My Bondage and My Freedom
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