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Title: My Bondage and My Freedom

Author: Frederick Douglass

Release date: July 2, 2008 [eBook #202]
Most recently updated: June 12, 2022

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY BONDAGE
AND MY FREEDOM ***

MY BONDAGE and MY
FREEDOM

By Frederick Douglass

By a principle essential to Christianity, a PERSON is eternally
differenced from a THING; so that the idea of a HUMAN BEING,
necessarily excludes the idea of PROPERTY IN THAT BEING. —
COLERIDGE
Entered according to Act of Congress in 1855 by Frederick Douglass in
the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the Northern District of New York

TO
HONORABLE GERRIT SMITH,
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF
ESTEEM FOR HIS CHARACTER,
ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS AND BENEVOLENCE,
AFFECTION FOR HIS PERSON, AND
GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP,
AND AS
A Small but most Sincere Acknowledgement of
HIS PRE-EMINENT SERVICES IN BEHALF OF THE RIGHTS AND
LIBERTIES
OF AN
AFFLICTED, DESPISED AND DEEPLY OUTRAGED PEOPLE,
BY RANKING SLAVERY WITH PIRACY AND MURDER,
AND BY
DENYING IT EITHER A LEGAL OR CONSTITUTIONAL EXISTENCE,
This Volume is Respectfully Dedicated,
BY HIS FAITHFUL AND FIRMLY ATTACHED FRIEND,

FREDERICK DOUGLAS.
ROCHESTER, N.Y.

CONTENTS

MY BONDAGE and MY FREEDOM
EDITOR’S PREFACE
INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER I. Childhood
CHAPTER II. Removed from My First Home
CHAPTER III. Parentage
CHAPTER IV. A General Survey of the Slave Plantation
CHAPTER V. Gradual Initiation to the Mysteries of Slavery
CHAPTER VI. Treatment of Slaves on Lloyd’s Plantation
CHAPTER VII. Life in the Great House
CHAPTER VIII. A Chapter of Horrors
CHAPTER IX. Personal Treatment
CHAPTER X. Life in Baltimore
CHAPTER XI. “A Change Came O’er the Spirit of My Dream”
CHAPTER XII. Religious Nature Awakened
CHAPTER XIII. The Vicissitudes of Slave Life
CHAPTER XIV. Experience in St. Michael’s
CHAPTER XV. Covey, the Negro Breaker
CHAPTER XVI. Another Pressure of the Tyrant’s Vice
CHAPTER XVII. The Last Flogging
CHAPTER XVIII. New Relations and Duties
CHAPTER XIX. The Run-Away Plot
CHAPTER XX. Apprenticeship Life

CHAPTER XXI. My Escape from Slavery

LIFE as a FREEMAN
CHAPTER XXII. Liberty Attained
CHAPTER XXIII. Introduced to the Abolitionists
CHAPTER XXIV. Twenty-One Months in Great Britain
CHAPTER XXV. Various Incidents

RECEPTION SPEECH [10]. At Finsbury Chapel, Moorfields, England,
May 12,
Dr. Campbell’s Reply
LETTER TO HIS OLD MASTER. [11]. To My Old Master, Thomas Auld
THE NATURE OF SLAVERY. Extract from a Lecture on Slavery, at
Rochester,
INHUMANITY OF SLAVERY. Extract from A Lecture on Slavery, at
Rochester,
WHAT TO THE SLAVE IS THE FOURTH OF JULY?. Extract from an
Oration, at
THE INTERNAL SLAVE TRADE. Extract from an Oration, at Rochester,
July
THE SLAVERY PARTY. Extract from a Speech Delivered before the A. A.
S.
THE ANTI-SLAVERY MOVEMENT. Extracts from a Lecture before
Various

FOOTNOTES

MY BONDAGE and MY FREEDOM

EDITOR’S PREFACE

If the volume now presented to the public were a mere work of ART, the
history of its misfortune might be written in two very simple words—TOO
LATE. The nature and character of slavery have been subjects of an almost
endless variety of artistic representation; and after the brilliant
achievements in that field, and while those achievements are yet fresh in the
memory of the million, he who would add another to the legion, must
possess the charm of transcendent excellence, or apologize for something
worse than rashness. The reader is, therefore, assured, with all due
promptitude, that his attention is not invited to a work of ART, but to a work
of FACTS—Facts, terrible and almost incredible, it may be yet FACTS,
nevertheless.
I am authorized to say that there is not a fictitious name nor place in the
whole volume; but that names and places are literally given, and that every
transaction therein described actually transpired.
Perhaps the best Preface to this volume is furnished in the following
letter of Mr. Douglass, written in answer to my urgent solicitation for such a
work:

ROCHESTER, N. Y. July 2, 1855.

DEAR FRIEND: I have long entertained, as you very well know, a
somewhat positive repugnance to writing or speaking anything for the
public, which could, with any degree of plausibilty, make me liable to the
imputation of seeking personal notoriety, for its own sake. Entertaining that
feeling very sincerely, and permitting its control, perhaps, quite
unreasonably, I have often refused to narrate my personal experience in
public anti-slavery meetings, and in sympathizing circles, when urged to do
so by friends, with whose views and wishes, ordinarily, it were a pleasure to
comply. In my letters and speeches, I have generally aimed to discuss the

question of Slavery in the light of fundamental principles, and upon facts,
notorious and open to all; making, I trust, no more of the fact of my own
former enslavement, than circumstances seemed absolutely to require. I
have never placed my opposition to slavery on a basis so narrow as my own
enslavement, but rather upon the indestructible and unchangeable laws of
human nature, every one of which is perpetually and flagrantly violated by
the slave system. I have also felt that it was best for those having histories
worth the writing—or supposed to be so—to commit such work to hands
other than their own. To write of one’s self, in such a manner as not to incur
the imputation of weakness, vanity, and egotism, is a work within the ability
of but few; and I have little reason to believe that I belong to that fortunate
few.
These considerations caused me to hesitate, when first you kindly urged
me to prepare for publication a full account of my life as a slave, and my
life as a freeman.
Nevertheless, I see, with you, many reasons for regarding my
autobiography as exceptional in its character, and as being, in some sense,
naturally beyond the reach of those reproaches which honorable and
sensitive minds dislike to incur. It is not to illustrate any heroic
achievements of a man, but to vindicate a just and beneficent principle, in
its application to the whole human family, by letting in the light of truth
upon a system, esteemed by some as a blessing, and by others as a curse
and a crime. I agree with you, that this system is now at the bar of public
opinion—not only of this country, but of the whole civilized world—for
judgment. Its friends have made for it the usual plea—“not guilty;” the case
must, therefore, proceed. Any facts, either from slaves, slaveholders, or by-
standers, calculated to enlighten the public mind, by revealing the true
nature, character, and tendency of the slave system, are in order, and can
scarcely be innocently withheld.
I see, too, that there are special reasons why I should write my own
biography, in preference to employing another to do it. Not only is slavery
on trial, but unfortunately, the enslaved people are also on trial. It is alleged,
that they are, naturally, inferior; that they are so low in the scale of
humanity, and so utterly stupid, that they are unconscious of their wrongs,
and do not apprehend their rights. Looking, then, at your request, from this
stand-point, and wishing everything of which you think me capable to go to

the benefit of my afflicted people, I part with my doubts and hesitation, and
proceed to furnish you the desired manuscript; hoping that you may be able
to make such arrangements for its publication as shall be best adapted to
accomplish that good which you so enthusiastically anticipate.
FREDERICK DOUGLASS
There was little necessity for doubt and hesitation on the part of Mr.
Douglass, as to the propriety of his giving to the world a full account of
himself. A man who was born and brought up in slavery, a living witness of
its horrors; who often himself experienced its cruelties; and who, despite
the depressing influences surrounding his birth, youth and manhood, has
risen, from a dark and almost absolute obscurity, to the distinguished
position which he now occupies, might very well assume the existence of a
commendable curiosity, on the part of the public, to know the facts of his
remarkable history.
EDITOR

INTRODUCTION

When a man raises himself from the lowest condition in society to the
highest, mankind pay him the tribute of their admiration; when he
accomplishes this elevation by native energy, guided by prudence and
wisdom, their admiration is increased; but when his course, onward and
upward, excellent in itself, furthermore proves a possible, what had hitherto
been regarded as an impossible, reform, then he becomes a burning and a
shining light, on which the aged may look with gladness, the young with
hope, and the down-trodden, as a representative of what they may
themselves become. To such a man, dear reader, it is my privilege to
introduce you.
The life of Frederick Douglass, recorded in the pages which follow, is not
merely an example of self-elevation under the most adverse circumstances;
it is, moreover, a noble vindication of the highest aims of the American anti-
slavery movement. The real object of that movement is not only to
disenthrall, it is, also, to bestow upon the Negro the exercise of all those
rights, from the possession of which he has been so long debarred.
But this full recognition of the colored man to the right, and the entire
admission of the same to the full privileges, political, religious and social,
of manhood, requires powerful effort on the part of the enthralled, as well
as on the part of those who would disenthrall them. The people at large
must feel the conviction, as well as admit the abstract logic, of human
equality; the Negro, for the first time in the world’s history, brought in full
contact with high civilization, must prove his title first to all that is
demanded for him; in the teeth of unequal chances, he must prove himself
equal to the mass of those who oppress him—therefore, absolutely superior
to his apparent fate, and to their relative ability. And it is most cheering to
the friends of freedom, today, that evidence of this equality is rapidly
accumulating, not from the ranks of the half-freed colored people of the free
states, but from the very depths of slavery itself; the indestructible equality

of man to man is demonstrated by the ease with which black men, scarce
one remove from barbarism—if slavery can be honored with such a
distinction—vault into the high places of the most advanced and painfully
acquired civilization. Ward and Garnett, Wells Brown and Pennington,
Loguen and Douglass, are banners on the outer wall, under which abolition
is fighting its most successful battles, because they are living exemplars of
the practicability of the most radical abolitionism; for, they were all of them
born to the doom of slavery, some of them remained slaves until adult age,
yet they all have not only won equality to their white fellow citizens, in
civil, religious, political and social rank, but they have also illustrated and
adorned our common country by their genius, learning and eloquence.
The characteristics whereby Mr. Douglass has won first rank among
these remarkable men, and is still rising toward highest rank among living
Americans, are abundantly laid bare in the book before us. Like the
autobiography of Hugh Miller, it carries us so far back into early childhood,
as to throw light upon the question, “when positive and persistent memory
begins in the human being.” And, like Hugh Miller, he must have been a
shy old-fashioned child, occasionally oppressed by what he could not well
account for, peering and poking about among the layers of right and wrong,
of tyrant and thrall, and the wonderfulness of that hopeless tide of things
which brought power to one race, and unrequited toil to another, until,
finally, he stumbled upon his “first-found Ammonite,” hidden away down
in the depths of his own nature, and which revealed to him the fact that
liberty and right, for all men, were anterior to slavery and wrong. When his
knowledge of the world was bounded by the visible horizon on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation, and while every thing around him bore a fixed, iron stamp, as if
it had always been so, this was, for one so young, a notable discovery.
To his uncommon memory, then, we must add a keen and accurate
insight into men and things; an original breadth of common sense which
enabled him to see, and weigh, and compare whatever passed before him,
and which kindled a desire to search out and define their relations to other
things not so patent, but which never succumbed to the marvelous nor the
supernatural; a sacred thirst for liberty and for learning, first as a means of
attaining liberty, then as an end in itself most desirable; a will; an
unfaltering energy and determination to obtain what his soul pronounced
desirable; a majestic self-hood; determined courage; a deep and agonizing
sympathy with his embruted, crushed and bleeding fellow slaves, and an

extraordinary depth of passion, together with that rare alliance between
passion and intellect, which enables the former, when deeply roused, to
excite, develop and sustain the latter.
With these original gifts in view, let us look at his schooling; the fearful
discipline through which it pleased God to prepare him for the high calling
on which he has since entered—the advocacy of emancipation by the
people who are not slaves. And for this special mission, his plantation
education was better than any he could have acquired in any lettered school.
What he needed, was facts and experiences, welded to acutely wrought up
sympathies, and these he could not elsewhere have obtained, in a manner so
peculiarly adapted to his nature. His physical being was well trained, also,
running wild until advanced into boyhood; hard work and light diet,
thereafter, and a skill in handicraft in youth.
For his special mission, then, this was, considered in connection with his
natural gifts, a good schooling; and, for his special mission, he doubtless
“left school” just at the proper moment. Had he remained longer in slavery
—had he fretted under bonds until the ripening of manhood and its
passions, until the drear agony of slave-wife and slave-children had been
piled upon his already bitter experiences—then, not only would his own
history have had another termination, but the drama of American slavery
would have been essentially varied; for I cannot resist the belief, that the
boy who learned to read and write as he did, who taught his fellow slaves
these precious acquirements as he did, who plotted for their mutual escape
as he did, would, when a man at bay, strike a blow which would make
slavery reel and stagger. Furthermore, blows and insults he bore, at the
moment, without resentment; deep but suppressed emotion rendered him
insensible to their sting; but it was afterward, when the memory of them
went seething through his brain, breeding a fiery indignation at his injured
self-hood, that the resolve came to resist, and the time fixed when to resist,
and the plot laid, how to resist; and he always kept his self-pledged word. In
what he undertook, in this line, he looked fate in the face, and had a cool,
keen look at the relation of means to ends. Henry Bibb, to avoid
chastisement, strewed his master’s bed with charmed leaves and was
whipped. Frederick Douglass quietly pocketed a like fetiche, compared his
muscles with those of Covey—and whipped him.

In the history of his life in bondage, we find, well developed, that
inherent and continuous energy of character which will ever render him
distinguished. What his hand found to do, he did with his might; even while
conscious that he was wronged out of his daily earnings, he worked, and
worked hard. At his daily labor he went with a will; with keen, well set eye,
brawny chest, lithe figure, and fair sweep of arm, he would have been king
among calkers, had that been his mission.
It must not be overlooked, in this glance at his education, that Mr.
Douglass lacked one aid to which so many men of mark have been deeply
indebted—he had neither a mother’s care, nor a mother’s culture, save that
which slavery grudgingly meted out to him. Bitter nurse! may not even her
features relax with human feeling, when she gazes at such offspring! How
susceptible he was to the kindly influences of mother-culture, may be
gathered from his own words, on page 57: “It has been a life-long standing
grief to me, that I know so little of my mother, and that I was so early
separated from her. The counsels of her love must have been beneficial to
me. The side view of her face is imaged on my memory, and I take few
steps in life, without feeling her presence; but the image is mute, and I have
no striking words of hers treasured up.”
From the depths of chattel slavery in Maryland, our author escaped into
the caste-slavery of the north, in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Here he
found oppression assuming another, and hardly less bitter, form; of that
very handicraft which the greed of slavery had taught him, his half-freedom
denied him the exercise for an honest living; he found himself one of a class
—free colored men—whose position he has described in the following
words:
“Aliens are we in our native land. The fundamental principles of the
republic, to which the humblest white man, whether born here or elsewhere,
may appeal with confidence, in the hope of awakening a favorable
response, are held to be inapplicable to us. The glorious doctrines of your
revolutionary fathers, and the more glorious teachings of the Son of God,
are construed and applied against us. We are literally scourged beyond the
beneficent range of both authorities, human and divine. * * * * American
humanity hates us, scorns us, disowns and denies, in a thousand ways, our
very personality. The outspread wing of American christianity, apparently
broad enough to give shelter to a perishing world, refuses to cover us. To

us, its bones are brass, and its features iron. In running thither for shelter
and succor, we have only fled from the hungry blood-hound to the
devouring wolf—from a corrupt and selfish world, to a hollow and
hypocritical church.”—Speech before American and Foreign Anti-Slavery
Society, May, 1854.
Four years or more, from 1837 to 1841, he struggled on, in New Bedford,
sawing wood, rolling casks, or doing what labor he might, to support
himself and young family; four years he brooded over the scars which
slavery and semi-slavery had inflicted upon his body and soul; and then,
with his wounds yet unhealed, he fell among the Garrisonians—a glorious
waif to those most ardent reformers. It happened one day, at Nantucket, that
he, diffidently and reluctantly, was led to address an anti-slavery meeting.
He was about the age when the younger Pitt entered the House of
Commons; like Pitt, too, he stood up a born orator.
William Lloyd Garrison, who was happily present, writes thus of Mr.
Douglass’ maiden effort; “I shall never forget his first speech at the
convention—the extraordinary emotion it excited in my own mind—the
powerful impression it created upon a crowded auditory, completely taken
by surprise. * * * I think I never hated slavery so intensely as at that
moment; certainly, my perception of the enormous outrage which is
inflicted by it on the godlike nature of its victims, was rendered far more
clear than ever. There stood one in physical proportions and stature
commanding and exact—in intellect richly endowed—in natural eloquence
a prodigy.” 1
It is of interest to compare Mr. Douglass’s account of this meeting with
Mr. Garrison’s. Of the two, I think the latter the most correct. It must have
been a grand burst of eloquence! The pent up agony, indignation and pathos
of an abused and harrowed boyhood and youth, bursting out in all their
freshness and overwhelming earnestness!
This unique introduction to its great leader, led immediately to the
employment of Mr. Douglass as an agent by the American Anti-Slavery
Society. So far as his self-relying and independent character would permit,
he became, after the strictest sect, a Garrisonian. It is not too much to say,
that he formed a complement which they needed, and they were a
complement equally necessary to his “make-up.” With his deep and keen
sensitiveness to wrong, and his wonderful memory, he came from the land

of bondage full of its woes and its evils, and painting them in characters of
living light; and, on his part, he found, told out in sound Saxon phrase, all
those principles of justice and right and liberty, which had dimly brooded
over the dreams of his youth, seeking definite forms and verbal expression.
It must have been an electric flashing of thought, and a knitting of soul,
granted to but few in this life, and will be a life-long memory to those who
participated in it. In the society, moreover, of Wendell Phillips, Edmund
Quincy, William Lloyd Garrison, and other men of earnest faith and refined
culture, Mr. Douglass enjoyed the high advantage of their assistance and
counsel in the labor of self-culture, to which he now addressed himself with
wonted energy. Yet, these gentlemen, although proud of Frederick
Douglass, failed to fathom, and bring out to the light of day, the highest
qualities of his mind; the force of their own education stood in their own
way: they did not delve into the mind of a colored man for capacities which
the pride of race led them to believe to be restricted to their own Saxon
blood. Bitter and vindictive sarcasm, irresistible mimicry, and a pathetic
narrative of his own experiences of slavery, were the intellectual
manifestations which they encouraged him to exhibit on the platform or in
the lecture desk.
A visit to England, in 1845, threw Mr. Douglass among men and women
of earnest souls and high culture, and who, moreover, had never drank of
the bitter waters of American caste. For the first time in his life, he breathed
an atmosphere congenial to the longings of his spirit, and felt his manhood
free and unrestricted. The cordial and manly greetings of the British and
Irish audiences in public, and the refinement and elegance of the social
circles in which he mingled, not only as an equal, but as a recognized man
of genius, were, doubtless, genial and pleasant resting places in his hitherto
thorny and troubled journey through life. There are joys on the earth, and, to
the wayfaring fugitive from American slavery or American caste, this is one
of them.
But his sojourn in England was more than a joy to Mr. Douglass. Like the
platform at Nantucket, it awakened him to the consciousness of new powers
that lay in him. From the pupilage of Garrisonism he rose to the dignity of a
teacher and a thinker; his opinions on the broader aspects of the great
American question were earnestly and incessantly sought, from various
points of view, and he must, perforce, bestir himself to give suitable answer.
With that prompt and truthful perception which has led their sisters in all

ages of the world to gather at the feet and support the hands of reformers,
the gentlewomen of England 2 were foremost to encourage and strengthen
him to carve out for himself a path fitted to his powers and energies, in the
life-battle against slavery and caste to which he was pledged. And one
stirring thought, inseparable from the British idea of the evangel of
freedom, must have smote his ear from every side—
Hereditary bondmen! know ye not
Who would be free, themselves mast strike the blow?

The result of this visit was, that on his return to the United States, he
established a newspaper. This proceeding was sorely against the wishes and
the advice of the leaders of the American Anti-Slavery Society, but our
author had fully grown up to the conviction of a truth which they had once
promulged, but now forgotten, to wit: that in their own elevation—self-
elevation—colored men have a blow to strike “on their own hook,” against
slavery and caste. Differing from his Boston friends in this matter, diffident
in his own abilities, reluctant at their dissuadings, how beautiful is the
loyalty with which he still clung to their principles in all things else, and
even in this.
Now came the trial hour. Without cordial support from any large body of
men or party on this side the Atlantic, and too far distant in space and
immediate interest to expect much more, after the much already done, on
the other side, he stood up, almost alone, to the arduous labor and heavy
expenditure of editor and lecturer. The Garrison party, to which he still
adhered, did not want a colored newspaper—there was an odor of caste
about it; the Liberty party could hardly be expected to give warm support to
a man who smote their principles as with a hammer; and the wide gulf
which separated the free colored people from the Garrisonians, also
separated them from their brother, Frederick Douglass.
The arduous nature of his labors, from the date of the establishment of
his paper, may be estimated by the fact, that anti-slavery papers in the
United States, even while organs of, and when supported by, anti-slavery
parties, have, with a single exception, failed to pay expenses. Mr. Douglass
has maintained, and does maintain, his paper without the support of any
party, and even in the teeth of the opposition of those from whom he had
reason to expect counsel and encouragement. He has been compelled, at
one and the same time, and almost constantly, during the past seven years,

to contribute matter to its columns as editor, and to raise funds for its
support as lecturer. It is within bounds to say, that he has expended twelve
thousand dollars of his own hard earned money, in publishing this paper, a
larger sum than has been contributed by any one individual for the general
advancement of the colored people. There had been many other papers
published and edited by colored men, beginning as far back as 1827, when
the Rev. Samuel E. Cornish and John B. Russworm (a graduate of Bowdoin
college, and afterward Governor of Cape Palmas) published the Freedom’s
Journal, in New York City; probably not less than one hundred newspaper
enterprises have been started in the United States, by free colored men, born
free, and some of them of liberal education and fair talents for this work;
but, one after another, they have fallen through, although, in several
instances, anti-slavery friends contributed to their support. 3 It had almost
been given up, as an impracticable thing, to maintain a colored newspaper,
when Mr. Douglass, with fewest early advantages of all his competitors,
essayed, and has proved the thing perfectly practicable, and, moreover, of
great public benefit. This paper, in addition to its power in holding up the
hands of those to whom it is especially devoted, also affords irrefutable
evidence of the justice, safety and practicability of Immediate
Emancipation; it further proves the immense loss which slavery inflicts on
the land while it dooms such energies as his to the hereditary degradation of
slavery.
It has been said in this Introduction, that Mr. Douglass had raised himself
by his own efforts to the highest position in society. As a successful editor,
in our land, he occupies this position. Our editors rule the land, and he is
one of them. As an orator and thinker, his position is equally high, in the
opinion of his countrymen. If a stranger in the United States would seek its
most distinguished men—the movers of public opinion—he will find their
names mentioned, and their movements chronicled, under the head of “BY
MAGNETIC TELEGRAPH,” in the daily papers. The keen caterers for the
public attention, set down, in this column, such men only as have won high
mark in the public esteem. During the past winter—1854-5—very frequent
mention of Frederick Douglass was made under this head in the daily
papers; his name glided as often—this week from Chicago, next week from
Boston—over the lightning wires, as the name of any other man, of
whatever note. To no man did the people more widely nor more earnestly
say, “Tell me thy thought!” And, somehow or other, revolution seemed to

follow in his wake. His were not the mere words of eloquence which
Kossuth speaks of, that delight the ear and then pass away. No! They were
work-able, do-able words, that brought forth fruits in the revolution in
Illinois, and in the passage of the franchise resolutions by the Assembly of
New York.
And the secret of his power, what is it? He is a Representative American
man—a type of his countrymen. Naturalists tell us that a full grown man is
a resultant or representative of all animated nature on this globe; beginning
with the early embryo state, then representing the lowest forms of organic
life, 4 and passing through every subordinate grade or type, until he reaches
the last and highest—manhood. In like manner, and to the fullest extent, has
Frederick Douglass passed through every gradation of rank comprised in
our national make-up, and bears upon his person and upon his soul every
thing that is American. And he has not only full sympathy with every thing
American; his proclivity or bent, to active toil and visible progress, are in
the strictly national direction, delighting to outstrip “all creation.”
Nor have the natural gifts, already named as his, lost anything by his
severe training. When unexcited, his mental processes are probably slow,
but singularly clear in perception, and wide in vision, the unfailing memory
bringing up all the facts in their every aspect; incongruities he lays hold of
incontinently, and holds up on the edge of his keen and telling wit. But this
wit never descends to frivolity; it is rigidly in the keeping of his truthful
common sense, and always used in illustration or proof of some point which
could not so readily be reached any other way. “Beware of a Yankee when
he is feeding,” is a shaft that strikes home in a matter never so laid bare by
satire before. “The Garrisonian views of disunion, if carried to a successful
issue, would only place the people of the north in the same relation to
American slavery which they now bear to the slavery of Cuba or the
Brazils,” is a statement, in a few words, which contains the result and the
evidence of an argument which might cover pages, but could not carry
stronger conviction, nor be stated in less pregnable form. In proof of this, I
may say, that having been submitted to the attention of the Garrisonians in
print, in March, it was repeated before them at their business meeting in
May—the platform, par excellence, on which they invite free fight, a
l’outrance, to all comers. It was given out in the clear, ringing tones,
wherewith the hall of shields was wont to resound of old, yet neither
Garrison, nor Phillips, nor May, nor Remond, nor Foster, nor Burleigh, with

his subtle steel of “the ice brook’s temper,” ventured to break a lance upon
it! The doctrine of the dissolution of the Union, as a means for the abolition
of American slavery, was silenced upon the lips that gave it birth, and in the
presence of an array of defenders who compose the keenest intellects in the
land.
“The man who is right is a majority” is an aphorism struck out by Mr.
Douglass in that great gathering of the friends of freedom, at Pittsburgh, in
1852, where he towered among the highest, because, with abilities inferior
to none, and moved more deeply than any, there was neither policy nor
party to trammel the outpourings of his soul. Thus we find, opposed to all
disadvantages which a black man in the United States labors and struggles
under, is this one vantage ground—when the chance comes, and the
audience where he may have a say, he stands forth the freest, most deeply
moved and most earnest of all men.
It has been said of Mr. Douglass, that his descriptive and declamatory
powers, admitted to be of the very highest order, take precedence of his
logical force. Whilst the schools might have trained him to the exhibition of
the formulas of deductive logic, nature and circumstances forced him into
the exercise of the higher faculties required by induction. The first ninety
pages of this “Life in Bondage,” afford specimens of observing, comparing,
and careful classifying, of such superior character, that it is difficult to
believe them the results of a child’s thinking; he questions the earth, and the
children and the slaves around him again and again, and finally looks to
“God in the sky” for the why and the wherefore of the unnatural thing,
slavery. “Yes, if indeed thou art, wherefore dost thou suffer us to be slain?”
is the only prayer and worship of the God-forsaken Dodos in the heart of
Africa. Almost the same was his prayer. One of his earliest observations
was that white children should know their ages, while the colored children
were ignorant of theirs; and the songs of the slaves grated on his inmost
soul, because a something told him that harmony in sound, and music of the
spirit, could not consociate with miserable degradation.
To such a mind, the ordinary processes of logical deduction are like
proving that two and two make four. Mastering the intermediate steps by an
intuitive glance, or recurring to them as Ferguson resorted to geometry, it
goes down to the deeper relation of things, and brings out what may seem,
to some, mere statements, but which are new and brilliant generalizations,

each resting on a broad and stable basis. Thus, Chief Justice Marshall gave
his decisions, and then told Brother Story to look up the authorities—and
they never differed from him. Thus, also, in his “Lecture on the Anti-
Slavery Movement,” delivered before the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery
Society, Mr. Douglass presents a mass of thought, which, without any
showy display of logic on his part, requires an exercise of the reasoning
faculties of the reader to keep pace with him. And his “Claims of the Negro
Ethnologically Considered,” is full of new and fresh thoughts on the
dawning science of race-history.
If, as has been stated, his intellection is slow, when unexcited, it is most
prompt and rapid when he is thoroughly aroused. Memory, logic, wit,
sarcasm, invective pathos and bold imagery of rare structural beauty, well
up as from a copious fountain, yet each in its proper place, and contributing
to form a whole, grand in itself, yet complete in the minutest proportions. It
is most difficult to hedge him in a corner, for his positions are taken so
deliberately, that it is rare to find a point in them undefended aforethought.
Professor Reason tells me the following: “On a recent visit of a public
nature, to Philadelphia, and in a meeting composed mostly of his colored
brethren, Mr. Douglass proposed a comparison of views in the matters of
the relations and duties of ‘our people;’ he holding that prejudice was the
result of condition, and could be conquered by the efforts of the degraded
themselves. A gentleman present, distinguished for logical acumen and
subtlety, and who had devoted no small portion of the last twenty-five years
to the study and elucidation of this very question, held the opposite view,
that prejudice is innate and unconquerable. He terminated a series of well
dove-tailed, Socratic questions to Mr. Douglass, with the following: ‘If the
legislature at Harrisburgh should awaken, to-morrow morning, and find
each man’s skin turned black and his hair woolly, what could they do to
remove prejudice?’ ‘Immediately pass laws entitling black men to all civil,
political and social privileges,’ was the instant reply—and the questioning
ceased.”
The most remarkable mental phenomenon in Mr. Douglass, is his style in
writing and speaking. In March, 1855, he delivered an address in the
assembly chamber before the members of the legislature of the state of New
York. An eye witness 5 describes the crowded and most intelligent audience,
and their rapt attention to the speaker, as the grandest scene he ever
witnessed in the capitol. Among those whose eyes were riveted on the

speaker full two hours and a half, were Thurlow Weed and Lieutenant
Governor Raymond; the latter, at the conclusion of the address, exclaimed
to a friend, “I would give twenty thousand dollars, if I could deliver that
address in that manner.” Mr. Raymond is a first class graduate of
Dartmouth, a rising politician, ranking foremost in the legislature; of
course, his ideal of oratory must be of the most polished and finished
description.
The style of Mr. Douglass in writing, is to me an intellectual puzzle. The
strength, affluence and terseness may easily be accounted for, because the
style of a man is the man; but how are we to account for that rare polish in
his style of writing, which, most critically examined, seems the result of
careful early culture among the best classics of our language; it equals if it
does not surpass the style of Hugh Miller, which was the wonder of the
British literary public, until he unraveled the mystery in the most interesting
of autobiographies. But Frederick Douglass was still calking the seams of
Baltimore clippers, and had only written a “pass,” at the age when Miller’s
style was already formed.
I asked William Whipper, of Pennsylvania, the gentleman alluded to
above, whether he thought Mr. Douglass’s power inherited from the
Negroid, or from what is called the Caucasian side of his make up? After
some reflection, he frankly answered, “I must admit, although sorry to do
so, that the Caucasian predominates.” At that time, I almost agreed with
him; but, facts narrated in the first part of this work, throw a different light
on this interesting question.
We are left in the dark as to who was the paternal ancestor of our author;
a fact which generally holds good of the Romuluses and Remuses who are
to inaugurate the new birth of our republic. In the absence of testimony
from the Caucasian side, we must see what evidence is given on the other
side of the house.
“My grandmother, though advanced in years, * * * was yet a woman of
power and spirit. She was marvelously straight in figure, elastic and
muscular.” (p. 46.)
After describing her skill in constructing nets, her perseverance in using
them, and her wide-spread fame in the agricultural way he adds, “It
happened to her—as it will happen to any careful and thrifty person
residing in an ignorant and improvident neighborhood—to enjoy the

reputation of being born to good luck.” And his grandmother was a black
woman.
“My mother was tall, and finely proportioned; of deep black, glossy
complexion; had regular features; and among other slaves was remarkably
sedate in her manners.” “Being a field hand, she was obliged to walk twelve
miles and return, between nightfall and daybreak, to see her children” (p.
54.) “I shall never forget the indescribable expression of her countenance
when I told her that I had had no food since morning. * * * There was pity
in her glance at me, and a fiery indignation at Aunt Katy at the same time; *
* * * she read Aunt Katy a lecture which she never forgot.” (p. 56.) “I
learned after my mother’s death, that she could read, and that she was the
only one of all the slaves and colored people in Tuckahoe who enjoyed that
advantage. How she acquired this knowledge, I know not, for Tuckahoe is
the last place in the world where she would be apt to find facilities for
learning.” (p. 57.) “There is, in Prichard’s Natural History of Man, the head
of a figure—on page 157—the features of which so resemble those of my
mother, that I often recur to it with something of the feeling which I
suppose others experience when looking upon the pictures of dear departed
ones.” (p. 52.)
The head alluded to is copied from the statue of Ramses the Great, an
Egyptian king of the nineteenth dynasty. The authors of the Types of
Mankind give a side view of the same on page 148, remarking that the
profile, “like Napoleon’s, is superbly European!” The nearness of its
resemblance to Mr. Douglass’ mother rests upon the evidence of his
memory, and judging from his almost marvelous feats of recollection of
forms and outlines recorded in this book, this testimony may be admitted.
These facts show that for his energy, perseverance, eloquence, invective,
sagacity, and wide sympathy, he is indebted to his Negro blood. The very
marvel of his style would seem to be a development of that other marvel—
how his mother learned to read. The versatility of talent which he wields, in
common with Dumas, Ira Aldridge, and Miss Greenfield, would seem to be
the result of the grafting of the Anglo-Saxon on good, original, Negro stock.
If the friends of “Caucasus” choose to claim, for that region, what remains
after this analysis—to wit: combination—they are welcome to it. They will
forgive me for reminding them that the term “Caucasian” is dropped by
recent writers on Ethnology; for the people about Mount Caucasus, are, and

have ever been, Mongols. The great “white race” now seek paternity,
according to Dr. Pickering, in Arabia—“Arida Nutrix” of the best breed of
horses &c. Keep on, gentlemen; you will find yourselves in Africa, by-and-
by. The Egyptians, like the Americans, were a mixed race, with some Negro
blood circling around the throne, as well as in the mud hovels.
This is the proper place to remark of our author, that the same strong self-
hood, which led him to measure strength with Mr. Covey, and to wrench
himself from the embrace of the Garrisonians, and which has borne him
through many resistances to the personal indignities offered him as a
colored man, sometimes becomes a hyper-sensitiveness to such assaults as
men of his mark will meet with, on paper. Keen and unscrupulous
opponents have sought, and not unsuccessfully, to pierce him in this
direction; for well they know, that if assailed, he will smite back.
It is not without a feeling of pride, dear reader, that I present you with
this book. The son of a self-emancipated bond-woman, I feel joy in
introducing to you my brother, who has rent his own bonds, and who, in his
every relation—as a public man, as a husband and as a father—is such as
does honor to the land which gave him birth. I shall place this book in the
hands of the only child spared me, bidding him to strive and emulate its
noble example. You may do likewise. It is an American book, for
Americans, in the fullest sense of the idea. It shows that the worst of our
institutions, in its worst aspect, cannot keep down energy, truthfulness, and
earnest struggle for the right. It proves the justice and practicability of
Immediate Emancipation. It shows that any man in our land, “no matter in
what battle his liberty may have been cloven down, * * * * no matter what
complexion an Indian or an African sun may have burned upon him,” not
only may “stand forth redeemed and disenthralled,” but may also stand up a
candidate for the highest suffrage of a great people—the tribute of their
honest, hearty admiration. Reader, Vale! New York
JAMES M’CUNE SMITH

CHAPTER I. Childhood

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

In Talbot county, Eastern Shore, Maryland, near Easton, the county town
of that county, there is a small district of country, thinly populated, and
remarkable for nothing that I know of more than for the worn-out, sandy,
desert-like appearance of its soil, the general dilapidation of its farms and
fences, the indigent and spiritless character of its inhabitants, and the
prevalence of ague and fever.
The name of this singularly unpromising and truly famine stricken
district is Tuckahoe, a name well known to all Marylanders, black and
white. It was given to this section of country probably, at the first, merely in
derision; or it may possibly have been applied to it, as I have heard, because
some one of its earlier inhabitants had been guilty of the petty meanness of
stealing a hoe—or taking a hoe that did not belong to him. Eastern Shore
men usually pronounce the word took, as tuck; Took-a-hoe, therefore, is, in
Maryland parlance, Tuckahoe. But, whatever may have been its origin—and
about this I will not be positive—that name has stuck to the district in

question; and it is seldom mentioned but with contempt and derision, on
account of the barrenness of its soil, and the ignorance, indolence, and
poverty of its people. Decay and ruin are everywhere visible, and the thin
population of the place would have quitted it long ago, but for the Choptank
river, which runs through it, from which they take abundance of shad and
herring, and plenty of ague and fever.
It was in this dull, flat, and unthrifty district, or neighborhood,
surrounded by a white population of the lowest order, indolent and drunken
to a proverb, and among slaves, who seemed to ask, “Oh! what’s the use?”
every time they lifted a hoe, that I—without any fault of mine was born,
and spent the first years of my childhood.
The reader will pardon so much about the place of my birth, on the score
that it is always a fact of some importance to know where a man is born, if,
indeed, it be important to know anything about him. In regard to the time of
my birth, I cannot be as definite as I have been respecting the place. Nor,
indeed, can I impart much knowledge concerning my parents. Genealogical
trees do not flourish among slaves. A person of some consequence here in
the north, sometimes designated father, is literally abolished in slave law
and slave practice. It is only once in a while that an exception is found to
this statement. I never met with a slave who could tell me how old he was.
Few slave-mothers know anything of the months of the year, nor of the days
of the month. They keep no family records, with marriages, births, and
deaths. They measure the ages of their children by spring time, winter time,
harvest time, planting time, and the like; but these soon become
undistinguishable and forgotten. Like other slaves, I cannot tell how old I
am. This destitution was among my earliest troubles. I learned when I grew
up, that my master—and this is the case with masters generally—allowed
no questions to be put to him, by which a slave might learn his age. Such
questions deemed evidence of impatience, and even of impudent curiosity.
From certain events, however, the dates of which I have since learned, I
suppose myself to have been born about the year 1817.
The first experience of life with me that I now remember—and I
remember it but hazily—began in the family of my grandmother and
grandfather. Betsey and Isaac Baily. They were quite advanced in life, and
had long lived on the spot where they then resided. They were considered
old settlers in the neighborhood, and, from certain circumstances, I infer

that my grandmother, especially, was held in high esteem, far higher than is
the lot of most colored persons in the slave states. She was a good nurse,
and a capital hand at making nets for catching shad and herring; and these
nets were in great demand, not only in Tuckahoe, but at Denton and
Hillsboro, neighboring villages. She was not only good at making the nets,
but was also somewhat famous for her good fortune in taking the fishes
referred to. I have known her to be in the water half the day. Grandmother
was likewise more provident than most of her neighbors in the preservation
of seedling sweet potatoes, and it happened to her—as it will happen to any
careful and thrifty person residing in an ignorant and improvident
community—to enjoy the reputation of having been born to “good luck.”
Her “good luck” was owing to the exceeding care which she took in
preventing the succulent root from getting bruised in the digging, and in
placing it beyond the reach of frost, by actually burying it under the hearth
of her cabin during the winter months. In the time of planting sweet
potatoes, “Grandmother Betty,” as she was familiarly called, was sent for in
all directions, simply to place the seedling potatoes in the hills; for
superstition had it, that if “Grandmamma Betty but touches them at
planting, they will be sure to grow and flourish.” This high reputation was
full of advantage to her, and to the children around her. Though Tuckahoe
had but few of the good things of life, yet of such as it did possess
grandmother got a full share, in the way of presents. If good potato crops
came after her planting, she was not forgotten by those for whom she
planted; and as she was remembered by others, so she remembered the
hungry little ones around her.
The dwelling of my grandmother and grandfather had few pretensions. It
was a log hut, or cabin, built of clay, wood, and straw. At a distance it
resembled—though it was smaller, less commodious and less substantial—
the cabins erected in the western states by the first settlers. To my child’s
eye, however, it was a noble structure, admirably adapted to promote the
comforts and conveniences of its inmates. A few rough, Virginia fence-rails,
flung loosely over the rafters above, answered the triple purpose of floors,
ceilings, and bedsteads. To be sure, this upper apartment was reached only
by a ladder—but what in the world for climbing could be better than a
ladder? To me, this ladder was really a high invention, and possessed a sort
of charm as I played with delight upon the rounds of it. In this little hut
there was a large family of children: I dare not say how many. My

grandmother—whether because too old for field service, or because she had
so faithfully discharged the duties of her station in early life, I know not—
enjoyed the high privilege of living in a cabin, separate from the quarter,
with no other burden than her own support, and the necessary care of the
little children, imposed. She evidently esteemed it a great fortune to live so.
The children were not her own, but her grandchildren—the children of her
daughters. She took delight in having them around her, and in attending to
their few wants. The practice of separating children from their mother, and
hiring the latter out at distances too great to admit of their meeting, except
at long intervals, is a marked feature of the cruelty and barbarity of the
slave system. But it is in harmony with the grand aim of slavery, which,
always and everywhere, is to reduce man to a level with the brute. It is a
successful method of obliterating from the mind and heart of the slave, all
just ideas of the sacredness of the family, as an institution.
Most of the children, however, in this instance, being the children of my
grandmother’s daughters, the notions of family, and the reciprocal duties
and benefits of the relation, had a better chance of being understood than
where children are placed—as they often are in the hands of strangers, who
have no care for them, apart from the wishes of their masters. The daughters
of my grandmother were five in number. Their names were JENNY,
ESTHER, MILLY, PRISCILLA, and HARRIET. The daughter last named
was my mother, of whom the reader shall learn more by-and-by.
Living here, with my dear old grandmother and grandfather, it was a long
time before I knew myself to be a slave. I knew many other things before I
knew that. Grandmother and grandfather were the greatest people in the
world to me; and being with them so snugly in their own little cabin—I
supposed it be their own—knowing no higher authority over me or the
other children than the authority of grandmamma, for a time there was
nothing to disturb me; but, as I grew larger and older, I learned by degrees
the sad fact, that the “little hut,” and the lot on which it stood, belonged not
to my dear old grandparents, but to some person who lived a great distance
off, and who was called, by grandmother, “OLD MASTER.” I further
learned the sadder fact, that not only the house and lot, but that grandmother
herself, (grandfather was free,) and all the little children around her,
belonged to this mysterious personage, called by grandmother, with every
mark of reverence, “Old Master.” Thus early did clouds and shadows begin
to fall upon my path. Once on the track—troubles never come singly—I

was not long in finding out another fact, still more grievous to my childish
heart. I was told that this “old master,” whose name seemed ever to be
mentioned with fear and shuddering, only allowed the children to live with
grandmother for a limited time, and that in fact as soon as they were big
enough, they were promptly taken away, to live with the said “old master.”
These were distressing revelations indeed; and though I was quite too
young to comprehend the full import of the intelligence, and mostly spent
my childhood days in gleesome sports with the other children, a shade of
disquiet rested upon me.
The absolute power of this distant “old master” had touched my young
spirit with but the point of its cold, cruel iron, and left me something to
brood over after the play and in moments of repose. Grandmammy was,
indeed, at that time, all the world to me; and the thought of being separated
from her, in any considerable time, was more than an unwelcome intruder.
It was intolerable.
Children have their sorrows as well as men and women; and it would be
well to remember this in our dealings with them. SLAVE-children are
children, and prove no exceptions to the general rule. The liability to be
separated from my grandmother, seldom or never to see her again, haunted
me. I dreaded the thought of going to live with that mysterious “old
master,” whose name I never heard mentioned with affection, but always
with fear. I look back to this as among the heaviest of my childhood’s
sorrows. My grandmother! my grandmother! and the little hut, and the
joyous circle under her care, but especially she, who made us sorry when
she left us but for an hour, and glad on her return,—how could I leave her
and the good old home?
But the sorrows of childhood, like the pleasures of after life, are transient.
It is not even within the power of slavery to write indelible sorrow, at a
single dash, over the heart of a child.
The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows,
Is like the dew-drop on the rose—
When next the summer breeze comes by,
And waves the bush—the flower is dry.

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

The slaveholder, having nothing to fear from impotent childhood, easily
affords to refrain from cruel inflictions; and if cold and hunger do not pierce
the tender frame, the first seven or eight years of the slave-boy’s life are
about as full of sweet content as those of the most favored and petted white
children of the slaveholder. The slave-boy escapes many troubles which
befall and vex his white brother. He seldom has to listen to lectures on
propriety of behavior, or on anything else. He is never chided for handling
his little knife and fork improperly or awkwardly, for he uses none. He is
never reprimanded for soiling the table-cloth, for he takes his meals on the
clay floor. He never has the misfortune, in his games or sports, of soiling or
tearing his clothes, for he has almost none to soil or tear. He is never
expected to act like a nice little gentleman, for he is only a rude little slave.
Thus, freed from all restraint, the slave-boy can be, in his life and conduct,
a genuine boy, doing whatever his boyish nature suggests; enacting, by
turns, all the strange antics and freaks of horses, dogs, pigs, and barn-door
fowls, without in any manner compromising his dignity, or incurring
reproach of any sort. He literally runs wild; has no pretty little verses to
learn in the nursery; no nice little speeches to make for aunts, uncles, or
cousins, to show how smart he is; and, if he can only manage to keep out of
the way of the heavy feet and fists of the older slave boys, he may trot on,
in his joyous and roguish tricks, as happy as any little heathen under the
palm trees of Africa. To be sure, he is occasionally reminded, when he
stumbles in the path of his master—and this he early learns to avoid—that
he is eating his “white bread,” and that he will be made to “see sights” by-
and-by. The threat is soon forgotten; the shadow soon passes, and our sable
boy continues to roll in the dust, or play in the mud, as bests suits him, and
in the veriest freedom. If he feels uncomfortable, from mud or from dust,
the coast is clear; he can plunge into the river or the pond, without the
ceremony of undressing, or the fear of wetting his clothes; his little tow-
linen shirt—for that is all he has on—is easily dried; and it needed ablution
as much as did his skin. His food is of the coarsest kind, consisting for the
most part of cornmeal mush, which often finds it way from the wooden tray
to his mouth in an oyster shell. His days, when the weather is warm, are
spent in the pure, open air, and in the bright sunshine. He always sleeps in
airy apartments; he seldom has to take powders, or to be paid to swallow
pretty little sugar-coated pills, to cleanse his blood, or to quicken his
appetite. He eats no candies; gets no lumps of loaf sugar; always relishes

his food; cries but little, for nobody cares for his crying; learns to esteem his
bruises but slight, because others so esteem them. In a word, he is, for the
most part of the first eight years of his life, a spirited, joyous, uproarious,
and happy boy, upon whom troubles fall only like water on a duck’s back.
And such a boy, so far as I can now remember, was the boy whose life in
slavery I am now narrating.

