My Bondage and My Freedom
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