant; and he
charged me, with some sternness, with inventing this stratagem to
make my escape. He told me, "I could go
nowhere but he
could catch me; and, in the event of my running away, I might be
assured he should spare no pains in his efforts to recapture me.
He recounted, with a good deal of eloquence, the many kind
offices he had done me, and exhorted me to be contented and
obedient. "Lay out no plans for the future," said he. "If you
behave yourself properly, I will take care of you." Now, kind
and considerate as this offer was, it failed to soothe me into
repose. In spite of Master Thomas, and, I may say, in spite of
myself, also, I continued to think, and worse still, to think
almost exclusively about the injustice and wickedness of slavery.
No effort of mine or of his could silence this trouble-giving
thought, or change my purpose to run away.
About two months after applying to Master Thomas for the
privilege of hiring my time, I applied to Master Hugh for the
same liberty, supposing him to be unacquainted with the fact that
I had made a
similar application to Master Thomas, and had been
refused. My boldness in making this request, fairly astounded
him at the first. He gazed at me in amazement. But I had many
good reasons for pressing the matter; and, after listening to
them awhile, he did not absolutely refuse, but told me he would
think of it. Here, then, was a gleam of hope. Once master of my
own time, I felt sure that I could make, over and above my
obligation to him, a dollar or two every week. Some slaves have
made enough, in this way, to purchase their freedom. It is a
sharp spur to industry; and some of the most enterprising colored
men in Baltimore hire themselves in this way. After mature
reflection—as I must suppose it was Master Hugh granted me the
privilege in question, on the following terms: I was to be
allowed all my time; to make all bargains for work; to find my
own employment, and to collect my own wages; and,
in return
for this liberty, I was required, or obliged, to pay him three
dollars at the end of each week, and to board and clothe myself,
and buy my own calking tools. A failure in any of these
particulars would put an end to my privilege. This was a hard
bargain. The wear and tear of clothing, the losing and breaking
of tools, and the expense of board, made it necessary for me to
earn at least six dollars per week, to keep even with the world.
All who are acquainted with calking, know how uncertain and
irregular that employment is. It can be done to advantage only
in dry weather, for it is useless to put wet oakum into a seam.
Rain or shine, however, work or no work, at the end of each week
the money must be forthcoming.
Master Hugh seemed to be very much pleased, for a time,
with this arrangement; and well he might be, for it was decidedly
in his favor. It relieved him of all anxiety concerning me. His
money was sure. He had armed my love of liberty with a lash and
a driver, far more efficient than any I had before known; and,
while he derived all the benefits of slaveholding by the arrangement, without its evils, I endured all the evils of being a
slave, and yet suffered all the care and anxiety of a responsible
freeman. "Nevertheless," thought I, "it is a valuable privilege
another step in my career toward freedom." It was something even
to be permitted to stagger under the disadvantages of liberty,
and I was determined to hold on to the newly gained footing, by
all proper industry. I was ready to work by night as well as by
day; and being in the enjoyment of excellent health, I was able
not only to meet my current expenses, but also to lay by a small
sum at the end of each week. All went on thus, from the month of
May till August; then—for reasons which will become apparent as
I proceed—my much valued liberty was wrested from me.
During the week previous to this (to me) calamitous event,
I had made arrangements with a few young friends, to accompany
them, on Saturday night, to a camp-meeting, held about twelve
miles from Baltimore. On the evening of our intended start for
the camp-ground, something occurred in
the ship yard where I was at work, which detained me unusually
late, and compelled me either to disappoint my young friends, or
to neglect carrying my weekly dues to Master Hugh. Knowing that
I had the money, and
could hand it to him on another day, I
decided to go to camp-meeting, and to pay him the three dollars,
for the past week, on my return. Once on the camp-ground, I was
induced to remain one day longer than I had intended, when I left
home. But, as soon as I returned, I went straight to his house
on Fell street, to hand him his (my) money. Unhappily, the fatal
mistake had been committed. I found him exceedingly angry. He
exhibited all the signs of apprehension and wrath, which a
slaveholder may be surmised to exhibit on the supposed escape of
a favorite slave. "You rascal! I have a great mind to give you
a severe whipping. How dare you go out of the city without first
asking and obtaining my permission?" "Sir," said I, "I hired my
time and paid you the price you asked for it. I did not know
that it was any part of the bargain that I should ask you when or
where I should go."
"You did not know, you rascal! You are bound to show
yourself here every Saturday night." After reflecting, a few
moments, he became somewhat cooled down; but, evidently greatly
troubled, he said, "Now, you scoundrel! you have done for yourself; you shall hire your time no longer. The next thing I shall
hear of, will be your running away. Bring home your tools and
your clothes, at once. I'll teach you how to go off in this
way."