CHAPTER II. Removed from My First Home

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

That mysterious individual referred to in the first chapter as an object of
terror among the inhabitants of our little cabin, under the ominous title of
“old master,” was really a man of some consequence. He owned several
farms in Tuckahoe; was the chief clerk and butler on the home plantation of
Col. Edward Lloyd; had overseers on his own farms; and gave directions to
overseers on the farms belonging to Col. Lloyd. This plantation is situated
on Wye river—the river receiving its name, doubtless, from Wales, where
the Lloyds originated. They (the Lloyds) are an old and honored family in
Maryland, exceedingly wealthy. The home plantation, where they have
resided, perhaps for a century or more, is one of the largest, most fertile,
and best appointed, in the state.
About this plantation, and about that queer old master—who must be
something more than a man, and something worse than an angel—the
reader will easily imagine that I was not only curious, but eager, to know all
that could be known. Unhappily for me, however, all the information I
could get concerning him increased my great dread of being carried thither
—of being separated from and deprived of the protection of my
grandmother and grandfather. It was, evidently, a great thing to go to Col.
Lloyd’s; and I was not without a little curiosity to see the place; but no
amount of coaxing could induce in me the wish to remain there. The fact is,

such was my dread of leaving the little cabin, that I wished to remain little
forever, for I knew the taller I grew the shorter my stay. The old cabin, with
its rail floor and rail bedsteads upstairs, and its clay floor downstairs, and its
dirt chimney, and windowless sides, and that most curious piece of
workmanship dug in front of the fireplace, beneath which grandmammy
placed the sweet potatoes to keep them from the frost, was MY HOME—
the only home I ever had; and I loved it, and all connected with it. The old
fences around it, and the stumps in the edge of the woods near it, and the
squirrels that ran, skipped, and played upon them, were objects of interest
and affection. There, too, right at the side of the hut, stood the old well, with
its stately and skyward-pointing beam, so aptly placed between the limbs of
what had once been a tree, and so nicely balanced that I could move it up
and down with only one hand, and could get a drink myself without calling
for help. Where else in the world could such a well be found, and where
could such another home be met with? Nor were these all the attractions of
the place. Down in a little valley, not far from grandmammy’s cabin, stood
Mr. Lee’s mill, where the people came often in large numbers to get their
corn ground. It was a watermill; and I never shall be able to tell the many
things thought and felt, while I sat on the bank and watched that mill, and
the turning of that ponderous wheel. The mill-pond, too, had its charms; and
with my pinhook, and thread line, I could get nibbles, if I could catch no
fish. But, in all my sports and plays, and in spite of them, there would,
occasionally, come the painful foreboding that I was not long to remain
there, and that I must soon be called away to the home of old master.
I was A SLAVE—born a slave and though the fact was incomprehensible
to me, it conveyed to my mind a sense of my entire dependence on the will
of somebody I had never seen; and, from some cause or other, I had been
made to fear this somebody above all else on earth. Born for another’s
benefit, as the firstling of the cabin flock I was soon to be selected as a meet
offering to the fearful and inexorable demigod, whose huge image on so
many occasions haunted my childhood’s imagination. When the time of my
departure was decided upon, my grandmother, knowing my fears, and in
pity for them, kindly kept me ignorant of the dreaded event about to
transpire. Up to the morning (a beautiful summer morning) when we were
to start, and, indeed, during the whole journey—a journey which, child as I
was, I remember as well as if it were yesterday—she kept the sad fact
hidden from me. This reserve was necessary; for, could I have known all, I

should have given grandmother some trouble in getting me started. As it
was, I was helpless, and she—dear woman!—led me along by the hand,
resisting, with the reserve and solemnity of a priestess, all my inquiring
looks to the last.
The distance from Tuckahoe to Wye river—where my old master lived—
was full twelve miles, and the walk was quite a severe test of the endurance
of my young legs. The journey would have proved too severe for me, but
that my dear old grandmother—blessings on her memory!—afforded
occasional relief by “toting” me (as Marylanders have it) on her shoulder.
My grandmother, though advanced in years—as was evident from more
than one gray hair, which peeped from between the ample and graceful
folds of her newly-ironed bandana turban—was yet a woman of power and
spirit. She was marvelously straight in figure, elastic, and muscular. I
seemed hardly to be a burden to her. She would have “toted” me farther, but
that I felt myself too much of a man to allow it, and insisted on walking.
Releasing dear grandmamma from carrying me, did not make me altogether
independent of her, when we happened to pass through portions of the
somber woods which lay between Tuckahoe and Wye river. She often found
me increasing the energy of my grip, and holding her clothing, lest
something should come out of the woods and eat me up. Several old logs
and stumps imposed upon me, and got themselves taken for wild beasts. I
could see their legs, eyes, and ears, or I could see something like eyes, legs,
and ears, till I got close enough to them to see that the eyes were knots,
washed white with rain, and the legs were broken limbs, and the ears, only
ears owing to the point from which they were seen. Thus early I learned that
the point from which a thing is viewed is of some importance.
As the day advanced the heat increased; and it was not until the afternoon
that we reached the much dreaded end of the journey. I found myself in the
midst of a group of children of many colors; black, brown, copper colored,
and nearly white. I had not seen so many children before. Great houses
loomed up in different directions, and a great many men and women were at
work in the fields. All this hurry, noise, and singing was very different from
the stillness of Tuckahoe. As a new comer, I was an object of special
interest; and, after laughing and yelling around me, and playing all sorts of
wild tricks, they (the children) asked me to go out and play with them. This
I refused to do, preferring to stay with grandmamma. I could not help
feeling that our being there boded no good to me. Grandmamma looked

sad. She was soon to lose another object of affection, as she had lost many
before. I knew she was unhappy, and the shadow fell from her brow on me,
though I knew not the cause.
All suspense, however, must have an end; and the end of mine, in this
instance, was at hand. Affectionately patting me on the head, and exhorting
me to be a good boy, grandmamma told me to go and play with the little
children. “They are kin to you,” said she; “go and play with them.” Among
a number of cousins were Phil, Tom, Steve, and Jerry, Nance and Betty.
Grandmother pointed out my brother PERRY, my sister SARAH, and my
sister ELIZA, who stood in the group. I had never seen my brother nor my
sisters before; and, though I had sometimes heard of them, and felt a
curious interest in them, I really did not understand what they were to me,
or I to them. We were brothers and sisters, but what of that? Why should
they be attached to me, or I to them? Brothers and sisters we were by blood;
but slavery had made us strangers. I heard the words brother and sisters, and
knew they must mean something; but slavery had robbed these terms of
their true meaning. The experience through which I was passing, they had
passed through before. They had already been initiated into the mysteries of
old master’s domicile, and they seemed to look upon me with a certain
degree of compassion; but my heart clave to my grandmother. Think it not
strange, dear reader, that so little sympathy of feeling existed between us.
The conditions of brotherly and sisterly feeling were wanting—we had
never nestled and played together. My poor mother, like many other slave-
women, had many children, but NO FAMILY! The domestic hearth, with its
holy lessons and precious endearments, is abolished in the case of a slave-
mother and her children. “Little children, love one another,” are words
seldom heard in a slave cabin.
I really wanted to play with my brother and sisters, but they were
strangers to me, and I was full of fear that grandmother might leave without
taking me with her. Entreated to do so, however, and that, too, by my dear
grandmother, I went to the back part of the house, to play with them and the
other children. Play, however, I did not, but stood with my back against the
wall, witnessing the playing of the others. At last, while standing there, one
of the children, who had been in the kitchen, ran up to me, in a sort of
roguish glee, exclaiming, “Fed, Fed! grandmammy gone! grandmammy
gone!” I could not believe it; yet, fearing the worst, I ran into the kitchen, to

see for myself, and found it even so. Grandmammy had indeed gone, and
was now far away, “clean” out of sight. I need not tell all that happened
now. Almost heart-broken at the discovery, I fell upon the ground, and wept
a boy’s bitter tears, refusing to be comforted. My brother and sisters came
around me, and said, “Don’t cry,” and gave me peaches and pears, but I
flung them away, and refused all their kindly advances. I had never been
deceived before; and I felt not only grieved at parting—as I supposed
forever—with my grandmother, but indignant that a trick had been played
upon me in a matter so serious.
It was now late in the afternoon. The day had been an exciting and
wearisome one, and I knew not how or where, but I suppose I sobbed
myself to sleep. There is a healing in the angel wing of sleep, even for the
slave-boy; and its balm was never more welcome to any wounded soul than
it was to mine, the first night I spent at the domicile of old master. The
reader may be surprised that I narrate so minutely an incident apparently so
trivial, and which must have occurred when I was not more than seven
years old; but as I wish to give a faithful history of my experience in
slavery, I cannot withhold a circumstance which, at the time, affected me so
deeply. Besides, this was, in fact, my first introduction to the realities of
slavery.

CHAPTER III. Parentage

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

If the reader will now be kind enough to allow me time to grow bigger,
and afford me an opportunity for my experience to become greater, I will
tell him something, by-and-by, of slave life, as I saw, felt, and heard it, on
Col. Edward Lloyd’s plantation, and at the house of old master, where I had
now, despite of myself, most suddenly, but not unexpectedly, been dropped.
Meanwhile, I will redeem my promise to say something more of my dear
mother.
I say nothing of father, for he is shrouded in a mystery I have never been
able to penetrate. Slavery does away with fathers, as it does away with
families. Slavery has no use for either fathers or families, and its laws do
not recognize their existence in the social arrangements of the plantation.
When they do exist, they are not the outgrowths of slavery, but are
antagonistic to that system. The order of civilization is reversed here. The
name of the child is not expected to be that of its father, and his condition
does not necessarily affect that of the child. He may be the slave of Mr.
Tilgman; and his child, when born, may be the slave of Mr. Gross. He may
be a freeman; and yet his child may be a chattel. He may be white, glorying
in the purity of his Anglo-Saxon blood; and his child may be ranked with
the blackest slaves. Indeed, he may be, and often is, master and father to the
same child. He can be father without being a husband, and may sell his
child without incurring reproach, if the child be by a woman in whose veins

courses one thirty-second part of African blood. My father was a white
man, or nearly white. It was sometimes whispered that my master was my
father.
But to return, or rather, to begin. My knowledge of my mother is very
scanty, but very distinct. Her personal appearance and bearing are
ineffaceably stamped upon my memory. She was tall, and finely
proportioned; of deep black, glossy complexion; had regular features, and,
among the other slaves, was remarkably sedate in her manners. There is in
Prichard’s Natural History of Man, the head of a figure—on page 157—the
features of which so resemble those of my mother, that I often recur to it
with something of the feeling which I suppose others experience when
looking upon the pictures of dear departed ones.
Yet I cannot say that I was very deeply attached to my mother; certainly
not so deeply as I should have been had our relations in childhood been
different. We were separated, according to the common custom, when I was
but an infant, and, of course, before I knew my mother from any one else.
The germs of affection with which the Almighty, in his wisdom and
mercy, arms the hopeless infant against the ills and vicissitudes of his lot,
had been directed in their growth toward that loving old grandmother,
whose gentle hand and kind deportment it was in the first effort of my
infantile understanding to comprehend and appreciate. Accordingly, the
tenderest affection which a beneficent Father allows, as a partial
compensation to the mother for the pains and lacerations of her heart,
incident to the maternal relation, was, in my case, diverted from its true and
natural object, by the envious, greedy, and treacherous hand of slavery. The
slave-mother can be spared long enough from the field to endure all the
bitterness of a mother’s anguish, when it adds another name to a master’s
ledger, but not long enough to receive the joyous reward afforded by the
intelligent smiles of her child. I never think of this terrible interference of
slavery with my infantile affections, and its diverting them from their
natural course, without feelings to which I can give no adequate expression.
I do not remember to have seen my mother at my grandmother’s at any
time. I remember her only in her visits to me at Col. Lloyd’s plantation, and
in the kitchen of my old master. Her visits to me there were few in number,
brief in duration, and mostly made in the night. The pains she took, and the

toil she endured, to see me, tells me that a true mother’s heart was hers, and
that slavery had difficulty in paralyzing it with unmotherly indifference.
My mother was hired out to a Mr. Stewart, who lived about twelve miles
from old master’s, and, being a field hand, she seldom had leisure, by day,
for the performance of the journey. The nights and the distance were both
obstacles to her visits. She was obliged to walk, unless chance flung into
her way an opportunity to ride; and the latter was sometimes her good luck.
But she always had to walk one way or the other. It was a greater luxury
than slavery could afford, to allow a black slave-mother a horse or a mule,
upon which to travel twenty-four miles, when she could walk the distance.
Besides, it is deemed a foolish whim for a slave-mother to manifest concern
to see her children, and, in one point of view, the case is made out—she can
do nothing for them. She has no control over them; the master is even more
than the mother, in all matters touching the fate of her child. Why, then,
should she give herself any concern? She has no responsibility. Such is the
reasoning, and such the practice. The iron rule of the plantation, always
passionately and violently enforced in that neighborhood, makes flogging
the penalty of failing to be in the field before sunrise in the morning, unless
special permission be given to the absenting slave. “I went to see my child,”
is no excuse to the ear or heart of the overseer.
One of the visits of my mother to me, while at Col. Lloyd’s, I remember
very vividly, as affording a bright gleam of a mother’s love, and the
earnestness of a mother’s care.
“I had on that day offended “Aunt Katy,” (called “Aunt” by way of
respect,) the cook of old master’s establishment. I do not now remember the
nature of my offense in this instance, for my offenses were numerous in that
quarter, greatly depending, however, upon the mood of Aunt Katy, as to
their heinousness; but she had adopted, that day, her favorite mode of
punishing me, namely, making me go without food all day—that is, from
after breakfast. The first hour or two after dinner, I succeeded pretty well in
keeping up my spirits; but though I made an excellent stand against the foe,
and fought bravely during the afternoon, I knew I must be conquered at last,
unless I got the accustomed reenforcement of a slice of corn bread, at
sundown. Sundown came, but no bread, and, in its stead, their came the
threat, with a scowl well suited to its terrible import, that she “meant to
starve the life out of me!” Brandishing her knife, she chopped off the heavy

slices for the other children, and put the loaf away, muttering, all the while,
her savage designs upon myself. Against this disappointment, for I was
expecting that her heart would relent at last, I made an extra effort to
maintain my dignity; but when I saw all the other children around me with
merry and satisfied faces, I could stand it no longer. I went out behind the
house, and cried like a fine fellow! When tired of this, I returned to the
kitchen, sat by the fire, and brooded over my hard lot. I was too hungry to
sleep. While I sat in the corner, I caught sight of an ear of Indian corn on an
upper shelf of the kitchen. I watched my chance, and got it, and, shelling off
a few grains, I put it back again. The grains in my hand, I quickly put in
some ashes, and covered them with embers, to roast them. All this I did at
the risk of getting a brutual thumping, for Aunt Katy could beat, as well as
starve me. My corn was not long in roasting, and, with my keen appetite, it
did not matter even if the grains were not exactly done. I eagerly pulled
them out, and placed them on my stool, in a clever little pile. Just as I began
to help myself to my very dry meal, in came my dear mother. And now,
dear reader, a scene occurred which was altogether worth beholding, and to
me it was instructive as well as interesting. The friendless and hungry boy,
in his extremest need—and when he did not dare to look for succor—found
himself in the strong, protecting arms of a mother; a mother who was, at the
moment (being endowed with high powers of manner as well as matter)
more than a match for all his enemies. I shall never forget the indescribable
expression of her countenance, when I told her that I had had no food since
morning; and that Aunt Katy said she “meant to starve the life out of me.”
There was pity in her glance at me, and a fiery indignation at Aunt Katy at
the same time; and, while she took the corn from me, and gave me a large
ginger cake, in its stead, she read Aunt Katy a lecture which she never
forgot. My mother threatened her with complaining to old master in my
behalf; for the latter, though harsh and cruel himself, at times, did not
sanction the meanness, injustice, partiality and oppressions enacted by Aunt
Katy in the kitchen. That night I learned the fact, that I was, not only a
child, but somebody’s child. The “sweet cake” my mother gave me was in
the shape of a heart, with a rich, dark ring glazed upon the edge of it. I was
victorious, and well off for the moment; prouder, on my mother’s knee, than
a king upon his throne. But my triumph was short. I dropped off to sleep,
and waked in the morning only to find my mother gone, and myself left at

the mercy of the sable virago, dominant in my old master’s kitchen, whose
fiery wrath was my constant dread.
I do not remember to have seen my mother after this occurrence. Death
soon ended the little communication that had existed between us; and with
it, I believe, a life judging from her weary, sad, down-cast countenance and
mute demeanor—full of heartfelt sorrow. I was not allowed to visit her
during any part of her long illness; nor did I see her for a long time before
she was taken ill and died. The heartless and ghastly form of slavery rises
between mother and child, even at the bed of death. The mother, at the
verge of the grave, may not gather her children, to impart to them her holy
admonitions, and invoke for them her dying benediction. The bond-woman
lives as a slave, and is left to die as a beast; often with fewer attentions than
are paid to a favorite horse. Scenes of sacred tenderness, around the death-
bed, never forgotten, and which often arrest the vicious and confirm the
virtuous during life, must be looked for among the free, though they
sometimes occur among the slaves. It has been a life-long, standing grief to
me, that I knew so little of my mother; and that I was so early separated
from her. The counsels of her love must have been beneficial to me. The
side view of her face is imaged on my memory, and I take few steps in life,
without feeling her presence; but the image is mute, and I have no striking
words of her’s treasured up.
I learned, after my mother’s death, that she could read, and that she was
the only one of all the slaves and colored people in Tuckahoe who enjoyed
that advantage. How she acquired this knowledge, I know not, for Tuckahoe
is the last place in the world where she would be apt to find facilities for
learning. I can, therefore, fondly and proudly ascribe to her an earnest love
of knowledge. That a “field hand” should learn to read, in any slave state, is
remarkable; but the achievement of my mother, considering the place, was
very extraordinary; and, in view of that fact, I am quite willing, and even
happy, to attribute any love of letters I possess, and for which I have got—
despite of prejudices only too much credit, not to my admitted Anglo-Saxon
paternity, but to the native genius of my sable, unprotected, and
uncultivated mother—a woman, who belonged to a race whose mental
endowments it is, at present, fashionable to hold in disparagement and
contempt.

Summoned away to her account, with the impassable gulf of slavery
between us during her entire illness, my mother died without leaving me a
single intimation of who my father was. There was a whisper, that my
master was my father; yet it was only a whisper, and I cannot say that I ever
gave it credence. Indeed, I now have reason to think he was not;
nevertheless, the fact remains, in all its glaring odiousness, that, by the laws
of slavery, children, in all cases, are reduced to the condition of their
mothers. This arrangement admits of the greatest license to brutal
slaveholders, and their profligate sons, brothers, relations and friends, and
gives to the pleasure of sin, the additional attraction of profit. A whole
volume might be written on this single feature of slavery, as I have
observed it.
One might imagine, that the children of such connections, would fare
better, in the hands of their masters, than other slaves. The rule is quite the
other way; and a very little reflection will satisfy the reader that such is the
case. A man who will enslave his own blood, may not be safely relied on for
magnanimity. Men do not love those who remind them of their sins unless
they have a mind to repent—and the mulatto child’s face is a standing
accusation against him who is master and father to the child. What is still
worse, perhaps, such a child is a constant offense to the wife. She hates its
very presence, and when a slaveholding woman hates, she wants not means
to give that hate telling effect. Women—white women, I mean—are IDOLS
at the south, not WIVES, for the slave women are preferred in many
instances; and if these idols but nod, or lift a finger, woe to the poor victim:
kicks, cuffs and stripes are sure to follow. Masters are frequently compelled
to sell this class of their slaves, out of deference to the feelings of their
white wives; and shocking and scandalous as it may seem for a man to sell
his own blood to the traffickers in human flesh, it is often an act of
humanity toward the slave-child to be thus removed from his merciless
tormentors.
It is not within the scope of the design of my simple story, to comment
upon every phase of slavery not within my experience as a slave.
But, I may remark, that, if the lineal descendants of Ham are only to be
enslaved, according to the scriptures, slavery in this country will soon
become an unscriptural institution; for thousands are ushered into the world,
annually, who—like myself—owe their existence to white fathers, and,

most frequently, to their masters, and master’s sons. The slave-woman is at
the mercy of the fathers, sons or brothers of her master. The thoughtful
know the rest.
After what I have now said of the circumstances of my mother, and my
relations to her, the reader will not be surprised, nor be disposed to censure
me, when I tell but the simple truth, viz: that I received the tidings of her
death with no strong emotions of sorrow for her, and with very little regret
for myself on account of her loss. I had to learn the value of my mother
long after her death, and by witnessing the devotion of other mothers to
their children.
There is not, beneath the sky, an enemy to filial affection so destructive
as slavery. It had made my brothers and sisters strangers to me; it converted
the mother that bore me, into a myth; it shrouded my father in mystery, and
left me without an intelligible beginning in the world.
My mother died when I could not have been more than eight or nine
years old, on one of old master’s farms in Tuckahoe, in the neighborhood of
Hillsborough. Her grave is, as the grave of the dead at sea, unmarked, and
without stone or stake.

CHAPTER IV. A General Survey of the Slave
Plantation

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

It is generally supposed that slavery, in the state of Maryland, exists in its
mildest form, and that it is totally divested of those harsh and terrible
peculiarities, which mark and characterize the slave system, in the southern
and south-western states of the American union. The argument in favor of
this opinion, is the contiguity of the free states, and the exposed condition
of slavery in Maryland to the moral, religious and humane sentiment of the
free states.
I am not about to refute this argument, so far as it relates to slavery in
that state, generally; on the contrary, I am willing to admit that, to this
general point, the arguments is well grounded. Public opinion is, indeed, an
unfailing restraint upon the cruelty and barbarity of masters, overseers, and

slave-drivers, whenever and wherever it can reach them; but there are
certain secluded and out-of-the-way places, even in the state of Maryland,
seldom visited by a single ray of healthy public sentiment—where slavery,
wrapt in its own congenial, midnight darkness, can, and does, develop all
its malign and shocking characteristics; where it can be indecent without
shame, cruel without shuddering, and murderous without apprehension or
fear of exposure.
Just such a secluded, dark, and out-of-the-way place, is the “home
plantation” of Col. Edward Lloyd, on the Eastern Shore, Maryland. It is far
away from all the great thoroughfares, and is proximate to no town or
village. There is neither school-house, nor town-house in its neighborhood.
The school-house is unnecessary, for there are no children to go to school.
The children and grand-children of Col. Lloyd were taught in the house, by
a private tutor—a Mr. Page a tall, gaunt sapling of a man, who did not
speak a dozen words to a slave in a whole year. The overseers’ children go
off somewhere to school; and they, therefore, bring no foreign or dangerous
influence from abroad, to embarrass the natural operation of the slave
system of the place. Not even the mechanics—through whom there is an
occasional out-burst of honest and telling indignation, at cruelty and wrong
on other plantations—are white men, on this plantation. Its whole public is
made up of, and divided into, three classes—SLAVEHOLDERS, SLAVES
and OVERSEERS. Its blacksmiths, wheelwrights, shoemakers, weavers,
and coopers, are slaves. Not even commerce, selfish and iron-hearted at it
is, and ready, as it ever is, to side with the strong against the weak—the rich
against the poor—is trusted or permitted within its secluded precincts.
Whether with a view of guarding against the escape of its secrets, I know
not, but it is a fact, the every leaf and grain of the produce of this plantation,
and those of the neighboring farms belonging to Col. Lloyd, are transported
to Baltimore in Col. Lloyd’s own vessels; every man and boy on board of
which—except the captain—are owned by him. In return, everything
brought to the plantation, comes through the same channel. Thus, even the
glimmering and unsteady light of trade, which sometimes exerts a civilizing
influence, is excluded from this “tabooed” spot.
Nearly all the plantations or farms in the vicinity of the “home
plantation” of Col. Lloyd, belong to him; and those which do not, are
owned by personal friends of his, as deeply interested in maintaining the
slave system, in all its rigor, as Col. Lloyd himself. Some of his neighbors

are said to be even more stringent than he. The Skinners, the Peakers, the
Tilgmans, the Lockermans, and the Gipsons, are in the same boat; being
slaveholding neighbors, they may have strengthened each other in their iron
rule. They are on intimate terms, and their interests and tastes are identical.
Public opinion in such a quarter, the reader will see, is not likely to very
efficient in protecting the slave from cruelty. On the contrary, it must
increase and intensify his wrongs. Public opinion seldom differs very
widely from public practice. To be a restraint upon cruelty and vice, public
opinion must emanate from a humane and virtuous community. To no such
humane and virtuous community, is Col. Lloyd’s plantation exposed. That
plantation is a little nation of its own, having its own language, its own
rules, regulations and customs. The laws and institutions of the state,
apparently touch it nowhere. The troubles arising here, are not settled by the
civil power of the state. The overseer is generally accuser, judge, jury,
advocate and executioner. The criminal is always dumb. The overseer
attends to all sides of a case.
There are no conflicting rights of property, for all the people are owned
by one man; and they can themselves own no property. Religion and
politics are alike excluded. One class of the population is too high to be
reached by the preacher; and the other class is too low to be cared for by the
preacher. The poor have the gospel preached to them, in this neighborhood,
only when they are able to pay for it. The slaves, having no money, get no
gospel. The politician keeps away, because the people have no votes, and
the preacher keeps away, because the people have no money. The rich
planter can afford to learn politics in the parlor, and to dispense with
religion altogether.
In its isolation, seclusion, and self-reliant independence, Col. Lloyd’s
plantation resembles what the baronial domains were during the middle
ages in Europe. Grim, cold, and unapproachable by all genial influences
from communities without, there it stands; full three hundred years behind
the age, in all that relates to humanity and morals.
This, however, is not the only view that the place presents. Civilization is
shut out, but nature cannot be. Though separated from the rest of the world;
though public opinion, as I have said, seldom gets a chance to penetrate its
dark domain; though the whole place is stamped with its own peculiar,
ironlike individuality; and though crimes, high-handed and atrocious, may

there be committed, with almost as much impunity as upon the deck of a
pirate ship—it is, nevertheless, altogether, to outward seeming, a most
strikingly interesting place, full of life, activity, and spirit; and presents a
very favorable contrast to the indolent monotony and languor of Tuckahoe.
Keen as was my regret and great as was my sorrow at leaving the latter, I
was not long in adapting myself to this, my new home. A man’s troubles are
always half disposed of, when he finds endurance his only remedy. I found
myself here; there was no getting away; and what remained for me, but to
make the best of it? Here were plenty of children to play with, and plenty of
places of pleasant resort for boys of my age, and boys older. The little
tendrils of affection, so rudely and treacherously broken from around the
darling objects of my grandmother’s hut, gradually began to extend, and to
entwine about the new objects by which I now found myself surrounded.
There was a windmill (always a commanding object to a child’s eye) on
Long Point—a tract of land dividing Miles river from the Wye a mile or
more from my old master’s house. There was a creek to swim in, at the
bottom of an open flat space, of twenty acres or more, called “the Long
Green”—a very beautiful play-ground for the children.
In the river, a short distance from the shore, lying quietly at anchor, with
her small boat dancing at her stern, was a large sloop—the Sally Lloyd;
called by that name in honor of a favorite daughter of the colonel. The sloop
and the mill were wondrous things, full of thoughts and ideas. A child
cannot well look at such objects without thinking.
Then here were a great many houses; human habitations, full of the
mysteries of life at every stage of it. There was the little red house, up the
road, occupied by Mr. Sevier, the overseer. A little nearer to my old
master’s, stood a very long, rough, low building, literally alive with slaves,
of all ages, conditions and sizes. This was called “the Longe Quarter.”
Perched upon a hill, across the Long Green, was a very tall, dilapidated, old
brick building—the architectural dimensions of which proclaimed its
erection for a different purpose—now occupied by slaves, in a similar
manner to the Long Quarter. Besides these, there were numerous other slave
houses and huts, scattered around in the neighborhood, every nook and
corner of which was completely occupied. Old master’s house, a long, brick
building, plain, but substantial, stood in the center of the plantation life, and
constituted one independent establishment on the premises of Col. Lloyd.

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

older slaves. Shrouded ghosts, riding on great black horses, had been seen
to enter; balls of fire had been seen to fly there at midnight, and horrid
sounds had been repeatedly heard. Slaves know enough of the rudiments of
theology to believe that those go to hell who die slaveholders; and they
often fancy such persons wishing themselves back again, to wield the lash.
Tales of sights and sounds, strange and terrible, connected with the huge
black tombs, were a very great security to the grounds about them, for few
of the slaves felt like approaching them even in the day time. It was a dark,
gloomy and forbidding place, and it was difficult to feel that the spirits of
the sleeping dust there deposited, reigned with the blest in the realms of
eternal peace.
The business of twenty or thirty farms was transacted at this, called, by
way of eminence, “great house farm.” These farms all belonged to Col.
Lloyd, as did, also, the slaves upon them. Each farm was under the
management of an overseer. As I have said of the overseer of the home
plantation, so I may say of the overseers on the smaller ones; they stand
between the slave and all civil constitutions—their word is law, and is
implicitly obeyed.
The colonel, at this time, was reputed to be, and he apparently was, very
rich. His slaves, alone, were an immense fortune. These, small and great,
could not have been fewer than one thousand in number, and though
scarcely a month passed without the sale of one or more lots to the Georgia
traders, there was no apparent diminution in the number of his human stock:
the home plantation merely groaned at a removal of the young increase, or
human crop, then proceeded as lively as ever. Horse-shoeing, cart-mending,
plow-repairing, coopering, grinding, and weaving, for all the neighboring
farms, were performed here, and slaves were employed in all these
branches. “Uncle Tony” was the blacksmith; “Uncle Harry” was the
cartwright; “Uncle Abel” was the shoemaker; and all these had hands to
assist them in their several departments.
These mechanics were called “uncles” by all the younger slaves, not
because they really sustained that relationship to any, but according to
plantation etiquette, as a mark of respect, due from the younger to the older
slaves. Strange, and even ridiculous as it may seem, among a people so
uncultivated, and with so many stern trials to look in the face, there is not to
be found, among any people, a more rigid enforcement of the law of respect

to elders, than they maintain. I set this down as partly constitutional with
my race, and partly conventional. There is no better material in the world
for making a gentleman, than is furnished in the African. He shows to
others, and exacts for himself, all the tokens of respect which he is
compelled to manifest toward his master. A young slave must approach the
company of the older with hat in hand, and woe betide him, if he fails to
acknowledge a favor, of any sort, with the accustomed “tank’ee,” &c. So
uniformly are good manners enforced among slaves, I can easily detect a
“bogus” fugitive by his manners.
Among other slave notabilities of the plantation, was one called by
everybody Uncle Isaac Copper. It is seldom that a slave gets a surname
from anybody in Maryland; and so completely has the south shaped the
manners of the north, in this respect, that even abolitionists make very little
of the surname of a Negro. The only improvement on the “Bills,” “Jacks,”
“Jims,” and “Neds” of the south, observable here is, that “William,” “John,”
“James,” “Edward,” are substituted. It goes against the grain to treat and
address a Negro precisely as they would treat and address a white man. But,
once in a while, in slavery as in the free states, by some extraordinary
circumstance, the Negro has a surname fastened to him, and holds it against
all conventionalities. This was the case with Uncle Isaac Copper. When the
“uncle” was dropped, he generally had the prefix “doctor,” in its stead. He
was our doctor of medicine, and doctor of divinity as well. Where he took
his degree I am unable to say, for he was not very communicative to
inferiors, and I was emphatically such, being but a boy seven or eight years
old. He was too well established in his profession to permit questions as to
his native skill, or his attainments. One qualification he undoubtedly had—
he was a confirmed cripple; and he could neither work, nor would he bring
anything if offered for sale in the market. The old man, though lame, was
no sluggard. He was a man that made his crutches do him good service. He
was always on the alert, looking up the sick, and all such as were supposed
to need his counsel. His remedial prescriptions embraced four articles. For
diseases of the body, Epsom salts and castor oil; for those of the soul, the
Lord’s Prayer, and hickory switches!
I was not long at Col. Lloyd’s before I was placed under the care of
Doctor Issac Copper. I was sent to him with twenty or thirty other children,
to learn the “Lord’s Prayer.” I found the old gentleman seated on a huge
three-legged oaken stool, armed with several large hickory switches; and,

from his position, he could reach—lame as he was—any boy in the room.
After standing awhile to learn what was expected of us, the old gentleman,
in any other than a devotional tone, commanded us to kneel down. This
done, he commenced telling us to say everything he said. “Our Father”—
this was repeated after him with promptness and uniformity; “Who art in
heaven”—was less promptly and uniformly repeated; and the old gentleman
paused in the prayer, to give us a short lecture upon the consequences of
inattention, both immediate and future, and especially those more
immediate. About these he was absolutely certain, for he held in his right
hand the means of bringing all his predictions and warnings to pass. On he
proceeded with the prayer; and we with our thick tongues and unskilled
ears, followed him to the best of our ability. This, however, was not
sufficient to please the old gentleman. Everybody, in the south, wants the
privilege of whipping somebody else. Uncle Isaac shared the common
passion of his country, and, therefore, seldom found any means of keeping
his disciples in order short of flogging. “Say everything I say;” and bang
would come the switch on some poor boy’s undevotional head. “What you
looking at there”—“Stop that pushing”—and down again would come the
lash.
The whip is all in all. It is supposed to secure obedience to the
slaveholder, and is held as a sovereign remedy among the slaves
themselves, for every form of disobedience, temporal or spiritual. Slaves, as
well as slaveholders, use it with an unsparing hand. Our devotions at Uncle
Isaac’s combined too much of the tragic and comic, to make them very
salutary in a spiritual point of view; and it is due to truth to say, I was often
a truant when the time for attending the praying and flogging of Doctor
Isaac Copper came on.
The windmill under the care of Mr. Kinney, a kind hearted old
Englishman, was to me a source of infinite interest and pleasure. The old
man always seemed pleased when he saw a troop of darkey little urchins,
with their tow-linen shirts fluttering in the breeze, approaching to view and
admire the whirling wings of his wondrous machine. From the mill we
could see other objects of deep interest. These were, the vessels from St.
Michael’s, on their way to Baltimore. It was a source of much amusement
to view the flowing sails and complicated rigging, as the little crafts dashed
by, and to speculate upon Baltimore, as to the kind and quality of the place.
With so many sources of interest around me, the reader may be prepared to

learn that I began to think very highly of Col. L.‘s plantation. It was just a
place to my boyish taste. There were fish to be caught in the creek, if one
only had a hook and line; and crabs, clams and oysters were to be caught by
wading, digging and raking for them. Here was a field for industry and
enterprise, strongly inviting; and the reader may be assured that I entered
upon it with spirit.
Even the much dreaded old master, whose merciless fiat had brought me
from Tuckahoe, gradually, to my mind, parted with his terrors. Strange
enough, his reverence seemed to take no particular notice of me, nor of my
coming. Instead of leaping out and devouring me, he scarcely seemed
conscious of my presence. The fact is, he was occupied with matters more
weighty and important than either looking after or vexing me. He probably
thought as little of my advent, as he would have thought of the addition of a
single pig to his stock!
As the chief butler on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, his duties were numerous
and perplexing. In almost all important matters he answered in Col. Lloyd’s
stead. The overseers of all the farms were in some sort under him, and
received the law from his mouth. The colonel himself seldom addressed an
overseer, or allowed an overseer to address him. Old master carried the keys
of all store houses; measured out the allowance for each slave at the end of
every month; superintended the storing of all goods brought to the
plantation; dealt out the raw material to all the handicraftsmen; shipped the
grain, tobacco, and all saleable produce of the plantation to market, and had
the general oversight of the coopers’ shop, wheelwrights’ shop,
blacksmiths’ shop, and shoemakers’ shop. Besides the care of these, he
often had business for the plantation which required him to be absent two
and three days.
Thus largely employed, he had little time, and perhaps as little
disposition, to interfere with the children individually. What he was to Col.
Lloyd, he made Aunt Katy to him. When he had anything to say or do about
us, it was said or done in a wholesale manner; disposing of us in classes or
sizes, leaving all minor details to Aunt Katy, a person of whom the reader
has already received no very favorable impression. Aunt Katy was a woman
who never allowed herself to act greatly within the margin of power granted
to her, no matter how broad that authority might be. Ambitious, ill-tempered
and cruel, she found in her present position an ample field for the exercise

of her ill-omened qualities. She had a strong hold on old master she was
considered a first rate cook, and she really was very industrious. She was,
therefore, greatly favored by old master, and as one mark of his favor, she
was the only mother who was permitted to retain her children around her.
Even to these children she was often fiendish in her brutality. She pursued
her son Phil, one day, in my presence, with a huge butcher knife, and dealt a
blow with its edge which left a shocking gash on his arm, near the wrist.
For this, old master did sharply rebuke her, and threatened that if she ever
should do the like again, he would take the skin off her back. Cruel,
however, as Aunt Katy was to her own children, at times she was not
destitute of maternal feeling, as I often had occasion to know, in the bitter
pinches of hunger I had to endure. Differing from the practice of Col.
Lloyd, old master, instead of allowing so much for each slave, committed
the allowance for all to the care of Aunt Katy, to be divided after cooking it,
amongst us. The allowance, consisting of coarse corn-meal, was not very
abundant—indeed, it was very slender; and in passing through Aunt Katy’s
hands, it was made more slender still, for some of us. William, Phil and
Jerry were her children, and it is not to accuse her too severely, to allege
that she was often guilty of starving myself and the other children, while
she was literally cramming her own. Want of food was my chief trouble the
first summer at my old master’s. Oysters and clams would do very well,
with an occasional supply of bread, but they soon failed in the absence of
bread. I speak but the simple truth, when I say, I have often been so pinched
with hunger, that I have fought with the dog—“Old Nep”—for the smallest
crumbs that fell from the kitchen table, and have been glad when I won a
single crumb in the combat. Many times have I followed, with eager step,
the waiting-girl when she went out to shake the table cloth, to get the
crumbs and small bones flung out for the cats. The water, in which meat
had been boiled, was as eagerly sought for by me. It was a great thing to get
the privilege of dipping a piece of bread in such water; and the skin taken
from rusty bacon, was a positive luxury. Nevertheless, I sometimes got full
meals and kind words from sympathizing old slaves, who knew my
sufferings, and received the comforting assurance that I should be a man
some day. “Never mind, honey—better day comin’,” was even then a
solace, a cheering consolation to me in my troubles. Nor were all the kind
words I received from slaves. I had a friend in the parlor, as well, and one to

whom I shall be glad to do justice, before I have finished this part of my
story.
I was not long at old master’s, before I learned that his surname was
Anthony, and that he was generally called “Captain Anthony”—a title
which he probably acquired by sailing a craft in the Chesapeake Bay. Col.
Lloyd’s slaves never called Capt. Anthony “old master,” but always Capt.
Anthony; and me they called “Captain Anthony Fred.” There is not,
probably, in the whole south, a plantation where the English language is
more imperfectly spoken than on Col. Lloyd’s. It is a mixture of Guinea and
everything else you please. At the time of which I am now writing, there
were slaves there who had been brought from the coast of Africa. They
never used the “s” in indication of the possessive case. “Cap’n Ant’ney
Tom,” “Lloyd Bill,” “Aunt Rose Harry,” means “Captain Anthony’s Tom,”
“Lloyd’s Bill,” &c. “Oo you dem long to?” means, “Whom do you belong
to?” “Oo dem got any peachy?” means, “Have you got any peaches?” I
could scarcely understand them when I first went among them, so broken
was their speech; and I am persuaded that I could not have been dropped
anywhere on the globe, where I could reap less, in the way of knowledge,
from my immediate associates, than on this plantation. Even “MAS’
DANIEL,” by his association with his father’s slaves, had measurably
adopted their dialect and their ideas, so far as they had ideas to be adopted.
The equality of nature is strongly asserted in childhood, and childhood
requires children for associates. Color makes no difference with a child. Are
you a child with wants, tastes and pursuits common to children, not put on,
but natural? then, were you black as ebony you would be welcome to the
child of alabaster whiteness. The law of compensation holds here, as well as
elsewhere. Mas’ Daniel could not associate with ignorance without sharing
its shade; and he could not give his black playmates his company, without
giving them his intelligence, as well. Without knowing this, or caring about
it, at the time, I, for some cause or other, spent much of my time with Mas’
Daniel, in preference to spending it with most of the other boys.
Mas’ Daniel was the youngest son of Col. Lloyd; his older brothers were
Edward and Murray—both grown up, and fine looking men. Edward was
especially esteemed by the children, and by me among the rest; not that he
ever said anything to us or for us, which could be called especially kind; it
was enough for us, that he never looked nor acted scornfully toward us.

There were also three sisters, all married; one to Edward Winder; a second
to Edward Nicholson; a third to Mr. Lownes.
The family of old master consisted of two sons, Andrew and Richard; his
daughter, Lucretia, and her newly married husband, Capt. Auld. This was
the house family. The kitchen family consisted of Aunt Katy, Aunt Esther,
and ten or a dozen children, most of them older than myself. Capt. Anthony
was not considered a rich slaveholder, but was pretty well off in the world.
He owned about thirty “head” of slaves, and three farms in Tuckahoe. The
most valuable part of his property was his slaves, of whom he could afford
to sell one every year. This crop, therefore, brought him seven or eight
hundred dollars a year, besides his yearly salary, and other revenue from his
farms.
The idea of rank and station was rigidly maintained on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. Our family never visited the great house, and the Lloyds never
came to our home. Equal non-intercourse was observed between Capt.
Anthony’s family and that of Mr. Sevier, the overseer.
Such, kind reader, was the community, and such the place, in which my
earliest and most lasting impressions of slavery, and of slave-life, were
received; of which impressions you will learn more in the coming chapters
of this book.

CHAPTER V. Gradual Initiation to the Mysteries of
Slavery

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

Although my old master—Capt. Anthony—gave me at first, (as the
reader will have already seen) very little attention, and although that little
was of a remarkably mild and gentle description, a few months only were
sufficient to convince me that mildness and gentleness were not the
prevailing or governing traits of his character. These excellent qualities
were displayed only occasionally. He could, when it suited him, appear to
be literally insensible to the claims of humanity, when appealed to by the
helpless against an aggressor, and he could himself commit outrages, deep,
dark and nameless. Yet he was not by nature worse than other men. Had he
been brought up in a free state, surrounded by the just restraints of free
society—restraints which are necessary to the freedom of all its members,
alike and equally—Capt. Anthony might have been as humane a man, and
every way as respectable, as many who now oppose the slave system;
certainly as humane and respectable as are members of society generally.
The slaveholder, as well as the slave, is the victim of the slave system. A

man’s character greatly takes its hue and shape from the form and color of
things about him. Under the whole heavens there is no relation more
unfavorable to the development of honorable character, than that sustained
by the slaveholder to the slave. Reason is imprisoned here, and passions run
wild. Like the fires of the prairie, once lighted, they are at the mercy of
every wind, and must burn, till they have consumed all that is combustible
within their remorseless grasp. Capt. Anthony could be kind, and, at times,
he even showed an affectionate disposition. Could the reader have seen him
gently leading me by the hand—as he sometimes did—patting me on the
head, speaking to me in soft, caressing tones and calling me his “little
Indian boy,” he would have deemed him a kind old man, and really, almost
fatherly. But the pleasant moods of a slaveholder are remarkably brittle;
they are easily snapped; they neither come often, nor remain long. His
temper is subjected to perpetual trials; but, since these trials are never borne
patiently, they add nothing to his natural stock of patience.
Old master very early impressed me with the idea that he was an unhappy
man. Even to my child’s eye, he wore a troubled, and at times, a haggard
aspect. His strange movements excited my curiosity, and awakened my
compassion. He seldom walked alone without muttering to himself; and he
occasionally stormed about, as if defying an army of invisible foes. “He
would do this, that, and the other; he’d be d—d if he did not,”—was the
usual form of his threats. Most of his leisure was spent in walking, cursing
and gesticulating, like one possessed by a demon. Most evidently, he was a
wretched man, at war with his own soul, and with all the world around him.
To be overheard by the children, disturbed him very little. He made no more
of our presence, than of that of the ducks and geese which he met on the
green. He little thought that the little black urchins around him, could see,
through those vocal crevices, the very secrets of his heart. Slaveholders ever
underrate the intelligence with which they have to grapple. I really
understood the old man’s mutterings, attitudes and gestures, about as well
as he did himself. But slaveholders never encourage that kind of
communication, with the slaves, by which they might learn to measure the
depths of his knowledge. Ignorance is a high virtue in a human chattel; and
as the master studies to keep the slave ignorant, the slave is cunning enough
to make the master think he succeeds. The slave fully appreciates the
saying, “where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.” When old master’s
gestures were violent, ending with a threatening shake of the head, and a

sharp snap of his middle finger and thumb, I deemed it wise to keep at a
respectable distance from him; for, at such times, trifling faults stood, in his
eyes, as momentous offenses; and, having both the power and the
disposition, the victim had only to be near him to catch the punishment,
deserved or undeserved.
One of the first circumstances that opened my eyes to the cruelty and
wickedness of slavery, and the heartlessness of my old master, was the
refusal of the latter to interpose his authority, to protect and shield a young
woman, who had been most cruelly abused and beaten by his overseer in
Tuckahoe. This overseer—a Mr. Plummer—was a man like most of his
class, little better than a human brute; and, in addition to his general
profligacy and repulsive coarseness, the creature was a miserable drunkard.
He was, probably, employed by my old master, less on account of the
excellence of his services, than for the cheap rate at which they could be
obtained. He was not fit to have the management of a drove of mules. In a
fit of drunken madness, he committed the outrage which brought the young
woman in question down to my old master’s for protection. This young
woman was the daughter of Milly, an own aunt of mine. The poor girl, on
arriving at our house, presented a pitiable appearance. She had left in haste,
and without preparation; and, probably, without the knowledge of Mr.
Plummer. She had traveled twelve miles, bare-footed, bare-necked and
bare-headed. Her neck and shoulders were covered with scars, newly made;
and not content with marring her neck and shoulders, with the cowhide, the
cowardly brute had dealt her a blow on the head with a hickory club, which
cut a horrible gash, and left her face literally covered with blood. In this
condition, the poor young woman came down, to implore protection at the
hands of my old master. I expected to see him boil over with rage at the
revolting deed, and to hear him fill the air with curses upon the brutual
Plummer; but I was disappointed. He sternly told her, in an angry tone, he
“believed she deserved every bit of it,” and, if she did not go home
instantly, he would himself take the remaining skin from her neck and back.
Thus was the poor girl compelled to return, without redress, and perhaps to
receive an additional flogging for daring to appeal to old master against the
overseer.
Old master seemed furious at the thought of being troubled by such
complaints. I did not, at that time, understand the philosophy of his
treatment of my cousin. It was stern, unnatural, violent. Had the man no

bowels of compassion? Was he dead to all sense of humanity? No. I think I
now understand it. This treatment is a part of the system, rather than a part
of the man. Were slaveholders to listen to complaints of this sort against the
overseers, the luxury of owning large numbers of slaves, would be
impossible. It would do away with the office of overseer, entirely; or, in
other words, it would convert the master himself into an overseer. It would
occasion great loss of time and labor, leaving the overseer in fetters, and
without the necessary power to secure obedience to his orders. A privilege
so dangerous as that of appeal, is, therefore, strictly prohibited; and any one
exercising it, runs a fearful hazard. Nevertheless, when a slave has nerve
enough to exercise it, and boldly approaches his master, with a well-
founded complaint against an overseer, though he may be repulsed, and
may even have that of which he complains repeated at the time, and, though
he may be beaten by his master, as well as by the overseer, for his temerity,
in the end the policy of complaining is, generally, vindicated by the relaxed
rigor of the overseer’s treatment. The latter becomes more careful, and less
disposed to use the lash upon such slaves thereafter. It is with this final
result in view, rather than with any expectation of immediate good, that the
outraged slave is induced to meet his master with a complaint. The overseer
very naturally dislikes to have the ear of the master disturbed by
complaints; and, either upon this consideration, or upon advice and warning
privately given him by his employers, he generally modifies the rigor of his
rule, after an outbreak of the kind to which I have been referring.
Howsoever the slaveholder may allow himself to act toward his slave,
and, whatever cruelty he may deem it wise, for example’s sake, or for the
gratification of his humor, to inflict, he cannot, in the absence of all
provocation, look with pleasure upon the bleeding wounds of a defenseless
slave-woman. When he drives her from his presence without redress, or the
hope of redress, he acts, generally, from motives of policy, rather than from
a hardened nature, or from innate brutality. Yet, let but his own temper be
stirred, his own passions get loose, and the slave-owner will go far beyond
the overseer in cruelty. He will convince the slave that his wrath is far more
terrible and boundless, and vastly more to be dreaded, than that of the
underling overseer. What may have been mechanically and heartlessly done
by the overseer, is now done with a will. The man who now wields the lash
is irresponsible. He may, if he pleases, cripple or kill, without fear of
consequences; except in so far as it may concern profit or loss. To a man of

violent temper—as my old master was—this was but a very slender and
inefficient restraint. I have seen him in a tempest of passion, such as I have
just described—a passion into which entered all the bitter ingredients of
pride, hatred, envy, jealousy, and the thrist(sic) for revenge.
The circumstances which I am about to narrate, and which gave rise to
this fearful tempest of passion, are not singular nor isolated in slave life, but
are common in every slaveholding community in which I have lived. They
are incidental to the relation of master and slave, and exist in all sections of
slave-holding countries.
The reader will have noticed that, in enumerating the names of the slaves
who lived with my old master, Esther is mentioned. This was a young
woman who possessed that which is ever a curse to the slave-girl; namely—
personal beauty. She was tall, well formed, and made a fine appearance.
The daughters of Col. Lloyd could scarcely surpass her in personal charms.
Esther was courted by Ned Roberts, and he was as fine looking a young
man, as she was a woman. He was the son of a favorite slave of Col. Lloyd.
Some slaveholders would have been glad to promote the marriage of two
such persons; but, for some reason or other, my old master took it upon him
to break up the growing intimacy between Esther and Edward. He strictly
ordered her to quit the company of said Roberts, telling her that he would
punish her severely if he ever found her again in Edward’s company. This
unnatural and heartless order was, of course, broken. A woman’s love is not
to be annihilated by the peremptory command of any one, whose breath is
in his nostrils. It was impossible to keep Edward and Esther apart. Meet
they would, and meet they did. Had old master been a man of honor and
purity, his motives, in this matter, might have been viewed more favorably.
As it was, his motives were as abhorrent, as his methods were foolish and
contemptible. It was too evident that he was not concerned for the girl’s
welfare. It is one of the damning characteristics of the slave system, that it
robs its victims of every earthly incentive to a holy life. The fear of God,
and the hope of heaven, are found sufficient to sustain many slave-women,
amidst the snares and dangers of their strange lot; but, this side of God and
heaven, a slave-woman is at the mercy of the power, caprice and passion of
her owner. Slavery provides no means for the honorable continuance of the
race. Marriage as imposing obligations on the parties to it—has no
existence here, except in such hearts as are purer and higher than the
standard morality around them. It is one of the consolations of my life, that

I know of many honorable instances of persons who maintained their honor,
where all around was corrupt.
Esther was evidently much attached to Edward, and abhorred—as she
had reason to do—the tyrannical and base behavior of old master. Edward
was young, and fine looking, and he loved and courted her. He might have
been her husband, in the high sense just alluded to; but WHO and what was
this old master? His attentions were plainly brutal and selfish, and it was as
natural that Esther should loathe him, as that she should love Edward.
Abhorred and circumvented as he was, old master, having the power, very
easily took revenge. I happened to see this exhibition of his rage and cruelty
toward Esther. The time selected was singular. It was early in the morning,
when all besides was still, and before any of the family, in the house or
kitchen, had left their beds. I saw but few of the shocking preliminaries, for
the cruel work had begun before I awoke. I was probably awakened by the
shrieks and piteous cries of poor Esther. My sleeping place was on the floor
of a little, rough closet, which opened into the kitchen; and through the
cracks of its unplaned boards, I could distinctly see and hear what was
going on, without being seen by old master. Esther’s wrists were firmly
tied, and the twisted rope was fastened to a strong staple in a heavy wooden
joist above, near the fireplace. Here she stood, on a bench, her arms tightly
drawn over her breast. Her back and shoulders were bare to the waist.
Behind her stood old master, with cowskin in hand, preparing his barbarous
work with all manner of harsh, coarse, and tantalizing epithets. The screams
of his victim were most piercing. He was cruelly deliberate, and protracted
the torture, as one who was delighted with the scene. Again and again he
drew the hateful whip through his hand, adjusting it with a view of dealing
the most pain-giving blow. Poor Esther had never yet been severely
whipped, and her shoulders were plump and tender. Each blow, vigorously
laid on, brought screams as well as blood. “Have mercy; Oh! have mercy”
she cried; “I won’t do so no more;” but her piercing cries seemed only to
increase his fury. His answers to them are too coarse and blasphemous to be
produced here. The whole scene, with all its attendants, was revolting and
shocking, to the last degree; and when the motives of this brutal castigation
are considered,—language has no power to convey a just sense of its awful
criminality. After laying on some thirty or forty stripes, old master untied
his suffering victim, and let her get down. She could scarcely stand, when
untied. From my heart I pitied her, and—child though I was—the outrage

kindled in me a feeling far from peaceful; but I was hushed, terrified,
stunned, and could do nothing, and the fate of Esther might be mine next.
The scene here described was often repeated in the case of poor Esther, and
her life, as I knew it, was one of wretchedness.

