Twelve Years a Slave
confused, and committed some blunder of no particular consequence.
Epps was so enraged thereat, that, with drunken recklessness, he flew
upon the old man, and stabbed him in the back. It was a long, ugly
wound, but did not happen to penetrate far enough to result fatally.
It was sewed up by the mistress, who censured her husband with extreme
severity, not only denouncing his inhumanity, but declaring that
she expected nothing else than that he would bring the family to
poverty--that he would kill all the slaves on the plantation in some
of his drunken fits.
It was no uncommon thing with him to prostrate Aunt Phebe with a chair
or stick of wood; but the most cruel whipping that ever I was doomed
to witness--one I can never recall with any other emotion than that
of horror--was inflicted on the unfortunate Patsey.
It has been seen that the jealousy and hatred of Mistress Epps made
the daily life of her young and agile slave completely miserable. I
am happy in the belief that on numerous occasions I was the means
of averting punishment from the inoffensive girl. In Epps' absence
the mistress often ordered me to whip her without the remotest
provocation. I would refuse, saying that I feared my master's
displeasure, and several times ventured to remonstrate with her
against the treatment Patsey received. I endeavored to impress her
with the truth that the latter was not responsible for the acts of
which she complained, but that she being a slave, and subject entirely
to her master's will, he alone was answerable.
At length "the green-eyed monster" crept into the soul of Epps also,
and then it was that he joined with his wrathful wife in an infernal
jubilee over the girl's miseries.
On a Sabbath day in hoeing time, not long ago, we were on the bayou
bank, washing our clothes, as was our usual custom. Presently Patsey
was missing. Epps called aloud, but there was no answer. No one had
observed her leaving the yard, and it was a wonder with us whither she
had gone. In the course of a couple of hours she was seen approaching
from the direction of Shaw's. This man, as has been intimated, was
a notorious profligate, and withal not on the most friendly terms
with Epps. Harriet, his black wife, knowing Patsey's troubles, was
kind to her, in consequence of which the latter was in the habit of
going over to see her every opportunity. Her visits were prompted by
friendship merely, but the suspicion gradually entered the brain of
Epps, that another and a baser passion led her thither--that it was
not Harriet she desired to meet, but rather the unblushing libertine,
his neighbor. Patsey found her master in a fearful rage on her return.
His violence so alarmed her that at first she attempted to evade
direct answers to his questions, which only served to increase his
suspicions. She finally, however, drew herself up proudly, and in a
spirit of indignation boldly denied his charges.
"Missus don't give me soap to wash with, as she does the rest," said
Patsey, "and you know why. I went over to Harriet's to get a piece,"
and saying this, she drew it forth from a pocket in her dress and
exhibited it to him. "That's what I went to Shaw's for, Massa Epps,"
continued she; "the Lord knows that was all."
"You lie, you black wench!" shouted Epps.
"I _don't_ lie, massa. If you kill me, I'll stick to that."
"Oh! I'll fetch you down. I'll learn you to go to Shaw's. I'll take
the starch out of ye," he muttered fiercely through his shut teeth.
Then turning to me, he ordered four stakes to be driven into the
ground, pointing with the toe of his boot to the places where he
wanted them. When the stakes were driven down, he ordered her to be
stripped of every article of dress. Ropes were then brought, and
the naked girl was laid upon her face, her wrists and feet each tied
firmly to a stake. Stepping to the piazza, he took down a heavy whip,
and placing it in my hands, commanded me to lash her. Unpleasant as it
was, I was compelled to obey him. Nowhere that day, on the face of the
whole earth, I venture to say, was there such a demoniac exhibition
witnessed as then ensued.
Mistress Epps stood on the piazza among her children, gazing on the
scene with an air of heartless satisfaction. The slaves were huddled
together at a little distance, their countenances indicating the
sorrow of their hearts. Poor Patsey prayed piteously for mercy, but
her prayers were vain. Epps ground his teeth, and stamped upon the
ground, screaming at me, like a mad fiend, to strike _harder_.
"Strike harder, or _your_ turn will come next, you scoundrel," he
yelled.
"Oh, mercy, massa!--oh! have mercy, _do_. Oh, God! pity me," Patsey
exclaimed continually, struggling fruitlessly, and the flesh quivering
at every stroke.
When I had struck her as many as thirty times, I stopped, and turned
round toward Epps, hoping he was satisfied; but with bitter oaths and
threats, he ordered me to continue. I inflicted ten or fifteen blows
more. By this time her back was covered with long welts, intersecting
each other like net work. Epps was yet furious and savage as ever,
demanding if she would like to go to Shaw's again, and swearing he
would flog her until she wished she was in h--l. Throwing down the
whip, I declared I could punish her no more. He ordered me to go on,
threatening me with a severer flogging than she had received, in case
of refusal. My heart revolted at the inhuman scene, and risking the
consequences, I absolutely refused to raise the whip. He then seized
it himself, and applied it with ten-fold greater force than I had.
