Twelve Years a Slave
presented any prospect of success, that Northup and the brother of
Waddill, a student in the office of the latter, should repair to the
Bayou, and traveling up one side and down the other its whole length,
inquire at each plantation for me. Mr. Waddill tendered the use of his
carriage, and it was definitely arranged that they should start upon
the excursion early Monday morning.
It will be seen at once that this course, in all probability, would
have resulted unsuccessfully. It would have been impossible for them
to have gone into the fields and examine all the gangs at work. They
were not aware that I was known only as Platt; and had they inquired
of Epps himself, he would have stated truly that he knew nothing of
Solomon Northup.
The arrangement being adopted, however, there was nothing further to
be done until Sunday had elapsed. The conversation between Messrs.
Northup and Waddill, in the course of the afternoon, turned upon
New-York politics.
"I can scarcely comprehend the nice distinctions and shades of
political parties in your State," observed Mr. Waddill. "I read of
soft-shells and hard-shells, hunkers and barnburners, woolly-heads
and silver-grays, and am unable to understand the precise difference
between them. Pray, what is it?"
Mr. Northup, re-filling his pipe, entered into quite an elaborate
narrative of the origin of the various sections of parties, and
concluded by saying there was another party in New-York, known as
free-soilers or abolitionists. "You have seen none of those in this
part of the country, I presume?" Mr. Northup remarked.
"Never, but one," answered Waddill, laughingly. "We have one here
in Marksville, an eccentric creature, who preaches abolitionism as
vehemently as any fanatic at the North. He is a generous, inoffensive
man, but always maintaining the wrong side of an argument. It affords
us a deal of amusement. He is an excellent mechanic, and almost
indispensable in this community. He is a carpenter. His name is Bass."
Some further good-natured conversation was had at the expense of Bass'
peculiarities, when Waddill all at once fell into a reflective mood,
and asked for the mysterious letter again.
"Let me see--l-e-t m-e s-e-e!" he repeated, thoughtfully to himself,
running his eyes over the letter once more. "'Bayou Boeuf, August 15.'
August 15--post-marked here. 'He that is writing for me--' Where did
Bass work last summer?" he inquired, turning suddenly to his brother.
His brother was unable to inform him, but rising, left the office,
and soon returned with the intelligence that "Bass worked last summer
somewhere on Bayou Boeuf."
"He is the man," bringing down his hand emphatically on the table,
"who can tell us all about Solomon Northup," exclaimed Waddill.
Bass was immediately searched for, but could not be found. After some
inquiry, it was ascertained he was at the landing on Red River.
Procuring a conveyance, young Waddill and Northup were not long in
traversing the few miles to the latter place. On their arrival, Bass
was found, just on the point of leaving, to be absent a fortnight or
more. After an introduction, Northup begged the privilege of speaking
to him privately a moment. They walked together towards the river,
when the following conversation ensued:
"Mr. Bass," said Northup, "allow me to ask you if you were on Bayou
Boeuf last August?"
"Yes, sir, I was there in August," was the reply.
"Did you write a letter for a colored man at that place to some
gentleman in Saratoga Springs?"
"Excuse me, sir, if I say that is none of your business," answered
Bass, stopping and looking his interrogator searchingly in the face.
"Perhaps I am rather hasty, Mr. Bass; I beg your pardon; but I have
come from the State of New-York to accomplish the purpose the writer
of a letter dated the 15th of August, post-marked at Marksville, had
in view. Circumstances have led me to think that you are perhaps the
man who wrote it. I am in search of Solomon Northup. If you know him,
I beg you to inform me frankly where he is, and I assure you the
source of any information you may give me shall not be divulged, if
you desire it not to be."
A long time Bass looked his new acquaintance steadily in the eyes,
without opening his lips. He seemed to be doubting in his own mind if
there was not an attempt to practice some deception upon him. Finally
he said, deliberately--
"I have done nothing to be ashamed of. I am the man who wrote the
letter. If you have come to rescue Solomon Northup, I am glad to see
you."
"When did you last see him, and where is he?" Northup inquired.
"I last saw him Christmas, a week ago to-day. He is the slave of Edwin
Epps, a planter on Bayou Boeuf, near Holmesville. He is not known as
Solomon Northup; he is called Platt."
The secret was out--the mystery was unraveled. Through the thick,
black cloud, amid whose dark and dismal shadows I had walked twelve
years, broke the star that was to light me back to liberty. All
mistrust and hesitation were soon thrown aside, and the two men
conversed long and freely upon the subject uppermost in their
thoughts. Bass expressed the interest he had taken in my behalf--his
intention of going north in the Spring, and declaring that he had
resolved to accomplish my emancipation, if it were in his power. He
described the commencement and progress of his acquaintance with me,
and listened with eager curiosity to the account given him of my
family, and the history of my early life. Before separating, he drew
a map of the bayou on a strip of paper with a piece of red chalk,
showing the locality of Epps' plantation, and the road leading most
directly to it.