CHAPTER VI. Treatment of Slaves on Lloyd’s
Plantation

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

The heart-rending incidents, related in the foregoing chapter, led me, thus
early, to inquire into the nature and history of slavery. Why am I a slave?
Why are some people slaves, and others masters? Was there ever a time this
was not so? How did the relation commence? These were the perplexing
questions which began now to claim my thoughts, and to exercise the weak
powers of my mind, for I was still but a child, and knew less than children
of the same age in the free states. As my questions concerning these things
were only put to children a little older, and little better informed than
myself, I was not rapid in reaching a solid footing. By some means I
learned from these inquiries that “God, up in the sky,” made every body;
and that he made white people to be masters and mistresses, and black
people to be slaves. This did not satisfy me, nor lessen my interest in the
subject. I was told, too, that God was good, and that He knew what was best
for me, and best for everybody. This was less satisfactory than the first
statement; because it came, point blank, against all my notions of goodness.

It was not good to let old master cut the flesh off Esther, and make her cry
so. Besides, how did people know that God made black people to be slaves?
Did they go up in the sky and learn it? or, did He come down and tell them
so? All was dark here. It was some relief to my hard notions of the
goodness of God, that, although he made white men to be slaveholders, he
did not make them to be bad slaveholders, and that, in due time, he would
punish the bad slaveholders; that he would, when they died, send them to
the bad place, where they would be “burnt up.” Nevertheless, I could not
reconcile the relation of slavery with my crude notions of goodness.
Then, too, I found that there were puzzling exceptions to this theory of
slavery on both sides, and in the middle. I knew of blacks who were not
slaves; I knew of whites who were not slaveholders; and I knew of persons
who were nearly white, who were slaves. Color, therefore, was a very
unsatisfactory basis for slavery.
Once, however, engaged in the inquiry, I was not very long in finding out
the true solution of the matter. It was not color, but crime, not God, but
man, that afforded the true explanation of the existence of slavery; nor was I
long in finding out another important truth, viz: what man can make, man
can unmake. The appalling darkness faded away, and I was master of the
subject. There were slaves here, direct from Guinea; and there were many
who could say that their fathers and mothers were stolen from Africa—
forced from their homes, and compelled to serve as slaves. This, to me, was
knowledge; but it was a kind of knowledge which filled me with a burning
hatred of slavery, increased my suffering, and left me without the means of
breaking away from my bondage. Yet it was knowledge quite worth
possessing. I could not have been more than seven or eight years old, when
I began to make this subject my study. It was with me in the woods and
fields; along the shore of the river, and wherever my boyish wanderings led
me; and though I was, at that time, quite ignorant of the existence of the
free states, I distinctly remember being, even then, most strongly impressed
with the idea of being a freeman some day. This cheering assurance was an
inborn dream of my human nature a constant menace to slavery—and one
which all the powers of slavery were unable to silence or extinguish.
Up to the time of the brutal flogging of my Aunt Esther—for she was my
own aunt—and the horrid plight in which I had seen my cousin from
Tuckahoe, who had been so badly beaten by the cruel Mr. Plummer, my

attention had not been called, especially, to the gross features of slavery. I
had, of course, heard of whippings and of savage rencontres between
overseers and slaves, but I had always been out of the way at the times and
places of their occurrence. My plays and sports, most of the time, took me
from the corn and tobacco fields, where the great body of the hands were at
work, and where scenes of cruelty were enacted and witnessed. But, after
the whipping of Aunt Esther, I saw many cases of the same shocking nature,
not only in my master’s house, but on Col. Lloyd’s plantation. One of the
first which I saw, and which greatly agitated me, was the whipping of a
woman belonging to Col. Lloyd, named Nelly. The offense alleged against
Nelly, was one of the commonest and most indefinite in the whole
catalogue of offenses usually laid to the charge of slaves, viz: “impudence.”
This may mean almost anything, or nothing at all, just according to the
caprice of the master or overseer, at the moment. But, whatever it is, or is
not, if it gets the name of “impudence,” the party charged with it is sure of a
flogging. This offense may be committed in various ways; in the tone of an
answer; in answering at all; in not answering; in the expression of
countenance; in the motion of the head; in the gait, manner and bearing of
the slave. In the case under consideration, I can easily believe that,
according to all slaveholding standards, here was a genuine instance of
impudence. In Nelly there were all the necessary conditions for committing
the offense. She was a bright mulatto, the recognized wife of a favorite
“hand” on board Col. Lloyd’s sloop, and the mother of five sprightly
children. She was a vigorous and spirited woman, and one of the most
likely, on the plantation, to be guilty of impudence. My attention was called
to the scene, by the noise, curses and screams that proceeded from it; and,
on going a little in that direction, I came upon the parties engaged in the
skirmish. Mr. Siever, the overseer, had hold of Nelly, when I caught sight of
them; he was endeavoring to drag her toward a tree, which endeavor Nelly
was sternly resisting; but to no purpose, except to retard the progress of the
overseer’s plans. Nelly—as I have said—was the mother of five children;
three of them were present, and though quite small (from seven to ten years
old, I should think) they gallantly came to their mother’s defense, and gave
the overseer an excellent pelting with stones. One of the little fellows ran
up, seized the overseer by the leg and bit him; but the monster was too
busily engaged with Nelly, to pay any attention to the assaults of the
children. There were numerous bloody marks on Mr. Sevier’s face, when I

first saw him, and they increased as the struggle went on. The imprints of
Nelly’s fingers were visible, and I was glad to see them. Amidst the wild
screams of the children—“Let my mammy go”—“let my mammy go”—there
escaped, from between the teeth of the bullet-headed overseer, a few bitter
curses, mingled with threats, that “he would teach the d—d b—h how to
give a white man impudence.” There is no doubt that Nelly felt herself
superior, in some respects, to the slaves around her. She was a wife and a
mother; her husband was a valued and favorite slave. Besides, he was one
of the first hands on board of the sloop, and the sloop hands—since they
had to represent the plantation abroad—were generally treated tenderly. The
overseer never was allowed to whip Harry; why then should he be allowed
to whip Harry’s wife? Thoughts of this kind, no doubt, influenced her; but,
for whatever reason, she nobly resisted, and, unlike most of the slaves,
seemed determined to make her whipping cost Mr. Sevier as much as
possible. The blood on his (and her) face, attested her skill, as well as her
courage and dexterity in using her nails. Maddened by her resistance, I
expected to see Mr. Sevier level her to the ground by a stunning blow; but
no; like a savage bull-dog—which he resembled both in temper and
appearance—he maintained his grip, and steadily dragged his victim toward
the tree, disregarding alike her blows, and the cries of the children for their
mother’s release. He would, doubtless, have knocked her down with his
hickory stick, but that such act might have cost him his place. It is often
deemed advisable to knock a man slave down, in order to tie him, but it is
considered cowardly and inexcusable, in an overseer, thus to deal with a
woman. He is expected to tie her up, and to give her what is called, in
southern parlance, a “genteel flogging,” without any very great outlay of
strength or skill. I watched, with palpitating interest, the course of the
preliminary struggle, and was saddened by every new advantage gained
over her by the ruffian. There were times when she seemed likely to get the
better of the brute, but he finally overpowered her, and succeeded in getting
his rope around her arms, and in firmly tying her to the tree, at which he
had been aiming. This done, and Nelly was at the mercy of his merciless
lash; and now, what followed, I have no heart to describe. The cowardly
creature made good his every threat; and wielded the lash with all the hot
zest of furious revenge. The cries of the woman, while undergoing the
terrible infliction, were mingled with those of the children, sounds which I
hope the reader may never be called upon to hear. When Nelly was untied,

her back was covered with blood. The red stripes were all over her
shoulders. She was whipped—severely whipped; but she was not subdued,
for she continued to denounce the overseer, and to call him every vile name.
He had bruised her flesh, but had left her invincible spirit undaunted. Such
floggings are seldom repeated by the same overseer. They prefer to whip
those who are most easily whipped. The old doctrine that submission is the
very best cure for outrage and wrong, does not hold good on the slave
plantation. He is whipped oftenest, who is whipped easiest; and that slave
who has the courage to stand up for himself against the overseer, although
he may have many hard stripes at the first, becomes, in the end, a freeman,
even though he sustain the formal relation of a slave. “You can shoot me but
you can’t whip me,” said a slave to Rigby Hopkins; and the result was that
he was neither whipped nor shot. If the latter had been his fate, it would
have been less deplorable than the living and lingering death to which
cowardly and slavish souls are subjected. I do not know that Mr. Sevier ever
undertook to whip Nelly again. He probably never did, for it was not long
after his attempt to subdue her, that he was taken sick, and died. The
wretched man died as he had lived, unrepentant; and it was said—with how
much truth I know not—that in the very last hours of his life, his ruling
passion showed itself, and that when wrestling with death, he was uttering
horrid oaths, and flourishing the cowskin, as though he was tearing the flesh
off some helpless slave. One thing is certain, that when he was in health, it
was enough to chill the blood, and to stiffen the hair of an ordinary man, to
hear Mr. Sevier talk. Nature, or his cruel habits, had given to his face an
expression of unusual savageness, even for a slave-driver. Tobacco and rage
had worn his teeth short, and nearly every sentence that escaped their
compressed grating, was commenced or concluded with some outburst of
profanity. His presence made the field alike the field of blood, and of
blasphemy. Hated for his cruelty, despised for his cowardice, his death was
deplored by no one outside his own house—if indeed it was deplored there;
it was regarded by the slaves as a merciful interposition of Providence.
Never went there a man to the grave loaded with heavier curses. Mr.
Sevier’s place was promptly taken by a Mr. Hopkins, and the change was
quite a relief, he being a very different man. He was, in all respects, a better
man than his predecessor; as good as any man can be, and yet be an
overseer. His course was characterized by no extraordinary cruelty; and
when he whipped a slave, as he sometimes did, he seemed to take no

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

them. It was during the famine of 1845-6. In all the songs of the slaves,
there was ever some expression in praise of the great house farm;
something which would flatter the pride of the owner, and, possibly, draw a
favorable glance from him.
I am going away to the great house farm,
O yea! O yea! O yea!
My old master is a good old master,
O yea! O yea! O yea!

This they would sing, with other words of their own improvising—jargon
to others, but full of meaning to themselves. I have sometimes thought, that
the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress truly spiritual-
minded men and women with the soul-crushing and death-dealing character
of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of its mere physical cruelties.
They speak to the heart and to the soul of the thoughtful. I cannot better
express my sense of them now, than ten years ago, when, in sketching my
life, I thus spoke of this feature of my plantation experience:
I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meanings of those rude, and
apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle, so that I neither
saw or heard as those without might see and hear. They told a tale which
was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension; they were tones,
loud, long and deep, breathing the prayer and complaint of souls boiling
over with the bitterest anguish. Every tone was a testimony against slavery,
and a prayer to God for deliverance from chains. The hearing of those wild
notes always depressed my spirits, and filled my heart with ineffable
sadness. The mere recurrence, even now, afflicts my spirit, and while I am
writing these lines, my tears are falling. To those songs I trace my first
glimmering conceptions of the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can
never get rid of that conception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my
hatred of slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds. If
any one wishes to be impressed with a sense of the soul-killing power of
slavery, let him go to Col. Lloyd’s plantation, and, on allowance day, place
himself in the deep, pine woods, and there let him, in silence, thoughtfully
analyze the sounds that shall pass through the chambers of his soul, and if
he is not thus impressed, it will only be because “there is no flesh in his
obdurate heart.”

The remark is not unfrequently made, that slaves are the most contended
and happy laborers in the world. They dance and sing, and make all manner
of joyful noises—so they do; but it is a great mistake to suppose them
happy because they sing. The songs of the slave represent the sorrows,
rather than the joys, of his heart; and he is relieved by them, only as an
aching heart is relieved by its tears. Such is the constitution of the human
mind, that, when pressed to extremes, it often avails itself of the most
opposite methods. Extremes meet in mind as in matter. When the slaves on
board of the “Pearl” were overtaken, arrested, and carried to prison—their
hopes for freedom blasted—as they marched in chains they sang, and found
(as Emily Edmunson tells us) a melancholy relief in singing. The singing of
a man cast away on a desolate island, might be as appropriately considered
an evidence of his contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave.
Sorrow and desolation have their songs, as well as joy and peace. Slaves
sing more to make themselves happy, than to express their happiness.
It is the boast of slaveholders, that their slaves enjoy more of the physical
comforts of life than the peasantry of any country in the world. My
experience contradicts this. The men and the women slaves on Col. Lloyd’s
farm, received, as their monthly allowance of food, eight pounds of pickled
pork, or their equivalent in fish. The pork was often tainted, and the fish
was of the poorest quality—herrings, which would bring very little if
offered for sale in any northern market. With their pork or fish, they had one
bushel of Indian meal—unbolted—of which quite fifteen per cent was fit
only to feed pigs. With this, one pint of salt was given; and this was the
entire monthly allowance of a full grown slave, working constantly in the
open field, from morning until night, every day in the month except Sunday,
and living on a fraction more than a quarter of a pound of meat per day, and
less than a peck of corn-meal per week. There is no kind of work that a man
can do which requires a better supply of food to prevent physical
exhaustion, than the field-work of a slave. So much for the slave’s
allowance of food; now for his raiment. The yearly allowance of clothing
for the slaves on this plantation, consisted of two tow-linen shirts—such
linen as the coarsest crash towels are made of; one pair of trowsers of the
same material, for summer, and a pair of trowsers and a jacket of woolen,
most slazily put together, for winter; one pair of yarn stockings, and one
pair of shoes of the coarsest description. The slave’s entire apparel could
not have cost more than eight dollars per year. The allowance of food and

clothing for the little children, was committed to their mothers, or to the
older slavewomen having the care of them. Children who were unable to
work in the field, had neither shoes, stockings, jackets nor trowsers given
them. Their clothing consisted of two coarse tow-linen shirts—already
described—per year; and when these failed them, as they often did, they
went naked until the next allowance day. Flocks of little children from five
to ten years old, might be seen on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, as destitute of
clothing as any little heathen on the west coast of Africa; and this, not
merely during the summer months, but during the frosty weather of March.
The little girls were no better off than the boys; all were nearly in a state of
nudity.
As to beds to sleep on, they were known to none of the field hands;
nothing but a coarse blanket—not so good as those used in the north to
cover horses—was given them, and this only to the men and women. The
children stuck themselves in holes and corners, about the quarters; often in
the corner of the huge chimneys, with their feet in the ashes to keep them
warm. The want of beds, however, was not considered a very great
privation. Time to sleep was of far greater importance, for, when the day’s
work is done, most of the slaves have their washing, mending and cooking
to do; and, having few or none of the ordinary facilities for doing such
things, very many of their sleeping hours are consumed in necessary
preparations for the duties of the coming day.
The sleeping apartments—if they may be called such—have little regard
to comfort or decency. Old and young, male and female, married and single,
drop down upon the common clay floor, each covering up with his or her
blanket,—the only protection they have from cold or exposure. The night,
however, is shortened at both ends. The slaves work often as long as they
can see, and are late in cooking and mending for the coming day; and, at the
first gray streak of morning, they are summoned to the field by the driver’s
horn.
More slaves are whipped for oversleeping than for any other fault.
Neither age nor sex finds any favor. The overseer stands at the quarter door,
armed with stick and cowskin, ready to whip any who may be a few
minutes behind time. When the horn is blown, there is a rush for the door,
and the hindermost one is sure to get a blow from the overseer. Young
mothers who worked in the field, were allowed an hour, about ten o’clock

in the morning, to go home to nurse their children. Sometimes they were
compelled to take their children with them, and to leave them in the corner
of the fences, to prevent loss of time in nursing them. The overseer
generally rides about the field on horseback. A cowskin and a hickory stick
are his constant companions. The cowskin is a kind of whip seldom seen in
the northern states. It is made entirely of untanned, but dried, ox hide, and is
about as hard as a piece of well-seasoned live oak. It is made of various
sizes, but the usual length is about three feet. The part held in the hand is
nearly an inch in thickness; and, from the extreme end of the butt or handle,
the cowskin tapers its whole length to a point. This makes it quite elastic
and springy. A blow with it, on the hardest back, will gash the flesh, and
make the blood start. Cowskins are painted red, blue and green, and are the
favorite slave whip. I think this whip worse than the “cat-o’nine-tails.” It
condenses the whole strength of the arm to a single point, and comes with a
spring that makes the air whistle. It is a terrible instrument, and is so handy,
that the overseer can always have it on his person, and ready for use. The
temptation to use it is ever strong; and an overseer can, if disposed, always
have cause for using it. With him, it is literally a word and a blow, and, in
most cases, the blow comes first.
As a general rule, slaves do not come to the quarters for either breakfast
or dinner, but take their “ash cake” with them, and eat it in the field. This
was so on the home plantation; probably, because the distance from the
quarter to the field, was sometimes two, and even three miles.
The dinner of the slaves consisted of a huge piece of ash cake, and a
small piece of pork, or two salt herrings. Not having ovens, nor any suitable
cooking utensils, the slaves mixed their meal with a little water, to such
thickness that a spoon would stand erect in it; and, after the wood had
burned away to coals and ashes, they would place the dough between oak
leaves and lay it carefully in the ashes, completely covering it; hence, the
bread is called ash cake. The surface of this peculiar bread is covered with
ashes, to the depth of a sixteenth part of an inch, and the ashes, certainly, do
not make it very grateful to the teeth, nor render it very palatable. The bran,
or coarse part of the meal, is baked with the fine, and bright scales run
through the bread. This bread, with its ashes and bran, would disgust and
choke a northern man, but it is quite liked by the slaves. They eat it with
avidity, and are more concerned about the quantity than about the quality.
They are far too scantily provided for, and are worked too steadily, to be

much concerned for the quality of their food. The few minutes allowed
them at dinner time, after partaking of their coarse repast, are variously
spent. Some lie down on the “turning row,” and go to sleep; others draw
together, and talk; and others are at work with needle and thread, mending
their tattered garments. Sometimes you may hear a wild, hoarse laugh arise
from a circle, and often a song. Soon, however, the overseer comes dashing
through the field. “Tumble up! Tumble up, and to work, work,” is the cry;
and, now, from twelve o’clock (mid-day) till dark, the human cattle are in
motion, wielding their clumsy hoes; hurried on by no hope of reward, no
sense of gratitude, no love of children, no prospect of bettering their
condition; nothing, save the dread and terror of the slave-driver’s lash. So
goes one day, and so comes and goes another.
But, let us now leave the rough usage of the field, where vulgar
coarseness and brutal cruelty spread themselves and flourish, rank as weeds
in the tropics; where a vile wretch, in the shape of a man, rides, walks, or
struts about, dealing blows, and leaving gashes on broken-spirited men and
helpless women, for thirty dollars per month—a business so horrible,
hardening and disgraceful, that, rather, than engage in it, a decent man
would blow his own brains out—and let the reader view with me the
equally wicked, but less repulsive aspects of slave life; where pride and
pomp roll luxuriously at ease; where the toil of a thousand men supports a
single family in easy idleness and sin. This is the great house; it is the home
of the LLOYDS! Some idea of its splendor has already been given—and, it
is here that we shall find that height of luxury which is the opposite of that
depth of poverty and physical wretchedness that we have just now been
contemplating. But, there is this difference in the two extremes; viz: that in
the case of the slave, the miseries and hardships of his lot are imposed by
others, and, in the master’s case, they are imposed by himself. The slave is a
subject, subjected by others; the slaveholder is a subject, but he is the author
of his own subjection. There is more truth in the saying, that slavery is a
greater evil to the master than to the slave, than many, who utter it, suppose.
The self-executing laws of eternal justice follow close on the heels of the
evil-doer here, as well as elsewhere; making escape from all its penalties
impossible. But, let others philosophize; it is my province here to relate and
describe; only allowing myself a word or two, occasionally, to assist the
reader in the proper understanding of the facts narrated.

CHAPTER VII. Life in the Great House

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

The close-fisted stinginess that fed the poor slave on coarse corn-meal
and tainted meat; that clothed him in crashy tow-linen, and hurried him to
toil through the field, in all weathers, with wind and rain beating through
his tattered garments; that scarcely gave even the young slave-mother time
to nurse her hungry infant in the fence corner; wholly vanishes on
approaching the sacred precincts of the great house, the home of the Lloyds.
There the scriptural phrase finds an exact illustration; the highly favored
inmates of this mansion are literally arrayed “in purple and fine linen,” and
fare sumptuously every day! The table groans under the heavy and blood-
bought luxuries gathered with painstaking care, at home and abroad. Fields,
forests, rivers and seas, are made tributary here. Immense wealth, and its
lavish expenditure, fill the great house with all that can please the eye, or
tempt the taste. Here, appetite, not food, is the great desideratum. Fish,
flesh and fowl, are here in profusion. Chickens, of all breeds; ducks, of all

kinds, wild and tame, the common, and the huge Muscovite; Guinea fowls,
turkeys, geese, and pea fowls, are in their several pens, fat and fatting for
the destined vortex. The graceful swan, the mongrels, the black-necked wild
goose; partridges, quails, pheasants and pigeons; choice water fowl, with all
their strange varieties, are caught in this huge family net. Beef, veal, mutton
and venison, of the most select kinds and quality, roll bounteously to this
grand consumer. The teeming riches of the Chesapeake bay, its rock, perch,
drums, crocus, trout, oysters, crabs, and terrapin, are drawn hither to adorn
the glittering table of the great house. The dairy, too, probably the finest on
the Eastern Shore of Maryland—supplied by cattle of the best English
stock, imported for the purpose, pours its rich donations of fragant cheese,
golden butter, and delicious cream, to heighten the attraction of the
gorgeous, unending round of feasting. Nor are the fruits of the earth
forgotten or neglected. The fertile garden, many acres in size, constituting a
separate establishment, distinct from the common farm—with its scientific
gardener, imported from Scotland (a Mr. McDermott) with four men under
his direction, was not behind, either in the abundance or in the delicacy of
its contributions to the same full board. The tender asparagus, the succulent
celery, and the delicate cauliflower; egg plants, beets, lettuce, parsnips,
peas, and French beans, early and late; radishes, cantelopes, melons of all
kinds; the fruits and flowers of all climes and of all descriptions, from the
hardy apple of the north, to the lemon and orange of the south, culminated
at this point. Baltimore gathered figs, raisins, almonds and juicy grapes
from Spain. Wines and brandies from France; teas of various flavor, from
China; and rich, aromatic coffee from Java, all conspired to swell the tide of
high life, where pride and indolence rolled and lounged in magnificence
and satiety.
Behind the tall-backed and elaborately wrought chairs, stand the servants,
men and maidens—fifteen in number—discriminately selected, not only
with a view to their industry and faithfulness, but with special regard to
their personal appearance, their graceful agility and captivating address.
Some of these are armed with fans, and are fanning reviving breezes toward
the over-heated brows of the alabaster ladies; others watch with eager eye,
and with fawn-like step anticipate and supply wants before they are
sufficiently formed to be announced by word or sign.
These servants constituted a sort of black aristocracy on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. They resembled the field hands in nothing, except in color, and

in this they held the advantage of a velvet-like glossiness, rich and
beautiful. The hair, too, showed the same advantage. The delicate colored
maid rustled in the scarcely worn silk of her young mistress, while the
servant men were equally well attired from the over-flowing wardrobe of
their young masters; so that, in dress, as well as in form and feature, in
manner and speech, in tastes and habits, the distance between these favored
few, and the sorrow and hunger-smitten multitudes of the quarter and the
field, was immense; and this is seldom passed over.
Let us now glance at the stables and the carriage house, and we shall find
the same evidences of pride and luxurious extravagance. Here are three
splendid coaches, soft within and lustrous without. Here, too, are gigs,
phaetons, barouches, sulkeys and sleighs. Here are saddles and harnesses—
beautifully wrought and silver mounted—kept with every care. In the stable
you will find, kept only for pleasure, full thirty-five horses, of the most
approved blood for speed and beauty. There are two men here constantly
employed in taking care of these horses. One of these men must be always
in the stable, to answer every call from the great house. Over the way from
the stable, is a house built expressly for the hounds—a pack of twenty-five
or thirty—whose fare would have made glad the heart of a dozen slaves.
Horses and hounds are not the only consumers of the slave’s toil. There was
practiced, at the Lloyd’s, a hospitality which would have astonished and
charmed any health-seeking northern divine or merchant, who might have
chanced to share it. Viewed from his own table, and not from the field, the
colonel was a model of generous hospitality. His house was, literally, a
hotel, for weeks during the summer months. At these times, especially, the
air was freighted with the rich fumes of baking, boiling, roasting and
broiling. The odors I shared with the winds; but the meats were under a
more stringent monopoly except that, occasionally, I got a cake from Mas’
Daniel. In Mas’ Daniel I had a friend at court, from whom I learned many
things which my eager curiosity was excited to know. I always knew when
company was expected, and who they were, although I was an outsider,
being the property, not of Col. Lloyd, but of a servant of the wealthy
colonel. On these occasions, all that pride, taste and money could do, to
dazzle and charm, was done.
Who could say that the servants of Col. Lloyd were not well clad and
cared for, after witnessing one of his magnificent entertainments? Who
could say that they did not seem to glory in being the slaves of such a

master? Who, but a fanatic, could get up any sympathy for persons whose
every movement was agile, easy and graceful, and who evinced a
consciousness of high superiority? And who would ever venture to suspect
that Col. Lloyd was subject to the troubles of ordinary mortals? Master and
slave seem alike in their glory here? Can it all be seeming? Alas! it may
only be a sham at last! This immense wealth; this gilded splendor; this
profusion of luxury; this exemption from toil; this life of ease; this sea of
plenty; aye, what of it all? Are the pearly gates of happiness and sweet
content flung open to such suitors? far from it! The poor slave, on his hard,
pine plank, but scantily covered with his thin blanket, sleeps more soundly
than the feverish voluptuary who reclines upon his feather bed and downy
pillow. Food, to the indolent lounger, is poison, not sustenance. Lurking
beneath all their dishes, are invisible spirits of evil, ready to feed the self-
deluded gormandizers which aches, pains, fierce temper, uncontrolled
passions, dyspepsia, rheumatism, lumbago and gout; and of these the
Lloyds got their full share. To the pampered love of ease, there is no resting
place. What is pleasant today, is repulsive tomorrow; what is soft now, is
hard at another time; what is sweet in the morning, is bitter in the evening.
Neither to the wicked, nor to the idler, is there any solid peace: “Troubled,
like the restless sea.”
I had excellent opportunities of witnessing the restless discontent and the
capricious irritation of the Lloyds. My fondness for horses—not peculiar to
me more than to other boys attracted me, much of the time, to the stables.
This establishment was especially under the care of “old” and “young”
Barney—father and son. Old Barney was a fine looking old man, of a
brownish complexion, who was quite portly, and wore a dignified aspect for
a slave. He was, evidently, much devoted to his profession, and held his
office an honorable one. He was a farrier as well as an ostler; he could
bleed, remove lampers from the mouths of the horses, and was well
instructed in horse medicines. No one on the farm knew, so well as Old
Barney, what to do with a sick horse. But his gifts and acquirements were of
little advantage to him. His office was by no means an enviable one. He
often got presents, but he got stripes as well; for in nothing was Col. Lloyd
more unreasonable and exacting, than in respect to the management of his
pleasure horses. Any supposed inattention to these animals were sure to be
visited with degrading punishment. His horses and dogs fared better than
his men. Their beds must be softer and cleaner than those of his human

cattle. No excuse could shield Old Barney, if the colonel only suspected
something wrong about his horses; and, consequently, he was often
punished when faultless. It was absolutely painful to listen to the many
unreasonable and fretful scoldings, poured out at the stable, by Col. Lloyd,
his sons and sons-in-law. Of the latter, he had three—Messrs. Nicholson,
Winder and Lownes. These all lived at the great house a portion of the year,
and enjoyed the luxury of whipping the servants when they pleased, which
was by no means unfrequently. A horse was seldom brought out of the
stable to which no objection could be raised. “There was dust in his hair;”
“there was a twist in his reins;” “his mane did not lie straight;” “he had not
been properly grained;” “his head did not look well;” “his fore-top was not
combed out;” “his fetlocks had not been properly trimmed;” something was
always wrong. Listening to complaints, however groundless, Barney must
stand, hat in hand, lips sealed, never answering a word. He must make no
reply, no explanation; the judgment of the master must be deemed infallible,
for his power is absolute and irresponsible. In a free state, a master, thus
complaining without cause, of his ostler, might be told—“Sir, I am sorry I
cannot please you, but, since I have done the best I can, your remedy is to
dismiss me.” Here, however, the ostler must stand, listen and tremble. One
of the most heart-saddening and humiliating scenes I ever witnessed, was
the whipping of Old Barney, by Col. Lloyd himself. Here were two men,
both advanced in years; there were the silvery locks of Col. L., and there
was the bald and toil-worn brow of Old Barney; master and slave; superior
and inferior here, but equals at the bar of God; and, in the common course
of events, they must both soon meet in another world, in a world where all
distinctions, except those based on obedience and disobedience, are blotted
out forever. “Uncover your head!” said the imperious master; he was
obeyed. “Take off your jacket, you old rascal!” and off came Barney’s
jacket. “Down on your knees!” down knelt the old man, his shoulders bare,
his bald head glistening in the sun, and his aged knees on the cold, damp
ground. In his humble and debasing attitude, the master—that master to
whom he had given the best years and the best strength of his life—came
forward, and laid on thirty lashes, with his horse whip. The old man bore it
patiently, to the last, answering each blow with a slight shrug of the
shoulders, and a groan. I cannot think that Col. Lloyd succeeded in marring
the flesh of Old Barney very seriously, for the whip was a light, riding
whip; but the spectacle of an aged man—a husband and a father—humbly

kneeling before a worm of the dust, surprised and shocked me at the time;
and since I have grown old enough to think on the wickedness of slavery,
few facts have been of more value to me than this, to which I was a witness.
It reveals slavery in its true color, and in its maturity of repulsive
hatefulness. I owe it to truth, however, to say, that this was the first and the
last time I ever saw Old Barney, or any other slave, compelled to kneel to
receive a whipping.
I saw, at the stable, another incident, which I will relate, as it is
illustrative of a phase of slavery to which I have already referred in another
connection. Besides two other coachmen, Col. Lloyd owned one named
William, who, strangely enough, was often called by his surname, Wilks, by
white and colored people on the home plantation. Wilks was a very fine
looking man. He was about as white as anybody on the plantation; and in
manliness of form, and comeliness of features, he bore a very striking
resemblance to Mr. Murray Lloyd. It was whispered, and pretty generally
admitted as a fact, that William Wilks was a son of Col. Lloyd, by a highly
favored slave-woman, who was still on the plantation. There were many
reasons for believing this whisper, not only in William’s appearance, but in
the undeniable freedom which he enjoyed over all others, and his apparent
consciousness of being something more than a slave to his master. It was
notorious, too, that William had a deadly enemy in Murray Lloyd, whom he
so much resembled, and that the latter greatly worried his father with
importunities to sell William. Indeed, he gave his father no rest until he did
sell him, to Austin Woldfolk, the great slave-trader at that time. Before
selling him, however, Mr. L. tried what giving William a whipping would
do, toward making things smooth; but this was a failure. It was a
compromise, and defeated itself; for, immediately after the infliction, the
heart-sickened colonel atoned to William for the abuse, by giving him a
gold watch and chain. Another fact, somewhat curious, is, that though sold
to the remorseless Woldfolk, taken in irons to Baltimore and cast into prison,
with a view to being driven to the south, William, by some means—always
a mystery to me—outbid all his purchasers, paid for himself, and now
resides in Baltimore, a FREEMAN. Is there not room to suspect, that, as the
gold watch was presented to atone for the whipping, a purse of gold was
given him by the same hand, with which to effect his purchase, as an
atonement for the indignity involved in selling his own flesh and blood. All
the circumstances of William, on the great house farm, show him to have

occupied a different position from the other slaves, and, certainly, there is
nothing in the supposed hostility of slaveholders to amalgamation, to forbid
the supposition that William Wilks was the son of Edward Lloyd. Practical
amalgamation is common in every neighborhood where I have been in
slavery.
Col. Lloyd was not in the way of knowing much of the real opinions and
feelings of his slaves respecting him. The distance between him and them
was far too great to admit of such knowledge. His slaves were so numerous,
that he did not know them when he saw them. Nor, indeed, did all his slaves
know him. In this respect, he was inconveniently rich. It is reported of him,
that, while riding along the road one day, he met a colored man, and
addressed him in the usual way of speaking to colored people on the public
highways of the south: “Well, boy, who do you belong to?” “To Col.
Lloyd,” replied the slave. “Well, does the colonel treat you well?” “No, sir,”
was the ready reply. “What? does he work you too hard?” “Yes, sir.” “Well,
don’t he give enough to eat?” “Yes, sir, he gives me enough, such as it is.”
The colonel, after ascertaining where the slave belonged, rode on; the slave
also went on about his business, not dreaming that he had been conversing
with his master. He thought, said and heard nothing more of the matter,
until two or three weeks afterwards. The poor man was then informed by
his overseer, that, for having found fault with his master, he was now to be
sold to a Georgia trader. He was immediately chained and handcuffed; and
thus, without a moment’s warning he was snatched away, and forever
sundered from his family and friends, by a hand more unrelenting than that
of death. This is the penalty of telling the simple truth, in answer to a series
of plain questions. It is partly in consequence of such facts, that slaves,
when inquired of as to their condition and the character of their masters,
almost invariably say they are contented, and that their masters are kind.
Slaveholders have been known to send spies among their slaves, to
ascertain, if possible, their views and feelings in regard to their condition.
The frequency of this had the effect to establish among the slaves the
maxim, that a still tongue makes a wise head. They suppress the truth rather
than take the consequence of telling it, and, in so doing, they prove
themselves a part of the human family. If they have anything to say of their
master, it is, generally, something in his favor, especially when speaking to
strangers. I was frequently asked, while a slave, if I had a kind master, and I
do not remember ever to have given a negative reply. Nor did I, when

pursuing this course, consider myself as uttering what was utterly false; for
I always measured the kindness of my master by the standard of kindness
set up by slaveholders around us. However, slaves are like other people, and
imbibe similar prejudices. They are apt to think their condition better than
that of others. Many, under the influence of this prejudice, think their own
masters are better than the masters of other slaves; and this, too, in some
cases, when the very reverse is true. Indeed, it is not uncommon for slaves
even to fall out and quarrel among themselves about the relative kindness of
their masters, contending for the superior goodness of his own over that of
others. At the very same time, they mutually execrate their masters, when
viewed separately. It was so on our plantation. When Col. Lloyd’s slaves
met those of Jacob Jepson, they seldom parted without a quarrel about their
masters; Col. Lloyd’s slaves contending that he was the richest, and Mr.
Jepson’s slaves that he was the smartest, man of the two. Col. Lloyd’s
slaves would boost his ability to buy and sell Jacob Jepson; Mr. Jepson’s
slaves would boast his ability to whip Col. Lloyd. These quarrels would
almost always end in a fight between the parties; those that beat were
supposed to have gained the point at issue. They seemed to think that the
greatness of their masters was transferable to themselves. To be a SLAVE,
was thought to be bad enough; but to be a poor man’s slave, was deemed a
disgrace, indeed.

CHAPTER VIII. A Chapter of Horrors

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

As I have already intimated elsewhere, the slaves on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation, whose hard lot, under Mr. Sevier, the reader has already noticed
and deplored, were not permitted to enjoy the comparatively moderate rule
of Mr. Hopkins. The latter was succeeded by a very different man. The
name of the new overseer was Austin Gore. Upon this individual I would
fix particular attention; for under his rule there was more suffering from
violence and bloodshed than had—according to the older slaves ever been
experienced before on this plantation. I confess, I hardly know how to bring
this man fitly before the reader. He was, it is true, an overseer, and
possessed, to a large extent, the peculiar characteristics of his class; yet, to
call him merely an overseer, would not give the reader a fair notion of the
man. I speak of overseers as a class. They are such. They are as distinct
from the slaveholding gentry of the south, as are the fishwomen of Paris,
and the coal-heavers of London, distinct from other members of society.
They constitute a separate fraternity at the south, not less marked than is the
fraternity of Park Lane bullies in New York. They have been arranged and
classified by that great law of attraction, which determines the spheres and

affinities of men; which ordains, that men, whose malign and brutal
propensities predominate over their moral and intellectual endowments,
shall, naturally, fall into those employments which promise the largest
gratification to those predominating instincts or propensities. The office of
overseer takes this raw material of vulgarity and brutality, and stamps it as a
distinct class of southern society. But, in this class, as in all other classes,
there are characters of marked individuality, even while they bear a general
resemblance to the mass. Mr. Gore was one of those, to whom a general
characterization would do no manner of justice. He was an overseer; but he
was something more. With the malign and tyrannical qualities of an
overseer, he combined something of the lawful master. He had the
artfulness and the mean ambition of his class; but he was wholly free from
the disgusting swagger and noisy bravado of his fraternity. There was an
easy air of independence about him; a calm self-possession, and a sternness
of glance, which might well daunt hearts less timid than those of poor
slaves, accustomed from childhood and through life to cower before a
driver’s lash. The home plantation of Col. Lloyd afforded an ample field for
the exercise of the qualifications for overseership, which he possessed in
such an eminent degree.
Mr. Gore was one of those overseers, who could torture the slightest
word or look into impudence; he had the nerve, not only to resent, but to
punish, promptly and severely. He never allowed himself to be answered
back, by a slave. In this, he was as lordly and as imperious as Col. Edward
Lloyd, himself; acting always up to the maxim, practically maintained by
slaveholders, that it is better that a dozen slaves suffer under the lash,
without fault, than that the master or the overseer should seem to have been
wrong in the presence of the slave. Everything must be absolute here.
Guilty or not guilty, it is enough to be accused, to be sure of a flogging. The
very presence of this man Gore was painful, and I shunned him as I would
have shunned a rattlesnake. His piercing, black eyes, and sharp, shrill voice,
ever awakened sensations of terror among the slaves. For so young a man (I
describe him as he was, twenty-five or thirty years ago) Mr. Gore was
singularly reserved and grave in the presence of slaves. He indulged in no
jokes, said no funny things, and kept his own counsels. Other overseers,
how brutal soever they might be, were, at times, inclined to gain favor with
the slaves, by indulging a little pleasantry; but Gore was never known to be
guilty of any such weakness. He was always the cold, distant,

unapproachable overseer of Col. Edward Lloyd’s plantation, and needed no
higher pleasure than was involved in a faithful discharge of the duties of his
office. When he whipped, he seemed to do so from a sense of duty, and
feared no consequences. What Hopkins did reluctantly, Gore did with
alacrity. There was a stern will, an iron-like reality, about this Gore, which
would have easily made him the chief of a band of pirates, had his
environments been favorable to such a course of life. All the coolness,
savage barbarity and freedom from moral restraint, which are necessary in
the character of a pirate-chief, centered, I think, in this man Gore. Among
many other deeds of shocking cruelty which he perpetrated, while I was at
Mr. Lloyd’s, was the murder of a young colored man, named Denby. He
was sometimes called Bill Denby, or Demby; (I write from sound, and the
sounds on Lloyd’s plantation are not very certain.) I knew him well. He was
a powerful young man, full of animal spirits, and, so far as I know, he was
among the most valuable of Col. Lloyd’s slaves. In something—I know not
what—he offended this Mr. Austin Gore, and, in accordance with the
custom of the latter, he under took to flog him. He gave Denby but few
stripes; the latter broke away from him and plunged into the creek, and,
standing there to the depth of his neck in water, he refused to come out at
the order of the overseer; whereupon, for this refusal, Gore shot him dead!
It is said that Gore gave Denby three calls, telling him that if he did not
obey the last call, he would shoot him. When the third call was given,
Denby stood his ground firmly; and this raised the question, in the minds of
the by-standing slaves—“Will he dare to shoot?” Mr. Gore, without further
parley, and without making any further effort to induce Denby to come out
of the water, raised his gun deliberately to his face, took deadly aim at his
standing victim, and, in an instant, poor Denby was numbered with the
dead. His mangled body sank out of sight, and only his warm, red blood
marked the place where he had stood.
This devilish outrage, this fiendish murder, produced, as it was well
calculated to do, a tremendous sensation. A thrill of horror flashed through
every soul on the plantation, if I may except the guilty wretch who had
committed the hell-black deed. While the slaves generally were panic-
struck, and howling with alarm, the murderer himself was calm and
collected, and appeared as though nothing unusual had happened. The
atrocity roused my old master, and he spoke out, in reprobation of it; but the
whole thing proved to be less than a nine days’ wonder. Both Col. Lloyd

and my old master arraigned Gore for his cruelty in the matter, but this
amounted to nothing. His reply, or explanation—as I remember to have
heard it at the time was, that the extraordinary expedient was demanded by
necessity; that Denby had become unmanageable; that he had set a
dangerous example to the other slaves; and that, without some such prompt
measure as that to which he had resorted, were adopted, there would be an
end to all rule and order on the plantation. That very convenient covert for
all manner of cruelty and outrage that cowardly alarm-cry, that the slaves
would “take the place,” was pleaded, in extenuation of this revolting crime,
just as it had been cited in defense of a thousand similar ones. He argued,
that if one slave refused to be corrected, and was allowed to escape with his
life, when he had been told that he should lose it if he persisted in his
course, the other slaves would soon copy his example; the result of which
would be, the freedom of the slaves, and the enslavement of the whites. I
have every reason to believe that Mr. Gore’s defense, or explanation, was
deemed satisfactory—at least to Col. Lloyd. He was continued in his office
on the plantation. His fame as an overseer went abroad, and his horrid crime
was not even submitted to judicial investigation. The murder was
committed in the presence of slaves, and they, of course, could neither
institute a suit, nor testify against the murderer. His bare word would go
further in a court of law, than the united testimony of ten thousand black
witnesses.
All that Mr. Gore had to do, was to make his peace with Col. Lloyd. This
done, and the guilty perpetrator of one of the most foul murders goes
unwhipped of justice, and uncensured by the community in which he lives.
Mr. Gore lived in St. Michael’s, Talbot county, when I left Maryland; if he
is still alive he probably yet resides there; and I have no reason to doubt that
he is now as highly esteemed, and as greatly respected, as though his guilty
soul had never been stained with innocent blood. I am well aware that what
I have now written will by some be branded as false and malicious. It will
be denied, not only that such a thing ever did transpire, as I have now
narrated, but that such a thing could happen in Maryland. I can only say—
believe it or not—that I have said nothing but the literal truth, gainsay it
who may.
I speak advisedly when I say this,—that killing a slave, or any colored
person, in Talbot county, Maryland, is not treated as a crime, either by the
courts or the community. Mr. Thomas Lanman, ship carpenter, of St.

Michael’s, killed two slaves, one of whom he butchered with a hatchet, by
knocking his brains out. He used to boast of the commission of the awful
and bloody deed. I have heard him do so, laughingly, saying, among other
things, that he was the only benefactor of his country in the company, and
that when “others would do as much as he had done, we should be relieved
of the d—d niggers.”
As an evidence of the reckless disregard of human life where the life is
that of a slave I may state the notorious fact, that the wife of Mr. Giles
Hicks, who lived but a short distance from Col. Lloyd’s, with her own
hands murdered my wife’s cousin, a young girl between fifteen and sixteen
years of age—mutilating her person in a most shocking manner. The
atrocious woman, in the paroxysm of her wrath, not content with murdering
her victim, literally mangled her face, and broke her breast bone. Wild,
however, and infuriated as she was, she took the precaution to cause the
slave-girl to be buried; but the facts of the case coming abroad, very
speedily led to the disinterment of the remains of the murdered slave-girl. A
coroner’s jury was assembled, who decided that the girl had come to her
death by severe beating. It was ascertained that the offense for which this
girl was thus hurried out of the world, was this: she had been set that night,
and several preceding nights, to mind Mrs. Hicks’s baby, and having fallen
into a sound sleep, the baby cried, waking Mrs. Hicks, but not the slave-
girl. Mrs. Hicks, becoming infuriated at the girl’s tardiness, after calling
several times, jumped from her bed and seized a piece of fire-wood from
the fireplace; and then, as she lay fast asleep, she deliberately pounded in
her skull and breast-bone, and thus ended her life. I will not say that this
most horrid murder produced no sensation in the community. It did produce
a sensation; but, incredible to tell, the moral sense of the community was
blunted too entirely by the ordinary nature of slavery horrors, to bring the
murderess to punishment. A warrant was issued for her arrest, but, for some
reason or other, that warrant was never served. Thus did Mrs. Hicks not
only escape condign punishment, but even the pain and mortification of
being arraigned before a court of justice.
Whilst I am detailing the bloody deeds that took place during my stay on
Col. Lloyd’s plantation, I will briefly narrate another dark transaction,
which occurred about the same time as the murder of Denby by Mr. Gore.

