Twelve Years a Slave
plate, a piece of shriveled fried pork, a slice of bread and a cup
of water. He asked me how I felt, and remarked that I had received a
pretty severe flogging. He remonstrated with me against the propriety
of asserting my freedom. In rather a patronizing and confidential
manner, he gave it to me as his advice, that the less I said on that
subject the better it would be for me. The man evidently endeavored
to appear kind--whether touched at the sight of my sad condition, or
with the view of silencing, on my part, any further expression of
my rights, it is not necessary now to conjecture. He unlocked the
fetters from my ankles, opened the shutters of the little window, and
departed, leaving me again alone.
By this time I had become stiff and sore; my body was covered with
blisters, and it was with great pain and difficulty that I could
move. From the window I could observe nothing but the roof resting on
the adjacent wall. At night I laid down upon the damp, hard floor,
without any pillow or covering whatever. Punctually, twice a day,
Radburn came in, with his pork, and bread, and water. I had but
little appetite, though I was tormented with continual thirst. My
wounds would not permit me to remain but a few minutes in any one
position; so, sitting, or standing, or moving slowly round, I passed
the days and nights. I was heart sick and discouraged. Thoughts of
my family, of my wife and children, continually occupied my mind.
When sleep overpowered me I dreamed of them--dreamed I was again in
Saratoga--that I could see their faces, and hear their voices calling
me. Awakening from the pleasant phantasms of sleep to the bitter
realities around me, I could but groan and weep. Still my spirit was
not broken. I indulged the anticipation of escape, and that speedily.
It was impossible, I reasoned, that men could be so unjust as to
detain me as a slave, when the truth of my case was known. Burch,
ascertaining I was no runaway from Georgia, would certainly let me
go. Though suspicions of Brown and Hamilton were not unfrequent, I
could not reconcile myself to the idea that they were instrumental to
my imprisonment. Surely they would seek me out--they would deliver
me from thraldom. Alas! I had not then learned the measure of "man's
inhumanity to man," nor to what limitless extent of wickedness he will
go for the love of gain.
In the course of several days the outer door was thrown open, allowing
me the liberty of the yard. There I found three slaves--one of
them a lad of ten years, the others young men of about twenty and
twenty-five. I was not long in forming an acquaintance, and learning
their names and the particulars of their history.
The eldest was a colored man named Clemens Ray. He had lived in
Washington; had driven a hack, and worked in a livery stable there
for a long time. He was very intelligent, and fully comprehended his
situation. The thought of going south overwhelmed him with grief.
Burch had purchased him a few days before, and had placed him there
until such time as he was ready to send him to the New-Orleans market.
From him I learned for the first time that I was in William's Slave
Pen, a place I had never heard of previously. He described to me the
uses for which it was designed. I repeated to him the particulars of
my unhappy story, but he could only give me the consolation of his
sympathy. He also advised me to be silent henceforth on the subject
of my freedom; for, knowing the character of Burch, he assured me
that it would only be attended with renewed whipping. The next
eldest was named John Williams. He was raised in Virginia, not far
from Washington. Burch had taken him in payment of a debt, and he
constantly entertained the hope that his master would redeem him--a
hope that was subsequently realized. The lad was a sprightly child,
that answered to the name of Randall. Most of the time he was playing
about the yard, but occasionally would cry, calling for his mother,
and wondering when she would come. His mother's absence seemed to be
the great and only grief in his little heart. He was too young to
realize his condition, and when the memory of his mother was not in
his mind, he amused us with his pleasant pranks.
At night, Ray, Williams, and the boy, slept in the loft of the shed,
while I was locked in the cell. Finally we were each provided with
blankets, such as are used upon horses--the only bedding I was allowed
to have for twelve years afterwards. Ray and Williams asked me many
questions about New-York--how colored people were treated there; how
they could have homes and families of their own, with none to disturb
and oppress them; and Ray, especially, sighed continually for freedom.
Such conversations, however, were not in the hearing of Burch, or the
keeper Radburn. Aspirations such as these would have brought down the
lash upon our backs.
It is necessary in this narrative, in order to present a full and
truthful statement of all the principal events in the history of my
life, and to portray the institution of Slavery as I have seen and
known it, to speak of well-known places, and of many persons who are
yet living. I am, and always was, an entire stranger in Washington
and its vicinity--aside from Burch and Radburn, knowing no man there,
except as I have heard of them through my enslaved companions. What I
am about to say, if false, can be easily contradicted.
I remained in Williams' slave pen about two weeks. The night previous
to my departure a woman was brought in, weeping bitterly, and
leading by the hand a little child. They were Randall's mother and
half-sister. On meeting them he was overjoyed, clinging to her dress,
kissing the child, and exhibiting every demonstration of delight. The
mother also clasped him in her arms, embraced him tenderly, and gazed
at him fondly through her tears, calling him by many an endearing name.