Northup and his young companion returned to Marksville, where it
was determined to commence legal proceedings to test the question
of my right to freedom. I was made plaintiff, Mr. Northup acting as
my guardian, and Edwin Epps defendant. The process to be issued was
in the nature of replevin, directed to the sheriff of the parish,
commanding him to take me into custody, and detain me until the
decision of the court. By the time the papers were duly drawn up,
it was twelve o'clock at night--too late to obtain the necessary
signature of the Judge, who resided some distance out of town. Further
business was therefore suspended until Monday morning.
Everything, apparently, was moving along swimmingly, until Sunday
afternoon, when Waddill called at Northup's room to express his
apprehension of difficulties they had not expected to encounter. Bass
had become alarmed, and had placed his affairs in the hands of a
person at the landing, communicating to him his intention of leaving
the State. This person had betrayed the confidence reposed in him to
a certain extent, and a rumor began to float about the town, that
the stranger at the hotel, who had been observed in the company of
lawyer Waddill, was after one of old Epps' slaves, over on the bayou.
Epps was known at Marksville, having frequent occasion to visit that
place during the session of the courts, and the fear entertained by
Mr. Northup's adviser was, that intelligence would be conveyed to him
in the night, giving him an opportunity of secreting me before the
arrival of the sheriff.
This apprehension had the effect of expediting matters considerably.
The sheriff, who lived in one direction from the village, was
requested to hold himself in readiness immediately after midnight,
while the Judge was informed he would be called upon at the same
time. It is but justice to say, that the authorities at Marksville
cheerfully rendered all the assistance in their power.
As soon after midnight as bail could be perfected, and the Judge's
signature obtained, a carriage, containing Mr. Northup and the
sheriff, driven by the landlord's son, rolled rapidly out of the
village of Marksville, on the road towards Bayou Boeuf.
It was supposed that Epps would contest the issue involving my right
to liberty, and it therefore suggested itself to Mr. Northup, that
the testimony of the sheriff, describing my first meeting with the
former, might perhaps become material on the trial. It was accordingly
arranged during the ride, that, before I had an opportunity of
speaking to Mr. Northup, the sheriff should propound to me certain
questions agreed upon, such as the number and names of my children,
the name of my wife before marriage, of places I knew at the North,
and so forth. If my answers corresponded with the statements given
him, the evidence must necessarily be considered conclusive.
At length, shortly after Epps had left the field, with the consoling
assurance that he would soon return and _warm_ us, as was stated
in the conclusion of the preceding chapter, they came in sight of
the plantation, and discovered us at work. Alighting from the
carriage, and directing the driver to proceed to the great house, with
instructions not to mention to any one the object of their errand
until they met again, Northup and the sheriff turned from the highway,
and came towards us across the cotton field. We observed them, on
looking up at the carriage--one several rods in advance of the other.
It was a singular and unusual thing to see white men approaching us
in that manner, and especially at that early hour in the morning,
and Uncle Abram and Patsey made some remarks, expressive of their
astonishment. Walking up to Bob, the sheriff inquired:
"Where's the boy they call Platt?"
"Thar he is, massa," answered Bob, pointing to me, and twitching off
his hat.
I wondered to myself what business he could possibly have with me, and
turning round, gazed at him until he had approached within a step.
During my long residence on the bayou, I had become familiar with the
face of every planter within many miles; but this man was an utter
stranger--certainly I had never seen him before.
"Your name is Platt, is it?" he asked.
"Yes, master," I responded.
Pointing towards Northup, standing a few rods distant, he
demanded--"Do you know that man?"
I looked in the direction indicated, and as my eyes rested on his
countenance, a world of images thronged my brain; a multitude of
well-known faces--Anne's, and the dear children's, and my old dead
father's; all the scenes and associations of childhood and youth;
all the friends of other and happier days, appeared and disappeared,
flitting and floating like dissolving shadows before the vision of my
imagination, until at last the perfect memory of the man recurred to
me, and throwing up my hands towards Heaven, I exclaimed, in a voice
louder than I could utter in a less exciting moment--
"_Henry B. Northup!_ Thank God--thank God!"
In an instant I comprehended the nature of his business, and felt that
the hour of my deliverance was at hand. I started towards him, but the
sheriff stepped before me.
"Stop a moment," said he; "have you any other name than Platt?"
"Solomon Northup is my name, master," I replied.
"Have you a family?" he inquired.
"I _had_ a wife and three children."
"What were your children's names?"
"Elizabeth, Margaret and Alonzo."
"And your wife's name before her marriage?"
"Anne Hampton."
"Who married you?"
"Timothy Eddy, of Fort Edward."
"Where does that gentleman live?" again pointing to Northup, who
remained standing in the same place where I had first recognized him.
"He lives in Sandy Hill, Washington county, New-York," was the reply.
He was proceeding to ask further questions, but I pushed past him,
unable longer to restrain myself. I seized my old acquaintance by both
hands. I could not speak. I could not refrain from tears.
"Sol," he said at length, "I'm glad to see you."
I essayed to make some answer, but emotion choked all utterance, and
I was silent. The slaves, utterly confounded, stood gazing upon the