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

CHAPTER IX. Personal Treatment

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

I have nothing cruel or shocking to relate of my own personal experience,
while I remained on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, at the home of my old master.
An occasional cuff from Aunt Katy, and a regular whipping from old
master, such as any heedless and mischievous boy might get from his father,
is all that I can mention of this sort. I was not old enough to work in the
field, and, there being little else than field work to perform, I had much
leisure. The most I had to do, was, to drive up the cows in the evening, to
keep the front yard clean, and to perform small errands for my young
mistress, Lucretia Auld. I have reasons for thinking this lady was very
kindly disposed toward me, and, although I was not often the object of her
attention, I constantly regarded her as my friend, and was always glad when
it was my privilege to do her a service. In a family where there was so much
that was harsh, cold and indifferent, the slightest word or look of kindness
passed, with me, for its full value. Miss Lucretia—as we all continued to

call her long after her marriage—had bestowed upon me such words and
looks as taught me that she pitied me, if she did not love me. In addition to
words and looks, she sometimes gave me a piece of bread and butter; a
thing not set down in the bill of fare, and which must have been an extra
ration, planned aside from either Aunt Katy or old master, solely out of the
tender regard and friendship she had for me. Then, too, I one day got into
the wars with Uncle Able’s son, “Ike,” and had got sadly worsted; in fact,
the little rascal had struck me directly in the forehead with a sharp piece of
cinder, fused with iron, from the old blacksmith’s forge, which made a cross
in my forehead very plainly to be seen now. The gash bled very freely, and I
roared very loudly and betook myself home. The coldhearted Aunt Katy
paid no attention either to my wound or my roaring, except to tell me it
served me right; I had no business with Ike; it was good for me; I would
now keep away “from dem Lloyd niggers.” Miss Lucretia, in this state of
the case, came forward; and, in quite a different spirit from that manifested
by Aunt Katy, she called me into the parlor (an extra privilege of itself) and,
without using toward me any of the hard-hearted and reproachful epithets of
my kitchen tormentor, she quietly acted the good Samaritan. With her own
soft hand she washed the blood from my head and face, fetched her own
balsam bottle, and with the balsam wetted a nice piece of white linen, and
bound up my head. The balsam was not more healing to the wound in my
head, than her kindness was healing to the wounds in my spirit, made by the
unfeeling words of Aunt Katy. After this, Miss Lucretia was my friend. I
felt her to be such; and I have no doubt that the simple act of binding up my
head, did much to awaken in her mind an interest in my welfare. It is quite
true, that this interest was never very marked, and it seldom showed itself in
anything more than in giving me a piece of bread when I was hungry; but
this was a great favor on a slave plantation, and I was the only one of the
children to whom such attention was paid. When very hungry, I would go
into the back yard and play under Miss Lucretia’s window. When pretty
severely pinched by hunger, I had a habit of singing, which the good lady
very soon came to understand as a petition for a piece of bread. When I
sung under Miss Lucretia’s window, I was very apt to get well paid for my
music. The reader will see that I now had two friends, both at important
points—Mas’ Daniel at the great house, and Miss Lucretia at home. From
Mas’ Daniel I got protection from the bigger boys; and from Miss Lucretia I
got bread, by singing when I was hungry, and sympathy when I was abused

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

As I grew older and more thoughtful, I was more and more filled with a
sense of my wretchedness. The cruelty of Aunt Katy, the hunger and cold I
suffered, and the terrible reports of wrong and outrage which came to my
ear, together with what I almost daily witnessed, led me, when yet but eight
or nine years old, to wish I had never been born. I used to contrast my
condition with the black-birds, in whose wild and sweet songs I fancied
them so happy! Their apparent joy only deepened the shades of my sorrow.
There are thoughtful days in the lives of children—at least there were in
mine when they grapple with all the great, primary subjects of knowledge,
and reach, in a moment, conclusions which no subsequent experience can
shake. I was just as well aware of the unjust, unnatural and murderous
character of slavery, when nine years old, as I am now. Without any appeal
to books, to laws, or to authorities of any kind, it was enough to accept God
as a father, to regard slavery as a crime.
I was not ten years old when I left Col. Lloyd’s plantation for
Balitmore(sic). I left that plantation with inexpressible joy. I never shall
forget the ecstacy with which I received the intelligence from my friend,
Miss Lucretia, that my old master had determined to let me go to Baltimore
to live with Mr. Hugh Auld, a brother to Mr. Thomas Auld, my old master’s
son-in-law. I received this information about three days before my
departure. They were three of the happiest days of my childhood. I spent the
largest part of these three days in the creek, washing off the plantation
scurf, and preparing for my new home. Mrs. Lucretia took a lively interest
in getting me ready. She told me I must get all the dead skin off my feet and
knees, before I could go to Baltimore, for the people there were very
cleanly, and would laugh at me if I looked dirty; and, besides, she was
intending to give me a pair of trowsers, which I should not put on unless I
got all the dirt off. This was a warning to which I was bound to take heed;
for the thought of owning a pair of trowsers, was great, indeed. It was
almost a sufficient motive, not only to induce me to scrub off the mange (as
pig drovers would call it) but the skin as well. So I went at it in good
earnest, working for the first time in the hope of reward. I was greatly
excited, and could hardly consent to sleep, lest I should be left. The ties
that, ordinarily, bind children to their homes, were all severed, or they never
had any existence in my case, at least so far as the home plantation of Col.
L. was concerned. I therefore found no severe trail at the moment of my
departure, such as I had experienced when separated from my home in

Tuckahoe. My home at my old master’s was charmless to me; it was not
home, but a prison to me; on parting from it, I could not feel that I was
leaving anything which I could have enjoyed by staying. My mother was
now long dead; my grandmother was far away, so that I seldom saw her;
Aunt Katy was my unrelenting tormentor; and my two sisters and brothers,
owing to our early separation in life, and the family-destroying power of
slavery, were, comparatively, strangers to me. The fact of our relationship
was almost blotted out. I looked for home elsewhere, and was confident of
finding none which I should relish less than the one I was leaving. If,
however, I found in my new home to which I was going with such blissful
anticipations—hardship, whipping and nakedness, I had the questionable
consolation that I should not have escaped any one of these evils by
remaining under the management of Aunt Katy. Then, too, I thought, since I
had endured much in this line on Lloyd’s plantation, I could endure as much
elsewhere, and especially at Baltimore; for I had something of the feeling
about that city which is expressed in the saying, that being “hanged in
England, is better than dying a natural death in Ireland.” I had the strongest
desire to see Baltimore. My cousin Tom—a boy two or three years older
than I—had been there, and though not fluent (he stuttered immoderately)
in speech, he had inspired me with that desire, by his eloquent description
of the place. Tom was, sometimes, Capt. Auld’s cabin boy; and when he
came from Baltimore, he was always a sort of hero amongst us, at least till
his Baltimore trip was forgotten. I could never tell him of anything, or point
out anything that struck me as beautiful or powerful, but that he had seen
something in Baltimore far surpassing it. Even the great house itself, with
all its pictures within, and pillars without, he had the hardihood to say “was
nothing to Baltimore.” He bought a trumpet (worth six pence) and brought
it home; told what he had seen in the windows of stores; that he had heard
shooting crackers, and seen soldiers; that he had seen a steamboat; that
there were ships in Baltimore that could carry four such sloops as the “Sally
Lloyd.” He said a great deal about the market-house; he spoke of the bells
ringing; and of many other things which roused my curiosity very much;
and, indeed, which heightened my hopes of happiness in my new home.
We sailed out of Miles river for Baltimore early on a Saturday morning. I
remember only the day of the week; for, at that time, I had no knowledge of
the days of the month, nor, indeed, of the months of the year. On setting
sail, I walked aft, and gave to Col. Lloyd’s plantation what I hoped would

be the last look I should ever give to it, or to any place like it. My strong
aversion to the great farm, was not owing to my own personal suffering, but
the daily suffering of others, and to the certainty that I must, sooner or later,
be placed under the barbarous rule of an overseer, such as the accomplished
Gore, or the brutal and drunken Plummer. After taking this last view, I
quitted the quarter deck, made my way to the bow of the sloop, and spent
the remainder of the day in looking ahead; interesting myself in what was in
the distance, rather than what was near by or behind. The vessels, sweeping
along the bay, were very interesting objects. The broad bay opened like a
shoreless ocean on my boyish vision, filling me with wonder and
admiration.
Late in the afternoon, we reached Annapolis, the capital of the state,
stopping there not long enough to admit of my going ashore. It was the first
large town I had ever seen; and though it was inferior to many a factory
village in New England, my feelings, on seeing it, were excited to a pitch
very little below that reached by travelers at the first view of Rome. The
dome of the state house was especially imposing, and surpassed in grandeur
the appearance of the great house. The great world was opening upon me
very rapidly, and I was eagerly acquainting myself with its multifarious
lessons.
We arrived in Baltimore on Sunday morning, and landed at Smith’s
wharf, not far from Bowly’s wharf. We had on board the sloop a large flock
of sheep, for the Baltimore market; and, after assisting in driving them to
the slaughter house of Mr. Curtis, on Loudon Slater’s Hill, I was speedily
conducted by Rich—one of the hands belonging to the sloop—to my new
home in Alliciana street, near Gardiner’s ship-yard, on Fell’s Point. Mr. and
Mrs. Hugh Auld, my new mistress and master, were both at home, and met
me at the door with their rosy cheeked little son, Thomas, to take care of
whom was to constitute my future occupation. In fact, it was to “little
Tommy,” rather than to his parents, that old master made a present of me;
and though there was no legal form or arrangement entered into, I have no
doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Auld felt that, in due time, I should be the legal
property of their bright-eyed and beloved boy, Tommy. I was struck with
the appearance, especially, of my new mistress. Her face was lighted with
the kindliest emotions; and the reflex influence of her countenance, as well
as the tenderness with which she seemed to regard me, while asking me
sundry little questions, greatly delighted me, and lit up, to my fancy, the

pathway of my future. Miss Lucretia was kind; but my new mistress, “Miss
Sophy,” surpassed her in kindness of manner. Little Thomas was
affectionately told by his mother, that “there was his Freddy,” and that
“Freddy would take care of him;” and I was told to “be kind to little
Tommy”—an injunction I scarcely needed, for I had already fallen in love
with the dear boy; and with these little ceremonies I was initiated into my
new home, and entered upon my peculiar duties, with not a cloud above the
horizon.
I may say here, that I regard my removal from Col. Lloyd’s plantation as
one of the most interesting and fortunate events of my life. Viewing it in the
light of human likelihoods, it is quite probable that, but for the mere
circumstance of being thus removed before the rigors of slavery had
fastened upon me; before my young spirit had been crushed under the iron
control of the slave-driver, instead of being, today, a FREEMAN, I might
have been wearing the galling chains of slavery. I have sometimes felt,
however, that there was something more intelligent than chance, and
something more certain than luck, to be seen in the circumstance. If I have
made any progress in knowledge; if I have cherished any honorable
aspirations, or have, in any manner, worthily discharged the duties of a
member of an oppressed people; this little circumstance must be allowed its
due weight in giving my life that direction. I have ever regarded it as the
first plain manifestation of that
Divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will.

I was not the only boy on the plantation that might have been sent to live
in Baltimore. There was a wide margin from which to select. There were
boys younger, boys older, and boys of the same age, belonging to my old
master some at his own house, and some at his farm—but the high privilege
fell to my lot.
I may be deemed superstitious and egotistical, in regarding this event as a
special interposition of Divine Providence in my favor; but the thought is a
part of my history, and I should be false to the earliest and most cherished
sentiments of my soul, if I suppressed, or hesitated to avow that opinion,
although it may be characterized as irrational by the wise, and ridiculous by
the scoffer. From my earliest recollections of serious matters, I date the
entertainment of something like an ineffaceable conviction, that slavery

would not always be able to hold me within its foul embrace; and this
conviction, like a word of living faith, strengthened me through the darkest
trials of my lot. This good spirit was from God; and to him I offer
thanksgiving and praise.

CHAPTER X. Life in Baltimore

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

Once in Baltimore, with hard brick pavements under my feet, which
almost raised blisters, by their very heat, for it was in the height of summer;
walled in on all sides by towering brick buildings; with troops of hostile
boys ready to pounce upon me at every street corner; with new and strange
objects glaring upon me at every step, and with startling sounds reaching
my ears from all directions, I for a time thought that, after all, the home
plantation was a more desirable place of residence than my home on
Alliciana street, in Baltimore. My country eyes and ears were confused and
bewildered here; but the boys were my chief trouble. They chased me, and
called me “Eastern Shore man,” till really I almost wished myself back on

the Eastern Shore. I had to undergo a sort of moral acclimation, and when
that was over, I did much better. My new mistress happily proved to be all
she seemed to be, when, with her husband, she met me at the door, with a
most beaming, benignant countenance. She was, naturally, of an excellent
disposition, kind, gentle and cheerful. The supercilious contempt for the
rights and feelings of the slave, and the petulance and bad humor which
generally characterize slaveholding ladies, were all quite absent from kind
“Miss” Sophia’s manner and bearing toward me. She had, in truth, never
been a slaveholder, but had—a thing quite unusual in the south—depended
almost entirely upon her own industry for a living. To this fact the dear lady,
no doubt, owed the excellent preservation of her natural goodness of heart,
for slavery can change a saint into a sinner, and an angel into a demon. I
hardly knew how to behave toward “Miss Sopha,” as I used to call Mrs.
Hugh Auld. I had been treated as a pig on the plantation; I was treated as a
child now. I could not even approach her as I had formerly approached Mrs.
Thomas Auld. How could I hang down my head, and speak with bated
breath, when there was no pride to scorn me, no coldness to repel me, and
no hatred to inspire me with fear? I therefore soon learned to regard her as
something more akin to a mother, than a slaveholding mistress. The
crouching servility of a slave, usually so acceptable a quality to the haughty
slaveholder, was not understood nor desired by this gentle woman. So far
from deeming it impudent in a slave to look her straight in the face, as some
slaveholding ladies do, she seemed ever to say, “look up, child; don’t be
afraid; see, I am full of kindness and good will toward you.” The hands
belonging to Col. Lloyd’s sloop, esteemed it a great privilege to be the
bearers of parcels or messages to my new mistress; for whenever they
came, they were sure of a most kind and pleasant reception. If little Thomas
was her son, and her most dearly beloved child, she, for a time, at least,
made me something like his half-brother in her affections. If dear Tommy
was exalted to a place on his mother’s knee, “Feddy” was honored by a
place at his mother’s side. Nor did he lack the caressing strokes of her
gentle hand, to convince him that, though motherless, he was not friendless.
Mrs. Auld was not only a kind-hearted woman, but she was remarkably
pious; frequent in her attendance of public worship, much given to reading
the bible, and to chanting hymns of praise, when alone. Mr. Hugh Auld was
altogether a different character. He cared very little about religion, knew
more of the world, and was more of the world, than his wife. He set out,

doubtless to be—as the world goes—a respectable man, and to get on by
becoming a successful ship builder, in that city of ship building. This was
his ambition, and it fully occupied him. I was, of course, of very little
consequence to him, compared with what I was to good Mrs. Auld; and,
when he smiled upon me, as he sometimes did, the smile was borrowed
from his lovely wife, and, like all borrowed light, was transient, and
vanished with the source whence it was derived. While I must characterize
Master Hugh as being a very sour man, and of forbidding appearance, it is
due to him to acknowledge, that he was never very cruel to me, according
to the notion of cruelty in Maryland. The first year or two which I spent in
his house, he left me almost exclusively to the management of his wife. She
was my law-giver. In hands so tender as hers, and in the absence of the
cruelties of the plantation, I became, both physically and mentally, much
more sensitive to good and ill treatment; and, perhaps, suffered more from a
frown from my mistress, than I formerly did from a cuff at the hands of
Aunt Katy. Instead of the cold, damp floor of my old master’s kitchen, I
found myself on carpets; for the corn bag in winter, I now had a good straw
bed, well furnished with covers; for the coarse corn-meal in the morning, I
now had good bread, and mush occasionally; for my poor tow-lien shirt,
reaching to my knees, I had good, clean clothes. I was really well off. My
employment was to run errands, and to take care of Tommy; to prevent his
getting in the way of carriages, and to keep him out of harm’s way
generally. Tommy, and I, and his mother, got on swimmingly together, for a
time. I say for a time, because the fatal poison of irresponsible power, and
the natural influence of slavery customs, were not long in making a suitable
impression on the gentle and loving disposition of my excellent mistress. At
first, Mrs. Auld evidently regarded me simply as a child, like any other
child; she had not come to regard me as property. This latter thought was a
thing of conventional growth. The first was natural and spontaneous. A
noble nature, like hers, could not, instantly, be wholly perverted; and it took
several years to change the natural sweetness of her temper into fretful
bitterness. In her worst estate, however, there were, during the first seven
years I lived with her, occasional returns of her former kindly disposition.
The frequent hearing of my mistress reading the bible for she often read
aloud when her husband was absent soon awakened my curiosity in respect
to this mystery of reading, and roused in me the desire to learn. Having no
fear of my kind mistress before my eyes, (she had then given me no reason

to fear,) I frankly asked her to teach me to read; and, without hesitation, the
dear woman began the task, and very soon, by her assistance, I was master
of the alphabet, and could spell words of three or four letters. My mistress
seemed almost as proud of my progress, as if I had been her own child; and,
supposing that her husband would be as well pleased, she made no secret of
what she was doing for me. Indeed, she exultingly told him of the aptness
of her pupil, of her intention to persevere in teaching me, and of the duty
which she felt it to teach me, at least to read the bible. Here arose the first
cloud over my Baltimore prospects, the precursor of drenching rains and
chilling blasts.
Master Hugh was amazed at the simplicity of his spouse, and, probably
for the first time, he unfolded to her the true philosophy of slavery, and the
peculiar rules necessary to be observed by masters and mistresses, in the
management of their human chattels. Mr. Auld promptly forbade
continuance of her instruction; telling her, in the first place, that the thing
itself was unlawful; that it was also unsafe, and could only lead to mischief.
To use his own words, further, he said, “if you give a nigger an inch, he will
take an ell;” “he should know nothing but the will of his master, and learn
to obey it.” “if you teach that nigger—speaking of myself—how to read the
bible, there will be no keeping him;” “it would forever unfit him for the
duties of a slave;” and “as to himself, learning would do him no good, but
probably, a great deal of harm—making him disconsolate and unhappy.” “If
you learn him now to read, he’ll want to know how to write; and, this
accomplished, he’ll be running away with himself.” Such was the tenor of
Master Hugh’s oracular exposition of the true philosophy of training a
human chattel; and it must be confessed that he very clearly comprehended
the nature and the requirements of the relation of master and slave. His
discourse was the first decidedly anti-slavery lecture to which it had been
my lot to listen. Mrs. Auld evidently felt the force of his remarks; and, like
an obedient wife, began to shape her course in the direction indicated by her
husband. The effect of his words, on me, was neither slight nor transitory.
His iron sentences—cold and harsh—sunk deep into my heart, and stirred
up not only my feelings into a sort of rebellion, but awakened within me a
slumbering train of vital thought. It was a new and special revelation,
dispelling a painful mystery, against which my youthful understanding had
struggled, and struggled in vain, to wit: the white man’s power to perpetuate
the enslavement of the black man. “Very well,” thought I; “knowledge

unfits a child to be a slave.” I instinctively assented to the proposition; and
from that moment I understood the direct pathway from slavery to freedom.
This was just what I needed; and I got it at a time, and from a source,
whence I least expected it. I was saddened at the thought of losing the
assistance of my kind mistress; but the information, so instantly derived, to
some extent compensated me for the loss I had sustained in this direction.
Wise as Mr. Auld was, he evidently underrated my comprehension, and had
little idea of the use to which I was capable of putting the impressive lesson
he was giving to his wife. He wanted me to be a slave; I had already voted
against that on the home plantation of Col. Lloyd. That which he most
loved I most hated; and the very determination which he expressed to keep
me in ignorance, only rendered me the more resolute in seeking
intelligence. In learning to read, therefore, I am not sure that I do not owe
quite as much to the opposition of my master, as to the kindly assistance of
my amiable mistress. I acknowledge the benefit rendered me by the one,
and by the other; believing, that but for my mistress, I might have grown up
in ignorance.
I had resided but a short time in Baltimore, before I observed a marked
difference in the manner of treating slaves, generally, from which I had
witnessed in that isolated and out-of-the-way part of the country where I
began life. A city slave is almost a free citizen, in Baltimore, compared with
a slave on Col. Lloyd’s plantation. He is much better fed and clothed, is less
dejected in his appearance, and enjoys privileges altogether unknown to the
whip-driven slave on the plantation. Slavery dislikes a dense population, in
which there is a majority of non-slaveholders. The general sense of decency
that must pervade such a population, does much to check and prevent those
outbreaks of atrocious cruelty, and those dark crimes without a name,
almost openly perpetrated on the plantation. He is a desperate slaveholder
who will shock the humanity of his non-slaveholding neighbors, by the
cries of the lacerated slaves; and very few in the city are willing to incur the
odium of being cruel masters. I found, in Baltimore, that no man was more
odious to the white, as well as to the colored people, than he, who had the
reputation of starving his slaves. Work them, flog them, if need be, but
don’t starve them. These are, however, some painful exceptions to this rule.
While it is quite true that most of the slaveholders in Baltimore feed and
clothe their slaves well, there are others who keep up their country cruelties
in the city.

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

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

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

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

I lived in the family of Master Hugh, at Baltimore, seven years, during
which time—as the almanac makers say of the weather—my condition was
variable. The most interesting feature of my history here, was my learning
to read and write, under somewhat marked disadvantages. In attaining this
knowledge, I was compelled to resort to indirections by no means congenial
to my nature, and which were really humiliating to me. My mistress—who,
as the reader has already seen, had begun to teach me was suddenly
checked in her benevolent design, by the strong advice of her husband. In
faithful compliance with this advice, the good lady had not only ceased to
instruct me, herself, but had set her face as a flint against my learning to

read by any means. It is due, however, to my mistress to say, that she did
not adopt this course in all its stringency at the first. She either thought it
unnecessary, or she lacked the depravity indispensable to shutting me up in
mental darkness. It was, at least, necessary for her to have some training,
and some hardening, in the exercise of the slaveholder’s prerogative, to
make her equal to forgetting my human nature and character, and to treating
me as a thing destitute of a moral or an intellectual nature. Mrs. Auld—my
mistress—was, as I have said, a most kind and tender-hearted woman; and,
in the humanity of her heart, and the simplicity of her mind, she set out,
when I first went to live with her, to treat me as she supposed one human
being ought to treat another.
It is easy to see, that, in entering upon the duties of a slaveholder, some
little experience is needed. Nature has done almost nothing to prepare men
and women to be either slaves or slaveholders. Nothing but rigid training,
long persisted in, can perfect the character of the one or the other. One
cannot easily forget to love freedom; and it is as hard to cease to respect
that natural love in our fellow creatures. On entering upon the career of a
slaveholding mistress, Mrs. Auld was singularly deficient; nature, which fits
nobody for such an office, had done less for her than any lady I had known.
It was no easy matter to induce her to think and to feel that the curly-headed
boy, who stood by her side, and even leaned on her lap; who was loved by
little Tommy, and who loved little Tommy in turn; sustained to her only the
relation of a chattel. I was more than that, and she felt me to be more than
that. I could talk and sing; I could laugh and weep; I could reason and
remember; I could love and hate. I was human, and she, dear lady, knew
and felt me to be so. How could she, then, treat me as a brute, without a
mighty struggle with all the noble powers of her own soul. That struggle
came, and the will and power of the husband was victorious. Her noble soul
was overthrown; but, he that overthrew it did not, himself, escape the
consequences. He, not less than the other parties, was injured in his
domestic peace by the fall.
When I went into their family, it was the abode of happiness and
contentment. The mistress of the house was a model of affection and
tenderness. Her fervent piety and watchful uprightness made it impossible
to see her without thinking and feeling—“that woman is a Christian.” There
was no sorrow nor suffering for which she had not a tear, and there was no
innocent joy for which she did not a smile. She had bread for the hungry,

clothes for the naked, and comfort for every mourner that came within her
reach. Slavery soon proved its ability to divest her of these excellent
qualities, and her home of its early happiness. Conscience cannot stand
much violence. Once thoroughly broken down, who is he that can repair the
damage? It may be broken toward the slave, on Sunday, and toward the
master on Monday. It cannot endure such shocks. It must stand entire, or it
does not stand at all. If my condition waxed bad, that of the family waxed
not better. The first step, in the wrong direction, was the violence done to
nature and to conscience, in arresting the benevolence that would have
enlightened my young mind. In ceasing to instruct me, she must begin to
justify herself to herself; and, once consenting to take sides in such a
debate, she was riveted to her position. One needs very little knowledge of
moral philosophy, to see where my mistress now landed. She finally became
even more violent in her opposition to my learning to read, than was her
husband himself. She was not satisfied with simply doing as well as her
husband had commanded her, but seemed resolved to better his instruction.
Nothing appeared to make my poor mistress—after her turning toward the
downward path—more angry, than seeing me, seated in some nook or
corner, quietly reading a book or a newspaper. I have had her rush at me,
with the utmost fury, and snatch from my hand such newspaper or book,
with something of the wrath and consternation which a traitor might be
supposed to feel on being discovered in a plot by some dangerous spy.
Mrs. Auld was an apt woman, and the advice of her husband, and her
own experience, soon demonstrated, to her entire satisfaction, that
education and slavery are incompatible with each other. When this
conviction was thoroughly established, I was most narrowly watched in all
my movements. If I remained in a separate room from the family for any
considerable length of time, I was sure to be suspected of having a book,
and was at once called upon to give an account of myself. All this, however,
was entirely too late. The first, and never to be retraced, step had been
taken. In teaching me the alphabet, in the days of her simplicity and
kindness, my mistress had given me the “inch,” and now, no ordinary
precaution could prevent me from taking the “ell.”
Seized with a determination to learn to read, at any cost, I hit upon many
expedients to accomplish the desired end. The plea which I mainly adopted,
and the one by which I was most successful, was that of using my young
white playmates, with whom I met in the streets as teachers. I used to carry,

almost constantly, a copy of Webster’s spelling book in my pocket; and,
when sent of errands, or when play time was allowed me, I would step, with
my young friends, aside, and take a lesson in spelling. I generally paid my
tuition fee to the boys, with bread, which I also carried in my pocket. For a
single biscuit, any of my hungry little comrades would give me a lesson
more valuable to me than bread. Not every one, however, demanded this
consideration, for there were those who took pleasure in teaching me,
whenever I had a chance to be taught by them. I am strongly tempted to
give the names of two or three of those little boys, as a slight testimonial of
the gratitude and affection I bear them, but prudence forbids; not that it
would injure me, but it might, possibly, embarrass them; for it is almost an
unpardonable offense to do any thing, directly or indirectly, to promote a
slave’s freedom, in a slave state. It is enough to say, of my warm-hearted
little play fellows, that they lived on Philpot street, very near Durgin &
Bailey’s shipyard.
Although slavery was a delicate subject, and very cautiously talked about
among grown up people in Maryland, I frequently talked about it—and that
very freely—with the white boys. I would, sometimes, say to them, while
seated on a curb stone or a cellar door, “I wish I could be free, as you will
be when you get to be men.” “You will be free, you know, as soon as you
are twenty-one, and can go where you like, but I am a slave for life. Have I
not as good a right to be free as you have?” Words like these, I observed,
always troubled them; and I had no small satisfaction in wringing from the
boys, occasionally, that fresh and bitter condemnation of slavery, that
springs from nature, unseared and unperverted. Of all consciences let me
have those to deal with which have not been bewildered by the cares of life.
I do not remember ever to have met with a boy, while I was in slavery, who
defended the slave system; but I have often had boys to console me, with
the hope that something would yet occur, by which I might be made free.
Over and over again, they have told me, that “they believed I had as good a
right to be free as they had;” and that “they did not believe God ever made
any one to be a slave.” The reader will easily see, that such little
conversations with my play fellows, had no tendency to weaken my love of
liberty, nor to render me contented with my condition as a slave.
When I was about thirteen years old, and had succeeded in learning to
read, every increase of knowledge, especially respecting the FREE
STATES, added something to the almost intolerable burden of the thought

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

interest that was ever increasing, because it was ever gaining in
intelligence; for the more I read them, the better I understood them. The
reading of these speeches added much to my limited stock of language, and
enabled me to give tongue to many interesting thoughts, which had
frequently flashed through my soul, and died away for want of utterance.
The mighty power and heart-searching directness of truth, penetrating even
the heart of a slaveholder, compelling him to yield up his earthly interests to
the claims of eternal justice, were finely illustrated in the dialogue, just
referred to; and from the speeches of Sheridan, I got a bold and powerful
denunciation of oppression, and a most brilliant vindication of the rights of
man. Here was, indeed, a noble acquisition. If I ever wavered under the
consideration, that the Almighty, in some way, ordained slavery, and willed
my enslavement for his own glory, I wavered no longer. I had now
penetrated the secret of all slavery and oppression, and had ascertained their
true foundation to be in the pride, the power and the avarice of man. The
dialogue and the speeches were all redolent of the principles of liberty, and
poured floods of light on the nature and character of slavery. With a book of
this kind in my hand, my own human nature, and the facts of my
experience, to help me, I was equal to a contest with the religious advocates
of slavery, whether among the whites or among the colored people, for
blindness, in this matter, is not confined to the former. I have met many
religious colored people, at the south, who are under the delusion that God
requires them to submit to slavery, and to wear their chains with meekness
and humility. I could entertain no such nonsense as this; and I almost lost
my patience when I found any colored man weak enough to believe such
stuff. Nevertheless, the increase of knowledge was attended with bitter, as
well as sweet results. The more I read, the more I was led to abhor and
detest slavery, and my enslavers. “Slaveholders,” thought I, “are only a
band of successful robbers, who left their homes and went into Africa for
the purpose of stealing and reducing my people to slavery.” I loathed them
as the meanest and the most wicked of men. As I read, behold! the very
discontent so graphically predicted by Master Hugh, had already come upon
me. I was no longer the light-hearted, gleesome boy, full of mirth and play,
as when I landed first at Baltimore. Knowledge had come; light had
penetrated the moral dungeon where I dwelt; and, behold! there lay the
bloody whip, for my back, and here was the iron chain; and my good, kind
master, he was the author of my situation. The revelation haunted me, stung

me, and made me gloomy and miserable. As I writhed under the sting and
torment of this knowledge, I almost envied my fellow slaves their stupid
contentment. This knowledge opened my eyes to the horrible pit, and
revealed the teeth of the frightful dragon that was ready to pounce upon me,
but it opened no way for my escape. I have often wished myself a beast, or
a bird—anything, rather than a slave. I was wretched and gloomy, beyond
my ability to describe. I was too thoughtful to be happy. It was this
everlasting thinking which distressed and tormented me; and yet there was
no getting rid of the subject of my thoughts. All nature was redolent of it.
Once awakened by the silver trump of knowledge, my spirit was roused to
eternal wakefulness. Liberty! the inestimable birthright of every man, had,
for me, converted every object into an asserter of this great right. It was
heard in every sound, and beheld in every object. It was ever present, to
torment me with a sense of my wretched condition. The more beautiful and
charming were the smiles of nature, the more horrible and desolate was my
condition. I saw nothing without seeing it, and I heard nothing without
hearing it. I do not exaggerate, when I say, that it looked from every star,
smiled in every calm, breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.
I have no doubt that my state of mind had something to do with the
change in the treatment adopted, by my once kind mistress toward me. I can
easily believe, that my leaden, downcast, and discontented look, was very
offensive to her. Poor lady! She did not know my trouble, and I dared not
tell her. Could I have freely made her acquainted with the real state of my
mind, and given her the reasons therefor, it might have been well for both of
us. Her abuse of me fell upon me like the blows of the false prophet upon
his ass; she did not know that an angel stood in the way; and—such is the
relation of master and slave I could not tell her. Nature had made us friends;
slavery made us enemies. My interests were in a direction opposite to hers,
and we both had our private thoughts and plans. She aimed to keep me
ignorant; and I resolved to know, although knowledge only increased my
discontent. My feelings were not the result of any marked cruelty in the
treatment I received; they sprung from the consideration of my being a
slave at all. It was slavery—not its mere incidents—that I hated. I had been
cheated. I saw through the attempt to keep me in ignorance; I saw that
slaveholders would have gladly made me believe that they were merely
acting under the authority of God, in making a slave of me, and in making
slaves of others; and I treated them as robbers and deceivers. The feeding

and clothing me well, could not atone for taking my liberty from me. The
smiles of my mistress could not remove the deep sorrow that dwelt in my
young bosom. Indeed, these, in time, came only to deepen my sorrow. She
had changed; and the reader will see that I had changed, too. We were both
victims to the same overshadowing evil—she, as mistress, I, as slave. I will
not censure her harshly; she cannot censure me, for she knows I speak but
the truth, and have acted in my opposition to slavery, just as she herself
would have acted, in a reverse of circumstances.

CHAPTER XII. Religious Nature Awakened

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

Whilst in the painful state of mind described in the foregoing chapter,
almost regretting my very existence, because doomed to a life of bondage,
so goaded and so wretched, at times, that I was even tempted to destroy my
own life, I was keenly sensitive and eager to know any, and every thing that
transpired, having any relation to the subject of slavery. I was all ears, all
eyes, whenever the words slave, slavery, dropped from the lips of any white
person, and the occasions were not unfrequent when these words became
leading ones, in high, social debate, at our house. Every little while, I could
hear Master Hugh, or some of his company, speaking with much warmth
and excitement about “abolitionists.” Of who or what these were, I was
totally ignorant. I found, however, that whatever they might be, they were

most cordially hated and soundly abused by slaveholders, of every grade. I
very soon discovered, too, that slavery was, in some sort, under
consideration, whenever the abolitionists were alluded to. This made the
term a very interesting one to me. If a slave, for instance, had made good
his escape from slavery, it was generally alleged, that he had been
persuaded and assisted by the abolitionists. If, also, a slave killed his master
—as was sometimes the case—or struck down his overseer, or set fire to his
master’s dwelling, or committed any violence or crime, out of the common
way, it was certain to be said, that such a crime was the legitimate fruits of
the abolition movement. Hearing such charges often repeated, I, naturally
enough, received the impression that abolition—whatever else it might be
—could not be unfriendly to the slave, nor very friendly to the slaveholder.
I therefore set about finding out, if possible, who and what the abolitionists
were, and why they were so obnoxious to the slaveholders. The dictionary
afforded me very little help. It taught me that abolition was the “act of
abolishing;” but it left me in ignorance at the very point where I most
wanted information—and that was, as to the thing to be abolished. A city
newspaper, the Baltimore American, gave me the incendiary information
denied me by the dictionary. In its columns I found, that, on a certain day, a
vast number of petitions and memorials had been presented to congress,
praying for the abolition of slavery in the District of Columbia, and for the
abolition of the slave trade between the states of the Union. This was
enough. The vindictive bitterness, the marked caution, the studied reverse,
and the cumbrous ambiguity, practiced by our white folks, when alluding to
this subject, was now fully explained. Ever, after that, when I heard the
words “abolition,” or “abolition movement,” mentioned, I felt the matter
one of a personal concern; and I drew near to listen, when I could do so,
without seeming too solicitous and prying. There was HOPE in those
words. Ever and anon, too, I could see some terrible denunciation of
slavery, in our papers—copied from abolition papers at the north—and the
injustice of such denunciation commented on. These I read with avidity. I
had a deep satisfaction in the thought, that the rascality of slaveholders was
not concealed from the eyes of the world, and that I was not alone in
abhorring the cruelty and brutality of slavery. A still deeper train of thought
was stirred. I saw that there was fear, as well as rage, in the manner of
speaking of the abolitionists. The latter, therefore, I was compelled to
regard as having some power in the country; and I felt that they might,

possibly, succeed in their designs. When I met with a slave to whom I
deemed it safe to talk on the subject, I would impart to him so much of the
mystery as I had been able to penetrate. Thus, the light of this grand
movement broke in upon my mind, by degrees; and I must say, that,
ignorant as I then was of the philosophy of that movement, I believe in it
from the first—and I believed in it, partly, because I saw that it alarmed the
consciences of slaveholders. The insurrection of Nathaniel Turner had been
quelled, but the alarm and terror had not subsided. The cholera was on its
way, and the thought was present, that God was angry with the white people
because of their slaveholding wickedness, and, therefore, his judgments
were abroad in the land. It was impossible for me not to hope much from
the abolition movement, when I saw it supported by the Almighty, and
armed with DEATH!
Previous to my contemplation of the anti-slavery movement, and its
probable results, my mind had been seriously awakened to the subject of
religion. I was not more than thirteen years old, when I felt the need of God,
as a father and protector. My religious nature was awakened by the
preaching of a white Methodist minister, named Hanson. He thought that all
men, great and small, bond and free, were sinners in the sight of God; that
they were, by nature, rebels against His government; and that they must
repent of their sins, and be reconciled to God, through Christ. I cannot say
that I had a very distinct notion of what was required of me; but one thing I
knew very well—I was wretched, and had no means of making myself
otherwise. Moreover, I knew that I could pray for light. I consulted a good
colored man, named Charles Johnson; and, in tones of holy affection, he
told me to pray, and what to pray for. I was, for weeks, a poor,
brokenhearted mourner, traveling through the darkness and misery of
doubts and fears. I finally found that change of heart which comes by
“casting all one’s care” upon God, and by having faith in Jesus Christ, as
the Redeemer, Friend, and Savior of those who diligently seek Him.
After this, I saw the world in a new light. I seemed to live in a new
world, surrounded by new objects, and to be animated by new hopes and
desires. I loved all mankind—slaveholders not excepted; though I abhorred
slavery more than ever. My great concern was, now, to have the world
converted. The desire for knowledge increased, and especially did I want a
thorough acquaintance with the contents of the bible. I have gathered
scattered pages from this holy book, from the filthy street gutters of

Baltimore, and washed and dried them, that in the moments of my leisure, I
might get a word or two of wisdom from them. While thus religiously
seeking knowledge, I became acquainted with a good old colored man,
named Lawson. A more devout man than he, I never saw. He drove a dray
for Mr. James Ramsey, the owner of a rope-walk on Fell’s Point, Baltimore.
This man not only prayed three time a day, but he prayed as he walked
through the streets, at his work—on his dray everywhere. His life was a life
of prayer, and his words (when he spoke to his friends,) were about a better
world. Uncle Lawson lived near Master Hugh’s house; and, becoming
deeply attached to the old man, I went often with him to prayer-meeting,
and spent much of my leisure time with him on Sunday. The old man could
read a little, and I was a great help to him, in making out the hard words, for
I was a better reader than he. I could teach him “the letter,” but he could
teach me “the spirit;” and high, refreshing times we had together, in
singing, praying and glorifying God. These meetings with Uncle Lawson
went on for a long time, without the knowledge of Master Hugh or my
mistress. Both knew, however, that I had become religious, and they seemed
to respect my conscientious piety. My mistress was still a professor of
religion, and belonged to class. Her leader was no less a person than the
Rev. Beverly Waugh, the presiding elder, and now one of the bishops of the
Methodist Episcopal church. Mr. Waugh was then stationed over Wilk street
church. I am careful to state these facts, that the reader may be able to form
an idea of the precise influences which had to do with shaping and directing
my mind.
In view of the cares and anxieties incident to the life she was then
leading, and, especially, in view of the separation from religious
associations to which she was subjected, my mistress had, as I have before
stated, become lukewarm, and needed to be looked up by her leader. This
brought Mr. Waugh to our house, and gave me an opportunity to hear him
exhort and pray. But my chief instructor, in matters of religion, was Uncle
Lawson. He was my spiritual father; and I loved him intensely, and was at
his house every chance I got.
This pleasure was not long allowed me. Master Hugh became averse to
my going to Father Lawson’s, and threatened to whip me if I ever went
there again. I now felt myself persecuted by a wicked man; and I would go
to Father Lawson’s, notwithstanding the threat. The good old man had told
me, that the “Lord had a great work for me to do;” and I must prepare to do

it; and that he had been shown that I must preach the gospel. His words
made a deep impression on my mind, and I verily felt that some such work
was before me, though I could not see how I should ever engage in its
performance. “The good Lord,” he said, “would bring it to pass in his own
good time,” and that I must go on reading and studying the scriptures. The
advice and the suggestions of Uncle Lawson, were not without their
influence upon my character and destiny. He threw my thoughts into a
channel from which they have never entirely diverged. He fanned my
already intense love of knowledge into a flame, by assuring me that I was to
be a useful man in the world. When I would say to him, “How can these
things be and what can I do?” his simple reply was, “Trust in the Lord.”
When I told him that “I was a slave, and a slave FOR LIFE,” he said, “the
Lord can make you free, my dear. All things are possible with him, only
have faith in God.” “Ask, and it shall be given.” “If you want liberty,” said
the good old man, “ask the Lord for it, in faith, AND HE WILL GIVE IT
TO YOU.”
Thus assured, and cheered on, under the inspiration of hope, I worked
and prayed with a light heart, believing that my life was under the guidance
of a wisdom higher than my own. With all other blessings sought at the
mercy seat, I always prayed that God would, of His great mercy, and in His
own good time, deliver me from my bondage.
I went, one day, on the wharf of Mr. Waters; and seeing two Irishmen
unloading a large scow of stone, or ballast I went on board, unasked, and
helped them. When we had finished the work, one of the men came to me,
aside, and asked me a number of questions, and among them, if I were a
slave. I told him “I was a slave, and a slave for life.” The good Irishman
gave his shoulders a shrug, and seemed deeply affected by the statement.
He said, “it was a pity so fine a little fellow as myself should be a slave for
life.” They both had much to say about the matter, and expressed the
deepest sympathy with me, and the most decided hatred of slavery. They
went so far as to tell me that I ought to run away, and go to the north; that I
should find friends there, and that I would be as free as anybody. I,
however, pretended not to be interested in what they said, for I feared they
might be treacherous. White men have been known to encourage slaves to
escape, and then—to get the reward—they have kidnapped them, and
returned them to their masters. And while I mainly inclined to the notion
that these men were honest and meant me no ill, I feared it might be

otherwise. I nevertheless remembered their words and their advice, and
looked forward to an escape to the north, as a possible means of gaining the
liberty for which my heart panted. It was not my enslavement, at the then
present time, that most affected me; the being a slave for life, was the
saddest thought. I was too young to think of running away immediately;
besides, I wished to learn how to write, before going, as I might have
occasion to write my own pass. I now not only had the hope of freedom, but
a foreshadowing of the means by which I might, some day, gain that
inestimable boon. Meanwhile, I resolved to add to my educational
attainments the art of writing.
After this manner I began to learn to write: I was much in the ship yard—
Master Hugh’s, and that of Durgan & Bailey—and I observed that the
carpenters, after hewing and getting a piece of timber ready for use, wrote
on it the initials of the name of that part of the ship for which it was
intended. When, for instance, a piece of timber was ready for the starboard
side, it was marked with a capital “S.” A piece for the larboard side was
marked “L;” larboard forward, “L. F.;” larboard aft, was marked “L. A.;”
starboard aft, “S. A.;” and starboard forward “S. F.” I soon learned these
letters, and for what they were placed on the timbers.
My work was now, to keep fire under the steam box, and to watch the
ship yard while the carpenters had gone to dinner. This interval gave me a
fine opportunity for copying the letters named. I soon astonished myself
with the ease with which I made the letters; and the thought was soon
present, “if I can make four, I can make more.” But having made these
easily, when I met boys about Bethel church, or any of our play-grounds, I
entered the lists with them in the art of writing, and would make the letters
which I had been so fortunate as to learn, and ask them to “beat that if they
could.” With playmates for my teachers, fences and pavements for my copy
books, and chalk for my pen and ink, I learned the art of writing. I,
however, afterward adopted various methods of improving my hand. The
most successful, was copying the italics in Webster’s spelling book, until I
could make them all without looking on the book. By this time, my little
“Master Tommy” had grown to be a big boy, and had written over a number
of copy books, and brought them home. They had been shown to the
neighbors, had elicited due praise, and were now laid carefully away.
Spending my time between the ship yard and house, I was as often the lone
keeper of the latter as of the former. When my mistress left me in charge of

the house, I had a grand time; I got Master Tommy’s copy books and a pen
and ink, and, in the ample spaces between the lines, I wrote other lines, as
nearly like his as possible. The process was a tedious one, and I ran the risk
of getting a flogging for marring the highly prized copy books of the oldest
son. In addition to those opportunities, sleeping, as I did, in the kitchen loft
—a room seldom visited by any of the family—I got a flour barrel up there,
and a chair; and upon the head of that barrel I have written (or endeavored
to write) copying from the bible and the Methodist hymn book, and other
books which had accumulated on my hands, till late at night, and when all
the family were in bed and asleep. I was supported in my endeavors by
renewed advice, and by holy promises from the good Father Lawson, with
whom I continued to meet, and pray, and read the scriptures. Although
Master Hugh was aware of my going there, I must say, for his credit, that he
never executed his threat to whip me, for having thus, innocently,
employed-my leisure time.

CHAPTER XIII. The Vicissitudes of Slave Life

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

I must now ask the reader to go with me a little back in point of time, in
my humble story, and to notice another circumstance that entered into my
slavery experience, and which, doubtless, has had a share in deepening my
horror of slavery, and increasing my hostility toward those men and
measures that practically uphold the slave system.
It has already been observed, that though I was, after my removal from
Col. Lloyd’s plantation, in form the slave of Master Hugh, I was, in fact,
and in law, the slave of my old master, Capt. Anthony. Very well.

