Twelve Years a Slave
the blade of a pocket-knife is shut or opened. In the lower edge of
the upper plank corresponding half circles are also cut, so that when
they close, a row of holes is formed large enough to admit a negro's
leg above the ankle, but not large enough to enable him to draw out
his foot. The other end of the upper plank, opposite the hinge, is
fastened to its post by lock and key. The slave is made to sit upon
the ground, when the uppermost plank is elevated, his legs, just above
the ankles, placed in the sub-half circles, and shutting it down
again, and locking it, he is held secure and fast. Very often the neck
instead of the ankle is enclosed. In this manner they are held during
the operation of whipping.
Warner, Will and Major, according to Tanner's account of them, were
melon-stealing, Sabbath-breaking niggers, and not approving of such
wickedness, he felt it his duty to put them in the stocks. Handing
me the key, himself, Myers, Mistress Tanner and the children entered
the carriage and drove away to church at Cheneyville. When they were
gone, the boys begged me to let them out. I felt sorry to see them
sitting on the hot ground, and remembered my own sufferings in the
sun. Upon their promise to return to the stocks at any moment they
were required to do so, I consented to release them. Grateful for
the lenity shown them, and in order in some measure to repay it, they
could do no less, of course, than pilot me to the melon-patch. Shortly
before Tanner's return, they were in the stocks again. Finally he
drove up, and looking at the boys, said, with a chuckle,--
"Aha! ye havn't been strolling about much to-day, any way. _I'll_
teach you what's what. _I'll_ tire ye of eating water-melons on the
Lord's day, ye Sabbath-breaking niggers."
Peter Tanner prided himself upon his strict religious observances: he
was a deacon in the church.
But I have now reached a point in the progress of my narrative, when
it becomes necessary to turn away from these light descriptions, to
the more grave and weighty matter of the second battle with Master
Tibeats, and the flight through the great Pacoudrie Swamp.
CHAPTER X.
RETURN TO TIBEATS--IMPOSSIBILITY OF PLEASING HIM--HE ATTACKS ME
WITH A HATCHET--THE STRUGGLE OVER THE BROAD AXE--THE TEMPTATION
TO MURDER HIM--ESCAPE ACROSS THE PLANTATION--OBSERVATIONS FROM
THE FENCE--TIBEATS APPROACHES, FOLLOWED BY THE HOUNDS--THEY TAKE
MY TRACK--THEIR LOUD YELLS--THEY ALMOST OVERTAKE ME--I REACH THE
WATER--THE HOUNDS CONFUSED--MOCCASIN SNAKES--ALLIGATORS--NIGHT
IN THE "GREAT PACOUDRIE SWAMP"--THE SOUNDS OF LIFE--NORTH-WEST
COURSE--EMERGE INTO THE PINE WOODS--THE SLAVE AND HIS YOUNG
MASTER--ARRIVAL AT FORD'S--FOOD AND REST.
At the end of a month, my services being no longer required at
Tanner's I was sent over the bayou again to my master, whom I found
engaged in building the cotton press. This was situated at some
distance from the great house, in a rather retired place. I commenced
working once more in company with Tibeats, being entirely alone with
him most part of the time. I remembered the words of Chapin, his
precautions, his advice to beware, lest in some unsuspecting moment
he might injure me. They were always in my mind, so that I lived in a
most uneasy state of apprehension and fear. One eye was on my work,
the other on my master. I determined to give him no cause of offence,
to work still more diligently, if possible, than I had done, to bear
whatever abuse he might heap upon me, save bodily injury, humbly and
patiently, hoping thereby to soften in some degree his manner towards
me, until the blessed time might come when I should be delivered from
his clutches.
The third morning after my return, Chapin left the plantation for
Cheneyville, to be absent until night. Tibeats, on that morning, was
attacked with one of those periodical fits of spleen and ill-humor to
which he was frequently subject, rendering him still more disagreeable
and venomous than usual.
It was about nine o'clock in the forenoon, when I was busily employed
with the jack-plane on one of the sweeps. Tibeats was standing by the
work-bench, fitting a handle into the chisel, with which he had been
engaged previously in cutting the thread of the screw.
"You are not planing that down enough," said he.
"It is just even with the line," I replied.
"You're a d--d liar," he exclaimed passionately.
"Oh, well, master," I said, mildly, "I will plane it down more if you
say so," at the same time proceeding to do as I supposed he desired.
Before one shaving had been removed, however, he cried out, saying I
had now planed it too deep--it was too small--I had spoiled the sweep
entirely. Then followed curses and imprecations. I had endeavored to
do exactly as he directed, but nothing would satisfy the unreasonable
man. In silence and in dread I stood by the sweep, holding the
jack-plane in my hand, not knowing what to do, and not daring to be
idle. His anger grew more and more violent, until, finally, with an
oath, such a bitter, frightful oath as only Tibeats could utter, he
seized a hatchet from the work-bench and darted towards me, swearing
he would cut my head open.