The painful cries and shrieks of the tortured Patsey, mingling with
the loud and angry curses of Epps, loaded the air. She was terribly
lacerated--I may say, without exaggeration, literally flayed. The lash
was wet with blood, which flowed down her sides and dropped upon the
ground. At length she ceased struggling. Her head sank listlessly on
the ground. Her screams and supplications gradually decreased and died
away into a low moan. She no longer writhed and shrank beneath the
lash when it bit out small pieces of her flesh. I thought that she was
dying!
It was the Sabbath of the Lord. The fields smiled in the warm
sunlight--the birds chirped merrily amidst the foliage of the
trees--peace and happiness seemed to reign everywhere, save in the
bosoms of Epps and his panting victim and the silent witnesses around
him. The tempestuous emotions that were raging there were little in
harmony with the calm and quiet beauty of the day. I could look on
Epps only with unutterable loathing and abhorrence, and thought
within myself--"Thou devil, sooner or later, somewhere in the course
of eternal justice, thou shalt answer for this sin!"
Finally, he ceased whipping from mere exhaustion, and ordered Phebe
to bring a bucket of salt and water. After washing her thoroughly
with this, I was told to take her to her cabin. Untying the ropes, I
raised her in my arms. She was unable to stand, and as her head rested
on my shoulder, she repeated many times, in a faint voice scarcely
perceptible, "Oh, Platt--oh, Platt!" but nothing further. Her dress
was replaced, but it clung to her back, and was soon stiff with blood.
We laid her on some boards in the hut, where she remained a long time,
with eyes closed and groaning in agony. At night Phebe applied melted
tallow to her wounds, and so far as we were able, all endeavored to
assist and console her. Day after day she lay in her cabin upon her
face, the sores preventing her resting in any other position.
A blessed thing it would have been for her--days and weeks and months
of misery it would have saved her--had she never lifted up her head in
life again. Indeed, from that time forward she was not what she had
been. The burden of a deep melancholy weighed heavily on her spirits.
She no longer moved with that buoyant and elastic step--there was
not that mirthful sparkle in her eyes that formerly distinguished
her. The bounding vigor--the sprightly, laughter-loving spirit of her
youth, were gone. She fell into a mournful and desponding mood, and
oftentimes would start up in her sleep, and with raised hands, plead
for mercy. She became more silent than she was, toiling all day in our
midst, not uttering a word. A care-worn, pitiful expression settled on
her face, and it was her humor now to weep, rather than rejoice. If
ever there was a broken heart--one crushed and blighted by the rude
grasp of suffering and misfortune--it was Patsey's.
She had been reared no better than her master's beast--looked upon
merely as a valuable and handsome animal--and consequently possessed
but a limited amount of knowledge. And yet a faint light cast its rays
over her intellect, so that it was not wholly dark. She had a dim
perception of God and of eternity, and a still more dim perception
of a Saviour who had died even for such as her. She entertained but
confused notions of a future life--not comprehending the distinction
between the corporeal and spiritual existence. Happiness, in her mind,
was exemption from stripes--from labor--from the cruelty of masters
and overseers. Her idea of the joy of heaven was simply _rest_, and is
fully expressed in these lines of a melancholy bard:
"I ask no paradise on high,
With cares on earth oppressed,
The only heaven for which I sigh,
Is rest, eternal rest."
It is a mistaken opinion that prevails in some quarters, that the
slave does not understand the term--does not comprehend the idea of
freedom. Even on Bayou Boeuf, where I conceive slavery exists in its
most abject and cruel form--where it exhibits features altogether
unknown in more northern States--the most ignorant of them generally
know full well its meaning. They understand the privileges and
exemptions that belong to it--that it would bestow upon them the
fruits of their own labors, and that it would secure to them the
enjoyment of domestic happiness. They do not fail to observe the
difference between their own condition and the meanest white man's,
and to realize the injustice of the laws which place it in his power
not only to appropriate the profits of their industry, but to subject
them to unmerited and unprovoked punishment, without remedy, or the
right to resist, or to remonstrate.
Patsey's life, especially after her whipping, was one long dream of
liberty. Far away, to her fancy an immeasurable distance, she knew
there was a land of freedom. A thousand times she had heard that
somewhere in the distant North there were no slaves--no masters. In
her imagination it was an enchanted region, the Paradise of the earth.
To dwell where the black man may work for himself--live in his own
cabin--till his own soil, was a blissful dream of Patsey's--a dream,
alas! the fulfillment of which she can never realize.
The effect of these exhibitions of brutality on the household of the
slave-holder, is apparent. Epps' oldest son is an intelligent lad of
ten or twelve years of age. It is pitiable, sometimes, to see him
chastising, for instance, the venerable Uncle Abram. He will call the
old man to account, and if in his childish judgment it is necessary,
sentence him to a certain number of lashes, which he proceeds to
inflict with much gravity and deliberation. Mounted on his pony,
he often rides into the field with his whip, playing the overseer,
greatly to his father's delight. Without discrimination, at such
times, he applies the rawhide, urging the slaves forward with shouts,
and occasional expressions of profanity, while the old man laughs, and
commends him as a thorough-going boy.
"The child is father to the man," and with such training, whatever may