Emily, the child, was seven or eight years old, of light complexion,
and with a face of admirable beauty. Her hair fell in curls around her
neck, while the style and richness of her dress, and the neatness of
her whole appearance indicated she had been brought up in the midst
of wealth. She was a sweet child indeed. The woman also was arrayed
in silk, with rings upon her fingers, and golden ornaments suspended
from her ears. Her air and manners, the correctness and propriety
of her language--all showed, evidently, that she had sometime stood
above the common level of a slave. She seemed to be amazed at
finding herself in such a place as that. It was plainly a sudden and
unexpected turn of fortune that had brought her there. Filling the air
with her complainings, she was hustled, with the children and myself,
into the cell. Language can convey but an inadequate impression of the
lamentations to which she gave incessant utterance. Throwing herself
upon the floor, and encircling the children in her arms, she poured
forth such touching words as only maternal love and kindness can
suggest. They nestled closely to her, as if _there_ only was there any
safety or protection. At last they slept, their heads resting upon
her lap. While they slumbered, she smoothed the hair back from their
little foreheads, and talked to them all night long. She called them
her darlings--her sweet babes--poor innocent things, that knew not the
misery they were destined to endure. Soon they would have no mother
to comfort them--they would be taken from her. What would become of
them? Oh! she could not live away from her little Emmy and her dear
boy. They had always been good children, and had such loving ways. It
would break her heart, God knew, she said, if they were taken from
her; and yet she knew they meant to sell them, and, may be, they would
be separated, and could never see each other any more. It was enough
to melt a heart of stone to listen to the pitiful expressions of that
desolate and distracted mother. Her name was Eliza; and this was the
story of her life, as she afterwards related it:
She was the slave of Elisha Berry, a rich man, living in the
neighborhood of Washington. She was born, I think she said, on his
plantation. Years before, he had fallen into dissipated habits, and
quarreled with his wife. In fact, soon after the birth of Randall,
they separated. Leaving his wife and daughter in the house they had
always occupied, he erected a new one near by, on the estate. Into
this house he brought Eliza; and, on condition of her living with
him, she and her children were to be emancipated. She resided with
him there nine years, with servants to attend upon her, and provided
with every comfort and luxury of life. Emily was his child! Finally,
her young mistress, who had always remained with her mother at the
homestead, married a Mr. Jacob Brooks. At length, for some cause, (as
I gathered from her relation,) beyond Berry's control, a division of
his property was made. She and her children fell to the share of Mr.
Brooks. During the nine years she had lived with Berry, in consequence
of the position she was compelled to occupy, she and Emily had become
the object of Mrs. Berry and her daughter's hatred and dislike. Berry
himself she represented as a man of naturally a kind heart, who always
promised her that she should have her freedom, and who, she had no
doubt, would grant it to her then, if it were only in his power.
As soon as they thus came into the possession and control of the
daughter, it became very manifest they would not live long together.
The sight of Eliza seemed to be odious to Mrs. Brooks; neither could
she bear to look upon the child, half-sister, and beautiful as she was!
The day she was led into the pen, Brooks had brought her from the
estate into the city, under pretence that the time had come when
her free papers were to be executed, in fulfillment of her master's
promise. Elated at the prospect of immediate liberty, she decked
herself and little Emmy in their best apparel, and accompanied him
with a joyful heart. On their arrival in the city, instead of being
baptized into the family of freemen, she was delivered to the trader
Burch. The paper that was executed was a bill of sale. The hope of
years was blasted in a moment. From the height of most exulting
happiness to the utmost depths of wretchedness, she had that day
descended. No wonder that she wept, and filled the pen with wailings
and expressions of heart-rending woe.
Eliza is now dead. Far up the Red River, where it pours its waters
sluggishly through the unhealthy low lands of Louisiana, she rests
in the grave at last--the only resting place of the poor slave! How
all her fears were realized--how she mourned day and night, and never
would be comforted--how, as she predicted, her heart did indeed break,
with the burden of maternal sorrow, will be seen as the narrative
proceeds.
CHAPTER IV.
ELIZA'S SORROWS--PREPARATION TO EMBARK--DRIVEN THROUGH THE STREETS
OF WASHINGTON--HAIL, COLUMBIA--THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON--CLEM
RAY--THE BREAKFAST ON THE STEAMER--THE HAPPY BIRDS--AQUIA
CREEK--FREDERICKSBURGH--ARRIVAL IN RICHMOND--GOODIN AND HIS
SLAVE PEN--ROBERT, OF CINCINNATI--DAVID AND HIS WIFE--MARY AND
LETHE--CLEM'S RETURN--HIS SUBSEQUENT ESCAPE TO CANADA--THE BRIG
ORLEANS--JAMES H. BURCH.
At intervals during the first night of Eliza's incarceration in the
pen, she complained bitterly of Jacob Brooks, her young mistress'
husband. She declared that had she been aware of the deception he
intended to practice upon her, he never would have brought her there
alive. They had chosen the opportunity of getting her away when
Master Berry was absent from the plantation. He had always been kind
to her. She wished that she could see him; but she knew that even
he was unable now to rescue her. Then would she commence weeping