It was a moment of life or death. The sharp, bright blade of the
hatchet glittered in the sun. In another instant it would be buried in
my brain, and yet in that instant--so quick will a man's thoughts come
to him in such a fearful strait--I reasoned with myself. If I stood
still, my doom was certain; if I fled, ten chances to one the hatchet,
flying from his hand with a too-deadly and unerring aim, would strike
me in the back. There was but one course to take. Springing towards
him with all my power, and meeting him full half-way, before he could
bring down the blow, with one hand I caught his uplifted arm, with the
other seized him by the throat. We stood looking each other in the
eyes. In his I could see murder. I felt as if I had a serpent by the
neck, watching the slightest relaxation of my gripe, to coil itself
round my body, crushing and stinging it to death. I thought to scream
aloud, trusting that some ear might catch the sound--but Chapin was
away; the hands were in the field; there was no living soul in sight
or hearing.
The good genius, which thus far through life has saved me from the
hands of violence, at that moment suggested a lucky thought. With a
vigorous and sudden kick, that brought him on one knee, with a groan,
I released my hold upon his throat, snatched the hatchet, and cast it
beyond reach.
Frantic with rage, maddened beyond control, he seized a white oak
stick, five feet long, perhaps, and as large in circumference as his
hand could grasp, which was lying on the ground. Again he rushed
towards me, and again I met him, seized him about the waist, and being
the stronger of the two, bore him to the earth. While in that position
I obtained possession of the stick, and rising, cast it from me, also.
He likewise arose and ran for the broad-axe, on the work-bench.
Fortunately, there was a heavy plank lying upon its broad blade, in
such a manner that he could not extricate it, before I had sprung upon
his back. Pressing him down closely and heavily on the plank, so that
the axe was held more firmly to its place, I endeavored, but in vain,
to break his grasp upon the handle. In that position we remained some
minutes.
There have been hours in my unhappy life, many of them, when the
contemplation of death as the end of earthly sorrow--of the grave as
a resting place for the tired and worn out body--has been pleasant to
dwell upon. But such contemplations vanish in the hour of peril. No
man, in his full strength, can stand undismayed, in the presence of
the "king of terrors." Life is dear to every living thing; the worm
that crawls upon the ground will struggle for it. At that moment it
was dear to me, enslaved and treated as I was.
Not able to unloose his hand, once more I seized him by the throat,
and this time, with a vice-like gripe that soon relaxed his hold.
He became pliant and unstrung. His face, that had been white with
passion, was now black from suffocation. Those small serpent eyes
that spat such venom, were now full of horror--two great white orbs
starting from their sockets!
There was "a lurking devil" in my heart that prompted me to kill the
human blood-hound on the spot--to retain the grip on his accursed
throat till the breath of life was gone! I dared not murder him,
and I dared not let him live. If I killed him, my life must pay the
forfeit--if he lived, my life only would satisfy his vengeance. A
voice within whispered me to fly. To be a wanderer among the swamps,
a fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth, was preferable to
the life that I was leading.
My resolution was soon formed, and swinging him from the work-bench
to the ground, I leaped a fence near by, and hurried across the
plantation, passing the slaves at work in the cotton field. At the end
of a quarter of a mile I reached the wood-pasture, and it was a short
time indeed that I had been running it. Climbing on to a high fence, I
could see the cotton press, the great house, and the space between.
It was a conspicuous position, from whence the whole plantation was
in view. I saw Tibeats cross the field towards the house, and enter
it--then he came out, carrying his saddle, and presently mounted his
horse and galloped away.
I was desolate, but thankful. Thankful that my life was
spared,--desolate and discouraged with the prospect before me. What
would become of me? Who would befriend me? Whither should I fly?
Oh, God! Thou who gavest me life, and implanted in my bosom the
love of life--who filled it with emotions such as other men, thy
creatures, have, do not forsake me. Have pity on the poor slave--let
me not perish. If thou dost not protect me, I am lost--lost! Such
supplications, silently and unuttered, ascended from my inmost heart
to Heaven. But there was no answering voice--no sweet, low tone,
coming down from on high, whispering to my soul, "It is I, be not
afraid." I was the forsaken of God, it seemed--the despised and hated
of men!
In about three-fourths of an hour several of the slaves shouted and
made signs for me to run. Presently, looking up the bayou, I saw
Tibeats and two others on horse-back, coming at a fast gait, followed
by a troop of dogs. There were as many as eight or ten. Distant as I
was, I knew them. They belonged on the adjoining plantation. The dogs
used on Bayou Boeuf for hunting slaves are a kind of blood-hound,
but a far more savage breed than is found in the Northern States.
They will attack a negro, at their master's bidding, and cling
to him as the common bull-dog will cling to a four footed animal.
Frequently their loud bay is heard in the swamps, and then there is
speculation as to what point the runaway will be overhauled--the same
as a New-York hunter stops to listen to the hounds coursing along the
hillsides, and suggests to his companion that the fox will be taken
at such a place. I never knew a slave escaping with his life from
Bayou Boeuf. One reason is, they are not allowed to learn the art
of swimming, and are incapable of crossing the most inconsiderable
stream. In their flight they can go in no direction but a little
way without coming to a bayou, when the inevitable alternative is
presented, of being drowned or overtaken by the dogs. In youth I had
practised in the clear streams that flow through my native district,
until I had become an expert swimmer, and felt at home in the watery
element.
I stood upon the fence until the dogs had reached the cotton press. In
an instant more, their long, savage yells announced they were on my
track. Leaping down from my position, I ran towards the swamp. Fear