In a very short time after I went to Baltimore, my old master’s youngest
son, Richard, died; and, in three years and six months after his death, my
old master himself died, leaving only his son, Andrew, and his daughter,
Lucretia, to share his estate. The old man died while on a visit to his
daughter, in Hillsborough, where Capt. Auld and Mrs. Lucretia now lived.
The former, having given up the command of Col. Lloyd’s sloop, was now
keeping a store in that town.
Cut off, thus unexpectedly, Capt. Anthony died intestate; and his property
must now be equally divided between his two children, Andrew and
Lucretia.
The valuation and the division of slaves, among contending heirs, is an
important incident in slave life. The character and tendencies of the heirs,
are generally well understood among the slaves who are to be divided, and
all have their aversions and preferences. But, neither their aversions nor
their preferences avail them anything.
On the death of old master, I was immediately sent for, to be valued and
divided with the other property. Personally, my concern was, mainly, about
my possible removal from the home of Master Hugh, which, after that of
my grandmother, was the most endeared to me. But, the whole thing, as a
feature of slavery, shocked me. It furnished me anew insight into the
unnatural power to which I was subjected. My detestation of slavery,
already great, rose with this new conception of its enormity.
That was a sad day for me, a sad day for little Tommy, and a sad day for
my dear Baltimore mistress and teacher, when I left for the Eastern Shore,
to be valued and divided. We, all three, wept bitterly that day; for we might
be parting, and we feared we were parting, forever. No one could tell
among which pile of chattels I should be flung. Thus early, I got a foretaste
of that painful uncertainty which slavery brings to the ordinary lot of
mortals. Sickness, adversity and death may interfere with the plans and
purposes of all; but the slave has the added danger of changing homes,
changing hands, and of having separations unknown to other men. Then,
too, there was the intensified degradation of the spectacle. What an
assemblage! Men and women, young and old, married and single; moral
and intellectual beings, in open contempt of their humanity, level at a blow
with horses, sheep, horned cattle and swine! Horses and men—cattle and
women—pigs and children—all holding the same rank in the scale of social

existence; and all subjected to the same narrow inspection, to ascertain their
value in gold and silver—the only standard of worth applied by
slaveholders to slaves! How vividly, at that moment, did the brutalizing
power of slavery flash before me! Personality swallowed up in the sordid
idea of property! Manhood lost in chattelhood!
After the valuation, then came the division. This was an hour of high
excitement and distressing anxiety. Our destiny was now to be fixed for life,
and we had no more voice in the decision of the question, than the oxen and
cows that stood chewing at the haymow. One word from the appraisers,
against all preferences or prayers, was enough to sunder all the ties of
friendship and affection, and even to separate husbands and wives, parents
and children. We were all appalled before that power, which, to human
seeming, could bless or blast us in a moment. Added to the dread of
separation, most painful to the majority of the slaves, we all had a decided
horror of the thought of falling into the hands of Master Andrew. He was
distinguished for cruelty and intemperance.
Slaves generally dread to fall into the hands of drunken owners. Master
Andrew was almost a confirmed sot, and had already, by his reckless
mismanagement and profligate dissipation, wasted a large portion of old
master’s property. To fall into his hands, was, therefore, considered merely
as the first step toward being sold away to the far south. He would spend his
fortune in a few years, and his farms and slaves would be sold, we thought,
at public outcry; and we should be hurried away to the cotton fields, and
rice swamps, of the sunny south. This was the cause of deep consternation.
The people of the north, and free people generally, I think, have less
attachment to the places where they are born and brought up, than have the
slaves. Their freedom to go and come, to be here and there, as they list,
prevents any extravagant attachment to any one particular place, in their
case. On the other hand, the slave is a fixture; he has no choice, no goal, no
destination; but is pegged down to a single spot, and must take root here, or
nowhere. The idea of removal elsewhere, comes, generally, in the shape of a
threat, and in punishment of crime. It is, therefore, attended with fear and
dread. A slave seldom thinks of bettering his condition by being sold, and
hence he looks upon separation from his native place, with none of the
enthusiasm which animates the bosoms of young freemen, when they
contemplate a life in the far west, or in some distant country where they

intend to rise to wealth and distinction. Nor can those from whom they
separate, give them up with that cheerfulness with which friends and
relations yield each other up, when they feel that it is for the good of the
departing one that he is removed from his native place. Then, too, there is
correspondence, and there is, at least, the hope of reunion, because reunion
is possible. But, with the slave, all these mitigating circumstances are
wanting. There is no improvement in his condition probable,—no
correspondence possible,—no reunion attainable. His going out into the
world, is like a living man going into the tomb, who, with open eyes, sees
himself buried out of sight and hearing of wife, children and friends of
kindred tie.
In contemplating the likelihoods and possibilities of our circumstances, I
probably suffered more than most of my fellow servants. I had known what
it was to experience kind, and even tender treatment; they had known
nothing of the sort. Life, to them, had been rough and thorny, as well as
dark. They had—most of them—lived on my old master’s farm in
Tuckahoe, and had felt the reign of Mr. Plummer’s rule. The overseer had
written his character on the living parchment of most of their backs, and left
them callous; my back (thanks to my early removal from the plantation to
Baltimore) was yet tender. I had left a kind mistress at Baltimore, who was
almost a mother to me. She was in tears when we parted, and the
probabilities of ever seeing her again, trembling in the balance as they did,
could not be viewed without alarm and agony. The thought of leaving that
kind mistress forever, and, worse still, of being the slave of Andrew
Anthony—a man who, but a few days before the division of the property,
had, in my presence, seized my brother Perry by the throat, dashed him on
the ground, and with the heel of his boot stamped him on the head, until the
blood gushed from his nose and ears—was terrible! This fiendish
proceeding had no better apology than the fact, that Perry had gone to play,
when Master Andrew wanted him for some trifling service. This cruelty,
too, was of a piece with his general character. After inflicting his heavy
blows on my brother, on observing me looking at him with intense
astonishment, he said, “That is the way I will serve you, one of these days;”
meaning, no doubt, when I should come into his possession. This threat, the
reader may well suppose, was not very tranquilizing to my feelings. I could
see that he really thirsted to get hold of me. But I was there only for a few

days. I had not received any orders, and had violated none, and there was,
therefore, no excuse for flogging me.
At last, the anxiety and suspense were ended; and they ended, thanks to a
kind Providence, in accordance with my wishes. I fell to the portion of Mrs.
Lucretia—the dear lady who bound up my head, when the savage Aunt
Katy was adding to my sufferings her bitterest maledictions.
Capt. Thomas Auld and Mrs. Lucretia at once decided on my return to
Baltimore. They knew how sincerely and warmly Mrs. Hugh Auld was
attached to me, and how delighted Mr. Hugh’s son would be to have me
back; and, withal, having no immediate use for one so young, they willingly
let me off to Baltimore.
I need not stop here to narrate my joy on returning to Baltimore, nor that
of little Tommy; nor the tearful joy of his mother; nor the evident
saticfaction(sic) of Master Hugh. I was just one month absent from
Baltimore, before the matter was decided; and the time really seemed full
six months.
One trouble over, and on comes another. The slave’s life is full of
uncertainty. I had returned to Baltimore but a short time, when the tidings
reached me, that my friend, Mrs. Lucretia, who was only second in my
regard to Mrs. Hugh Auld, was dead, leaving her husband and only one
child—a daughter, named Amanda.
Shortly after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, strange to say, Master Andrew
died, leaving his wife and one child. Thus, the whole family of Anthonys
was swept away; only two children remained. All this happened within five
years of my leaving Col. Lloyd’s.
No alteration took place in the condition of the slaves, in consequence of
these deaths, yet I could not help feeling less secure, after the death of my
friend, Mrs. Lucretia, than I had done during her life. While she lived, I felt
that I had a strong friend to plead for me in any emergency. Ten years ago,
while speaking of the state of things in our family, after the events just
named, I used this language:
Now all the property of my old master, slaves included, was in the hands
of strangers—strangers who had nothing to do in accumulating it. Not a
slave was left free. All remained slaves, from youngest to oldest. If any one
thing in my experience, more than another, served to deepen my conviction
of the infernal character of slavery, and to fill me with unutterable loathing

of slaveholders, it was their base ingratitude to my poor old grandmother.
She had served my old master faithfully from youth to old age. She had
been the source of all his wealth; she had peopled his plantation with slaves;
she had become a great-grandmother in his service. She had rocked him in
infancy, attended him in childhood, served him through life, and at his death
wiped from his icy brow the cold death-sweat, and closed his eyes forever.
She was nevertheless left a slave—a slave for life—a slave in the hands of
strangers; and in their hands she saw her children, her grandchildren, and
her great-grandchildren, divided, like so many sheep, without being
gratified with the small privilege of a single word, as to their or her own
destiny. And, to cap the climax of their base ingratitude and fiendish
barbarity, my grandmother, who was now very old, having outlived my old
master and all his children, having seen the beginning and end of all of
them, and her present owners finding she was of but little value, her frame
already racked with the pains of old age, and complete helplessness fast
stealing over her once active limbs, they took her to the woods, built her a
little hut, put up a little mud-chimney, and then made her welcome to the
privilege of supporting herself there in perfect loneliness; thus virtually
turning her out to die! If my poor old grandmother now lives, she lives to
suffer in utter loneliness; she lives to remember and mourn over the loss of
children, the loss of grandchildren, and the loss of great-grandchildren.
They are, in the language of the slave’s poet, Whittier—
Gone, gone, sold and gone,
To the rice swamp dank and lone,
Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings,
Where the noisome insect stings,
Where the fever-demon strews
Poison with the falling dews,
Where the sickly sunbeams glare
Through the hot and misty air:—
Gone, gone, sold and gone
To the rice swamp dank and lone,
From Virginia hills and waters—
Woe is me, my stolen daughters!

The hearth is desolate. The children, the unconscious children, who once
sang and danced in her presence, are gone. She gropes her way, in the
darkness of age, for a drink of water. Instead of the voices of her children,
she hears by day the moans of the dove, and by night the screams of the
hideous owl. All is gloom. The grave is at the door. And now, when

weighed down by the pains and aches of old age, when the head inclines to
the feet, when the beginning and ending of human existence meet, and
helpless infancy and painful old age combine together—at this time, this
most needful time, the time for the exercise of that tenderness and affection
which children only can exercise toward a declining parent—my poor old
grandmother, the devoted mother of twelve children, is left all alone, in
yonder little hut, before a few dim embers.
Two years after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, Master Thomas married his
second wife. Her name was Rowena Hamilton, the eldest daughter of Mr.
William Hamilton, a rich slaveholder on the Eastern Shore of Maryland,
who lived about five miles from St. Michael’s, the then place of my
master’s residence.
Not long after his marriage, Master Thomas had a misunderstanding with
Master Hugh, and, as a means of punishing his brother, he ordered him to
send me home.
As the ground of misunderstanding will serve to illustrate the character of
southern chivalry, and humanity, I will relate it.
Among the children of my Aunt Milly, was a daughter, named Henny.
When quite a child, Henny had fallen into the fire, and burnt her hands so
bad that they were of very little use to her. Her fingers were drawn almost
into the palms of her hands. She could make out to do something, but she
was considered hardly worth the having—of little more value than a horse
with a broken leg. This unprofitable piece of human property, ill shapen,
and disfigured, Capt. Auld sent off to Baltimore, making his brother Hugh
welcome to her services.
After giving poor Henny a fair trial, Master Hugh and his wife came to
the conclusion, that they had no use for the crippled servant, and they sent
her back to Master Thomas. Thus, the latter took as an act of ingratitude, on
the part of his brother; and, as a mark of his displeasure, he required him to
send me immediately to St. Michael’s, saying, if he cannot keep “Hen,” he
shall not have “Fred.”
Here was another shock to my nerves, another breaking up of my plans,
and another severance of my religious and social alliances. I was now a big
boy. I had become quite useful to several young colored men, who had
made me their teacher. I had taught some of them to read, and was
accustomed to spend many of my leisure hours with them. Our attachment

was strong, and I greatly dreaded the separation. But regrets, especially in a
slave, are unavailing. I was only a slave; my wishes were nothing, and my
happiness was the sport of my masters.
My regrets at now leaving Baltimore, were not for the same reasons as
when I before left that city, to be valued and handed over to my proper
owner. My home was not now the pleasant place it had formerly been. A
change had taken place, both in Master Hugh, and in his once pious and
affectionate wife. The influence of brandy and bad company on him, and
the influence of slavery and social isolation upon her, had wrought
disastrously upon the characters of both. Thomas was no longer “little
Tommy,” but was a big boy, and had learned to assume the airs of his class
toward me. My condition, therefore, in the house of Master Hugh, was not,
by any means, so comfortable as in former years. My attachments were now
outside of our family. They were felt to those to whom I imparted
instruction, and to those little white boys from whom I received instruction.
There, too, was my dear old father, the pious Lawson, who was, in christian
graces, the very counterpart of “Uncle” Tom. The resemblance is so perfect,
that he might have been the original of Mrs. Stowe’s christian hero. The
thought of leaving these dear friends, greatly troubled me, for I was going
without the hope of ever returning to Baltimore again; the feud between
Master Hugh and his brother being bitter and irreconcilable, or, at least,
supposed to be so.
In addition to thoughts of friends from whom I was parting, as I
supposed, forever, I had the grief of neglected chances of escape to brood
over. I had put off running away, until now I was to be placed where the
opportunities for escaping were much fewer than in a large city like
Baltimore.
On my way from Baltimore to St. Michael’s, down the Chesapeake bay,
our sloop—the “Amanda”—was passed by the steamers plying between
that city and Philadelphia, and I watched the course of those steamers, and,
while going to St. Michael’s, I formed a plan to escape from slavery; of
which plan, and matters connected therewith the kind reader shall learn
more hereafter.

CHAPTER XIV. Experience in St. Michael’s

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

St. Michael’s, the village in which was now my new home, compared
favorably with villages in slave states, generally. There were a few
comfortable dwellings in it, but the place, as a whole, wore a dull, slovenly,
enterprise-forsaken aspect. The mass of the buildings were wood; they had
never enjoyed the artificial adornment of paint, and time and storms had
worn off the bright color of the wood, leaving them almost as black as
buildings charred by a conflagration.
St. Michael’s had, in former years, (previous to 1833, for that was the
year I went to reside there,) enjoyed some reputation as a ship building

community, but that business had almost entirely given place to oyster
fishing, for the Baltimore and Philadelphia markets—a course of life highly
unfavorable to morals, industry, and manners. Miles river was broad, and its
oyster fishing grounds were extensive; and the fishermen were out, often,
all day, and a part of the night, during autumn, winter and spring. This
exposure was an excuse for carrying with them, in considerable
quanties(sic), spirituous liquors, the then supposed best antidote for cold.
Each canoe was supplied with its jug of rum; and tippling, among this class
of the citizens of St. Michael’s, became general. This drinking habit, in an
ignorant population, fostered coarseness, vulgarity and an indolent
disregard for the social improvement of the place, so that it was admitted,
by the few sober, thinking people who remained there, that St. Michael’s
had become a very unsaintly, as well as unsightly place, before I went there
to reside.
I left Baltimore for St. Michael’s in the month of March, 1833. I know
the year, because it was the one succeeding the first cholera in Baltimore,
and was the year, also, of that strange phenomenon, when the heavens
seemed about to part with its starry train. I witnessed this gorgeous
spectacle, and was awe-struck. The air seemed filled with bright,
descending messengers from the sky. It was about daybreak when I saw this
sublime scene. I was not without the suggestion, at the moment, that it
might be the harbinger of the coming of the Son of Man; and, in my then
state of mind, I was prepared to hail Him as my friend and deliverer. I had
read, that the “stars shall fall from heaven”; and they were now falling. I
was suffering much in my mind. It did seem that every time the young
tendrils of my affection became attached, they were rudely broken by some
unnatural outside power; and I was beginning to look away to heaven for
the rest denied me on earth.
But, to my story. It was now more than seven years since I had lived with
Master Thomas Auld, in the family of my old master, on Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. We were almost entire strangers to each other; for, when I knew
him at the house of my old master, it was not as a master, but simply as
“Captain Auld,” who had married old master’s daughter. All my lessons
concerning his temper and disposition, and the best methods of pleasing
him, were yet to be learnt. Slaveholders, however, are not very ceremonious
in approaching a slave; and my ignorance of the new material in shape of a
master was but transient. Nor was my mistress long in making known her

animus. She was not a “Miss Lucretia,” traces of whom I yet remembered,
and the more especially, as I saw them shining in the face of little Amanda,
her daughter, now living under a step-mother’s government. I had not
forgotten the soft hand, guided by a tender heart, that bound up with healing
balsam the gash made in my head by Ike, the son of Abel. Thomas and
Rowena, I found to be a well-matched pair. He was stingy, and she was
cruel; and—what was quite natural in such cases—she possessed the ability
to make him as cruel as herself, while she could easily descend to the level
of his meanness. In the house of Master Thomas, I was made—for the first
time in seven years to feel the pinchings of hunger, and this was not very
easy to bear.
For, in all the changes of Master Hugh’s family, there was no change in
the bountifulness with which they supplied me with food. Not to give a
slave enough to eat, is meanness intensified, and it is so recognized among
slaveholders generally, in Maryland. The rule is, no matter how coarse the
food, only let there be enough of it. This is the theory, and—in the part of
Maryland I came from—the general practice accords with this theory.
Lloyd’s plantation was an exception, as was, also, the house of Master
Thomas Auld.
All know the lightness of Indian corn-meal, as an article of food, and can
easily judge from the following facts whether the statements I have made of
the stinginess of Master Thomas, are borne out. There were four slaves of
us in the kitchen, and four whites in the great house Thomas Auld, Mrs.
Auld, Hadaway Auld (brother of Thomas Auld) and little Amanda. The
names of the slaves in the kitchen, were Eliza, my sister; Priscilla, my aunt;
Henny, my cousin; and myself. There were eight persons in the family.
There was, each week, one half bushel of corn-meal brought from the mill;
and in the kitchen, corn-meal was almost our exclusive food, for very little
else was allowed us. Out of this bushel of corn-meal, the family in the great
house had a small loaf every morning; thus leaving us, in the kitchen, with
not quite a half a peck per week, apiece. This allowance was less than half
the allowance of food on Lloyd’s plantation. It was not enough to subsist
upon; and we were, therefore, reduced to the wretched necessity of living at
the expense of our neighbors. We were compelled either to beg, or to steal,
and we did both. I frankly confess, that while I hated everything like
stealing, as such, I nevertheless did not hesitate to take food, when I was
hungry, wherever I could find it. Nor was this practice the mere result of an

unreasoning instinct; it was, in my case, the result of a clear apprehension
of the claims of morality. I weighed and considered the matter closely,
before I ventured to satisfy my hunger by such means. Considering that my
labor and person were the property of Master Thomas, and that I was by
him deprived of the necessaries of life necessaries obtained by my own
labor—it was easy to deduce the right to supply myself with what was my
own. It was simply appropriating what was my own to the use of my
master, since the health and strength derived from such food were exerted in
his service. To be sure, this was stealing, according to the law and gospel I
heard from St. Michael’s pulpit; but I had already begun to attach less
importance to what dropped from that quarter, on that point, while, as yet, I
retained my reverence for religion. It was not always convenient to steal
from master, and the same reason why I might, innocently, steal from him,
did not seem to justify me in stealing from others. In the case of my master,
it was only a question of removal—the taking his meat out of one tub, and
putting it into another; the ownership of the meat was not affected by the
transaction. At first, he owned it in the tub, and last, he owned it in me. His
meat house was not always open. There was a strict watch kept on that
point, and the key was on a large bunch in Rowena’s pocket. A great many
times have we, poor creatures, been severely pinched with hunger, when
meat and bread have been moulding under the lock, while the key was in
the pocket of our mistress. This had been so when she knew we were nearly
half starved; and yet, that mistress, with saintly air, would kneel with her
husband, and pray each morning that a merciful God would bless them in
basket and in store, and save them, at last, in his kingdom. But I proceed
with the argument.
It was necessary that right to steal from others should be established; and
this could only rest upon a wider range of generalization than that which
supposed the right to steal from my master.
It was sometime before I arrived at this clear right. The reader will get
some idea of my train of reasoning, by a brief statement of the case. “I am,”
thought I, “not only the slave of Thomas, but I am the slave of society at
large. Society at large has bound itself, in form and in fact, to assist Master
Thomas in robbing me of my rightful liberty, and of the just reward of my
labor; therefore, whatever rights I have against Master Thomas, I have,
equally, against those confederated with him in robbing me of liberty. As
society has marked me out as privileged plunder, on the principle of self-

preservation I am justified in plundering in turn. Since each slave belongs to
all; all must, therefore, belong to each.”
I shall here make a profession of faith which may shock some, offend
others, and be dissented from by all. It is this: Within the bounds of his just
earnings, I hold that the slave is fully justified in helping himself to the gold
and silver, and the best apparel of his master, or that of any other
slaveholder; and that such taking is not stealing in any just sense of that
word.
The morality of free society can have no application to slave society.
Slaveholders have made it almost impossible for the slave to commit any
crime, known either to the laws of God or to the laws of man. If he steals,
he takes his own; if he kills his master, he imitates only the heroes of the
revolution. Slaveholders I hold to be individually and collectively
responsible for all the evils which grow out of the horrid relation, and I
believe they will be so held at the judgment, in the sight of a just God.
Make a man a slave, and you rob him of moral responsibility. Freedom of
choice is the essence of all accountability. But my kind readers are,
probably, less concerned about my opinions, than about that which more
nearly touches my personal experience; albeit, my opinions have, in some
sort, been formed by that experience.
Bad as slaveholders are, I have seldom met with one so entirely destitute
of every element of character capable of inspiring respect, as was my
present master, Capt. Thomas Auld.
When I lived with him, I thought him incapable of a noble action. The
leading trait in his character was intense selfishness. I think he was fully
aware of this fact himself, and often tried to conceal it. Capt. Auld was not a
born slaveholder—not a birthright member of the slaveholding oligarchy.
He was only a slaveholder by marriage-right; and, of all slaveholders, these
latter are, by far, the most exacting. There was in him all the love of
domination, the pride of mastery, and the swagger of authority, but his rule
lacked the vital element of consistency. He could be cruel; but his methods
of showing it were cowardly, and evinced his meanness rather than his
spirit. His commands were strong, his enforcement weak.
Slaves are not insensible to the whole-souled characteristics of a
generous, dashing slaveholder, who is fearless of consequences; and they
prefer a master of this bold and daring kind—even with the risk of being

shot down for impudence to the fretful, little soul, who never uses the lash
but at the suggestion of a love of gain.
Slaves, too, readily distinguish between the birthright bearing of the
original slaveholder and the assumed attitudes of the accidental slaveholder;
and while they cannot respect either, they certainly despise the latter more
than the former.
The luxury of having slaves wait upon him was something new to Master
Thomas; and for it he was wholly unprepared. He was a slaveholder,
without the ability to hold or manage his slaves. We seldom called him
“master,” but generally addressed him by his “bay craft” title—“Capt.
Auld.” It is easy to see that such conduct might do much to make him
appear awkward, and, consequently, fretful. His wife was especially
solicitous to have us call her husband “master.” Is your master at the
store?”—“Where is your master?”—“Go and tell your master”—“I will
make your master acquainted with your conduct”—she would say; but we
were inapt scholars. Especially were I and my sister Eliza inapt in this
particular. Aunt Priscilla was less stubborn and defiant in her spirit than
Eliza and myself; and, I think, her road was less rough than ours.
In the month of August, 1833, when I had almost become desperate
under the treatment of Master Thomas, and when I entertained more
strongly than ever the oft-repeated determination to run away, a
circumstance occurred which seemed to promise brighter and better days
for us all. At a Methodist camp-meeting, held in the Bay Side (a famous
place for campmeetings) about eight miles from St. Michael’s, Master
Thomas came out with a profession of religion. He had long been an object
of interest to the church, and to the ministers, as I had seen by the repeated
visits and lengthy exhortations of the latter. He was a fish quite worth
catching, for he had money and standing. In the community of St. Michael’s
he was equal to the best citizen. He was strictly temperate; perhaps, from
principle, but most likely, from interest. There was very little to do for him,
to give him the appearance of piety, and to make him a pillar in the church.
Well, the camp-meeting continued a week; people gathered from all parts of
the county, and two steamboat loads came from Baltimore. The ground was
happily chosen; seats were arranged; a stand erected; a rude altar fenced in,
fronting the preachers’ stand, with straw in it for the accommodation of
mourners. This latter would hold at least one hundred persons. In front, and

on the sides of the preachers’ stand, and outside the long rows of seats, rose
the first class of stately tents, each vieing with the other in strength,
neatness, and capacity for accommodating its inmates. Behind this first
circle of tents was another, less imposing, which reached round the camp-
ground to the speakers’ stand. Outside this second class of tents were
covered wagons, ox carts, and vehicles of every shape and size. These
served as tents to their owners. Outside of these, huge fires were burning, in
all directions, where roasting, and boiling, and frying, were going on, for
the benefit of those who were attending to their own spiritual welfare within
the circle. Behind the preachers’ stand, a narrow space was marked out for
the use of the colored people. There were no seats provided for this class of
persons; the preachers addressed them, “over the left,” if they addressed
them at all. After the preaching was over, at every service, an invitation was
given to mourners to come into the pen; and, in some cases, ministers went
out to persuade men and women to come in. By one of these ministers,
Master Thomas Auld was persuaded to go inside the pen. I was deeply
interested in that matter, and followed; and, though colored people were not
allowed either in the pen or in front of the preachers’ stand, I ventured to
take my stand at a sort of half-way place between the blacks and whites,
where I could distinctly see the movements of mourners, and especially the
progress of Master Thomas.
“If he has got religion,” thought I, “he will emancipate his slaves; and if
he should not do so much as this, he will, at any rate, behave toward us
more kindly, and feed us more generously than he has heretofore done.”
Appealing to my own religious experience, and judging my master by what
was true in my own case, I could not regard him as soundly converted,
unless some such good results followed his profession of religion.
But in my expectations I was doubly disappointed; Master Thomas was
Master Thomas still. The fruits of his righteousness were to show
themselves in no such way as I had anticipated. His conversion was not to
change his relation toward men—at any rate not toward BLACK men—but
toward God. My faith, I confess, was not great. There was something in his
appearance that, in my mind, cast a doubt over his conversion. Standing
where I did, I could see his every movement. I watched narrowly while he
remained in the little pen; and although I saw that his face was extremely
red, and his hair disheveled, and though I heard him groan, and saw a stray
tear halting on his cheek, as if inquiring “which way shall I go?”—I could

not wholly confide in the genuineness of his conversion. The hesitating
behavior of that tear-drop and its loneliness, distressed me, and cast a doubt
upon the whole transaction, of which it was a part. But people said, “Capt.
Auld had come through,” and it was for me to hope for the best. I was
bound to do this, in charity, for I, too, was religious, and had been in the
church full three years, although now I was not more than sixteen years old.
Slaveholders may, sometimes, have confidence in the piety of some of their
slaves; but the slaves seldom have confidence in the piety of their masters.
“He cant go to heaven with our blood in his skirts,” is a settled point in the
creed of every slave; rising superior to all teaching to the contrary, and
standing forever as a fixed fact. The highest evidence the slaveholder can
give the slave of his acceptance with God, is the emancipation of his slaves.
This is proof that he is willing to give up all to God, and for the sake of
God. Not to do this, was, in my estimation, and in the opinion of all the
slaves, an evidence of half-heartedness, and wholly inconsistent with the
idea of genuine conversion. I had read, also, somewhere in the Methodist
Discipline, the following question and answer:
“Question. What shall be done for the extirpation of slavery?
“Answer. We declare that we are much as ever convinced of the great evil
of slavery; therefore, no slaveholder shall be eligible to any official station
in our church.”
These words sounded in my ears for a long time, and encouraged me to
hope. But, as I have before said, I was doomed to disappointment. Master
Thomas seemed to be aware of my hopes and expectations concerning him.
I have thought, before now, that he looked at me in answer to my glances,
as much as to say, “I will teach you, young man, that, though I have parted
with my sins, I have not parted with my sense. I shall hold my slaves, and
go to heaven too.”
Possibly, to convince us that we must not presume too much upon his
recent conversion, he became rather more rigid and stringent in his
exactions. There always was a scarcity of good nature about the man; but
now his whole countenance was soured over with the seemings of piety. His
religion, therefore, neither made him emancipate his slaves, nor caused him
to treat them with greater humanity. If religion had any effect on his
character at all, it made him more cruel and hateful in all his ways. The
natural wickedness of his heart had not been removed, but only reinforced,

by the profession of religion. Do I judge him harshly? God forbid. Facts are
facts. Capt. Auld made the greatest profession of piety. His house was,
literally, a house of prayer. In the morning, and in the evening, loud prayers
and hymns were heard there, in which both himself and his wife joined; yet,
no more meal was brought from the mill, no more attention was paid to the
moral welfare of the kitchen; and nothing was done to make us feel that the
heart of Master Thomas was one whit better than it was before he went into
the little pen, opposite to the preachers’ stand, on the camp ground.
Our hopes (founded on the discipline) soon vanished; for the authorities
let him into the church at once, and before he was out of his term of
probation, I heard of his leading class! He distinguished himself greatly
among the brethren, and was soon an exhorter. His progress was almost as
rapid as the growth of the fabled vine of Jack’s bean. No man was more
active than he, in revivals. He would go many miles to assist in carrying
them on, and in getting outsiders interested in religion. His house being one
of the holiest, if not the happiest in St. Michael’s, became the “preachers’
home.” These preachers evidently liked to share Master Thomas’s
hospitality; for while he starved us, he stuffed them. Three or four of these
ambassadors of the gospel—according to slavery—have been there at a
time; all living on the fat of the land, while we, in the kitchen, were nearly
starving. Not often did we get a smile of recognition from these holy men.
They seemed almost as unconcerned about our getting to heaven, as they
were about our getting out of slavery. To this general charge there was one
exception—the Rev. GEORGE COOKMAN. Unlike Rev. Messrs. Storks,
Ewry, Hickey, Humphrey and Cooper (all whom were on the St. Michael’s
circuit) he kindly took an interest in our temporal and spiritual welfare. Our
souls and our bodies were all alike sacred in his sight; and he really had a
good deal of genuine anti-slavery feeling mingled with his colonization
ideas. There was not a slave in our neighborhood that did not love, and
almost venerate, Mr. Cookman. It was pretty generally believed that he had
been chiefly instrumental in bringing one of the largest slaveholders—Mr.
Samuel Harrison—in that neighborhood, to emancipate all his slaves, and,
indeed, the general impression was, that Mr. Cookman had labored
faithfully with slaveholders, whenever he met them, to induce them to
emancipate their bondmen, and that he did this as a religious duty. When
this good man was at our house, we were all sure to be called in to prayers
in the morning; and he was not slow in making inquiries as to the state of

our minds, nor in giving us a word of exhortation and of encouragement.
Great was the sorrow of all the slaves, when this faithful preacher of the
gospel was removed from the Talbot county circuit. He was an eloquent
preacher, and possessed what few ministers, south of Mason Dixon’s line,
possess, or dare to show, viz: a warm and philanthropic heart. The Mr.
Cookman, of whom I speak, was an Englishman by birth, and perished
while on his way to England, on board the ill-fated “President”. Could the
thousands of slaves in Maryland know the fate of the good man, to whose
words of comfort they were so largely indebted, they would thank me for
dropping a tear on this page, in memory of their favorite preacher, friend
and benefactor.
But, let me return to Master Thomas, and to my experience, after his
conversion. In Baltimore, I could, occasionally, get into a Sabbath school,
among the free children, and receive lessons, with the rest; but, having
already learned both to read and to write, I was more of a teacher than a
pupil, even there. When, however, I went back to the Eastern Shore, and
was at the house of Master Thomas, I was neither allowed to teach, nor to
be taught. The whole community—with but a single exception, among the
whites—frowned upon everything like imparting instruction either to slaves
or to free colored persons. That single exception, a pious young man,
named Wilson, asked me, one day, if I would like to assist him in teaching a
little Sabbath school, at the house of a free colored man in St. Michael’s,
named James Mitchell. The idea was to me a delightful one, and I told him I
would gladly devote as much of my Sabbath as I could command, to that
most laudable work. Mr. Wilson soon mustered up a dozen old spelling
books, and a few testaments; and we commenced operations, with some
twenty scholars, in our Sunday school. Here, thought I, is something worth
living for; here is an excellent chance for usefulness; and I shall soon have a
company of young friends, lovers of knowledge, like some of my Baltimore
friends, from whom I now felt parted forever.
Our first Sabbath passed delightfully, and I spent the week after very
joyously. I could not go to Baltimore, but I could make a little Baltimore
here. At our second meeting, I learned that there was some objection to the
existence of the Sabbath school; and, sure enough, we had scarcely got at
work—good work, simply teaching a few colored children how to read the
gospel of the Son of God—when in rushed a mob, headed by Mr. Wright
Fairbanks and Mr. Garrison West—two class-leaders—and Master Thomas;

who, armed with sticks and other missiles, drove us off, and commanded us
never to meet for such a purpose again. One of this pious crew told me, that
as for my part, I wanted to be another Nat Turner; and if I did not look out, I
should get as many balls into me, as Nat did into him. Thus ended the infant
Sabbath school, in the town of St. Michael’s. The reader will not be
surprised when I say, that the breaking up of my Sabbath school, by these
class-leaders, and professedly holy men, did not serve to strengthen my
religious convictions. The cloud over my St. Michael’s home grew heavier
and blacker than ever.
It was not merely the agency of Master Thomas, in breaking up and
destroying my Sabbath school, that shook my confidence in the power of
southern religion to make men wiser or better; but I saw in him all the
cruelty and meanness, after his conversion, which he had exhibited before
he made a profession of religion. His cruelty and meanness were especially
displayed in his treatment of my unfortunate cousin, Henny, whose
lameness made her a burden to him. I have no extraordinary personal hard
usage toward myself to complain of, against him, but I have seen him tie up
the lame and maimed woman, and whip her in a manner most brutal, and
shocking; and then, with blood-chilling blasphemy, he would quote the
passage of scripture, “That servant which knew his lord’s will, and prepared
not himself, neither did according to his will, shall be beaten with many
stripes.” Master would keep this lacerated woman tied up by her wrists, to a
bolt in the joist, three, four and five hours at a time. He would tie her up
early in the morning, whip her with a cowskin before breakfast; leave her
tied up; go to his store, and, returning to his dinner, repeat the castigation;
laying on the rugged lash, on flesh already made raw by repeated blows. He
seemed desirous to get the poor girl out of existence, or, at any rate, off his
hands. In proof of this, he afterwards gave her away to his sister Sarah
(Mrs. Cline) but, as in the case of Master Hugh, Henny was soon returned
on his hands. Finally, upon a pretense that he could do nothing with her (I
use his own words) he “set her adrift, to take care of herself.” Here was a
recently converted man, holding, with tight grasp, the well-framed, and able
bodied slaves left him by old master—the persons, who, in freedom, could
have taken care of themselves; yet, turning loose the only cripple among
them, virtually to starve and die.
No doubt, had Master Thomas been asked, by some pious northern
brother, why he continued to sustain the relation of a slaveholder, to those

whom he retained, his answer would have been precisely the same as many
other religious slaveholders have returned to that inquiry, viz: “I hold my
slaves for their own good.”
Bad as my condition was when I lived with Master Thomas, I was soon
to experience a life far more goading and bitter. The many differences
springing up between myself and Master Thomas, owing to the clear
perception I had of his character, and the boldness with which I defended
myself against his capricious complaints, led him to declare that I was
unsuited to his wants; that my city life had affected me perniciously; that, in
fact, it had almost ruined me for every good purpose, and had fitted me for
everything that was bad. One of my greatest faults, or offenses, was that of
letting his horse get away, and go down to the farm belonging to his father-
in-law. The animal had a liking for that farm, with which I fully
sympathized. Whenever I let it out, it would go dashing down the road to
Mr. Hamilton’s, as if going on a grand frolic. My horse gone, of course I
must go after it. The explanation of our mutual attachment to the place is
the same; the horse found there good pasturage, and I found there plenty of
bread. Mr. Hamilton had his faults, but starving his slaves was not among
them. He gave food, in abundance, and that, too, of an excellent quality. In
Mr. Hamilton’s cook—Aunt Mary—I found a most generous and
considerate friend. She never allowed me to go there without giving me
bread enough to make good the deficiencies of a day or two. Master
Thomas at last resolved to endure my behavior no longer; he could neither
keep me, nor his horse, we liked so well to be at his father-in-law’s farm. I
had now lived with him nearly nine months, and he had given me a number
of severe whippings, without any visible improvement in my character, or
my conduct; and now he was resolved to put me out—as he said—“to be
broken.”
There was, in the Bay Side, very near the camp ground, where my master
got his religious impressions, a man named Edward Covey, who enjoyed
the execrated reputation, of being a first rate hand at breaking young
Negroes. This Covey was a poor man, a farm renter; and this reputation
(hateful as it was to the slaves and to all good men) was, at the same time,
of immense advantage to him. It enabled him to get his farm tilled with very
little expense, compared with what it would have cost him without this most
extraordinary reputation. Some slaveholders thought it an advantage to let
Mr. Covey have the government of their slaves a year or two, almost free of

charge, for the sake of the excellent training such slaves got under his happy
management! Like some horse breakers, noted for their skill, who ride the
best horses in the country without expense, Mr. Covey could have under
him, the most fiery bloods of the neighborhood, for the simple reward of
returning them to their owners, well broken. Added to the natural fitness of
Mr. Covey for the duties of his profession, he was said to “enjoy religion,”
and was as strict in the cultivation of piety, as he was in the cultivation of
his farm. I was made aware of his character by some who had been under
his hand; and while I could not look forward to going to him with any
pleasure, I was glad to get away from St. Michael’s. I was sure of getting
enough to eat at Covey’s, even if I suffered in other respects. This, to a
hungry man, is not a prospect to be regarded with indifference.

CHAPTER XV. Covey, the Negro Breaker

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

The morning of the first of January, 1834, with its chilling wind and
pinching frost, quite in harmony with the winter in my own mind, found
me, with my little bundle of clothing on the end of a stick, swung across my
shoulder, on the main road, bending my way toward Covey’s, whither I had
been imperiously ordered by Master Thomas. The latter had been as good
as his word, and had committed me, without reserve, to the mastery of Mr.
Edward Covey. Eight or ten years had now passed since I had been taken
from my grandmother’s cabin, in Tuckahoe; and these years, for the most
part, I had spent in Baltimore, where—as the reader has already seen—I
was treated with comparative tenderness. I was now about to sound
profounder depths in slave life. The rigors of a field, less tolerable than the
field of battle, awaited me. My new master was notorious for his fierce and
savage disposition, and my only consolation in going to live with him was,

the certainty of finding him precisely as represented by common fame.
There was neither joy in my heart, nor elasticity in my step, as I started in
search of the tyrant’s home. Starvation made me glad to leave Thomas
Auld’s, and the cruel lash made me dread to go to Covey’s. Escape was
impossible; so, heavy and sad, I paced the seven miles, which separated
Covey’s house from St. Michael’s—thinking much by the solitary way—
averse to my condition; but thinking was all I could do. Like a fish in a net,
allowed to play for a time, I was now drawn rapidly to the shore, secured at
all points. “I am,” thought I, “but the sport of a power which makes no
account, either of my welfare or of my happiness. By a law which I can
clearly comprehend, but cannot evade nor resist, I am ruthlessly snatched
from the hearth of a fond grandmother, and hurried away to the home of a
mysterious ‘old master;’ again I am removed from there, to a master in
Baltimore; thence am I snatched away to the Eastern Shore, to be valued
with the beasts of the field, and, with them, divided and set apart for a
possessor; then I am sent back to Baltimore; and by the time I have formed
new attachments, and have begun to hope that no more rude shocks shall
touch me, a difference arises between brothers, and I am again broken up,
and sent to St. Michael’s; and now, from the latter place, I am footing my
way to the home of a new master, where, I am given to understand, that,
like a wild young working animal, I am to be broken to the yoke of a bitter
and life-long bondage.”
With thoughts and reflections like these, I came in sight of a small wood-
colored building, about a mile from the main road, which, from the
description I had received, at starting, I easily recognized as my new home.
The Chesapeake bay—upon the jutting banks of which the little wood-
colored house was standing—white with foam, raised by the heavy north-
west wind; Poplar Island, covered with a thick, black pine forest, standing
out amid this half ocean; and Kent Point, stretching its sandy, desert-like
shores out into the foam-cested bay—were all in sight, and deepened the
wild and desolate aspect of my new home.
The good clothes I had brought with me from Baltimore were now worn
thin, and had not been replaced; for Master Thomas was as little careful to
provide us against cold, as against hunger. Met here by a north wind,
sweeping through an open space of forty miles, I was glad to make any
port; and, therefore, I speedily pressed on to the little wood-colored house.
The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Covey; Miss Kemp (a broken-backed

woman) a sister of Mrs. Covey; William Hughes, cousin to Edward Covey;
Caroline, the cook; Bill Smith, a hired man; and myself. Bill Smith, Bill
Hughes, and myself, were the working force of the farm, which consisted of
three or four hundred acres. I was now, for the first time in my life, to be a
field hand; and in my new employment I found myself even more awkward
than a green country boy may be supposed to be, upon his first entrance into
the bewildering scenes of city life; and my awkwardness gave me much
trouble. Strange and unnatural as it may seem, I had been at my new home
but three days, before Mr. Covey (my brother in the Methodist church) gave
me a bitter foretaste of what was in reserve for me. I presume he thought,
that since he had but a single year in which to complete his work, the
sooner he began, the better. Perhaps he thought that by coming to blows at
once, we should mutually better understand our relations. But to whatever
motive, direct or indirect, the cause may be referred, I had not been in his
possession three whole days, before he subjected me to a most brutal
chastisement. Under his heavy blows, blood flowed freely, and wales were
left on my back as large as my little finger. The sores on my back, from this
flogging, continued for weeks, for they were kept open by the rough and
coarse cloth which I wore for shirting. The occasion and details of this first
chapter of my experience as a field hand, must be told, that the reader may
see how unreasonable, as well as how cruel, my new master, Covey, was.
The whole thing I found to be characteristic of the man; and I was probably
treated no worse by him than scores of lads who had previously been
committed to him, for reasons similar to those which induced my master to
place me with him. But, here are the facts connected with the affair,
precisely as they occurred.
On one of the coldest days of the whole month of January, 1834, I was
ordered, at day break, to get a load of wood, from a forest about two miles
from the house. In order to perform this work, Mr. Covey gave me a pair of
unbroken oxen, for, it seems, his breaking abilities had not been turned in
this direction; and I may remark, in passing, that working animals in the
south, are seldom so well trained as in the north. In due form, and with all
proper ceremony, I was introduced to this huge yoke of unbroken oxen, and
was carefully told which was “Buck,” and which was “Darby”—which was
the “in hand,” and which was the “off hand” ox. The master of this
important ceremony was no less a person than Mr. Covey, himself; and the
introduction was the first of the kind I had ever had. My life, hitherto, had

led me away from horned cattle, and I had no knowledge of the art of
managing them. What was meant by the “in ox,” as against the “off ox,”
when both were equally fastened to one cart, and under one yoke, I could
not very easily divine; and the difference, implied by the names, and the
peculiar duties of each, were alike Greek to me. Why was not the “off ox”
called the “in ox?” Where and what is the reason for this distinction in
names, when there is none in the things themselves? After initiating me into
the “woa,” “back” “gee,” “hither”—the entire spoken language between
oxen and driver—Mr. Covey took a rope, about ten feet long and one inch
thick, and placed one end of it around the horns of the “in hand ox,” and
gave the other end to me, telling me that if the oxen started to run away, as
the scamp knew they would, I must hold on to the rope and stop them. I
need not tell any one who is acquainted with either the strength of the
disposition of an untamed ox, that this order was about as unreasonable as a
command to shoulder a mad bull! I had never driven oxen before, and I was
as awkward, as a driver, as it is possible to conceive. It did not answer for
me to plead ignorance, to Mr. Covey; there was something in his manner
that quite forbade that. He was a man to whom a slave seldom felt any
disposition to speak. Cold, distant, morose, with a face wearing all the
marks of captious pride and malicious sternness, he repelled all advances.
Covey was not a large man; he was only about five feet ten inches in height,
I should think; short necked, round shoulders; of quick and wiry motion, of
thin and wolfish visage; with a pair of small, greenish-gray eyes, set well
back under a forehead without dignity, and constantly in motion, and
floating his passions, rather than his thoughts, in sight, but denying them
utterance in words. The creature presented an appearance altogether
ferocious and sinister, disagreeable and forbidding, in the extreme. When he
spoke, it was from the corner of his mouth, and in a sort of light growl, like
a dog, when an attempt is made to take a bone from him. The fellow had
already made me believe him even worse than he had been presented. With
his directions, and without stopping to question, I started for the woods,
quite anxious to perform my first exploit in driving, in a creditable manner.
The distance from the house to the woods gate a full mile, I should think—
was passed over with very little difficulty; for although the animals ran, I
was fleet enough, in the open field, to keep pace with them; especially as
they pulled me along at the end of the rope; but, on reaching the woods, I
was speedily thrown into a distressing plight. The animals took fright, and

started off ferociously into the woods, carrying the cart, full tilt, against
trees, over stumps, and dashing from side to side, in a manner altogether
frightful. As I held the rope, I expected every moment to be crushed
between the cart and the huge trees, among which they were so furiously
dashing. After running thus for several minutes, my oxen were, finally,
brought to a stand, by a tree, against which they dashed themselves with
great violence, upsetting the cart, and entangling themselves among sundry
young saplings. By the shock, the body of the cart was flung in one
direction, and the wheels and tongue in another, and all in the greatest
confusion. There I was, all alone, in a thick wood, to which I was a
stranger; my cart upset and shattered; my oxen entangled, wild, and
enraged; and I, poor soul! but a green hand, to set all this disorder right. I
knew no more of oxen than the ox driver is supposed to know of wisdom.
After standing a few moments surveying the damage and disorder, and not
without a presentiment that this trouble would draw after it others, even
more distressing, I took one end of the cart body, and, by an extra outlay of
strength, I lifted it toward the axle-tree, from which it had been violently
flung; and after much pulling and straining, I succeeded in getting the body
of the cart in its place. This was an important step out of the difficulty, and
its performance increased my courage for the work which remained to be
done. The cart was provided with an ax, a tool with which I had become
pretty well acquainted in the ship yard at Baltimore. With this, I cut down
the saplings by which my oxen were entangled, and again pursued my
journey, with my heart in my mouth, lest the oxen should again take it into
their senseless heads to cut up a caper. My fears were groundless. Their
spree was over for the present, and the rascals now moved off as soberly as
though their behavior had been natural and exemplary. On reaching the part
of the forest where I had been, the day before, chopping wood, I filled the
cart with a heavy load, as a security against another running away. But, the
neck of an ox is equal in strength to iron. It defies all ordinary burdens,
when excited. Tame and docile to a proverb, when well trained, the ox is the
most sullen and intractable of animals when but half broken to the yoke.
I now saw, in my situation, several points of similarity with that of the
oxen. They were property, so was I; they were to be broken, so was I.
Covey was to break me, I was to break them; break and be broken—such is
life.