Thus ended my partial freedom. I could hire my time no
longer; and I obeyed my master's orders at once. The little
taste of liberty which I had had—although as the reader will
have seen, it was far from being unalloyed—by no means enhanced
my contentment
with slavery. Punished thus by Master Hugh, it
was now my turn to punish him. "Since," thought I, "you
will make a slave of me, I will await your orders in all
things;" and, instead of going to look for work on Monday
morning, as I had formerly done, I remained at home during
the entire week, without the performance of a single stroke of
work. Saturday night came, and he called upon me, as usual, for
my wages. I, of course, told him I had done no work, and had no
wages. Here we were at the point of coming to blows. His wrath
had been accumulating during the whole week; for he evidently saw
that I was making no effort to get work, but was most
aggravatingly awaiting his orders, in all things. As I look back
to this behavior of mine, I scarcely know what possessed me, thus
to trifle with those who had such unlimited power to bless or to
blast me. Master Hugh raved and swore his determination to
"get hold of me;" but, wisely for
him, and happily
for
me, his wrath only employed those very harmless,
impalpable missiles, which roll from a limber tongue. In my
desperation, I had fully made up my mind to measure strength with
Master Hugh, in case he should undertake to execute his threats.
I am glad there was no necessity for this; for resistance to him
could not have ended so happily for me, as it did in the case of
Covey. He was not a man to be safely resisted by a slave; and I
freely own, that in my conduct toward him, in this instance,
there was more folly than wisdom. Master Hugh closed his
reproofs, by telling me that, hereafter, I need give myself no
uneasiness about getting work; that he "would, himself, see to
getting work for me, and enough of it, at that." This threat I
confess had some terror in it; and, on thinking the matter over,
during the Sunday, I resolved, not only to save him the trouble
of getting me work, but that, upon the third day of September, I
would attempt to make my escape from slavery. The refusal to
allow me to hire my time, therefore, hastened the period of
flight. I had three weeks, now, in which to prepare for my
journey.
Once resolved, I felt a certain degree of repose, and on
Monday, instead of waiting for Master Hugh to seek employment for
me, I was up by break of day, and off to the ship yard of Mr.
Butler, on the City Block, near the draw-bridge. I was a
favorite
with Mr. B., and,
young as I was, I had served as his foreman on the float stage,
at calking. Of course, I easily obtained work, and, at the end
of the week—which by the way was exceedingly fine I brought
Master Hugh nearly nine dollars. The effect of this mark of
returning good sense, on my part, was excellent. He was very
much pleased; he took the money, commended me, and told me I
might have done the same thing the week before. It is a blessed
thing that the tyrant may not always know the thoughts and
purposes of his victim. Master Hugh little knew what my plans
were. The going to camp-meeting without asking his permission—the insolent answers made to his reproaches—the sulky deportment
the week after being deprived of the privilege of hiring my
time—had awakened in him the suspicion that I might be
cherishing disloyal purposes. My object, therefore, in working
steadily,
was to remove suspicion, and in this I succeeded admirably. He probably thought I was never better satisfied with
my condition, than at the very time I was planning my escape.
The second week passed, and again I carried him my full week's
wages—
nine dollars; and so well pleased was he, that he
gave me TWENTY-FIVE CENTS! and "bade me make good use of it!" I
told him I would, for one of the uses to which I meant to put it,
was to pay my fare on the underground railroad.
Things without went on as usual; but I was passing through
the same internal excitement and anxiety which I had experienced
two years and a half before. The failure, in that instance, was
not calculated to increase my confidence in the success of this,
my second attempt; and I knew that a second failure could not
leave me where my first did—I must either get to the far
north, or be sent to the far south. Besides the
exercise of mind from this state of facts, I had the painful
sensation of being about to separate from a circle of honest and
warm hearted friends, in Baltimore. The thought of such a
separation, where the hope of ever meeting again is excluded, and
where there can be no correspondence, is very painful. It is my
opinion, that thousands would escape from slavery who now
remain there, but for the strong cords of affection that bind
them to their families, relatives and friends. The daughter is
hindered from escaping, by the love she bears her mother, and the
father, by the love he bears his children; and so, to the end of
the chapter. I had no relations in Baltimore, and I saw no
probability of ever living in the neighborhood
of sisters and
brothers; but the thought of leaving my friends, was among the
strongest obstacles to my running away. The last two days of the
week—Friday and Saturday—were spent mostly in collecting my
things together, for my journey. Having worked four days that
week, for my master, I handed him six dollars, on Saturday night.
I seldom spent my Sundays at home; and, for fear that something
might be discovered in my conduct, I kept up my custom, and
absented myself all day. On Monday, the third day of September,
1838, in accordance with my resolution, I bade farewell to the
city of Baltimore, and to that slavery which had been my
abhorrence from childhood.
How I got away—in what direction I traveled—whether by
land or by water; whether with or without assistance—must, for
reasons already mentioned, remain unexplained.