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

black gum tree, the young shoots of which are generally used for ox goads,
they being exceedingly tough. Three of these goads, from four to six feet
long, he cut off, and trimmed up, with his large jack-knife. This done, he
ordered me to take off my clothes. To this unreasonable order I made no
reply, but sternly refused to take off my clothing. “If you will beat me,”
thought I, “you shall do so over my clothes.” After many threats, which
made no impression on me, he rushed at me with something of the savage
fierceness of a wolf, tore off the few and thinly worn clothes I had on, and
proceeded to wear out, on my back, the heavy goads which he had cut from
the gum tree. This flogging was the first of a series of floggings; and though
very severe, it was less so than many which came after it, and these, for
offenses far lighter than the gate breaking.
I remained with Mr. Covey one year (I cannot say I lived with him) and
during the first six months that I was there, I was whipped, either with
sticks or cowskins, every week. Aching bones and a sore back were my
constant companions. Frequent as the lash was used, Mr. Covey thought
less of it, as a means of breaking down my spirit, than that of hard and long
continued labor. He worked me steadily, up to the point of my powers of
endurance. From the dawn of day in the morning, till the darkness was
complete in the evening, I was kept at hard work, in the field or the woods.
At certain seasons of the year, we were all kept in the field till eleven and
twelve o’clock at night. At these times, Covey would attend us in the field,
and urge us on with words or blows, as it seemed best to him. He had, in his
life, been an overseer, and he well understood the business of slave driving.
There was no deceiving him. He knew just what a man or boy could do, and
he held both to strict account. When he pleased, he would work himself,
like a very Turk, making everything fly before him. It was, however,
scarcely necessary for Mr. Covey to be really present in the field, to have
his work go on industriously. He had the faculty of making us feel that he
was always present. By a series of adroitly managed surprises, which he
practiced, I was prepared to expect him at any moment. His plan was, never
to approach the spot where his hands were at work, in an open, manly and
direct manner. No thief was ever more artful in his devices than this man
Covey. He would creep and crawl, in ditches and gullies; hide behind
stumps and bushes, and practice so much of the cunning of the serpent, that
Bill Smith and I—between ourselves—never called him by any other name
than “the snake.” We fancied that in his eyes and his gait we could see a

snakish resemblance. One half of his proficiency in the art of Negro
breaking, consisted, I should think, in this species of cunning. We were
never secure. He could see or hear us nearly all the time. He was, to us,
behind every stump, tree, bush and fence on the plantation. He carried this
kind of trickery so far, that he would sometimes mount his horse, and make
believe he was going to St. Michael’s; and, in thirty minutes afterward, you
might find his horse tied in the woods, and the snake-like Covey lying flat
in the ditch, with his head lifted above its edge, or in a fence corner,
watching every movement of the slaves! I have known him walk up to us
and give us special orders, as to our work, in advance, as if he were leaving
home with a view to being absent several days; and before he got half way
to the house, he would avail himself of our inattention to his movements, to
turn short on his heels, conceal himself behind a fence corner or a tree, and
watch us until the going down of the sun. Mean and contemptible as is all
this, it is in keeping with the character which the life of a slaveholder is
calculated to produce. There is no earthly inducement, in the slave’s
condition, to incite him to labor faithfully. The fear of punishment is the
sole motive for any sort of industry, with him. Knowing this fact, as the
slaveholder does, and judging the slave by himself, he naturally concludes
the slave will be idle whenever the cause for this fear is absent. Hence, all
sorts of petty deceptions are practiced, to inspire this fear.
But, with Mr. Covey, trickery was natural. Everything in the shape of
learning or religion, which he possessed, was made to conform to this semi-
lying propensity. He did not seem conscious that the practice had anything
unmanly, base or contemptible about it. It was a part of an important
system, with him, essential to the relation of master and slave. I thought I
saw, in his very religious devotions, this controlling element of his
character. A long prayer at night made up for the short prayer in the
morning; and few men could seem more devotional than he, when he had
nothing else to do.
Mr. Covey was not content with the cold style of family worship, adopted
in these cold latitudes, which begin and end with a simple prayer. No! the
voice of praise, as well as of prayer, must be heard in his house, night and
morning. At first, I was called upon to bear some part in these exercises; but
the repeated flogging given me by Covey, turned the whole thing into
mockery. He was a poor singer, and mainly relied on me for raising the
hymn for the family, and when I failed to do so, he was thrown into much

confusion. I do not think that he ever abused me on account of these
vexations. His religion was a thing altogether apart from his worldly
concerns. He knew nothing of it as a holy principle, directing and
controlling his daily life, making the latter conform to the requirements of
the gospel. One or two facts will illustrate his character better than a
volume of generalties(sic).
I have already said, or implied, that Mr. Edward Covey was a poor man.
He was, in fact, just commencing to lay the foundation of his fortune, as
fortune is regarded in a slave state. The first condition of wealth and
respectability there, being the ownership of human property, every nerve is
strained, by the poor man, to obtain it, and very little regard is had to the
manner of obtaining it. In pursuit of this object, pious as Mr. Covey was, he
proved himself to be as unscrupulous and base as the worst of his
neighbors. In the beginning, he was only able—as he said—“to buy one
slave;” and, scandalous and shocking as is the fact, he boasted that he
bought her simply “as a breeder.” But the worst is not told in this naked
statement. This young woman (Caroline was her name) was virtually
compelled by Mr. Covey to abandon herself to the object for which he had
purchased her; and the result was, the birth of twins at the end of the year.
At this addition to his human stock, both Edward Covey and his wife,
Susan, were ecstatic with joy. No one dreamed of reproaching the woman,
or of finding fault with the hired man—Bill Smith—the father of the
children, for Mr. Covey himself had locked the two up together every night,
thus inviting the result.
But I will pursue this revolting subject no further. No better illustration of
the unchaste and demoralizing character of slavery can be found, than is
furnished in the fact that this professedly Christian slaveholder, amidst all
his prayers and hymns, was shamelessly and boastfully encouraging, and
actually compelling, in his own house, undisguised and unmitigated
fornication, as a means of increasing his human stock. I may remark here,
that, while this fact will be read with disgust and shame at the north, it will
be laughed at, as smart and praiseworthy in Mr. Covey, at the south; for a
man is no more condemned there for buying a woman and devoting her to
this life of dishonor, than for buying a cow, and raising stock from her. The
same rules are observed, with a view to increasing the number and quality
of the former, as of the latter.

I will here reproduce what I said of my own experience in this wretched
place, more than ten years ago:
If at any one time of my life, more than another, I was made to drink the
bitterest dregs of slavery, that time was during the first six months of my
stay with Mr. Covey. We were worked all weathers. It was never too hot or
too cold; it could never rain, blow, snow, or hail too hard for us to work in
the field. Work, work, work, was scarcely more the order of the day than the
night. The longest days were too short for him, and the shortest nights were
too long for him. I was somewhat unmanageable when I first went there;
but a few months of his discipline tamed me. Mr. Covey succeeded in
breaking me. I was broken in body, soul and spirit. My natural elasticity
was crushed; my intellect languished; the disposition to read departed; the
cheerful spark that lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery
closed in upon me; and behold a man transformed into a brute!
Sunday was my only leisure time. I spent this in a sort of beast-like
stupor, between sleep and wake, under some large tree. At times, I would
rise up, a flash of energetic freedom would dart through my soul,
accompanied with a faint beam of hope, flickered for a moment, and then
vanished. I sank down again, mourning over my wretched condition. I was
sometimes prompted to take my life, and that of Covey, but was prevented
by a combination of hope and fear. My sufferings on this plantation seem
now like a dream rather than a stern reality.
Our house stood within a few rods of the Chesapeake bay, whose broad
bosom was ever white with sails from every quarter of the habitable globe.
Those beautiful vessels, robed in purest white, so delightful to the eye of
freemen, were to me so many shrouded ghosts, to terrify and torment me
with thoughts of my wretched condition. I have often, in the deep stillness
of a summer’s Sabbath, stood all alone upon the banks of that noble bay,
and traced, with saddened heart and tearful eye, the countless number of
sails moving off to the mighty ocean. The sight of these always affected me
powerfully. My thoughts would compel utterance; and there, with no
audience but the Almighty, I would pour out my soul’s complaint in my
rude way, with an apostrophe to the moving multitude of ships:
“You are loosed from your moorings, and free; I am fast in my chains,
and am a slave! You move merrily before the gentle gale, and I sadly before
the bloody whip! You are freedom’s swift-winged angels, that fly around

the world; I am confined in bands of iron! O, that I were free! O, that I were
on one of your gallant decks, and under your protecting wing! Alas! betwixt
me and you the turbid waters roll. Go on, go on. O that I could also go!
Could I but swim! If I could fly! O, why was I born a man, of whom to
make a brute! The glad ship is gone; she hides in the dim distance. I am left
in the hottest hell of unending slavery. O God, save me! God, deliver me!
Let me be free! Is there any God? Why am I a slave? I will run away. I will
not stand it. Get caught, or get clear, I’ll try it. I had as well die with ague as
with fever. I have only one life to lose. I had as well be killed running as die
standing. Only think of it; one hundred miles straight north, and I am free!
Try it? Yes! God helping me, I will. It cannot be that I shall live and die a
slave. I will take to the water. This very bay shall yet bear me into freedom.
The steamboats steered in a north-east coast from North Point. I will do the
same; and when I get to the head of the bay, I will turn my canoe adrift, and
walk straight through Delaware into Pennsylvania. When I get there, I shall
not be required to have a pass; I will travel without being disturbed. Let but
the first opportunity offer, and come what will, I am off. Meanwhile, I will
try to bear up under the yoke. I am not the only slave in the world. Why
should I fret? I can bear as much as any of them. Besides, I am but a boy,
and all boys are bound to some one. It may be that my misery in slavery
will only increase my happiness when I get free. There is a better day
coming.”
I shall never be able to narrate the mental experience through which it
was my lot to pass during my stay at Covey’s. I was completely wrecked,
changed and bewildered; goaded almost to madness at one time, and at
another reconciling myself to my wretched condition. Everything in the
way of kindness, which I had experienced at Baltimore; all my former
hopes and aspirations for usefulness in the world, and the happy moments
spent in the exercises of religion, contrasted with my then present lot, but
increased my anguish.
I suffered bodily as well as mentally. I had neither sufficient time in
which to eat or to sleep, except on Sundays. The overwork, and the brutal
chastisements of which I was the victim, combined with that ever-gnawing
and soul-devouring thought—“I am a slave—a slave for life—a slave with
no rational ground to hope for freedom”—rendered me a living
embodiment of mental and physical wretchedness.

CHAPTER XVI. Another Pressure of the Tyrant’s
Vice

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

The foregoing chapter, with all its horrid incidents and shocking features,
may be taken as a fair representation of the first six months of my life at
Covey’s. The reader has but to repeat, in his own mind, once a week, the
scene in the woods, where Covey subjected me to his merciless lash, to
have a true idea of my bitter experience there, during the first period of the
breaking process through which Mr. Covey carried me. I have no heart to
repeat each separate transaction, in which I was victim of his violence and
brutality. Such a narration would fill a volume much larger than the present
one. I aim only to give the reader a truthful impression of my slave life,
without unnecessarily affecting him with harrowing details.
As I have elsewhere intimated that my hardships were much greater
during the first six months of my stay at Covey’s, than during the remainder
of the year, and as the change in my condition was owing to causes which
may help the reader to a better understanding of human nature, when
subjected to the terrible extremities of slavery, I will narrate the

circumstances of this change, although I may seem thereby to applaud my
own courage. You have, dear reader, seen me humbled, degraded, broken
down, enslaved, and brutalized, and you understand how it was done; now
let us see the converse of all this, and how it was brought about; and this
will take us through the year 1834.
On one of the hottest days of the month of August, of the year just
mentioned, had the reader been passing through Covey’s farm, he might
have seen me at work, in what is there called the “treading yard”—a yard
upon which wheat is trodden out from the straw, by the horses’ feet. I was
there, at work, feeding the “fan,” or rather bringing wheat to the fan, while
Bill Smith was feeding. Our force consisted of Bill Hughes, Bill Smith, and
a slave by the name of Eli; the latter having been hired for this occasion.
The work was simple, and required strength and activity, rather than any
skill or intelligence, and yet, to one entirely unused to such work, it came
very hard. The heat was intense and overpowering, and there was much
hurry to get the wheat, trodden out that day, through the fan; since, if that
work was done an hour before sundown, the hands would have, according
to a promise of Covey, that hour added to their night’s rest. I was not behind
any of them in the wish to complete the day’s work before sundown, and,
hence, I struggled with all my might to get the work forward. The promise
of one hour’s repose on a week day, was sufficient to quicken my pace, and
to spur me on to extra endeavor. Besides, we had all planned to go fishing,
and I certainly wished to have a hand in that. But I was disappointed, and
the day turned out to be one of the bitterest I ever experienced. About three
o’clock, while the sun was pouring down his burning rays, and not a breeze
was stirring, I broke down; my strength failed me; I was seized with a
violent aching of the head, attended with extreme dizziness, and trembling
in every limb. Finding what was coming, and feeling it would never do to
stop work, I nerved myself up, and staggered on until I fell by the side of
the wheat fan, feeling that the earth had fallen upon me. This brought the
entire work to a dead stand. There was work for four; each one had his part
to perform, and each part depended on the other, so that when one stopped,
all were compelled to stop. Covey, who had now become my dread, as well
as my tormentor, was at the house, about a hundred yards from where I was
fanning, and instantly, upon hearing the fan stop, he came down to the
treading yard, to inquire into the cause of our stopping. Bill Smith told him
I was sick, and that I was unable longer to bring wheat to the fan.

I had, by this time, crawled away, under the side of a post-and-rail fence,
in the shade, and was exceeding ill. The intense heat of the sun, the heavy
dust rising from the fan, the stooping, to take up the wheat from the yard,
together with the hurrying, to get through, had caused a rush of blood to my
head. In this condition, Covey finding out where I was, came to me; and,
after standing over me a while, he asked me what the matter was. I told him
as well as I could, for it was with difficulty that I could speak. He then gave
me a savage kick in the side, which jarred my whole frame, and
commanded me to get up. The man had obtained complete control over me;
and if he had commanded me to do any possible thing, I should, in my then
state of mind, have endeavored to comply. I made an effort to rise, but fell
back in the attempt, before gaining my feet. The brute now gave me another
heavy kick, and again told me to rise. I again tried to rise, and succeeded in
gaining my feet; but upon stooping to get the tub with which I was feeding
the fan, I again staggered and fell to the ground; and I must have so fallen,
had I been sure that a hundred bullets would have pierced me, as the
consequence. While down, in this sad condition, and perfectly helpless, the
merciless Negro breaker took up the hickory slab, with which Hughes had
been striking off the wheat to a level with the sides of the half bushel
measure (a very hard weapon) and with the sharp edge of it, he dealt me a
heavy blow on my head which made a large gash, and caused the blood to
run freely, saying, at the same time, “If you have got the headache, I’ll cure
you.” This done, he ordered me again to rise, but I made no effort to do so;
for I had made up my mind that it was useless, and that the heartless
monster might now do his worst; he could but kill me, and that might put
me out of my misery. Finding me unable to rise, or rather despairing of my
doing so, Covey left me, with a view to getting on with the work without
me. I was bleeding very freely, and my face was soon covered with my
warm blood. Cruel and merciless as was the motive that dealt that blow,
dear reader, the wound was fortunate for me. Bleeding was never more
efficacious. The pain in my head speedily abated, and I was soon able to
rise. Covey had, as I have said, now left me to my fate; and the question
was, shall I return to my work, or shall I find my way to St. Michael’s, and
make Capt. Auld acquainted with the atrocious cruelty of his brother Covey,
and beseech him to get me another master? Remembering the object he had
in view, in placing me under the management of Covey, and further, his
cruel treatment of my poor crippled cousin, Henny, and his meanness in the

matter of feeding and clothing his slaves, there was little ground to hope for
a favorable reception at the hands of Capt. Thomas Auld. Nevertheless, I
resolved to go straight to Capt. Auld, thinking that, if not animated by
motives of humanity, he might be induced to interfere on my behalf from
selfish considerations. “He cannot,” thought I, “allow his property to be
thus bruised and battered, marred and defaced; and I will go to him, and tell
him the simple truth about the matter.” In order to get to St. Michael’s, by
the most favorable and direct road, I must walk seven miles; and this, in my
sad condition, was no easy performance. I had already lost much blood; I
was exhausted by over exertion; my sides were sore from the heavy blows
planted there by the stout boots of Mr. Covey; and I was, in every way, in
an unfavorable plight for the journey. I however watched my chance, while
the cruel and cunning Covey was looking in an opposite direction, and
started off, across the field, for St. Michael’s. This was a daring step; if it
failed, it would only exasperate Covey, and increase the rigors of my
bondage, during the remainder of my term of service under him; but the
step was taken, and I must go forward. I succeeded in getting nearly half
way across the broad field, toward the woods, before Mr. Covey observed
me. I was still bleeding, and the exertion of running had started the blood
afresh. “Come back! Come back!” vociferated Covey, with threats of what
he would do if I did not return instantly. But, disregarding his calls and his
threats, I pressed on toward the woods as fast as my feeble state would
allow. Seeing no signs of my stopping, Covey caused his horse to be
brought out and saddled, as if he intended to pursue me. The race was now
to be an unequal one; and, thinking I might be overhauled by him, if I kept
the main road, I walked nearly the whole distance in the woods, keeping far
enough from the road to avoid detection and pursuit. But, I had not gone
far, before my little strength again failed me, and I laid down. The blood
was still oozing from the wound in my head; and, for a time, I suffered
more than I can describe. There I was, in the deep woods, sick and
emaciated, pursued by a wretch whose character for revolting cruelty
beggars all opprobrious speech—bleeding, and almost bloodless. I was not
without the fear of bleeding to death. The thought of dying in the woods, all
alone, and of being torn to pieces by the buzzards, had not yet been
rendered tolerable by my many troubles and hardships, and I was glad when
the shade of the trees, and the cool evening breeze, combined with my
matted hair to stop the flow of blood. After lying there about three quarters

of an hour, brooding over the singular and mournful lot to which I was
doomed, my mind passing over the whole scale or circle of belief and
unbelief, from faith in the overruling providence of God, to the blackest
atheism, I again took up my journey toward St. Michael’s, more weary and
sad than in the morning when I left Thomas Auld’s for the home of Mr.
Covey. I was bare-footed and bare-headed, and in my shirt sleeves. The way
was through bogs and briers, and I tore my feet often during the journey. I
was full five hours in going the seven or eight miles; partly, because of the
difficulties of the way, and partly, because of the feebleness induced by my
illness, bruises and loss of blood. On gaining my master’s store, I presented
an appearance of wretchedness and woe, fitted to move any but a heart of
stone. From the crown of my head to the sole of my feet, there were marks
of blood. My hair was all clotted with dust and blood, and the back of my
shirt was literally stiff with the same. Briers and thorns had scarred and torn
my feet and legs, leaving blood marks there. Had I escaped from a den of
tigers, I could not have looked worse than I did on reaching St. Michael’s.
In this unhappy plight, I appeared before my professedly Christian master,
humbly to invoke the interposition of his power and authority, to protect me
from further abuse and violence. I had begun to hope, during the latter part
of my tedious journey toward St. Michael’s, that Capt. Auld would now
show himself in a nobler light than I had ever before seen him. I was
disappointed. I had jumped from a sinking ship into the sea; I had fled from
the tiger to something worse. I told him all the circumstances, as well as I
could; how I was endeavoring to please Covey; how hard I was at work in
the present instance; how unwilling I sunk down under the heat, toil and
pain; the brutal manner in which Covey had kicked me in the side; the gash
cut in my head; my hesitation about troubling him (Capt. Auld) with
complaints; but, that now I felt it would not be best longer to conceal from
him the outrages committed on me from time to time by Covey. At first,
master Thomas seemed somewhat affected by the story of my wrongs, but
he soon repressed his feelings and became cold as iron. It was impossible—
as I stood before him at the first—for him to seem indifferent. I distinctly
saw his human nature asserting its conviction against the slave system,
which made cases like mine possible; but, as I have said, humanity fell
before the systematic tyranny of slavery. He first walked the floor,
apparently much agitated by my story, and the sad spectacle I presented;
but, presently, it was his turn to talk. He began moderately, by finding

excuses for Covey, and ending with a full justification of him, and a
passionate condemnation of me. “He had no doubt I deserved the flogging.
He did not believe I was sick; I was only endeavoring to get rid of work.
My dizziness was laziness, and Covey did right to flog me, as he had done.”
After thus fairly annihilating me, and rousing himself by his own
eloquence, he fiercely demanded what I wished him to do in the case!
With such a complete knock-down to all my hopes, as he had given me,
and feeling, as I did, my entire subjection to his power, I had very little
heart to reply. I must not affirm my innocence of the allegations which he
had piled up against me; for that would be impudence, and would probably
call down fresh violence as well as wrath upon me. The guilt of a slave is
always, and everywhere, presumed; and the innocence of the slaveholder or
the slave employer, is always asserted. The word of the slave, against this
presumption, is generally treated as impudence, worthy of punishment. “Do
you contradict me, you rascal?” is a final silencer of counter statements
from the lips of a slave.
Calming down a little in view of my silence and hesitation, and, perhaps,
from a rapid glance at the picture of misery I presented, he inquired again,
“what I would have him do?” Thus invited a second time, I told Master
Thomas I wished him to allow me to get a new home and to find a new
master; that, as sure as I went back to live with Mr. Covey again, I should
be killed by him; that he would never forgive my coming to him (Capt.
Auld) with a complaint against him (Covey); that, since I had lived with
him, he almost crushed my spirit, and I believed that he would ruin me for
future service; that my life was not safe in his hands. This, Master Thomas
(my brother in the church) regarded as “nonsence(sic).” “There was no
danger of Mr. Covey’s killing me; he was a good man, industrious and
religious, and he would not think of removing me from that home; besides,”
said he and this I found was the most distressing thought of all to him—“if
you should leave Covey now, that your year has but half expired, I should
lose your wages for the entire year. You belong to Mr. Covey for one year,
and you must go back to him, come what will. You must not trouble me
with any more stories about Mr. Covey; and if you do not go immediately
home, I will get hold of you myself.” This was just what I expected, when I
found he had prejudged the case against me. “But, Sir,” I said, “I am sick
and tired, and I cannot get home to-night.” At this, he again relented, and
finally he allowed me to remain all night at St. Michael’s; but said I must be

off early in the morning, and concluded his directions by making me
swallow a huge dose of epsom salts—about the only medicine ever
administered to slaves.
It was quite natural for Master Thomas to presume I was feigning
sickness to escape work, for he probably thought that were he in the place
of a slave with no wages for his work, no praise for well doing, no motive
for toil but the lash—he would try every possible scheme by which to
escape labor. I say I have no doubt of this; the reason is, that there are not,
under the whole heavens, a set of men who cultivate such an intense dread
of labor as do the slaveholders. The charge of laziness against the slave is
ever on their lips, and is the standing apology for every species of cruelty
and brutality. These men literally “bind heavy burdens, grievous to be
borne, and lay them on men’s shoulders; but they, themselves, will not
move them with one of their fingers.”
My kind readers shall have, in the next chapter—what they were led,
perhaps, to expect to find in this—namely: an account of my partial
disenthrallment from the tyranny of Covey, and the marked change which it
brought about.

CHAPTER XVII. The Last Flogging

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

Sleep itself does not always come to the relief of the weary in body, and
the broken in spirit; especially when past troubles only foreshadow coming
disasters. The last hope had been extinguished. My master, who I did not
venture to hope would protect me as a man, had even now refused to
protect me as his property; and had cast me back, covered with reproaches
and bruises, into the hands of a stranger to that mercy which was the soul of
the religion he professed. May the reader never spend such a night as that
allotted to me, previous to the morning which was to herald my return to the
den of horrors from which I had made a temporary escape.
I remained all night—sleep I did not—at St. Michael’s; and in the
morning (Saturday) I started off, according to the order of Master Thomas,
feeling that I had no friend on earth, and doubting if I had one in heaven. I
reached Covey’s about nine o’clock; and just as I stepped into the field,
before I had reached the house, Covey, true to his snakish habits, darted out
at me from a fence corner, in which he had secreted himself, for the purpose

of securing me. He was amply provided with a cowskin and a rope; and he
evidently intended to tie me up, and to wreak his vengeance on me to the
fullest extent. I should have been an easy prey, had he succeeded in getting
his hands upon me, for I had taken no refreshment since noon on Friday;
and this, together with the pelting, excitement, and the loss of blood, had
reduced my strength. I, however, darted back into the woods, before the
ferocious hound could get hold of me, and buried myself in a thicket, where
he lost sight of me. The corn-field afforded me cover, in getting to the
woods. But for the tall corn, Covey would have overtaken me, and made me
his captive. He seemed very much chagrined that he did not catch me, and
gave up the chase, very reluctantly; for I could see his angry movements,
toward the house from which he had sallied, on his foray.
Well, now I am clear of Covey, and of his wrathful lash, for present. I am
in the wood, buried in its somber gloom, and hushed in its solemn silence;
hid from all human eyes; shut in with nature and nature’s God, and absent
from all human contrivances. Here was a good place to pray; to pray for
help for deliverance—a prayer I had often made before. But how could I
pray? Covey could pray—Capt. Auld could pray—I would fain pray; but
doubts (arising partly from my own neglect of the means of grace, and
partly from the sham religion which everywhere prevailed, cast in my mind
a doubt upon all religion, and led me to the conviction that prayers were
unavailing and delusive) prevented my embracing the opportunity, as a
religious one. Life, in itself, had almost become burdensome to me. All my
outward relations were against me; I must stay here and starve (I was
already hungry) or go home to Covey’s, and have my flesh torn to pieces,
and my spirit humbled under the cruel lash of Covey. This was the painful
alternative presented to me. The day was long and irksome. My physical
condition was deplorable. I was weak, from the toils of the previous day,
and from the want of food and rest; and had been so little concerned about
my appearance, that I had not yet washed the blood from my garments. I
was an object of horror, even to myself. Life, in Baltimore, when most
oppressive, was a paradise to this. What had I done, what had my parents
done, that such a life as this should be mine? That day, in the woods, I
would have exchanged my manhood for the brutehood of an ox.
Night came. I was still in the woods, unresolved what to do. Hunger had
not yet pinched me to the point of going home, and I laid myself down in
the leaves to rest; for I had been watching for hunters all day, but not being

molested during the day, I expected no disturbance during the night. I had
come to the conclusion that Covey relied upon hunger to drive me home;
and in this I was quite correct—the facts showed that he had made no effort
to catch me, since morning.
During the night, I heard the step of a man in the woods. He was coming
toward the place where I lay. A person lying still has the advantage over one
walking in the woods, in the day time, and this advantage is much greater at
night. I was not able to engage in a physical struggle, and I had recourse to
the common resort of the weak. I hid myself in the leaves to prevent
discovery. But, as the night rambler in the woods drew nearer, I found him
to be a friend, not an enemy; it was a slave of Mr. William Groomes, of
Easton, a kind hearted fellow, named “Sandy.” Sandy lived with Mr. Kemp
that year, about four miles from St. Michael’s. He, like myself had been
hired out by the year; but, unlike myself, had not been hired out to be
broken. Sandy was the husband of a free woman, who lived in the lower
part of “Potpie Neck,” and he was now on his way through the woods, to
see her, and to spend the Sabbath with her.
As soon as I had ascertained that the disturber of my solitude was not an
enemy, but the good-hearted Sandy—a man as famous among the slaves of
the neighborhood for his good nature, as for his good sense I came out from
my hiding place, and made myself known to him. I explained the
circumstances of the past two days, which had driven me to the woods, and
he deeply compassionated my distress. It was a bold thing for him to shelter
me, and I could not ask him to do so; for, had I been found in his hut, he
would have suffered the penalty of thirty-nine lashes on his bare back, if not
something worse. But Sandy was too generous to permit the fear of
punishment to prevent his relieving a brother bondman from hunger and
exposure; and, therefore, on his own motion, I accompanied him to his
home, or rather to the home of his wife—for the house and lot were hers.
His wife was called up—for it was now about midnight—a fire was made,
some Indian meal was soon mixed with salt and water, and an ash cake was
baked in a hurry to relieve my hunger. Sandy’s wife was not behind him in
kindness—both seemed to esteem it a privilege to succor me; for, although I
was hated by Covey and by my master, I was loved by the colored people,
because they thought I was hated for my knowledge, and persecuted
because I was feared. I was the only slave now in that region who could
read and write. There had been one other man, belonging to Mr. Hugh

Hamilton, who could read (his name was “Jim”), but he, poor fellow, had,
shortly after my coming into the neighborhood, been sold off to the far
south. I saw Jim ironed, in the cart, to be carried to Easton for sale—
pinioned like a yearling for the slaughter. My knowledge was now the pride
of my brother slaves; and, no doubt, Sandy felt something of the general
interest in me on that account. The supper was soon ready, and though I
have feasted since, with honorables, lord mayors and aldermen, over the
sea, my supper on ash cake and cold water, with Sandy, was the meal, of all
my life, most sweet to my taste, and now most vivid in my memory.
Supper over, Sandy and I went into a discussion of what was possible for
me, under the perils and hardships which now overshadowed my path. The
question was, must I go back to Covey, or must I now tempt to run away?
Upon a careful survey, the latter was found to be impossible; for I was on a
narrow neck of land, every avenue from which would bring me in sight of
pursuers. There was the Chesapeake bay to the right, and “Pot-pie” river to
the left, and St. Michael’s and its neighborhood occupying the only space
through which there was any retreat.
I found Sandy an old advisor. He was not only a religious man, but he
professed to believe in a system for which I have no name. He was a
genuine African, and had inherited some of the so-called magical powers,
said to be possessed by African and eastern nations. He told me that he
could help me; that, in those very woods, there was an herb, which in the
morning might be found, possessing all the powers required for my
protection (I put his thoughts in my own language); and that, if I would take
his advice, he would procure me the root of the herb of which he spoke. He
told me further, that if I would take that root and wear it on my right side, it
would be impossible for Covey to strike me a blow; that with this root
about my person, no white man could whip me. He said he had carried it for
years, and that he had fully tested its virtues. He had never received a blow
from a slaveholder since he carried it; and he never expected to receive one,
for he always meant to carry that root as a protection. He knew Covey well,
for Mrs. Covey was the daughter of Mr. Kemp; and he (Sandy) had heard of
the barbarous treatment to which I was subjected, and he wanted to do
something for me.
Now all this talk about the root, was to me, very absurd and ridiculous, if
not positively sinful. I at first rejected the idea that the simple carrying a

root on my right side (a root, by the way, over which I walked every time I
went into the woods) could possess any such magic power as he ascribed to
it, and I was, therefore, not disposed to cumber my pocket with it. I had a
positive aversion to all pretenders to “divination.” It was beneath one of my
intelligence to countenance such dealings with the devil, as this power
implied. But, with all my learning—it was really precious little—Sandy was
more than a match for me. “My book learning,” he said, “had not kept
Covey off me” (a powerful argument just then) and he entreated me, with
flashing eyes, to try this. If it did me no good, it could do me no harm, and
it would cost me nothing, any way. Sandy was so earnest, and so confident
of the good qualities of this weed, that, to please him, rather than from any
conviction of its excellence, I was induced to take it. He had been to me the
good Samaritan, and had, almost providentially, found me, and helped me
when I could not help myself; how did I know but that the hand of the Lord
was in it? With thoughts of this sort, I took the roots from Sandy, and put
them in my right hand pocket.
This was, of course, Sunday morning. Sandy now urged me to go home,
with all speed, and to walk up bravely to the house, as though nothing had
happened. I saw in Sandy too deep an insight into human nature, with all
his superstition, not to have some respect for his advice; and perhaps, too, a
slight gleam or shadow of his superstition had fallen upon me. At any rate, I
started off toward Covey’s, as directed by Sandy. Having, the previous
night, poured my griefs into Sandy’s ears, and got him enlisted in my
behalf, having made his wife a sharer in my sorrows, and having, also,
become well refreshed by sleep and food, I moved off, quite courageously,
toward the much dreaded Covey’s. Singularly enough, just as I entered his
yard gate, I met him and his wife, dressed in their Sunday best—looking as
smiling as angels—on their way to church. The manner of Covey
astonished me. There was something really benignant in his countenance.
He spoke to me as never before; told me that the pigs had got into the lot,
and he wished me to drive them out; inquired how I was, and seemed an
altered man. This extraordinary conduct of Covey, really made me begin to
think that Sandy’s herb had more virtue in it than I, in my pride, had been
willing to allow; and, had the day been other than Sunday, I should have
attributed Covey’s altered manner solely to the magic power of the root. I
suspected, however, that the Sabbath, and not the root, was the real
explanation of Covey’s manner. His religion hindered him from breaking

the Sabbath, but not from breaking my skin. He had more respect for the
day than for the man, for whom the day was mercifully given; for while he
would cut and slash my body during the week, he would not hesitate, on
Sunday, to teach me the value of my soul, or the way of life and salvation
by Jesus Christ.
All went well with me till Monday morning; and then, whether the root
had lost its virtue, or whether my tormentor had gone deeper into the black
art than myself (as was sometimes said of him), or whether he had obtained
a special indulgence, for his faithful Sabbath day’s worship, it is not
necessary for me to know, or to inform the reader; but, this I may say—the
pious and benignant smile which graced Covey’s face on Sunday, wholly
disappeared on Monday. Long before daylight, I was called up to go and
feed, rub, and curry the horses. I obeyed the call, and would have so obeyed
it, had it been made at an earilier(sic) hour, for I had brought my mind to a
firm resolve, during that Sunday’s reflection, viz: to obey every order,
however unreasonable, if it were possible, and, if Mr. Covey should then
undertake to beat me, to defend and protect myself to the best of my ability.
My religious views on the subject of resisting my master, had suffered a
serious shock, by the savage persecution to which I had been subjected, and
my hands were no longer tied by my religion. Master Thomas’s indifference
had served the last link. I had now to this extent “backslidden” from this
point in the slave’s religious creed; and I soon had occasion to make my
fallen state known to my Sunday-pious brother, Covey.
Whilst I was obeying his order to feed and get the horses ready for the
field, and when in the act of going up the stable loft for the purpose of
throwing down some blades, Covey sneaked into the stable, in his peculiar
snake-like way, and seizing me suddenly by the leg, he brought me to the
stable floor, giving my newly mended body a fearful jar. I now forgot my
roots, and remembered my pledge to stand up in my own defense. The brute
was endeavoring skillfully to get a slip-knot on my legs, before I could
draw up my feet. As soon as I found what he was up to, I gave a sudden
spring (my two day’s rest had been of much service to me,) and by that
means, no doubt, he was able to bring me to the floor so heavily. He was
defeated in his plan of tying me. While down, he seemed to think he had me
very securely in his power. He little thought he was—as the rowdies say
—“in” for a “rough and tumble” fight; but such was the fact. Whence came
the daring spirit necessary to grapple with a man who, eight-and-forty hours

before, could, with his slightest word have made me tremble like a leaf in a
storm, I do not know; at any rate, I was resolved to fight, and, what was
better still, I was actually hard at it. The fighting madness had come upon
me, and I found my strong fingers firmly attached to the throat of my
cowardly tormentor; as heedless of consequences, at the moment, as though
we stood as equals before the law. The very color of the man was forgotten.
I felt as supple as a cat, and was ready for the snakish creature at every turn.
Every blow of his was parried, though I dealt no blows in turn. I was strictly
on the defensive, preventing him from injuring me, rather than trying to
injure him. I flung him on the ground several times, when he meant to have
hurled me there. I held him so firmly by the throat, that his blood followed
my nails. He held me, and I held him.
All was fair, thus far, and the contest was about equal. My resistance was
entirely unexpected, and Covey was taken all aback by it, for he trembled in
every limb. “Are you going to resist, you scoundrel?” said he. To which, I
returned a polite “Yes sir;” steadily gazing my interrogator in the eye, to
meet the first approach or dawning of the blow, which I expected my
answer would call forth. But, the conflict did not long remain thus equal.
Covey soon cried out lustily for help; not that I was obtaining any marked
advantage over him, or was injuring him, but because he was gaining none
over me, and was not able, single handed, to conquer me. He called for his
cousin Hughs, to come to his assistance, and now the scene was changed. I
was compelled to give blows, as well as to parry them; and, since I was, in
any case, to suffer for resistance, I felt (as the musty proverb goes) that “I
might as well be hanged for an old sheep as a lamb.” I was still defensive
toward Covey, but aggressive toward Hughs; and, at the first approach of
the latter, I dealt a blow, in my desperation, which fairly sickened my
youthful assailant. He went off, bending over with pain, and manifesting no
disposition to come within my reach again. The poor fellow was in the act
of trying to catch and tie my right hand, and while flattering himself with
success, I gave him the kick which sent him staggering away in pain, at the
same time that I held Covey with a firm hand.
Taken completely by surprise, Covey seemed to have lost his usual
strength and coolness. He was frightened, and stood puffing and blowing,
seemingly unable to command words or blows. When he saw that poor
Hughes was standing half bent with pain—his courage quite gone the
cowardly tyrant asked if I “meant to persist in my resistance.” I told him “I

did mean to resist, come what might;” that I had been by him treated like a
brute, during the last six months; and that I should stand it no longer. With
that, he gave me a shake, and attempted to drag me toward a stick of wood,
that was lying just outside the stable door. He meant to knock me down
with it; but, just as he leaned over to get the stick, I seized him with both
hands by the collar, and, with a vigorous and sudden snatch, I brought my
assailant harmlessly, his full length, on the not overclean ground—for we
were now in the cow yard. He had selected the place for the fight, and it
was but right that he should have all the advantges(sic) of his own selection.
By this time, Bill, the hiredman, came home. He had been to Mr.
Hemsley’s, to spend the Sunday with his nominal wife, and was coming
home on Monday morning, to go to work. Covey and I had been
skirmishing from before daybreak, till now, that the sun was almost
shooting his beams over the eastern woods, and we were still at it. I could
not see where the matter was to terminate. He evidently was afraid to let me
go, lest I should again make off to the woods; otherwise, he would probably
have obtained arms from the house, to frighten me. Holding me, Covey
called upon Bill for assistance. The scene here, had something comic about
it. “Bill,” who knew precisely what Covey wished him to do, affected
ignorance, and pretended he did not know what to do. “What shall I do, Mr.
Covey,” said Bill. “Take hold of him—take hold of him!” said Covey. With
a toss of his head, peculiar to Bill, he said, “indeed, Mr. Covey I want to go
to work.” “This is your work,” said Covey; “take hold of him.” Bill replied,
with spirit, “My master hired me here, to work, and not to help you whip
Frederick.” It was now my turn to speak. “Bill,” said I, “don’t put your
hands on me.” To which he replied, “My GOD! Frederick, I ain’t goin’ to
tech ye,” and Bill walked off, leaving Covey and myself to settle our
matters as best we might.
But, my present advantage was threatened when I saw Caroline (the
slave-woman of Covey) coming to the cow yard to milk, for she was a
powerful woman, and could have mastered me very easily, exhausted as I
now was. As soon as she came into the yard, Covey attempted to rally her to
his aid. Strangely—and, I may add, fortunately—Caroline was in no humor
to take a hand in any such sport. We were all in open rebellion, that
morning. Caroline answered the command of her master to “take hold of
me,” precisely as Bill had answered, but in her, it was at greater peril so to
answer; she was the slave of Covey, and he could do what he pleased with

her. It was not so with Bill, and Bill knew it. Samuel Harris, to whom Bill
belonged, did not allow his slaves to be beaten, unless they were guilty of
some crime which the law would punish. But, poor Caroline, like myself,
was at the mercy of the merciless Covey; nor did she escape the dire effects
of her refusal. He gave her several sharp blows.
Covey at length (two hours had elapsed) gave up the contest. Letting me
go, he said—puffing and blowing at a great rate—“Now, you scoundrel, go
to your work; I would not have whipped you half so much as I have had
you not resisted.” The fact was, he had not whipped me at all. He had not,
in all the scuffle, drawn a single drop of blood from me. I had drawn blood
from him; and, even without this satisfaction, I should have been victorious,
because my aim had not been to injure him, but to prevent his injuring me.
During the whole six months that I lived with Covey, after this
transaction, he never laid on me the weight of his finger in anger. He would,
occasionally, say he did not want to have to get hold of me again—a
declaration which I had no difficulty in believing; and I had a secret feeling,
which answered, “You need not wish to get hold of me again, for you will
be likely to come off worse in a second fight than you did in the first.”
Well, my dear reader, this battle with Mr. Covey—undignified as it was,
and as I fear my narration of it is—was the turning point in my “life as a
slave.” It rekindled in my breast the smouldering embers of liberty; it
brought up my Baltimore dreams, and revived a sense of my own manhood.
I was a changed being after that fight. I was nothing before; I WAS A MAN
NOW. It recalled to life my crushed self-respect and my self-confidence,
and inspired me with a renewed determination to be A FREEMAN. A man,
without force, is without the essential dignity of humanity. Human nature is
so constituted, that it cannot honor a helpless man, although it can pity him;
and even this it cannot do long, if the signs of power do not arise.
He can only understand the effect of this combat on my spirit, who has
himself incurred something, hazarded something, in repelling the unjust and
cruel aggressions of a tyrant. Covey was a tyrant, and a cowardly one,
withal. After resisting him, I felt as I had never felt before. It was a
resurrection from the dark and pestiferous tomb of slavery, to the heaven of
comparative freedom. I was no longer a servile coward, trembling under the
frown of a brother worm of the dust, but, my long-cowed spirit was roused
to an attitude of manly independence. I had reached the point, at which I

was not afraid to die. This spirit made me a freeman in fact, while I
remained a slave in form. When a slave cannot be flogged he is more than
half free. He has a domain as broad as his own manly heart to defend, and
he is really “a power on earth.” While slaves prefer their lives, with
flogging, to instant death, they will always find Christians enough, like unto
Covey, to accommodate that preference. From this time, until that of my
escape from slavery, I was never fairly whipped. Several attempts were
made to whip me, but they were always unsuccessful. Bruises I did get, as I
shall hereafter inform the reader; but the case I have been describing, was
the end of the brutification to which slavery had subjected me.
The reader will be glad to know why, after I had so grievously offended
Mr. Covey, he did not have me taken in hand by the authorities; indeed,
why the law of Maryland, which assigns hanging to the slave who resists
his master, was not put in force against me; at any rate, why I was not taken
up, as is usual in such cases, and publicly whipped, for an example to other
slaves, and as a means of deterring me from committing the same offense
again. I confess, that the easy manner in which I got off, for a long time, a
surprise to me, and I cannot, even now, fully explain the cause.
The only explanation I can venture to suggest, is the fact, that Covey
was, probably, ashamed to have it known and confessed that he had been
mastered by a boy of sixteen. Mr. Covey enjoyed the unbounded and very
valuable reputation, of being a first rate overseer and Negro breaker. By
means of this reputation, he was able to procure his hands for very trifling
compensation, and with very great ease. His interest and his pride mutually
suggested the wisdom of passing the matter by, in silence. The story that he
had undertaken to whip a lad, and had been resisted, was, of itself,
sufficient to damage him; for his bearing should, in the estimation of
slaveholders, be of that imperial order that should make such an occurrence
impossible. I judge from these circumstances, that Covey deemed it best to
give me the go-by. It is, perhaps, not altogether creditable to my natural
temper, that, after this conflict with Mr. Covey, I did, at times, purposely
aim to provoke him to an attack, by refusing to keep with the other hands in
the field, but I could never bully him to another battle. I had made up my
mind to do him serious damage, if he ever again attempted to lay violent
hands on me.
Hereditary bondmen, know ye not
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?

CHAPTER XVIII. New Relations and Duties

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

My term of actual service to Mr. Edward Covey ended on Christmas day,
1834. I gladly left the snakish Covey, although he was now as gentle as a
lamb. My home for the year 1835 was already secured—my next master
was already selected. There is always more or less excitement about the
matter of changing hands, but I had become somewhat reckless. I cared
very little into whose hands I fell—I meant to fight my way. Despite of
Covey, too, the report got abroad, that I was hard to whip; that I was guilty
of kicking back; that though generally a good tempered Negro, I sometimes
“got the devil in me.” These sayings were rife in Talbot county, and they

distinguished me among my servile brethren. Slaves, generally, will fight
each other, and die at each other’s hands; but there are few who are not held
in awe by a white man. Trained from the cradle up, to think and feel that
their masters are superior, and invested with a sort of sacredness, there are
few who can outgrow or rise above the control which that sentiment
exercises. I had now got free from it, and the thing was known. One bad
sheep will spoil a whole flock. Among the slaves, I was a bad sheep. I hated
slavery, slaveholders, and all pertaining to them; and I did not fail to inspire
others with the same feeling, wherever and whenever opportunity was
presented. This made me a marked lad among the slaves, and a suspected
one among the slaveholders. A knowledge of my ability to read and write,
got pretty widely spread, which was very much against me.
The days between Christmas day and New Year’s, are allowed the slaves
as holidays. During these days, all regular work was suspended, and there
was nothing to do but to keep fires, and look after the stock. This time was
regarded as our own, by the grace of our masters, and we, therefore used it,
or abused it, as we pleased. Those who had families at a distance, were now
expected to visit them, and to spend with them the entire week. The
younger slaves, or the unmarried ones, were expected to see to the cattle,
and attend to incidental duties at home. The holidays were variously spent.
The sober, thinking and industrious ones of our number, would employ
themselves in manufacturing corn brooms, mats, horse collars and baskets,
and some of these were very well made. Another class spent their time in
hunting opossums, coons, rabbits, and other game. But the majority spent
the holidays in sports, ball playing, wrestling, boxing, running foot races,
dancing, and drinking whisky; and this latter mode of spending the time
was generally most agreeable to their masters. A slave who would work
during the holidays, was thought, by his master, undeserving of holidays.
Such an one had rejected the favor of his master. There was, in this simple
act of continued work, an accusation against slaves; and a slave could not
help thinking, that if he made three dollars during the holidays, he might
make three hundred during the year. Not to be drunk during the holidays,
was disgraceful; and he was esteemed a lazy and improvident man, who
could not afford to drink whisky during Christmas.
The fiddling, dancing and “jubilee beating,” was going on in all
directions. This latter performance is strictly southern. It supplies the place
of a violin, or of other musical instruments, and is played so easily, that

almost every farm has its “Juba” beater. The performer improvises as he
beats, and sings his merry songs, so ordering the words as to have them fall
pat with the movement of his hands. Among a mass of nonsense and wild
frolic, once in a while a sharp hit is given to the meanness of slaveholders.
Take the following, for an example:
We raise de wheat,
Dey gib us de corn;
We bake de bread,
Dey gib us de cruss;
We sif de meal,
Dey gib us de huss;
We peal de meat,
Dey gib us de skin,
And dat’s de way
Dey takes us in.
We skim de pot,
Dey gib us the liquor,
And say dat’s good enough for nigger.
Walk over! walk over!
Tom butter and de fat;
Poor nigger you can’t get over dat;
Walk over!

This is not a bad summary of the palpable injustice and fraud of slavery,
giving—as it does—to the lazy and idle, the comforts which God designed
should be given solely to the honest laborer. But to the holiday’s.
Judging from my own observation and experience, I believe these
holidays to be among the most effective means, in the hands of
slaveholders, of keeping down the spirit of insurrection among the slaves.
To enslave men, successfully and safely, it is necessary to have their
minds occupied with thoughts and aspirations short of the liberty of which
they are deprived. A certain degree of attainable good must be kept before
them. These holidays serve the purpose of keeping the minds of the slaves
occupied with prospective pleasure, within the limits of slavery. The young
man can go wooing; the married man can visit his wife; the father and
mother can see their children; the industrious and money loving can make a
few dollars; the great wrestler can win laurels; the young people can meet,
and enjoy each other’s society; the drunken man can get plenty of whisky;
and the religious man can hold prayer meetings, preach, pray and exhort
during the holidays. Before the holidays, these are pleasures in prospect;
after the holidays, they become pleasures of memory, and they serve to keep

out thoughts and wishes of a more dangerous character. Were slaveholders
at once to abandon the practice of allowing their slaves these liberties,
periodically, and to keep them, the year round, closely confined to the
narrow circle of their homes, I doubt not that the south would blaze with
insurrections. These holidays are conductors or safety valves to carry off the
explosive elements inseparable from the human mind, when reduced to the
condition of slavery. But for these, the rigors of bondage would become too
severe for endurance, and the slave would be forced up to dangerous
desperation. Woe to the slaveholder when he undertakes to hinder or to
prevent the operation of these electric conductors. A succession of
earthquakes would be less destructive, than the insurrectionary fires which
would be sure to burst forth in different parts of the south, from such
interference.
Thus, the holidays, became part and parcel of the gross fraud, wrongs and
inhumanity of slavery. Ostensibly, they are institutions of benevolence,
designed to mitigate the rigors of slave life, but, practically, they are a
fraud, instituted by human selfishness, the better to secure the ends of
injustice and oppression. The slave’s happiness is not the end sought, but,
rather, the master’s safety. It is not from a generous unconcern for the
slave’s labor that this cessation from labor is allowed, but from a prudent
regard to the safety of the slave system. I am strengthened in this opinion,
by the fact, that most slaveholders like to have their slaves spend the
holidays in such a manner as to be of no real benefit to the slaves. It is
plain, that everything like rational enjoyment among the slaves, is frowned
upon; and only those wild and low sports, peculiar to semi-civilized people,
are encouraged. All the license allowed, appears to have no other object
than to disgust the slaves with their temporary freedom, and to make them
as glad to return to their work, as they were to leave it. By plunging them
into exhausting depths of drunkenness and dissipation, this effect is almost
certain to follow. I have known slaveholders resort to cunning tricks, with a
view of getting their slaves deplorably drunk. A usual plan is, to make bets
on a slave, that he can drink more whisky than any other; and so to induce a
rivalry among them, for the mastery in this degradation. The scenes,
brought about in this way, were often scandalous and loathsome in the
extreme. Whole multitudes might be found stretched out in brutal
drunkenness, at once helpless and disgusting. Thus, when the slave asks for
a few hours of virtuous freedom, his cunning master takes advantage of his

ignorance, and cheers him with a dose of vicious and revolting dissipation,
artfully labeled with the name of LIBERTY. We were induced to drink, I
among the rest, and when the holidays were over, we all staggered up from
our filth and wallowing, took a long breath, and went away to our various
fields of work; feeling, upon the whole, rather glad to go from that which
our masters artfully deceived us into the belief was freedom, back again to
the arms of slavery. It was not what we had taken it to be, nor what it might
have been, had it not been abused by us. It was about as well to be a slave
to master, as to be a slave to rum and whisky.
I am the more induced to take this view of the holiday system, adopted
by slaveholders, from what I know of their treatment of slaves, in regard to
other things. It is the commonest thing for them to try to disgust their slaves
with what they do not want them to have, or to enjoy. A slave, for instance,
likes molasses; he steals some; to cure him of the taste for it, his master, in
many cases, will go away to town, and buy a large quantity of the poorest
quality, and set it before his slave, and, with whip in hand, compel him to
eat it, until the poor fellow is made to sicken at the very thought of
molasses. The same course is often adopted to cure slaves of the
disagreeable and inconvenient practice of asking for more food, when their
allowance has failed them. The same disgusting process works well, too, in
other things, but I need not cite them. When a slave is drunk, the
slaveholder has no fear that he will plan an insurrection; no fear that he will
escape to the north. It is the sober, thinking slave who is dangerous, and
needs the vigilance of his master, to keep him a slave. But, to proceed with
my narrative.
On the first of January, 1835, I proceeded from St. Michael’s to Mr.
William Freeland’s, my new home. Mr. Freeland lived only three miles
from St. Michael’s, on an old worn out farm, which required much labor to
restore it to anything like a self-supporting establishment.
I was not long in finding Mr. Freeland to be a very different man from
Mr. Covey. Though not rich, Mr. Freeland was what may be called a well-
bred southern gentleman, as different from Covey, as a well-trained and
hardened Negro breaker is from the best specimen of the first families of
the south. Though Freeland was a slaveholder, and shared many of the vices
of his class, he seemed alive to the sentiment of honor. He had some sense
of justice, and some feelings of humanity. He was fretful, impulsive and

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

good. Such was Weeden’s theory, and such was his practice. The back of his
slave-woman will, in the judgment, be the swiftest witness against him.
While I am stating particular cases, I might as well immortalize another
of my neighbors, by calling him by name, and putting him in print. He did
not think that a “chiel” was near, “taking notes,” and will, doubtless, feel
quite angry at having his character touched off in the ragged style of a
slave’s pen. I beg to introduce the reader to REV. RIGBY HOPKINS. Mr.
Hopkins resides between Easton and St. Michael’s, in Talbot county,
Maryland. The severity of this man made him a perfect terror to the slaves
of his neighborhood. The peculiar feature of his government, was, his
system of whipping slaves, as he said, in advance of deserving it. He
always managed to have one or two slaves to whip on Monday morning, so
as to start his hands to their work, under the inspiration of a new assurance
on Monday, that his preaching about kindness, mercy, brotherly love, and
the like, on Sunday, did not interfere with, or prevent him from establishing
his authority, by the cowskin. He seemed to wish to assure them, that his
tears over poor, lost and ruined sinners, and his pity for them, did not reach
to the blacks who tilled his fields. This saintly Hopkins used to boast, that
he was the best hand to manage a Negro in the county. He whipped for the
smallest offenses, by way of preventing the commission of large ones.
The reader might imagine a difficulty in finding faults enough for such
frequent whipping. But this is because you have no idea how easy a matter
it is to offend a man who is on the look-out for offenses. The man,
unaccustomed to slaveholding, would be astonished to observe how many
foggable offenses there are in the slaveholder’s catalogue of crimes; and
how easy it is to commit any one of them, even when the slave least intends
it. A slaveholder, bent on finding fault, will hatch up a dozen a day, if he
chooses to do so, and each one of these shall be of a punishable description.
A mere look, word, or motion, a mistake, accident, or want of power, are all
matters for which a slave may be whipped at any time. Does a slave look
dissatisfied with his condition? It is said, that he has the devil in him, and it
must be whipped out. Does he answer loudly, when spoken to by his master,
with an air of self-consciousness? Then, must he be taken down a button-
hole lower, by the lash, well laid on. Does he forget, and omit to pull off his
hat, when approaching a white person? Then, he must, or may be, whipped
for his bad manners. Does he ever venture to vindicate his conduct, when
harshly and unjustly accused? Then, he is guilty of impudence, one of the

greatest crimes in the social catalogue of southern society. To allow a slave
to escape punishment, who has impudently attempted to exculpate himself
from unjust charges, preferred against him by some white person, is to be
guilty of great dereliction of duty. Does a slave ever venture to suggest a
better way of doing a thing, no matter what? He is, altogether, too officious
—wise above what is written—and he deserves, even if he does not get, a
flogging for his presumption. Does he, while plowing, break a plow, or
while hoeing, break a hoe, or while chopping, break an ax? No matter what
were the imperfections of the implement broken, or the natural liabilities for
breaking, the slave can be whipped for carelessness. The reverend
slaveholder could always find something of this sort, to justify him in using
the lash several times during the week. Hopkins—like Covey and Weeden
—were shunned by slaves who had the privilege (as many had) of finding
their own masters at the end of each year; and yet, there was not a man in
all that section of country, who made a louder profession of religion, than
did MR. RIGBY HOPKINS.
But, to continue the thread of my story, through my experience when at
Mr. William Freeland’s.
My poor, weather-beaten bark now reached smoother water, and gentler
breezes. My stormy life at Covey’s had been of service to me. The things
that would have seemed very hard, had I gone direct to Mr. Freeland’s, from
the home of Master Thomas, were now (after the hardships at Covey’s)
“trifles light as air.” I was still a field hand, and had come to prefer the
severe labor of the field, to the enervating duties of a house servant. I had
become large and strong; and had begun to take pride in the fact, that I
could do as much hard work as some of the older men. There is much
rivalry among slaves, at times, as to which can do the most work, and
masters generally seek to promote such rivalry. But some of us were too
wise to race with each other very long. Such racing, we had the sagacity to
see, was not likely to pay. We had our times for measuring each other’s
strength, but we knew too much to keep up the competition so long as to
produce an extraordinary day’s work. We knew that if, by extraordinary
exertion, a large quantity of work was done in one day, the fact, becoming
known to the master, might lead him to require the same amount every day.
This thought was enough to bring us to a dead halt when over so much
excited for the race.

At Mr. Freeland’s, my condition was every way improved. I was no
longer the poor scape-goat that I was when at Covey’s, where every wrong
thing done was saddled upon me, and where other slaves were whipped
over my shoulders. Mr. Freeland was too just a man thus to impose upon
me, or upon any one else.
It is quite usual to make one slave the object of especial abuse, and to
beat him often, with a view to its effect upon others, rather than with any
expectation that the slave whipped will be improved by it, but the man with
whom I now was, could descend to no such meanness and wickedness.
Every man here was held individually responsible for his own conduct.
This was a vast improvement on the rule at Covey’s. There, I was the
general pack horse. Bill Smith was protected, by a positive prohibition
made by his rich master, and the command of the rich slaveholder is LAW
to the poor one; Hughes was favored, because of his relationship to Covey;
and the hands hired temporarily, escaped flogging, except as they got it over
my poor shoulders. Of course, this comparison refers to the time when
Covey could whip me.
Mr. Freeland, like Mr. Covey, gave his hands enough to eat, but, unlike
Mr. Covey, he gave them time to take their meals; he worked us hard during
the day, but gave us the night for rest—another advantage to be set to the
credit of the sinner, as against that of the saint. We were seldom in the field
after dark in the evening, or before sunrise in the morning. Our implements
of husbandry were of the most improved pattern, and much superior to
those used at Covey’s.
Nothwithstanding the improved condition which was now mine, and the
many advantages I had gained by my new home, and my new master, I was
still restless and discontented. I was about as hard to please by a master, as a
master is by slave. The freedom from bodily torture and unceasing labor,
had given my mind an increased sensibility, and imparted to it greater
activity. I was not yet exactly in right relations. “How be it, that was not
first which is spiritual, but that which is natural, and afterward that which is
spiritual.” When entombed at Covey’s, shrouded in darkness and physical
wretchedness, temporal wellbeing was the grand desideratum; but,
temporal wants supplied, the spirit puts in its claims. Beat and cuff your
slave, keep him hungry and spiritless, and he will follow the chain of his
master like a dog; but, feed and clothe him well—work him moderately—

surround him with physical comfort—and dreams of freedom intrude. Give
him a bad master, and he aspires to a good master; give him a good master,
and he wishes to become his own master. Such is human nature. You may
hurl a man so low, beneath the level of his kind, that he loses all just ideas
of his natural position; but elevate him a little, and the clear conception of
rights arises to life and power, and leads him onward. Thus elevated, a little,
at Freeland’s, the dreams called into being by that good man, Father
Lawson, when in Baltimore, began to visit me; and shoots from the tree of
liberty began to put forth tender buds, and dim hopes of the future began to
dawn.
I found myself in congenial society, at Mr. Freeland’s. There were Henry
Harris, John Harris, Handy Caldwell, and Sandy Jenkins. 6
Henry and John were brothers, and belonged to Mr. Freeland. They were
both remarkably bright and intelligent, though neither of them could read.
Now for mischief! I had not been long at Freeland’s before I was up to my
old tricks. I early began to address my companions on the subject of
education, and the advantages of intelligence over ignorance, and, as far as I
dared, I tried to show the agency of ignorance in keeping men in slavery.
Webster’s spelling book and the Columbian Orator were looked into again.
As summer came on, and the long Sabbath days stretched themselves over
our idleness, I became uneasy, and wanted a Sabbath school, in which to
exercise my gifts, and to impart the little knowledge of letters which I
possessed, to my brother slaves. A house was hardly necessary in the
summer time; I could hold my school under the shade of an old oak tree, as
well as any where else. The thing was, to get the scholars, and to have them
thoroughly imbued with the desire to learn. Two such boys were quickly
secured, in Henry and John, and from them the contagion spread. I was not
long bringing around me twenty or thirty young men, who enrolled
themselves, gladly, in my Sabbath school, and were willing to meet me
regularly, under the trees or elsewhere, for the purpose of learning to read. It
was surprising with what ease they provided themselves with spelling
books. These were mostly the cast off books of their young masters or
mistresses. I taught, at first, on our own farm. All were impressed with the
necessity of keeping the matter as private as possible, for the fate of the St.
Michael’s attempt was notorious, and fresh in the minds of all. Our pious
masters, at St. Michael’s, must not know that a few of their dusky brothers
were learning to read the word of God, lest they should come down upon us

with the lash and chain. We might have met to drink whisky, to wrestle,
fight, and to do other unseemly things, with no fear of interruption from the
saints or sinners of St. Michael’s.
But, to meet for the purpose of improving the mind and heart, by learning
to read the sacred scriptures, was esteemed a most dangerous nuisance, to
be instantly stopped. The slaveholders of St. Michael’s, like slaveholders
elsewhere, would always prefer to see the slaves engaged in degrading
sports, rather than to see them acting like moral and accountable beings.
Had any one asked a religious white man, in St. Michael’s, twenty years
ago, the names of three men in that town, whose lives were most after the
pattern of our Lord and Master, Jesus Christ, the first three would have been
as follows:

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

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

at St. Michael’s; it was enough that they had determined upon its
destruction. I am, however, digressing.
After getting the school cleverly into operation, the second time holding
it in the woods, behind the barn, and in the shade of trees—I succeeded in
inducing a free colored man, who lived several miles from our house, to
permit me to hold my school in a room at his house. He, very kindly, gave
me this liberty; but he incurred much peril in doing so, for the assemblage
was an unlawful one. I shall not mention, here, the name of this man; for it
might, even now, subject him to persecution, although the offenses were
committed more than twenty years ago. I had, at one time, more than forty
scholars, all of the right sort; and many of them succeeded in learning to
read. I have met several slaves from Maryland, who were once my scholars;
and who obtained their freedom, I doubt not, partly in consequence of the
ideas imparted to them in that school. I have had various employments
during my short life; but I look back to none with more satisfaction, than to
that afforded by my Sunday school. An attachment, deep and lasting, sprung
up between me and my persecuted pupils, which made parting from them
intensely grievous; and, when I think that most of these dear souls are yet
shut up in this abject thralldom, I am overwhelmed with grief.
Besides my Sunday school, I devoted three evenings a week to my fellow
slaves, during the winter. Let the reader reflect upon the fact, that, in this
christian country, men and women are hiding from professors of religion, in
barns, in the woods and fields, in order to learn to read the holy bible. Those
dear souls, who came to my Sabbath school, came not because it was
popular or reputable to attend such a place, for they came under the liability
of having forty stripes laid on their naked backs. Every moment they spend
in my school, they were under this terrible liability; and, in this respect, I
was sharer with them. Their minds had been cramped and starved by their
cruel masters; the light of education had been completely excluded; and
their hard earnings had been taken to educate their master’s children. I felt a
delight in circumventing the tyrants, and in blessing the victims of their
curses.
The year at Mr. Freeland’s passed off very smoothly, to outward seeming.
Not a blow was given me during the whole year. To the credit of Mr.
Freeland—irreligious though he was—it must be stated, that he was the best
master I ever had, until I became my own master, and assumed for myself,

as I had a right to do, the responsibility of my own existence and the
exercise of my own powers. For much of the happiness—or absence of
misery—with which I passed this year with Mr. Freeland, I am indebted to
the genial temper and ardent friendship of my brother slaves. They were,
every one of them, manly, generous and brave, yes; I say they were brave,
and I will add, fine looking. It is seldom the lot of mortals to have truer and
better friends than were the slaves on this farm. It is not uncommon to
charge slaves with great treachery toward each other, and to believe them
incapable of confiding in each other; but I must say, that I never loved,
esteemed, or confided in men, more than I did in these. They were as true as
steel, and no band of brothers could have been more loving. There were no
mean advantages taken of each other, as is sometimes the case where slaves
are situated as we were; no tattling; no giving each other bad names to Mr.
Freeland; and no elevating one at the expense of the other. We never
undertook to do any thing, of any importance, which was likely to affect
each other, without mutual consultation. We were generally a unit, and
moved together. Thoughts and sentiments were exchanged between us,
which might well be called very incendiary, by oppressors and tyrants; and
perhaps the time has not even now come, when it is safe to unfold all the
flying suggestions which arise in the minds of intelligent slaves. Several of
my friends and brothers, if yet alive, are still in some part of the house of
bondage; and though twenty years have passed away, the suspicious malice
of slavery might punish them for even listening to my thoughts.
The slaveholder, kind or cruel, is a slaveholder still—the every hour
violator of the just and inalienable rights of man; and he is, therefore, every
hour silently whetting the knife of vengeance for his own throat. He never
lisps a syllable in commendation of the fathers of this republic, nor
denounces any attempted oppression of himself, without inviting the knife
to his own throat, and asserting the rights of rebellion for his own slaves.
The year is ended, and we are now in the midst of the Christmas
holidays, which are kept this year as last, according to the general
description previously given.

CHAPTER XIX. The Run-Away Plot

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

MULTITUDE ALONG THE ROAD—PASSES EATEN—
THE DENIAL—SANDY TOO WELL LOVED TO BE
SUSPECTED—DRAGGED BEHIND HORSES—THE
JAIL A RELIEF—A NEW SET OF TORMENTORS—
SLAVE-TRADERS—JOHN, CHARLES AND HENRY
RELEASED—ALONE IN PRISON—I AM TAKEN OUT,
AND SENT TO BALTIMORE.

I am now at the beginning of the year 1836, a time favorable for serious
thoughts. The mind naturally occupies itself with the mysteries of life in all
its phases—the ideal, the real and the actual. Sober people look both ways
at the beginning of the year, surveying the errors of the past, and providing
against possible errors of the future. I, too, was thus exercised. I had little
pleasure in retrospect, and the prospect was not very brilliant.
“Notwithstanding,” thought I, “the many resolutions and prayers I have
made, in behalf of freedom, I am, this first day of the year 1836, still a
slave, still wandering in the depths of spirit-devouring thralldom. My
faculties and powers of body and soul are not my own, but are the property
of a fellow mortal, in no sense superior to me, except that he has the
physical power to compel me to be owned and controlled by him. By the
combined physical force of the community, I am his slave—a slave for
life.” With thoughts like these, I was perplexed and chafed; they rendered
me gloomy and disconsolate. The anguish of my mind may not be written.
At the close of the year 1835, Mr. Freeland, my temporary master, had
bought me of Capt. Thomas Auld, for the year 1836. His promptness in
securing my services, would have been flattering to my vanity, had I been
ambitious to win the reputation of being a valuable slave. Even as it was, I
felt a slight degree of complacency at the circumstance. It showed he was as
well pleased with me as a slave, as I was with him as a master. I have
already intimated my regard for Mr. Freeland, and I may say here, in
addressing northern readers—where is no selfish motive for speaking in
praise of a slaveholder—that Mr. Freeland was a man of many excellent
qualities, and to me quite preferable to any master I ever had.
But the kindness of the slavemaster only gilds the chain of slavery, and
detracts nothing from its weight or power. The thought that men are made
for other and better uses than slavery, thrives best under the gentle treatment
of a kind master. But the grim visage of slavery can assume no smiles

which can fascinate the partially enlightened slave, into a forgetfulness of
his bondage, nor of the desirableness of liberty.
I was not through the first month of this, my second year with the kind
and gentlemanly Mr. Freeland, before I was earnestly considering and
advising plans for gaining that freedom, which, when I was but a mere
child, I had ascertained to be the natural and inborn right of every member
of the human family. The desire for this freedom had been benumbed, while
I was under the brutalizing dominion of Covey; and it had been postponed,
and rendered inoperative, by my truly pleasant Sunday school engagements
with my friends, during the year 1835, at Mr. Freeland’s. It had, however,
never entirely subsided. I hated slavery, always, and the desire for freedom
only needed a favorable breeze, to fan it into a blaze, at any moment. The
thought of only being a creature of the present and the past, troubled me,
and I longed to have a future—a future with hope in it. To be shut up
entirely to the past and present, is abhorrent to the human mind; it is to the
soul—whose life and happiness is unceasing progress—what the prison is
to the body; a blight and mildew, a hell of horrors. The dawning of this,
another year, awakened me from my temporary slumber, and roused into
life my latent, but long cherished aspirations for freedom. I was now not
only ashamed to be contented in slavery, but ashamed to seem to be
contented, and in my present favorable condition, under the mild rule of Mr.
F., I am not sure that some kind reader will not condemn me for being over
ambitious, and greatly wanting in proper humility, when I say the truth, that
I now drove from me all thoughts of making the best of my lot, and
welcomed only such thoughts as led me away from the house of bondage.
The intense desires, now felt, to be free, quickened by my present favorable
circumstances, brought me to the determination to act, as well as to think
and speak. Accordingly, at the beginning of this year 1836, I took upon me
a solemn vow, that the year which had now dawned upon me should not
close, without witnessing an earnest attempt, on my part, to gain my liberty.
This vow only bound me to make my escape individually; but the year
spent with Mr. Freeland had attached me, as with “hooks of steel,” to my
brother slaves. The most affectionate and confiding friendship existed
between us; and I felt it my duty to give them an opportunity to share in my
virtuous determination by frankly disclosing to them my plans and
purposes. Toward Henry and John Harris, I felt a friendship as strong as one
man can feel for another; for I could have died with and for them. To them,

therefore, with a suitable degree of caution, I began to disclose my
sentiments and plans; sounding them, the while on the subject of running
away, provided a good chance should offer. I scarcely need tell the reader,
that I did my very best to imbue the minds of my dear friends with my own
views and feelings. Thoroughly awakened, now, and with a definite vow
upon me, all my little reading, which had any bearing on the subject of
human rights, was rendered available in my communications with my
friends. That (to me) gem of a book, the Columbian Orator, with its
eloquent orations and spicy dialogues, denouncing oppression and slavery
—telling of what had been dared, done and suffered by men, to obtain the
inestimable boon of liberty—was still fresh in my memory, and whirled into
the ranks of my speech with the aptitude of well trained soldiers, going
through the drill. The fact is, I here began my public speaking. I canvassed,
with Henry and John, the subject of slavery, and dashed against it the
condemning brand of God’s eternal justice, which it every hour violates.
My fellow servants were neither indifferent, dull, nor inapt. Our feelings
were more alike than our opinions. All, however, were ready to act, when a
feasible plan should be proposed. “Show us how the thing is to be done,”
said they, “and all is clear.”
We were all, except Sandy, quite free from slaveholding priestcraft. It
was in vain that we had been taught from the pulpit at St. Michael’s, the
duty of obedience to our masters; to recognize God as the author of our
enslavement; to regard running away an offense, alike against God and
man; to deem our enslavement a merciful and beneficial arrangement; to
esteem our condition, in this country, a paradise to that from which we had
been snatched in Africa; to consider our hard hands and dark color as God’s
mark of displeasure, and as pointing us out as the proper subjects of
slavery; that the relation of master and slave was one of reciprocal benefits;
that our work was not more serviceable to our masters, than our master’s
thinking was serviceable to us. I say, it was in vain that the pulpit of St.
Michael’s had constantly inculcated these plausible doctrine. Nature
laughed them to scorn. For my own part, I had now become altogether too
big for my chains. Father Lawson’s solemn words, of what I ought to be,
and might be, in the providence of God, had not fallen dead on my soul. I
was fast verging toward manhood, and the prophecies of my childhood
were still unfulfilled. The thought, that year after year had passed away, and
my resolutions to run away had failed and faded—that I was still a slave,

and a slave, too, with chances for gaining my freedom diminished and still
diminishing—was not a matter to be slept over easily; nor did I easily sleep
over it.
But here came a new trouble. Thoughts and purposes so incendiary as
those I now cherished, could not agitate the mind long, without danger of
making themselves manifest to scrutinizing and unfriendly beholders. I had
reason to fear that my sable face might prove altogether too transparent for
the safe concealment of my hazardous enterprise. Plans of greater moment
have leaked through stone walls, and revealed their projectors. But, here
was no stone wall to hide my purpose. I would have given my poor, tell tale
face for the immoveable countenance of an Indian, for it was far from being
proof against the daily, searching glances of those with whom I met.
It is the interest and business of slaveholders to study human nature, with
a view to practical results, and many of them attain astonishing proficiency
in discerning the thoughts and emotions of slaves. They have to deal not
with earth, wood, or stone, but with men; and, by every regard they have for
their safety and prosperity, they must study to know the material on which
they are at work. So much intellect as the slaveholder has around him,
requires watching. Their safety depends upon their vigilance. Conscious of
the injustice and wrong they are every hour perpetrating, and knowing what
they themselves would do if made the victims of such wrongs, they are
looking out for the first signs of the dread retribution of justice. They watch,
therefore, with skilled and practiced eyes, and have learned to read, with
great accuracy, the state of mind and heart of the slaves, through his sable
face. These uneasy sinners are quick to inquire into the matter, where the
slave is concerned. Unusual sobriety, apparent abstraction, sullenness and
indifference—indeed, any mood out of the common way—afford ground
for suspicion and inquiry. Often relying on their superior position and
wisdom, they hector and torture the slave into a confession, by affecting to
know the truth of their accusations. “You have got the devil in you,” say
they, “and we will whip him out of you.” I have often been put thus to the
torture, on bare suspicion. This system has its disadvantages as well as their
opposite. The slave is sometimes whipped into the confession of offenses
which he never committed. The reader will see that the good old rule—“a
man is to be held innocent until proved to be guilty”—does not hold good
on the slave plantation. Suspicion and torture are the approved methods of

getting at the truth, here. It was necessary for me, therefore, to keep a watch
over my deportment, lest the enemy should get the better of me.
But with all our caution and studied reserve, I am not sure that Mr.
Freeland did not suspect that all was not right with us. It did seem that he
watched us more narrowly, after the plan of escape had been conceived and
discussed amongst us. Men seldom see themselves as others see them; and
while, to ourselves, everything connected with our contemplated escape
appeared concealed, Mr. Freeland may have, with the peculiar prescience of
a slaveholder, mastered the huge thought which was disturbing our peace in
slavery.
I am the more inclined to think that he suspected us, because, prudent as
we were, as I now look back, I can see that we did many silly things, very
well calculated to awaken suspicion. We were, at times, remarkably
buoyant, singing hymns and making joyous exclamations, almost as
triumphant in their tone as if we reached a land of freedom and safety. A
keen observer might have detected in our repeated singing of
O Canaan, sweet Canaan,
I am bound for the land of Canaan,

something more than a hope of reaching heaven. We meant to reach the
north—and the north was our Canaan.
I thought I heard them say,
There were lions in the way,
I don’t expect to Star
Much longer here.

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

was a favorite air, and had a double meaning. In the lips of some, it
meant the expectation of a speedy summons to a world of spirits; but, in the
lips of our company, it simply meant, a speedy pilgrimage toward a free
state, and deliverance from all the evils and dangers of slavery.
I had succeeded in winning to my (what slaveholders would call wicked)
scheme, a company of five young men, the very flower of the
neighborhood, each one of whom would have commanded one thousand
dollars in the home market. At New Orleans, they would have brought

fifteen hundred dollars a piece, and, perhaps, more. The names of our party
were as follows: Henry Harris; John Harris, brother to Henry; Sandy
Jenkins, of root memory; Charles Roberts, and Henry Bailey. I was the
youngest, but one, of the party. I had, however, the advantage of them all, in
experience, and in a knowledge of letters. This gave me great influence over
them. Perhaps not one of them, left to himself, would have dreamed of
escape as a possible thing. Not one of them was self-moved in the matter.
They all wanted to be free; but the serious thought of running away, had not
entered into their minds, until I won them to the undertaking. They all were
tolerably well off—for slaves—and had dim hopes of being set free, some
day, by their masters. If any one is to blame for disturbing the quiet of the
slaves and slave-masters of the neighborhood of St. Michael’s, I am the
man. I claim to be the instigator of the high crime (as the slaveholders
regard it) and I kept life in it, until life could be kept in it no longer.
Pending the time of our contemplated departure out of our Egypt, we met
often by night, and on every Sunday. At these meetings we talked the matter
over; told our hopes and fears, and the difficulties discovered or imagined;
and, like men of sense, we counted the cost of the enterprise to which we
were committing ourselves.
These meetings must have resembled, on a small scale, the meetings of
revolutionary conspirators, in their primary condition. We were plotting
against our (so called) lawful rulers; with this difference that we sought our
own good, and not the harm of our enemies. We did not seek to overthrow
them, but to escape from them. As for Mr. Freeland, we all liked him, and
would have gladly remained with him, as freeman. LIBERTY was our aim;
and we had now come to think that we had a right to liberty, against every
obstacle even against the lives of our enslavers.
We had several words, expressive of things, important to us, which we
understood, but which, even if distinctly heard by an outsider, would
convey no certain meaning. I have reasons for suppressing these pass-
words, which the reader will easily divine. I hated the secrecy; but where
slavery is powerful, and liberty is weak, the latter is driven to concealment
or to destruction.
The prospect was not always a bright one. At times, we were almost
tempted to abandon the enterprise, and to get back to that comparative
peace of mind, which even a man under the gallows might feel, when all

hope of escape had vanished. Quiet bondage was felt to be better than the
doubts, fears and uncertainties, which now so sadly perplexed and disturbed
us.
The infirmities of humanity, generally, were represented in our little
band. We were confident, bold and determined, at times; and, again,
doubting, timid and wavering; whistling, like the boy in the graveyard, to
keep away the spirits.
To look at the map, and observe the proximity of Eastern Shore,
Maryland, to Delaware and Pennsylvania, it may seem to the reader quite
absurd, to regard the proposed escape as a formidable undertaking. But to
understand, some one has said a man must stand under. The real distance
was great enough, but the imagined distance was, to our ignorance, even
greater. Every slaveholder seeks to impress his slave with a belief in the
boundlessness of slave territory, and of his own almost illimitable power.
We all had vague and indistinct notions of the geography of the country.
The distance, however, is not the chief trouble. The nearer are the lines of
a slave state and the borders of a free one, the greater the peril. Hired
kidnappers infest these borders. Then, too, we knew that merely reaching a
free state did not free us; that, wherever caught, we could be returned to
slavery. We could see no spot on this side the ocean, where we could be
free. We had heard of Canada, the real Canaan of the American bondmen,
simply as a country to which the wild goose and the swan repaired at the
end of winter, to escape the heat of summer, but not as the home of man. I
knew something of theology, but nothing of geography. I really did not, at
that time, know that there was a state of New York, or a state of
Massachusetts. I had heard of Pennsylvania, Delaware and New Jersey, and
all the southern states, but was ignorant of the free states, generally. New
York city was our northern limit, and to go there, and be forever harassed
with the liability of being hunted down and returned to slavery—with the
certainty of being treated ten times worse than we had ever been treated
before was a prospect far from delightful, and it might well cause some
hesitation about engaging in the enterprise. The case, sometimes, to our
excited visions, stood thus: At every gate through which we had to pass, we
saw a watchman; at every ferry, a guard; on every bridge, a sentinel; and in
every wood, a patrol or slave-hunter. We were hemmed in on every side.
The good to be sought, and the evil to be shunned, were flung in the

balance, and weighed against each other. On the one hand, there stood
slavery; a stern reality, glaring frightfully upon us, with the blood of
millions in his polluted skirts—terrible to behold—greedily devouring our
hard earnings and feeding himself upon our flesh. Here was the evil from
which to escape. On the other hand, far away, back in the hazy distance,
where all forms seemed but shadows, under the flickering light of the north
star—behind some craggy hill or snow-covered mountain—stood a
doubtful freedom, half frozen, beckoning us to her icy domain. This was the
good to be sought. The inequality was as great as that between certainty and
uncertainty. This, in itself, was enough to stagger us; but when we came to
survey the untrodden road, and conjecture the many possible difficulties, we
were appalled, and at times, as I have said, were upon the point of giving
over the struggle altogether.
The reader can have little idea of the phantoms of trouble which flit, in
such circumstances, before the uneducated mind of the slave. Upon either
side, we saw grim death assuming a variety of horrid shapes. Now, it was
starvation, causing us, in a strange and friendless land, to eat our own flesh.
Now, we were contending with the waves (for our journey was in part by
water) and were drowned. Now, we were hunted by dogs, and overtaken
and torn to pieces by their merciless fangs. We were stung by scorpions—
chased by wild beasts—bitten by snakes; and, worst of all, after having
succeeded in swimming rivers—encountering wild beasts—sleeping in the
woods—suffering hunger, cold, heat and nakedness—we supposed
ourselves to be overtaken by hired kidnappers, who, in the name of the law,
and for their thrice accursed reward, would, perchance, fire upon us—kill
some, wound others, and capture all. This dark picture, drawn by ignorance
and fear, at times greatly shook our determination, and not unfrequently
caused us to
Rather bear those ills we had
Than fly to others which we knew not of.

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

Patrick Henry, to a listening senate, thrilled by his magic eloquence, and
ready to stand by him in his boldest flights, could say, GIVE ME LIBERTY
OR GIVE ME DEATH, and this saying was a sublime one, even for a
freeman; but, incomparably more sublime, is the same sentiment, when
practically asserted by men accustomed to the lash and chain—men whose
sensibilities must have become more or less deadened by their bondage.
With us it was a doubtful liberty, at best, that we sought; and a certain,
lingering death in the rice swamps and sugar fields, if we failed. Life is not
lightly regarded by men of sane minds. It is precious, alike to the pauper
and to the prince—to the slave, and to his master; and yet, I believe there
was not one among us, who would not rather have been shot down, than
pass away life in hopeless bondage.
In the progress of our preparations, Sandy, the root man, became
troubled. He began to have dreams, and some of them were very
distressing. One of these, which happened on a Friday night, was, to him, of
great significance; and I am quite ready to confess, that I felt somewhat
damped by it myself. He said, “I dreamed, last night, that I was roused from
sleep, by strange noises, like the voices of a swarm of angry birds, that
caused a roar as they passed, which fell upon my ear like a coming gale
over the tops of the trees. Looking up to see what it could mean,” said
Sandy, “I saw you, Frederick, in the claws of a huge bird, surrounded by a
large number of birds, of all colors and sizes. These were all picking at you,
while you, with your arms, seemed to be trying to protect your eyes.
Passing over me, the birds flew in a south-westerly direction, and I watched
them until they were clean out of sight. Now, I saw this as plainly as I now
see you; and furder, honey, watch de Friday night dream; dare is sumpon in
it, shose you born; dare is, indeed, honey.”
I confess I did not like this dream; but I threw off concern about it, by
attributing it to the general excitement and perturbation consequent upon
our contemplated plan of escape. I could not, however, shake off its effect at
once. I felt that it boded me no good. Sandy was unusually emphatic and
oracular, and his manner had much to do with the impression made upon
me.
The plan of escape which I recommended, and to which my comrades
assented, was to take a large canoe, owned by Mr. Hamilton, and, on the
Saturday night previous to the Easter holidays, launch out into the

Chesapeake bay, and paddle for its head—a distance of seventy miles with
all our might. Our course, on reaching this point, was, to turn the canoe
adrift, and bend our steps toward the north star, till we reached a free state.
There were several objections to this plan. One was, the danger from
gales on the bay. In rough weather, the waters of the Chesapeake are much
agitated, and there is danger, in a canoe, of being swamped by the waves.
Another objection was, that the canoe would soon be missed; the absent
persons would, at once, be suspected of having taken it; and we should be
pursued by some of the fast sailing bay craft out of St. Michael’s. Then,
again, if we reached the head of the bay, and turned the canoe adrift, she
might prove a guide to our track, and bring the land hunters after us.
These and other objections were set aside, by the stronger ones which
could be urged against every other plan that could then be suggested. On the
water, we had a chance of being regarded as fishermen, in the service of a
master. On the other hand, by taking the land route, through the counties
adjoining Delaware, we should be subjected to all manner of interruptions,
and many very disagreeable questions, which might give us serious trouble.
Any white man is authorized to stop a man of color, on any road, and
examine him, and arrest him, if he so desires.
By this arrangement, many abuses (considered such even by
slaveholders) occur. Cases have been known, where freemen have been
called upon to show their free papers, by a pack of ruffians—and, on the
presentation of the papers, the ruffians have torn them up, and seized their
victim, and sold him to a life of endless bondage.
The week before our intended start, I wrote a pass for each of our party,
giving them permission to visit Baltimore, during the Easter holidays. The
pass ran after this manner:

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

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

Although we were not going to Baltimore, and were intending to land
east of North Point, in the direction where I had seen the Philadelphia

steamers go, these passes might be made useful to us in the lower part of
the bay, while steering toward Baltimore. These were not, however, to be
shown by us, until all other answers failed to satisfy the inquirer. We were
all fully alive to the importance of being calm and self-possessed, when
accosted, if accosted we should be; and we more times than one rehearsed
to each other how we should behave in the hour of trial.
These were long, tedious days and nights. The suspense was painful, in
the extreme. To balance probabilities, where life and liberty hang on the
result, requires steady nerves. I panted for action, and was glad when the
day, at the close of which we were to start, dawned upon us. Sleeping, the
night before, was out of the question. I probably felt more deeply than any
of my companions, because I was the instigator of the movement. The
responsibility of the whole enterprise rested on my shoulders. The glory of
success, and the shame and confusion of failure, could not be matters of
indifference to me. Our food was prepared; our clothes were packed up; we
were all ready to go, and impatient for Saturday morning—considering that
the last morning of our bondage.
I cannot describe the tempest and tumult of my brain, that morning. The
reader will please to bear in mind, that, in a slave state, an unsuccessful
runaway is not only subjected to cruel torture, and sold away to the far
south, but he is frequently execrated by the other slaves. He is charged with
making the condition of the other slaves intolerable, by laying them all
under the suspicion of their masters—subjecting them to greater vigilance,
and imposing greater limitations on their privileges. I dreaded murmurs
from this quarter. It is difficult, too, for a slavemaster to believe that slaves
escaping have not been aided in their flight by some one of their fellow
slaves. When, therefore, a slave is missing, every slave on the place is
closely examined as to his knowledge of the undertaking; and they are
sometimes even tortured, to make them disclose what they are suspected of
knowing of such escape.
Our anxiety grew more and more intense, as the time of our intended
departure for the north drew nigh. It was truly felt to be a matter of life and
death with us; and we fully intended to fight as well as run, if necessity
should occur for that extremity. But the trial hour was not yet to come. It
was easy to resolve, but not so easy to act. I expected there might be some
drawing back, at the last. It was natural that there should be; therefore,

during the intervening time, I lost no opportunity to explain away
difficulties, to remove doubts, to dispel fears, and to inspire all with
firmness. It was too late to look back; and now was the time to go forward.
Like most other men, we had done the talking part of our work, long and
well; and the time had come to act as if we were in earnest, and meant to be
as true in action as in words. I did not forget to appeal to the pride of my
comrades, by telling them that, if after having solemnly promised to go, as
they had done, they now failed to make the attempt, they would, in effect,
brand themselves with cowardice, and might as well sit down, fold their
arms, and acknowledge themselves as fit only to be slaves. This detestable
character, all were unwilling to assume. Every man except Sandy (he, much
to our regret, withdrew) stood firm; and at our last meeting we pledged
ourselves afresh, and in the most solemn manner, that, at the time
appointed, we would certainly start on our long journey for a free country.
This meeting was in the middle of the week, at the end of which we were to
start.
Early that morning we went, as usual, to the field, but with hearts that
beat quickly and anxiously. Any one intimately acquainted with us, might
have seen that all was not well with us, and that some monster lingered in
our thoughts. Our work that morning was the same as it had been for
several days past—drawing out and spreading manure. While thus engaged,
I had a sudden presentiment, which flashed upon me like lightning in a dark
night, revealing to the lonely traveler the gulf before, and the enemy behind.
I instantly turned to Sandy Jenkins, who was near me, and said to him,
“Sandy, we are betrayed; something has just told me so.” I felt as sure of it,
as if the officers were there in sight. Sandy said, “Man, dat is strange; but I
feel just as you do.” If my mother—then long in her grave—had appeared
before me, and told me that we were betrayed, I could not, at that moment,
have felt more certain of the fact.
In a few minutes after this, the long, low and distant notes of the horn
summoned us from the field to breakfast. I felt as one may be supposed to
feel before being led forth to be executed for some great offense. I wanted
no breakfast; but I went with the other slaves toward the house, for form’s
sake. My feelings were not disturbed as to the right of running away; on
that point I had no trouble, whatever. My anxiety arose from a sense of the
consequences of failure.

In thirty minutes after that vivid presentiment came the apprehended
crash. On reaching the house, for breakfast, and glancing my eye toward the
lane gate, the worst was at once made known. The lane gate off Mr.
Freeland’s house, is nearly a half mile from the door, and shaded by the
heavy wood which bordered the main road. I was, however, able to descry
four white men, and two colored men, approaching. The white men were on
horseback, and the colored men were walking behind, and seemed to be
tied. “It is all over with us,” thought I, “we are surely betrayed.” I now
became composed, or at least comparatively so, and calmly awaited the
result. I watched the ill-omened company, till I saw them enter the gate.
Successful flight was impossible, and I made up my mind to stand, and
meet the evil, whatever it might be; for I was not without a slight hope that
things might turn differently from what I at first expected. In a few
moments, in came Mr. William Hamilton, riding very rapidly, and evidently
much excited. He was in the habit of riding very slowly, and was seldom
known to gallop his horse. This time, his horse was nearly at full speed,
causing the dust to roll thick behind him. Mr. Hamilton, though one of the
most resolute men in the whole neighborhood, was, nevertheless, a
remarkably mild spoken man; and, even when greatly excited, his language
was cool and circumspect. He came to the door, and inquired if Mr.
Freeland was in. I told him that Mr. Freeland was at the barn. Off the old
gentleman rode, toward the barn, with unwonted speed. Mary, the cook,
was at a loss to know what was the matter, and I did not profess any skill in
making her understand. I knew she would have united, as readily as any
one, in cursing me for bringing trouble into the family; so I held my peace,
leaving matters to develop themselves, without my assistance. In a few
moments, Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Freeland came down from the barn to the
house; and, just as they made their appearance in the front yard, three men
(who proved to be constables) came dashing into the lane, on horseback, as
if summoned by a sign requiring quick work. A few seconds brought them
into the front yard, where they hastily dismounted, and tied their horses.
This done, they joined Mr. Freeland and Mr. Hamilton, who were standing a
short distance from the kitchen. A few moments were spent, as if in
consulting how to proceed, and then the whole party walked up to the
kitchen door. There was now no one in the kitchen but myself and John
Harris. Henry and Sandy were yet at the barn. Mr. Freeland came inside the
kitchen door, and with an agitated voice, called me by name, and told me to

come forward; that there was some gentlemen who wished to see me. I
stepped toward them, at the door, and asked what they wanted, when the
constables grabbed me, and told me that I had better not resist; that I had
been in a scrape, or was said to have been in one; that they were merely
going to take me where I could be examined; that they were going to carry
me to St. Michael’s, to have me brought before my master. They further
said, that, in case the evidence against me was not true, I should be
acquitted. I was now firmly tied, and completely at the mercy of my
captors. Resistance was idle. They were five in number, armed to the very
teeth. When they had secured me, they next turned to John Harris, and, in a
few moments, succeeded in tying him as firmly as they had already tied me.
They next turned toward Henry Harris, who had now returned from the
barn. “Cross your hands,” said the constables, to Henry. “I won’t” said
Henry, in a voice so firm and clear, and in a manner so determined, as for a
moment to arrest all proceedings. “Won’t you cross your hands?” said Tom
Graham, the constable. “No I won’t,” said Henry, with increasing emphasis.
Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Freeland, and the officers, now came near to Henry. Two
of the constables drew out their shining pistols, and swore by the name of
God, that he should cross his hands, or they would shoot him down. Each of
these hired ruffians now cocked their pistols, and, with fingers apparently
on the triggers, presented their deadly weapons to the breast of the unarmed
slave, saying, at the same time, if he did not cross his hands, they would
“blow his d—d heart out of him.”
“Shoot! shoot me!” said Henry. “You can’t kill me but once. Shoot!—
shoot! and be d—d. I won’t be tied.” This, the brave fellow said in a voice
as defiant and heroic in its tone, as was the language itself; and, at the
moment of saying this, with the pistols at his very breast, he quickly raised
his arms, and dashed them from the puny hands of his assassins, the
weapons flying in opposite directions. Now came the struggle. All hands
was now rushed upon the brave fellow, and, after beating him for some
time, they succeeded in overpowering and tying him. Henry put me to
shame; he fought, and fought bravely. John and I had made no resistance.
The fact is, I never see much use in fighting, unless there is a reasonable
probability of whipping somebody. Yet there was something almost
providential in the resistance made by the gallant Henry. But for that
resistance, every soul of us would have been hurried off to the far south.
Just a moment previous to the trouble with Henry, Mr. Hamilton mildly said

—and this gave me the unmistakable clue to the cause of our arrest
—“Perhaps we had now better make a search for those protections, which
we understand Frederick has written for himself and the rest.” Had these
passes been found, they would have been point blank proof against us, and
would have confirmed all the statements of our betrayer. Thanks to the
resistance of Henry, the excitement produced by the scuffle drew all
attention in that direction, and I succeeded in flinging my pass, unobserved,
into the fire. The confusion attendant upon the scuffle, and the apprehension
of further trouble, perhaps, led our captors to forego, for the present, any
search for “those protections” which Frederick was said to have written for
his companions; so we were not yet convicted of the purpose to run away;
and it was evident that there was some doubt, on the part of all, whether we
had been guilty of such a purpose.
Just as we were all completely tied, and about ready to start toward St.
Michael’s, and thence to jail, Mrs. Betsey Freeland (mother to William, who
was very much attached—after the southern fashion—to Henry and John,
they having been reared from childhood in her house) came to the kitchen
door, with her hands full of biscuits—for we had not had time to take our
breakfast that morning—and divided them between Henry and John. This
done, the lady made the following parting address to me, looking and
pointing her bony finger at me. “You devil! you yellow devil! It was you
that put it into the heads of Henry and John to run away. But for you, you
long legged yellow devil, Henry and John would never have thought of
running away.” I gave the lady a look, which called forth a scream of
mingled wrath and terror, as she slammed the kitchen door, and went in,
leaving me, with the rest, in hands as harsh as her own broken voice.
Could the kind reader have been quietly riding along the main road to or
from Easton, that morning, his eye would have met a painful sight. He
would have seen five young men, guilty of no crime, save that of preferring
liberty to a life of bondage, drawn along the public highway—firmly bound
together—tramping through dust and heat, bare-footed and bare-headed—
fastened to three strong horses, whose riders were armed to the teeth, with
pistols and daggers—on their way to prison, like felons, and suffering every
possible insult from the crowds of idle, vulgar people, who clustered
around, and heartlessly made their failure the occasion for all manner of
ribaldry and sport. As I looked upon this crowd of vile persons, and saw
myself and friends thus assailed and persecuted, I could not help seeing the

fulfillment of Sandy’s dream. I was in the hands of moral vultures, and
firmly held in their sharp talons, and was hurried away toward Easton, in a
south-easterly direction, amid the jeers of new birds of the same feather,
through every neighborhood we passed. It seemed to me (and this shows the
good understanding between the slaveholders and their allies) that every
body we met knew the cause of our arrest, and were out, awaiting our
passing by, to feast their vindictive eyes on our misery and to gloat over our
ruin. Some said, I ought to be hanged, and others, I ought to be burnt,
others, I ought to have the “hide” taken from my back; while no one gave
us a kind word or sympathizing look, except the poor slaves, who were
lifting their heavy hoes, and who cautiously glanced at us through the post-
and-rail fences, behind which they were at work. Our sufferings, that
morning, can be more easily imagined than described. Our hopes were all
blasted, at a blow. The cruel injustice, the victorious crime, and the
helplessness of innocence, led me to ask, in my ignorance and weakness
“Where now is the God of justice and mercy? And why have these wicked
men the power thus to trample upon our rights, and to insult our feelings?”
And yet, in the next moment, came the consoling thought, “The day of
oppressor will come at last.” Of one thing I could be glad—not one of my
dear friends, upon whom I had brought this great calamity, either by word
or look, reproached me for having led them into it. We were a band of
brothers, and never dearer to each other than now. The thought which gave
us the most pain, was the probable separation which would now take place,
in case we were sold off to the far south, as we were likely to be. While the
constables were looking forward, Henry and I, being fastened together,
could occasionally exchange a word, without being observed by the
kidnappers who had us in charge. “What shall I do with my pass?” said
Henry. “Eat it with your biscuit,” said I; “it won’t do to tear it up.” We were
now near St. Michael’s. The direction concerning the passes was passed
around, and executed. “Own nothing!” said I. “Own nothing!” was passed
around and enjoined, and assented to. Our confidence in each other was
unshaken; and we were quite resolved to succeed or fail together—as much
after the calamity which had befallen us, as before.
On reaching St. Michael’s, we underwent a sort of examination at my
master’s store, and it was evident to my mind, that Master Thomas
suspected the truthfulness of the evidence upon which they had acted in
arresting us; and that he only affected, to some extent, the positiveness with

which he asserted our guilt. There was nothing said by any of our company,
which could, in any manner, prejudice our cause; and there was hope, yet,
that we should be able to return to our homes—if for nothing else, at least
to find out the guilty man or woman who had betrayed us.
To this end, we all denied that we had been guilty of intended flight.
Master Thomas said that the evidence he had of our intention to run away,
was strong enough to hang us, in a case of murder. “But,” said I, “the cases
are not equal. If murder were committed, some one must have committed it
—the thing is done! In our case, nothing has been done! We have not run
away. Where is the evidence against us? We were quietly at our work.” I
talked thus, with unusual freedom, to bring out the evidence against us, for
we all wanted, above all things, to know the guilty wretch who had betrayed
us, that we might have something tangible upon which to pour the
execrations. From something which dropped, in the course of the talk, it
appeared that there was but one witness against us—and that that witness
could not be produced. Master Thomas would not tell us who his informant
was; but we suspected, and suspected one person only. Several
circumstances seemed to point SANDY out, as our betrayer. His entire
knowledge of our plans his participation in them—his withdrawal from us
—his dream, and his simultaneous presentiment that we were betrayed—the
taking us, and the leaving him—were calculated to turn suspicion toward
him; and yet, we could not suspect him. We all loved him too well to think
it possible that he could have betrayed us. So we rolled the guilt on other
shoulders.
We were literally dragged, that morning, behind horses, a distance of
fifteen miles, and placed in the Easton jail. We were glad to reach the end of
our journey, for our pathway had been the scene of insult and mortification.
Such is the power of public opinion, that it is hard, even for the innocent, to
feel the happy consolations of innocence, when they fall under the
maledictions of this power. How could we regard ourselves as in the right,
when all about us denounced us as criminals, and had the power and the
disposition to treat us as such.
In jail, we were placed under the care of Mr. Joseph Graham, the sheriff
of the county. Henry, and John, and myself, were placed in one room, and
Henry Baily and Charles Roberts, in another, by themselves. This

separation was intended to deprive us of the advantage of concert, and to
prevent trouble in jail.
Once shut up, a new set of tormentors came upon us. A swarm of imps, in
human shape the slave-traders, deputy slave-traders, and agents of slave-
traders—that gather in every country town of the state, watching for
chances to buy human flesh (as buzzards to eat carrion) flocked in upon us,
to ascertain if our masters had placed us in jail to be sold. Such a set of
debased and villainous creatures, I never saw before, and hope never to see
again. I felt myself surrounded as by a pack of fiends, fresh from perdition.
They laughed, leered, and grinned at us; saying, “Ah! boys, we’ve got you,
havn’t we? So you were about to make your escape? Where were you going
to?” After taunting us, and peering at us, as long as they liked, they one by
one subjected us to an examination, with a view to ascertain our value;
feeling our arms and legs, and shaking us by the shoulders to see if we were
sound and healthy; impudently asking us, “how we would like to have them
for masters?” To such questions, we were, very much to their annoyance,
quite dumb, disdaining to answer them. For one, I detested the whisky-
bloated gamblers in human flesh; and I believe I was as much detested by
them in turn. One fellow told me, “if he had me, he would cut the devil out
of me pretty quick.”
These Negro buyers are very offensive to the genteel southern Christian
public. They are looked upon, in respectable Maryland society, as
necessary, but detestable characters. As a class, they are hardened ruffians,
made such by nature and by occupation. Their ears are made quite familiar
with the agonizing cry of outraged and woe-smitted humanity. Their eyes
are forever open to human misery. They walk amid desecrated affections,
insulted virtue, and blasted hopes. They have grown intimate with vice and
blood; they gloat over the wildest illustrations of their soul-damning and
earth-polluting business, and are moral pests. Yes; they are a legitimate fruit
of slavery; and it is a puzzle to make out a case of greater villainy for them,
than for the slaveholders, who make such a class possible. They are mere
hucksters of the surplus slave produce of Maryland and Virginia coarse,
cruel, and swaggering bullies, whose very breathing is of blasphemy and
blood.
Aside from these slave-buyers, who infested the prison, from time to
time, our quarters were much more comfortable than we had any right to

expect they would be. Our allowance of food was small and coarse, but our
room was the best in the jail—neat and spacious, and with nothing about it
necessarily reminding us of being in prison, but its heavy locks and bolts
and the black, iron lattice-work at the windows. We were prisoners of state,
compared with most slaves who are put into that Easton jail. But the place
was not one of contentment. Bolts, bars and grated windows are not
acceptable to freedom-loving people of any color. The suspense, too, was
painful. Every step on the stairway was listened to, in the hope that the
comer would cast a ray of light on our fate. We would have given the hair
off our heads for half a dozen words with one of the waiters in Sol. Lowe’s
hotel. Such waiters were in the way of hearing, at the table, the probable
course of things. We could see them flitting about in their white jackets in
front of this hotel, but could speak to none of them.
Soon after the holidays were over, contrary to all our expectations,
Messrs. Hamilton and Freeland came up to Easton; not to make a bargain
with the “Georgia traders,” nor to send us up to Austin Woldfolk, as is usual
in the case of run-away slaves, but to release Charles, Henry Harris, Henry
Baily and John Harris, from prison, and this, too, without the infliction of a
single blow. I was now left entirely alone in prison. The innocent had been
taken, and the guilty left. My friends were separated from me, and
apparently forever. This circumstance caused me more pain than any other
incident connected with our capture and imprisonment. Thirty-nine lashes
on my naked and bleeding back, would have been joyfully borne, in
preference to this separation from these, the friends of my youth. And yet, I
could not but feel that I was the victim of something like justice. Why
should these young men, who were led into this scheme by me, suffer as
much as the instigator? I felt glad that they were leased from prison, and
from the dread prospect of a life (or death I should rather say) in the rice
swamps. It is due to the noble Henry, to say, that he seemed almost as
reluctant to leave the prison with me in it, as he was to be tied and dragged
to prison. But he and the rest knew that we should, in all the likelihoods of
the case, be separated, in the event of being sold; and since we were now
completely in the hands of our owners, we all concluded it would be best to
go peaceably home.
Not until this last separation, dear reader, had I touched those profounder
depths of desolation, which it is the lot of slaves often to reach. I was
solitary in the world, and alone within the walls of a stone prison, left to a

fate of life-long misery. I had hoped and expected much, for months before,
but my hopes and expectations were now withered and blasted. The ever
dreaded slave life in Georgia, Louisiana and Alabama—from which escape
is next to impossible now, in my loneliness, stared me in the face. The
possibility of ever becoming anything but an abject slave, a mere machine
in the hands of an owner, had now fled, and it seemed to me it had fled
forever. A life of living death, beset with the innumerable horrors of the
cotton field, and the sugar plantation, seemed to be my doom. The fiends,
who rushed into the prison when we were first put there, continued to visit
me, and to ply me with questions and with their tantalizing remarks. I was
insulted, but helpless; keenly alive to the demands of justice and liberty, but
with no means of asserting them. To talk to those imps about justice and
mercy, would have been as absurd as to reason with bears and tigers. Lead
and steel are the only arguments that they understand.
After remaining in this life of misery and despair about a week, which,
by the way, seemed a month, Master Thomas, very much to my surprise,
and greatly to my relief, came to the prison, and took me out, for the
purpose, as he said, of sending me to Alabama, with a friend of his, who
would emancipate me at the end of eight years. I was glad enough to get out
of prison; but I had no faith in the story that this friend of Capt. Auld would
emancipate me, at the end of the time indicated. Besides, I never had heard
of his having a friend in Alabama, and I took the announcement, simply as
an easy and comfortable method of shipping me off to the far south. There
was a little scandal, too, connected with the idea of one Christian selling
another to the Georgia traders, while it was deemed every way proper for
them to sell to others. I thought this friend in Alabama was an invention, to
meet this difficulty, for Master Thomas was quite jealous of his Christian
reputation, however unconcerned he might be about his real Christian
character. In these remarks, however, it is possible that I do Master Thomas
Auld injustice. He certainly did not exhaust his power upon me, in the case,
but acted, upon the whole, very generously, considering the nature of my
offense. He had the power and the provocation to send me, without reserve,
into the very everglades of Florida, beyond the remotest hope of
emancipation; and his refusal to exercise that power, must be set down to
his credit.
After lingering about St. Michael’s a few days, and no friend from
Alabama making his appearance, to take me there, Master Thomas decided

to send me back again to Baltimore, to live with his brother Hugh, with
whom he was now at peace; possibly he became so by his profession of
religion, at the camp-meeting in the Bay Side. Master Thomas told me that
he wished me to go to Baltimore, and learn a trade; and that, if I behaved
myself properly, he would emancipate me at twenty-five! Thanks for this
one beam of hope in the future. The promise had but one fault; it seemed
too good to be true.

CHAPTER XX. Apprenticeship Life

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

Well! dear reader, I am not, as you may have already inferred, a loser by
the general upstir, described in the foregoing chapter. The little domestic
revolution, notwithstanding the sudden snub it got by the treachery of
somebody—I dare not say or think who—did not, after all, end so
disastrously, as when in the iron cage at Easton, I conceived it would. The
prospect, from that point, did look about as dark as any that ever cast its
gloom over the vision of the anxious, out-looking, human spirit. “All is well
that ends well.” My affectionate comrades, Henry and John Harris, are still
with Mr. William Freeland. Charles Roberts and Henry Baily are safe at
their homes. I have not, therefore, any thing to regret on their account. Their
masters have mercifully forgiven them, probably on the ground suggested
in the spirited little speech of Mrs. Freeland, made to me just before leaving
for the jail—namely: that they had been allured into the wicked scheme of
making their escape, by me; and that, but for me, they would never have
dreamed of a thing so shocking! My friends had nothing to regret, either;

for while they were watched more closely on account of what had
happened, they were, doubtless, treated more kindly than before, and got
new assurances that they would be legally emancipated, some day, provided
their behavior should make them deserving, from that time forward. Not a
blow, as I learned, was struck any one of them. As for Master William
Freeland, good, unsuspecting soul, he did not believe that we were
intending to run away at all. Having given—as he thought—no occasion to
his boys to leave him, he could not think it probable that they had
entertained a design so grievous. This, however, was not the view taken of
the matter by “Mas’ Billy,” as we used to call the soft spoken, but crafty and
resolute Mr. William Hamilton. He had no doubt that the crime had been
meditated; and regarding me as the instigator of it, he frankly told Master
Thomas that he must remove me from that neighborhood, or he would shoot
me down. He would not have one so dangerous as “Frederick” tampering
with his slaves. William Hamilton was not a man whose threat might be
safely disregarded. I have no doubt that he would have proved as good as
his word, had the warning given not been promptly taken. He was furious at
the thought of such a piece of high-handed theft, as we were about to
perpetrate the stealing of our own bodies and souls! The feasibility of the
plan, too, could the first steps have been taken, was marvelously plain.
Besides, this was a new idea, this use of the bay. Slaves escaping, until now,
had taken to the woods; they had never dreamed of profaning and abusing
the waters of the noble Chesapeake, by making them the highway from
slavery to freedom. Here was a broad road of destruction to slavery, which,
before, had been looked upon as a wall of security by slaveholders. But
Master Billy could not get Mr. Freeland to see matters precisely as he did;
nor could he get Master Thomas so excited as he was himself. The latter—I
must say it to his credit—showed much humane feeling in his part of the
transaction, and atoned for much that had been harsh, cruel and
unreasonable in his former treatment of me and others. His clemency was
quite unusual and unlooked for. “Cousin Tom” told me that while I was in
jail, Master Thomas was very unhappy; and that the night before his going
up to release me, he had walked the floor nearly all night, evincing great
distress; that very tempting offers had been made to him, by the Negro-
traders, but he had rejected them all, saying that money could not tempt him
to sell me to the far south. All this I can easily believe, for he seemed quite
reluctant to send me away, at all. He told me that he only consented to do

so, because of the very strong prejudice against me in the neighborhood,
and that he feared for my safety if I remained there.
Thus, after three years spent in the country, roughing it in the field, and
experiencing all sorts of hardships, I was again permitted to return to
Baltimore, the very place, of all others, short of a free state, where I most
desired to live. The three years spent in the country, had made some
difference in me, and in the household of Master Hugh. “Little Tommy”
was no longer little Tommy; and I was not the slender lad who had left for
the Eastern Shore just three years before. The loving relations between me
and Mas’ Tommy were broken up. He was no longer dependent on me for
protection, but felt himself a man, with other and more suitable associates.
In childhood, he scarcely considered me inferior to himself certainly, as
good as any other boy with whom he played; but the time had come when
his friend must become his slave. So we were cold, and we parted. It was a
sad thing to me, that, loving each other as we had done, we must now take
different roads. To him, a thousand avenues were open. Education had made
him acquainted with all the treasures of the world, and liberty had flung
open the gates thereunto; but I, who had attended him seven years, and had
watched over him with the care of a big brother, fighting his battles in the
street, and shielding him from harm, to an extent which had induced his
mother to say, “Oh! Tommy is always safe, when he is with Freddy,” must
be confined to a single condition. He could grow, and become a MAN; I
could grow, though I could not become a man, but must remain, all my life,
a minor—a mere boy. Thomas Auld, Junior, obtained a situation on board
the brig “Tweed,” and went to sea. I know not what has become of him; he
certainly has my good wishes for his welfare and prosperity. There were
few persons to whom I was more sincerely attached than to him, and there
are few in the world I would be more pleased to meet.
Very soon after I went to Baltimore to live, Master Hugh succeeded in
getting me hired to Mr. William Gardiner, an extensive ship builder on
Fell’s Point. I was placed here to learn to calk, a trade of which I already
had some knowledge, gained while in Mr. Hugh Auld’s ship-yard, when he
was a master builder. Gardiner’s, however, proved a very unfavorable place
for the accomplishment of that object. Mr. Gardiner was, that season,
engaged in building two large man-of-war vessels, professedly for the
Mexican government. These vessels were to be launched in the month of
July, of that year, and, in failure thereof, Mr. G. would forfeit a very

considerable sum of money. So, when I entered the ship-yard, all was hurry
and driving. There were in the yard about one hundred men; of these about
seventy or eighty were regular carpenters—privileged men. Speaking of my
condition here I wrote, years ago—and I have now no reason to vary the
picture as follows:
There was no time to learn any thing. Every man had to do that which he
knew how to do. In entering the ship-yard, my orders from Mr. Gardiner
were, to do whatever the carpenters commanded me to do. This was placing
me at the beck and call of about seventy-five men. I was to regard all these
as masters. Their word was to be my law. My situation was a most trying
one. At times I needed a dozen pair of hands. I was called a dozen ways in
the space of a single minute. Three or four voices would strike my ear at the
same moment. It was—“Fred., come help me to cant this timber here.”
“Fred., come carry this timber yonder.”—“Fred., bring that roller
here.”—“Fred., go get a fresh can of water.”—“Fred., come help saw off the
end of this timber.”—“Fred., go quick and get the crow bar.”—“Fred., hold
on the end of this fall.”—“Fred., go to the blacksmith’s shop, and get a new
punch.”—
“Hurra, Fred.! run and bring me a cold chisel.”—“I say, Fred., bear a
hand, and get up a fire as quick as lightning under that steam-
box.”—“Halloo, nigger! come, turn this grindstone.”—“Come, come!
move, move! and bowse this timber forward.”—“I say, darkey, blast your
eyes, why don’t you heat up some pitch?”—“Halloo! halloo! halloo!”
(Three voices at the same time.) “Come here!—Go there!—Hold on where
you are! D—n you, if you move, I’ll knock your brains out!”
Such, dear reader, is a glance at the school which was mine, during, the
first eight months of my stay at Baltimore. At the end of the eight months,
Master Hugh refused longer to allow me to remain with Mr. Gardiner. The
circumstance which led to his taking me away, was a brutal outrage,
committed upon me by the white apprentices of the ship-yard. The fight
was a desperate one, and I came out of it most shockingly mangled. I was
cut and bruised in sundry places, and my left eye was nearly knocked out of
its socket. The facts, leading to this barbarous outrage upon me, illustrate a
phase of slavery destined to become an important element in the overthrow
of the slave system, and I may, therefore state them with some minuteness.
That phase is this: the conflict of slavery with the interests of the white

mechanics and laborers of the south. In the country, this conflict is not so
apparent; but, in cities, such as Baltimore, Richmond, New Orleans,
Mobile, &c., it is seen pretty clearly. The slaveholders, with a craftiness
peculiar to themselves, by encouraging the enmity of the poor, laboring
white man against the blacks, succeeds in making the said white man
almost as much a slave as the black slave himself. The difference between
the white slave, and the black slave, is this: the latter belongs to one
slaveholder, and the former belongs to all the slaveholders, collectively. The
white slave has taken from him, by indirection, what the black slave has
taken from him, directly, and without ceremony. Both are plundered, and by
the same plunderers. The slave is robbed, by his master, of all his earnings,
above what is required for his bare physical necessities; and the white man
is robbed by the slave system, of the just results of his labor, because he is
flung into competition with a class of laborers who work without wages.
The competition, and its injurious consequences, will, one day, array the
nonslaveholding white people of the slave states, against the slave system,
and make them the most effective workers against the great evil. At present,
the slaveholders blind them to this competition, by keeping alive their
prejudice against the slaves, as men—not against them as slaves. They
appeal to their pride, often denouncing emancipation, as tending to place
the white man, on an equality with Negroes, and, by this means, they
succeed in drawing off the minds of the poor whites from the real fact, that,
by the rich slave-master, they are already regarded as but a single remove
from equality with the slave. The impression is cunningly made, that
slavery is the only power that can prevent the laboring white man from
falling to the level of the slave’s poverty and degradation. To make this
enmity deep and broad, between the slave and the poor white man, the latter
is allowed to abuse and whip the former, without hinderance. But—as I
have suggested—this state of facts prevails mostly in the country. In the city
of Baltimore, there are not unfrequent murmurs, that educating the slaves to
be mechanics may, in the end, give slavemasters power to dispense with the
services of the poor white man altogether. But, with characteristic dread of
offending the slaveholders, these poor, white mechanics in Mr. Gardiner’s
ship-yard—instead of applying the natural, honest remedy for the
apprehended evil, and objecting at once to work there by the side of slaves
—made a cowardly attack upon the free colored mechanics, saying they
were eating the bread which should be eaten by American freemen, and

swearing that they would not work with them. The feeling was, really,
against having their labor brought into competition with that of the colored
people at all; but it was too much to strike directly at the interest of the
slaveholders; and, therefore proving their servility and cowardice they dealt
their blows on the poor, colored freeman, and aimed to prevent him from
serving himself, in the evening of life, with the trade with which he had
served his master, during the more vigorous portion of his days. Had they
succeeded in driving the black freemen out of the ship-yard, they would
have determined also upon the removal of the black slaves. The feeling was
very bitter toward all colored people in Baltimore, about this time (1836),
and they—free and slave suffered all manner of insult and wrong.
Until a very little before I went there, white and black ship carpenters
worked side by side, in the ship yards of Mr. Gardiner, Mr. Duncan, Mr.
Walter Price, and Mr. Robb. Nobody seemed to see any impropriety in it. To
outward seeming, all hands were well satisfied. Some of the blacks were
first rate workmen, and were given jobs requiring highest skill. All at once,
however, the white carpenters knocked off, and swore that they would no
longer work on the same stage with free Negroes. Taking advantage of the
heavy contract resting upon Mr. Gardiner, to have the war vessels for
Mexico ready to launch in July, and of the difficulty of getting other hands
at that season of the year, they swore they would not strike another blow for
him, unless he would discharge his free colored workmen.
Now, although this movement did not extend to me, in form, it did reach
me, in fact. The spirit which it awakened was one of malice and bitterness,
toward colored people generally, and I suffered with the rest, and suffered
severely. My fellow apprentices very soon began to feel it to be degrading
to work with me. They began to put on high looks, and to talk
contemptuously and maliciously of “the Niggers;” saying, that “they would
take the country,” that “they ought to be killed.” Encouraged by the
cowardly workmen, who, knowing me to be a slave, made no issue with Mr.
Gardiner about my being there, these young men did their utmost to make it
impossible for me to stay. They seldom called me to do any thing, without
coupling the call with a curse, and Edward North, the biggest in every
thing, rascality included, ventured to strike me, whereupon I picked him up,
and threw him into the dock. Whenever any of them struck me, I struck
back again, regardless of consequences. I could manage any of them singly,
and, while I could keep them from combining, I succeeded very well. In the

conflict which ended my stay at Mr. Gardiner’s, I was beset by four of them
at once—Ned North, Ned Hays, Bill Stewart, and Tom Humphreys. Two of
them were as large as myself, and they came near killing me, in broad day
light. The attack was made suddenly, and simultaneously. One came in
front, armed with a brick; there was one at each side, and one behind, and
they closed up around me. I was struck on all sides; and, while I was
attending to those in front, I received a blow on my head, from behind, dealt
with a heavy hand-spike. I was completely stunned by the blow, and fell,
heavily, on the ground, among the timbers. Taking advantage of my fall,
they rushed upon me, and began to pound me with their fists. I let them lay
on, for a while, after I came to myself, with a view of gaining strength.
They did me little damage, so far; but, finally, getting tired of that sport, I
gave a sudden surge, and, despite their weight, I rose to my hands and
knees. Just as I did this, one of their number (I know not which) planted a
blow with his boot in my left eye, which, for a time, seemed to have burst
my eyeball. When they saw my eye completely closed, my face covered
with blood, and I staggering under the stunning blows they had given me,
they left me. As soon as I gathered sufficient strength, I picked up the hand-
spike, and, madly enough, attempted to pursue them; but here the carpenters
interfered, and compelled me to give up my frenzied pursuit. It was
impossible to stand against so many.
Dear reader, you can hardly believe the statement, but it is true, and,
therefore, I write it down: not fewer than fifty white men stood by, and saw
this brutal and shameless outrage committed, and not a man of them all
interposed a single word of mercy. There were four against one, and that
one’s face was beaten and battered most horribly, and no one said, “that is
enough;” but some cried out, “Kill him—kill him—kill the d—d nigger!
knock his brains out—he struck a white person.” I mention this inhuman
outcry, to show the character of the men, and the spirit of the times, at
Gardiner’s ship yard, and, indeed, in Baltimore generally, in 1836. As I look
back to this period, I am almost amazed that I was not murdered outright, in
that ship yard, so murderous was the spirit which prevailed there. On two
occasions, while there, I came near losing my life. I was driving bolts in the
hold, through the keelson, with Hays. In its course, the bolt bent. Hays
cursed me, and said that it was my blow which bent the bolt. I denied this,
and charged it upon him. In a fit of rage he seized an adze, and darted
toward me. I met him with a maul, and parried his blow, or I should have

then lost my life. A son of old Tom Lanman (the latter’s double murder I
have elsewhere charged upon him), in the spirit of his miserable father,
made an assault upon me, but the blow with his maul missed me. After the
united assault of North, Stewart, Hays and Humphreys, finding that the
carpenters were as bitter toward me as the apprentices, and that the latter
were probably set on by the former, I found my only chances for life was in
flight. I succeeded in getting away, without an additional blow. To strike a
white man, was death, by Lynch law, in Gardiner’s ship yard; nor was there
much of any other law toward colored people, at that time, in any other part
of Maryland. The whole sentiment of Baltimore was murderous.
After making my escape from the ship yard, I went straight home, and
related the story of the outrage to Master Hugh Auld; and it is due to him to
say, that his conduct—though he was not a religious man—was every way
more humane than that of his brother, Thomas, when I went to the latter in a
somewhat similar plight, from the hands of “Brother Edward Covey.” He
listened attentively to my narration of the circumstances leading to the
ruffianly outrage, and gave many proofs of his strong indignation at what
was done. Hugh was a rough, but manly-hearted fellow, and, at this time,
his best nature showed itself.
The heart of my once almost over-kind mistress, Sophia, was again
melted in pity toward me. My puffed-out eye, and my scarred and blood-
covered face, moved the dear lady to tears. She kindly drew a chair by me,
and with friendly, consoling words, she took water, and washed the blood
from my face. No mother’s hand could have been more tender than hers.
She bound up my head, and covered my wounded eye with a lean piece of
fresh beef. It was almost compensation for the murderous assault, and my
suffering, that it furnished and occasion for the manifestation, once more, of
the orignally(sic) characteristic kindness of my mistress. Her affectionate
heart was not yet dead, though much hardened by time and by
circumstances.
As for Master Hugh’s part, as I have said, he was furious about it; and he
gave expression to his fury in the usual forms of speech in that locality. He
poured curses on the heads of the whole ship yard company, and swore that
he would have satisfaction for the outrage. His indignation was really
strong and healthy; but, unfortunately, it resulted from the thought that his
rights of property, in my person, had not been respected, more than from

any sense of the outrage committed on me as a man. I inferred as much as
this, from the fact that he could, himself, beat and mangle when it suited
him to do so. Bent on having satisfaction, as he said, just as soon as I got a
little the better of my bruises, Master Hugh took me to Esquire Watson’s
office, on Bond street, Fell’s Point, with a view to procuring the arrest of
those who had assaulted me. He related the outrage to the magistrate, as I
had related it to him, and seemed to expect that a warrant would, at once, be
issued for the arrest of the lawless ruffians.
Mr. Watson heard it all, and instead of drawing up his warrant, he
inquired.—
“Mr. Auld, who saw this assault of which you speak?”
“It was done, sir, in the presence of a ship yard full of hands.”
“Sir,” said Watson, “I am sorry, but I cannot move in this matter except
upon the oath of white witnesses.”
“But here’s the boy; look at his head and face,” said the excited Master
Hugh; “they show what has been done.”
But Watson insisted that he was not authorized to do anything, unless
white witnesses of the transaction would come forward, and testify to what
had taken place. He could issue no warrant on my word, against white
persons; and, if I had been killed in the presence of a thousand blacks, their
testimony, combined would have been insufficient to arrest a single
murderer. Master Hugh, for once, was compelled to say, that this state of
things was too bad; and he left the office of the magistrate, disgusted.
Of course, it was impossible to get any white man to testify against my
assailants. The carpenters saw what was done; but the actors were but the
agents of their malice, and only what the carpenters sanctioned. They had
cried, with one accord, “Kill the nigger!” “Kill the nigger!” Even those
who may have pitied me, if any such were among them, lacked the moral
courage to come and volunteer their evidence. The slightest manifestation
of sympathy or justice toward a person of color, was denounced as
abolitionism; and the name of abolitionist, subjected its bearer to frightful
liabilities. “D—n abolitionists,” and “Kill the niggers,” were the watch-
words of the foul-mouthed ruffians of those days. Nothing was done, and
probably there would not have been any thing done, had I been killed in the
affray. The laws and the morals of the Christian city of Baltimore, afforded
no protection to the sable denizens of that city.

Master Hugh, on finding he could get no redress for the cruel wrong,
withdrew me from the employment of Mr. Gardiner, and took me into his
own family, Mrs. Auld kindly taking care of me, and dressing my wounds,
until they were healed, and I was ready to go again to work.
While I was on the Eastern Shore, Master Hugh had met with reverses,
which overthrew his business; and he had given up ship building in his own
yard, on the City Block, and was now acting as foreman of Mr. Walter
Price. The best he could now do for me, was to take me into Mr. Price’s
yard, and afford me the facilities there, for completing the trade which I had
began to learn at Gardiner’s. Here I rapidly became expert in the use of my
calking tools; and, in the course of a single year, I was able to command the
highest wages paid to journeymen calkers in Baltimore.
The reader will observe that I was now of some pecuniary value to my
master. During the busy season, I was bringing six and seven dollars per
week. I have, sometimes, brought him as much as nine dollars a week, for
the wages were a dollar and a half per day.
After learning to calk, I sought my own employment, made my own
contracts, and collected my own earnings; giving Master Hugh no trouble in
any part of the transactions to which I was a party.
Here, then, were better days for the Eastern Shore slave. I was now free
from the vexatious assalts(sic) of the apprentices at Mr. Gardiner’s; and free
from the perils of plantation life, and once more in a favorable condition to
increase my little stock of education, which had been at a dead stand since
my removal from Baltimore. I had, on the Eastern Shore, been only a
teacher, when in company with other slaves, but now there were colored
persons who could instruct me. Many of the young calkers could read, write
and cipher. Some of them had high notions about mental improvement; and
the free ones, on Fell’s Point, organized what they called the “East
Baltimore Mental Improvement Society.” To this society, notwithstanding it
was intended that only free persons should attach themselves, I was
admitted, and was, several times, assigned a prominent part in its debates. I
owe much to the society of these young men.
The reader already knows enough of the ill effects of good treatment on a
slave, to anticipate what was now the case in my improved condition. It was
not long before I began to show signs of disquiet with slavery, and to look
around for means to get out of that condition by the shortest route. I was

living among free men; and was, in all respects, equal to them by nature and
by attainments. Why should I be a slave? There was no reason why I should
be the thrall of any man.
Besides, I was now getting—as I have said—a dollar and fifty cents per
day. I contracted for it, worked for it, earned it, collected it; it was paid to
me, and it was rightfully my own; and yet, upon every returning Saturday
night, this money—my own hard earnings, every cent of it—was demanded
of me, and taken from me by Master Hugh. He did not earn it; he had no
hand in earning it; why, then, should he have it? I owed him nothing. He
had given me no schooling, and I had received from him only my food and
raiment; and for these, my services were supposed to pay, from the first.
The right to take my earnings, was the right of the robber. He had the power
to compel me to give him the fruits of my labor, and this power was his
only right in the case. I became more and more dissatisfied with this state of
things; and, in so becoming, I only gave proof of the same human nature
which every reader of this chapter in my life—slaveholder, or
nonslaveholder—is conscious of possessing.
To make a contented slave, you must make a thoughtless one. It is
necessary to darken his moral and mental vision, and, as far as possible, to
annihilate his power of reason. He must be able to detect no inconsistencies
in slavery. The man that takes his earnings, must be able to convince him
that he has a perfect right to do so. It must not depend upon mere force; the
slave must know no Higher Law than his master’s will. The whole
relationship must not only demonstrate, to his mind, its necessity, but its
absolute rightfulness. If there be one crevice through which a single drop
can fall, it will certainly rust off the slave’s chain.

CHAPTER XXI. My Escape from Slavery

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

I will now make the kind reader acquainted with the closing incidents of
my “Life as a Slave,” having already trenched upon the limit allotted to my
“Life as a Freeman.” Before, however, proceeding with this narration, it is,
perhaps, proper that I should frankly state, in advance, my intention to

withhold a part of the(sic) connected with my escape from slavery. There
are reasons for this suppression, which I trust the reader will deem
altogether valid. It may be easily conceived, that a full and complete
statement of all facts pertaining to the flight of a bondman, might implicate
and embarrass some who may have, wittingly or unwittingly, assisted him;
and no one can wish me to involve any man or woman who has befriended
me, even in the liability of embarrassment or trouble.
Keen is the scent of the slaveholder; like the fangs of the rattlesnake, his
malice retains its poison long; and, although it is now nearly seventeen
years since I made my escape, it is well to be careful, in dealing with the
circumstances relating to it. Were I to give but a shadowy outline of the
process adopted, with characteristic aptitude, the crafty and malicious
among the slaveholders might, possibly, hit upon the track I pursued, and
involve some one in suspicion which, in a slave state, is about as bad as
positive evidence. The colored man, there, must not only shun evil, but shun
the very appearance of evil, or be condemned as a criminal. A slaveholding
community has a peculiar taste for ferreting out offenses against the slave
system, justice there being more sensitive in its regard for the peculiar
rights of this system, than for any other interest or institution. By stringing
together a train of events and circumstances, even if I were not very
explicit, the means of escape might be ascertained, and, possibly, those
means be rendered, thereafter, no longer available to the liberty-seeking
children of bondage I have left behind me. No antislavery man can wish me
to do anything favoring such results, and no slaveholding reader has any
right to expect the impartment of such information.
While, therefore, it would afford me pleasure, and perhaps would
materially add to the interest of my story, were I at liberty to gratify a
curiosity which I know to exist in the minds of many, as to the manner of
my escape, I must deprive myself of this pleasure, and the curious of the
gratification, which such a statement of facts would afford. I would allow
myself to suffer under the greatest imputations that evil minded men might
suggest, rather than exculpate myself by explanation, and thereby run the
hazards of closing the slightest avenue by which a brother in suffering
might clear himself of the chains and fetters of slavery.
The practice of publishing every new invention by which a slave is
known to have escaped from slavery, has neither wisdom nor necessity to

sustain it. Had not Henry Box Brown and his friends attracted slaveholding
attention to the manner of his escape, we might have had a thousand Box
Browns per annum. The singularly original plan adopted by William and
Ellen Crafts, perished with the first using, because every slaveholder in the
land was apprised of it. The salt water slave who hung in the guards of a
steamer, being washed three days and three nights—like another Jonah—by
the waves of the sea, has, by the publicity given to the circumstance, set a
spy on the guards of every steamer departing from southern ports.
I have never approved of the very public manner, in which some of our
western friends have conducted what they call the “Under-ground
Railroad,” but which, I think, by their open declarations, has been made,
most emphatically, the “Upper-ground Railroad.” Its stations are far better
known to the slaveholders than to the slaves. I honor those good men and
women for their noble daring, in willingly subjecting themselves to
persecution, by openly avowing their participation in the escape of slaves;
nevertheless, the good resulting from such avowals, is of a very
questionable character. It may kindle an enthusiasm, very pleasant to inhale;
but that is of no practical benefit to themselves, nor to the slaves escaping.
Nothing is more evident, than that such disclosures are a positive evil to the
slaves remaining, and seeking to escape. In publishing such accounts, the
anti-slavery man addresses the slaveholder, not the slave; he stimulates the
former to greater watchfulness, and adds to his facilities for capturing his
slave. We owe something to the slaves, south of Mason and Dixon’s line, as
well as to those north of it; and, in discharging the duty of aiding the latter,
on their way to freedom, we should be careful to do nothing which would
be likely to hinder the former, in making their escape from slavery. Such is
my detestation of slavery, that I would keep the merciless slaveholder
profoundly ignorant of the means of flight adopted by the slave. He should
be left to imagine himself surrounded by myriads of invisible tormentors,
ever ready to snatch, from his infernal grasp, his trembling prey. In pursuing
his victim, let him be left to feel his way in the dark; let shades of darkness,
commensurate with his crime, shut every ray of light from his pathway; and
let him be made to feel, that, at every step he takes, with the hellish purpose
of reducing a brother man to slavery, he is running the frightful risk of
having his hot brains dashed out by an invisible hand.
But, enough of this. I will now proceed to the statement of those facts,
connected with my escape, for which I am alone responsible, and for which

no one can be made to suffer but myself.
My condition in the year (1838) of my escape, was, comparatively, a free
and easy one, so far, at least, as the wants of the physical man were
concerned; but the reader will bear in mind, that my troubles from the
beginning, have been less physical than mental, and he will thus be
prepared to find, after what is narrated in the previous chapters, that slave
life was adding nothing to its charms for me, as I grew older, and became
better acquainted with it. The practice, from week to week, of openly
robbing me of all my earnings, kept the nature and character of slavery
constantly before me. I could be robbed by indirection, but this was too
open and barefaced to be endured. I could see no reason why I should, at
the end of each week, pour the reward of my honest toil into the purse of
any man. The thought itself vexed me, and the manner in which Master
Hugh received my wages, vexed me more than the original wrong.
Carefully counting the money and rolling it out, dollar by dollar, he would
look me in the face, as if he would search my heart as well as my pocket,
and reproachfully ask me, “Is that all?”—implying that I had, perhaps, kept
back part of my wages; or, if not so, the demand was made, possibly, to
make me feel, that, after all, I was an “unprofitable servant.” Draining me
of the last cent of my hard earnings, he would, however, occasionally—
when I brought home an extra large sum—dole out to me a sixpence or a
shilling, with a view, perhaps, of kindling up my gratitude; but this practice
had the opposite effect—it was an admission of my right to the whole sum.
The fact, that he gave me any part of my wages, was proof that he suspected
that I had a right to the whole of them. I always felt uncomfortable, after
having received anything in this way, for I feared that the giving me a few
cents, might, possibly, ease his conscience, and make him feel himself a
pretty honorable robber, after all!
Held to a strict account, and kept under a close watch—the old suspicion
of my running away not having been entirely removed—escape from
slavery, even in Baltimore, was very difficult. The railroad from Baltimore
to Philadelphia was under regulations so stringent, that even free colored
travelers were almost excluded. They must have free papers; they must be
measured and carefully examined, before they were allowed to enter the
cars; they only went in the day time, even when so examined. The
steamboats were under regulations equally stringent. All the great turnpikes,
leading northward, were beset with kidnappers, a class of men who watched

the newspapers for advertisements for runaway slaves, making their living
by the accursed reward of slave hunting.
My discontent grew upon me, and I was on the look-out for means of
escape. With money, I could easily have managed the matter, and, therefore,
I hit upon the plan of soliciting the privilege of hiring my time. It is quite
common, in Baltimore, to allow slaves this privilege, and it is the practice,
also, in New Orleans. A slave who is considered trustworthy, can, by paying
his master a definite sum regularly, at the end of each week, dispose of his
time as he likes. It so happened that I was not in very good odor, and I was
far from being a trustworthy slave. Nevertheless, I watched my opportunity
when Master Thomas came to Baltimore (for I was still his property, Hugh
only acted as his agent) in the spring of 1838, to purchase his spring supply
of goods, and applied to him, directly, for the much-coveted privilege of
hiring my time. This request Master Thomas unhesitatingly refused to
grant; and he charged me, with some sternness, with inventing this
stratagem to make my escape. He told me, “I could go nowhere but he
could catch me; and, in the event of my running away, I might be assured he
should spare no pains in his efforts to recapture me.” He recounted, with a
good deal of eloquence, the many kind offices he had done me, and
exhorted me to be contented and obedient. “Lay out no plans for the
future,” said he. “If you behave yourself properly, I will take care of you.”
Now, kind and considerate as this offer was, it failed to soothe me into
repose. In spite of Master Thomas, and, I may say, in spite of myself, also, I
continued to think, and worse still, to think almost exclusively about the
injustice and wickedness of slavery. No effort of mine or of his could
silence this trouble-giving thought, or change my purpose to run away.
About two months after applying to Master Thomas for the privilege of
hiring my time, I applied to Master Hugh for the same liberty, supposing
him to be unacquainted with the fact that I had made a similar application to
Master Thomas, and had been refused. My boldness in making this request,
fairly astounded him at the first. He gazed at me in amazement. But I had
many good reasons for pressing the matter; and, after listening to them
awhile, he did not absolutely refuse, but told me he would think of it. Here,
then, was a gleam of hope. Once master of my own time, I felt sure that I
could make, over and above my obligation to him, a dollar or two every
week. Some slaves have made enough, in this way, to purchase their
freedom. It is a sharp spur to industry; and some of the most enterprising

colored men in Baltimore hire themselves in this way. After mature
reflection—as I must suppose it was Master Hugh granted me the privilege
in question, on the following terms: I was to be allowed all my time; to
make all bargains for work; to find my own employment, and to collect my
own wages; and, in return for this liberty, I was required, or obliged, to pay
him three dollars at the end of each week, and to board and clothe myself,
and buy my own calking tools. A failure in any of these particulars would
put an end to my privilege. This was a hard bargain. The wear and tear of
clothing, the losing and breaking of tools, and the expense of board, made it
necessary for me to earn at least six dollars per week, to keep even with the
world. All who are acquainted with calking, know how uncertain and
irregular that employment is. It can be done to advantage only in dry
weather, for it is useless to put wet oakum into a seam. Rain or shine,
however, work or no work, at the end of each week the money must be
forthcoming.
Master Hugh seemed to be very much pleased, for a time, with this
arrangement; and well he might be, for it was decidedly in his favor. It
relieved him of all anxiety concerning me. His money was sure. He had
armed my love of liberty with a lash and a driver, far more efficient than
any I had before known; and, while he derived all the benefits of
slaveholding by the arrangement, without its evils, I endured all the evils of
being a slave, and yet suffered all the care and anxiety of a responsible
freeman. “Nevertheless,” thought I, “it is a valuable privilege another step
in my career toward freedom.” It was something even to be permitted to
stagger under the disadvantages of liberty, and I was determined to hold on
to the newly gained footing, by all proper industry. I was ready to work by
night as well as by day; and being in the enjoyment of excellent health, I
was able not only to meet my current expenses, but also to lay by a small
sum at the end of each week. All went on thus, from the month of May till
August; then—for reasons which will become apparent as I proceed—my
much valued liberty was wrested from me.
During the week previous to this (to me) calamitous event, I had made
arrangements with a few young friends, to accompany them, on Saturday
night, to a camp-meeting, held about twelve miles from Baltimore. On the
evening of our intended start for the camp-ground, something occurred in
the ship yard where I was at work, which detained me unusually late, and
compelled me either to disappoint my young friends, or to neglect carrying

my weekly dues to Master Hugh. Knowing that I had the money, and could
hand it to him on another day, I decided to go to camp-meeting, and to pay
him the three dollars, for the past week, on my return. Once on the camp-
ground, I was induced to remain one day longer than I had intended, when I
left home. But, as soon as I returned, I went straight to his house on Fell
street, to hand him his (my) money. Unhappily, the fatal mistake had been
committed. I found him exceedingly angry. He exhibited all the signs of
apprehension and wrath, which a slaveholder may be surmised to exhibit on
the supposed escape of a favorite slave. “You rascal! I have a great mind to
give you a severe whipping. How dare you go out of the city without first
asking and obtaining my permission?” “Sir,” said I, “I hired my time and
paid you the price you asked for it. I did not know that it was any part of the
bargain that I should ask you when or where I should go.”
“You did not know, you rascal! You are bound to show yourself here
every Saturday night.” After reflecting, a few moments, he became
somewhat cooled down; but, evidently greatly troubled, he said, “Now, you
scoundrel! you have done for yourself; you shall hire your time no longer.
The next thing I shall hear of, will be your running away. Bring home your
tools and your clothes, at once. I’ll teach you how to go off in this way.”
Thus ended my partial freedom. I could hire my time no longer; and I
obeyed my master’s orders at once. The little taste of liberty which I had
had—although as the reader will have seen, it was far from being unalloyed
—by no means enhanced my contentment with slavery. Punished thus by
Master Hugh, it was now my turn to punish him. “Since,” thought I, “you
will make a slave of me, I will await your orders in all things;” and, instead
of going to look for work on Monday morning, as I had formerly done, I
remained at home during the entire week, without the performance of a
single stroke of work. Saturday night came, and he called upon me, as
usual, for my wages. I, of course, told him I had done no work, and had no
wages. Here we were at the point of coming to blows. His wrath had been
accumulating during the whole week; for he evidently saw that I was
making no effort to get work, but was most aggravatingly awaiting his
orders, in all things. As I look back to this behavior of mine, I scarcely
know what possessed me, thus to trifle with those who had such unlimited
power to bless or to blast me. Master Hugh raved and swore his
determination to “get hold of me;” but, wisely for him, and happily for me,
his wrath only employed those very harmless, impalpable missiles, which

roll from a limber tongue. In my desperation, I had fully made up my mind
to measure strength with Master Hugh, in case he should undertake to
execute his threats. I am glad there was no necessity for this; for resistance
to him could not have ended so happily for me, as it did in the case of
Covey. He was not a man to be safely resisted by a slave; and I freely own,
that in my conduct toward him, in this instance, there was more folly than
wisdom. Master Hugh closed his reproofs, by telling me that, hereafter, I
need give myself no uneasiness about getting work; that he “would,
himself, see to getting work for me, and enough of it, at that.” This threat I
confess had some terror in it; and, on thinking the matter over, during the
Sunday, I resolved, not only to save him the trouble of getting me work, but
that, upon the third day of September, I would attempt to make my escape
from slavery. The refusal to allow me to hire my time, therefore, hastened
the period of flight. I had three weeks, now, in which to prepare for my
journey.
Once resolved, I felt a certain degree of repose, and on Monday, instead
of waiting for Master Hugh to seek employment for me, I was up by break
of day, and off to the ship yard of Mr. Butler, on the City Block, near the
draw-bridge. I was a favorite with Mr. B., and, young as I was, I had served
as his foreman on the float stage, at calking. Of course, I easily obtained
work, and, at the end of the week—which by the way was exceedingly fine
I brought Master Hugh nearly nine dollars. The effect of this mark of
returning good sense, on my part, was excellent. He was very much
pleased; he took the money, commended me, and told me I might have done
the same thing the week before. It is a blessed thing that the tyrant may not
always know the thoughts and purposes of his victim. Master Hugh little
knew what my plans were. The going to camp-meeting without asking his
permission—the insolent answers made to his reproaches—the sulky
deportment the week after being deprived of the privilege of hiring my time
—had awakened in him the suspicion that I might be cherishing disloyal
purposes. My object, therefore, in working steadily, was to remove
suspicion, and in this I succeeded admirably. He probably thought I was
never better satisfied with my condition, than at the very time I was
planning my escape. The second week passed, and again I carried him my
full week’s wages—nine dollars; and so well pleased was he, that he gave
me TWENTY-FIVE CENTS! and “bade me make good use of it!” I told

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

LIFE as a FREEMAN

CHAPTER XXII. Liberty Attained

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

There is no necessity for any extended notice of the incidents of this part
of my life. There is nothing very striking or peculiar about my career as a
freeman, when viewed apart from my life as a slave. The relation subsisting
between my early experience and that which I am now about to narrate, is,
perhaps, my best apology for adding another chapter to this book.
Disappearing from the kind reader, in a flying cloud or balloon (pardon
the figure), driven by the wind, and knowing not where I should land—
whether in slavery or in freedom—it is proper that I should remove, at once,
all anxiety, by frankly making known where I alighted. The flight was a
bold and perilous one; but here I am, in the great city of New York, safe and
sound, without loss of blood or bone. In less than a week after leaving

Baltimore, I was walking amid the hurrying throng, and gazing upon the
dazzling wonders of Broadway. The dreams of my childhood and the
purposes of my manhood were now fulfilled. A free state around me, and a
free earth under my feet! What a moment was this to me! A whole year was
pressed into a single day. A new world burst upon my agitated vision. I have
often been asked, by kind friends to whom I have told my story, how I felt
when first I found myself beyond the limits of slavery; and I must say here,
as I have often said to them, there is scarcely anything about which I could
not give a more satisfactory answer. It was a moment of joyous excitement,
which no words can describe. In a letter to a friend, written soon after
reaching New York. I said I felt as one might be supposed to feel, on
escaping from a den of hungry lions. But, in a moment like that, sensations
are too intense and too rapid for words. Anguish and grief, like darkness
and rain, may be described, but joy and gladness, like the rainbow of
promise, defy alike the pen and pencil.
For ten or fifteen years I had been dragging a heavy chain, with a huge
block attached to it, cumbering my every motion. I had felt myself doomed
to drag this chain and this block through life. All efforts, before, to separate
myself from the hateful encumbrance, had only seemed to rivet me the
more firmly to it. Baffled and discouraged at times, I had asked myself the
question, May not this, after all, be God’s work? May He not, for wise ends,
have doomed me to this lot? A contest had been going on in my mind for
years, between the clear consciousness of right and the plausible errors of
superstition; between the wisdom of manly courage, and the foolish
weakness of timidity. The contest was now ended; the chain was severed;
God and right stood vindicated. I was A FREEMAN, and the voice of peace
and joy thrilled my heart.
Free and joyous, however, as I was, joy was not the only sensation I
experienced. It was like the quick blaze, beautiful at the first, but which
subsiding, leaves the building charred and desolate. I was soon taught that I
was still in an enemy’s land. A sense of loneliness and insecurity oppressed
me sadly. I had been but a few hours in New York, before I was met in the
streets by a fugitive slave, well known to me, and the information I got
from him respecting New York, did nothing to lessen my apprehension of
danger. The fugitive in question was “Allender’s Jake,” in Baltimore; but,
said he, I am “WILLIAM DIXON,” in New York! I knew Jake well, and
knew when Tolly Allender and Mr. Price (for the latter employed Master

Hugh as his foreman, in his shipyard on Fell’s Point) made an attempt to
recapture Jake, and failed. Jake told me all about his circumstances, and
how narrowly he escaped being taken back to slavery; that the city was now
full of southerners, returning from the springs; that the black people in New
York were not to be trusted; that there were hired men on the lookout for
fugitives from slavery, and who, for a few dollars, would betray me into the
hands of the slave-catchers; that I must trust no man with my secret; that I
must not think of going either on the wharves to work, or to a boarding-
house to board; and, worse still, this same Jake told me it was not in his
power to help me. He seemed, even while cautioning me, to be fearing lest,
after all, I might be a party to a second attempt to recapture him. Under the
inspiration of this thought, I must suppose it was, he gave signs of a wish to
get rid of me, and soon left me his whitewash brush in hand—as he said, for
his work. He was soon lost to sight among the throng, and I was alone
again, an easy prey to the kidnappers, if any should happen to be on my
track.
New York, seventeen years ago, was less a place of safety for a runaway
slave than now, and all know how unsafe it now is, under the new fugitive
slave bill. I was much troubled. I had very little money enough to buy me a
few loaves of bread, but not enough to pay board, outside a lumber yard. I
saw the wisdom of keeping away from the ship yards, for if Master Hugh
pursued me, he would naturally expect to find me looking for work among
the calkers. For a time, every door seemed closed against me. A sense of my
loneliness and helplessness crept over me, and covered me with something
bordering on despair. In the midst of thousands of my fellowmen, and yet a
perfect stranger! In the midst of human brothers, and yet more fearful of
them than of hungry wolves! I was without home, without friends, without
work, without money, and without any definite knowledge of which way to
go, or where to look for succor.
Some apology can easily be made for the few slaves who have, after
making good their escape, turned back to slavery, preferring the actual rule
of their masters, to the life of loneliness, apprehension, hunger, and anxiety,
which meets them on their first arrival in a free state. It is difficult for a
freeman to enter into the feelings of such fugitives. He cannot see things in
the same light with the slave, because he does not, and cannot, look from
the same point from which the slave does. “Why do you tremble,” he says
to the slave “you are in a free state;” but the difficulty is, in realizing that he