Twelve Years a Slave
their respective berths. He further informed us that there were always
two pistols and a cutlass lying on the table. The crew's cook slept in
the cook galley on deck, a sort of vehicle on wheels, that could be
moved about as convenience required, while the sailors, numbering only
six, either slept in the forecastle, or in hammocks swung among the
rigging.
Finally our arrangements were all completed. Arthur and I were to
steal silently to the captain's cabin, seize the pistols and cutlass,
and as quickly as possible despatch him and the mate. Robert,
with a club, was to stand by the door leading from the deck down
into the cabin, and, in case of necessity, beat back the sailors,
until we could hurry to his assistance. We were to proceed then as
circumstances might require. Should the attack be so sudden and
successful as to prevent resistance, the hatch was to remain barred
down; otherwise the slaves were to be called up, and in the crowd, and
hurry, and confusion of the time, we resolved to regain our liberty or
lose our lives. I was then to assume the unaccustomed place of pilot,
and, steering northward, we trusted that some lucky wind might bear us
to the soil of freedom.
The mate's name was Biddee, the captain's I cannot now recall, though
I rarely ever forget a name once heard. The captain was a small,
genteel man, erect and prompt, with a proud bearing, and looked the
personification of courage. If he is still living, and these pages
should chance to meet his eye, he will learn a fact connected with
the voyage of the brig, from Richmond to New-Orleans, in 1841, not
entered on his log-book.
We were all prepared, and impatiently waiting an opportunity of
putting our designs into execution, when they were frustrated by a
sad and unforeseen event. Robert was taken ill. It was soon announced
that he had the small-pox. He continued to grow worse, and four days
previous to our arrival in New-Orleans he died. One of the sailors
sewed him in his blanket, with a large stone from the ballast at his
feet, and then laying him on a hatchway, and elevating it with tackles
above the railing, the inanimate body of poor Robert was consigned to
the white waters of the gulf.
We were all panic-stricken by the appearance of the small-pox. The
captain ordered lime to be scattered through the hold, and other
prudent precautions to be taken. The death of Robert, however, and the
presence of the malady, oppressed me sadly, and I gazed out over the
great waste of waters with a spirit that was indeed disconsolate.
An evening or two after Robert's burial, I was leaning on the hatchway
near the forecastle, full of desponding thoughts, when a sailor in a
kind voice asked me why I was so down-hearted. The tone and manner
of the man assured me, and I answered, because I was a freeman, and
had been kidnapped. He remarked that it was enough to make any one
down-hearted, and continued to interrogate me until he learned the
particulars of my whole history. He was evidently much interested
in my behalf, and, in the blunt speech of a sailor, swore he would
aid me all he could, if it "split his timbers." I requested him to
furnish me pen, ink and paper, in order that I might write to some
of my friends. He promised to obtain them--but how I could use them
undiscovered was a difficulty. If I could only get into the forecastle
while his watch was off, and the other sailors asleep, the thing could
be accomplished. The small boat instantly occurred to me. He thought
we were not far from the Balize, at the mouth of the Mississippi, and
it was necessary that the letter be written soon, or the opportunity
would be lost. Accordingly, by arrangement, I managed the next night
to secret myself again under the long-boat. His watch was off at
twelve. I saw him pass into the forecastle, and in about an hour
followed him. He was nodding over a table, half asleep, on which a
sickly light was flickering, and on which also was a pen and sheet
of paper. As I entered he aroused, beckoned me to a seat beside him,
and pointed to the paper. I directed the letter to Henry B. Northup,
of Sandy Hill--stating that I had been kidnapped, was then on board
the brig Orleans, bound for New-Orleans; that it was then impossible
for me to conjecture my ultimate destination, and requesting he would
take measures to rescue me. The letter was sealed and directed, and
Manning, having read it, promised to deposit it in the New-Orleans
post-office. I hastened back to my place under the long-boat, and in
the morning, as the slaves came up and were walking round, crept out
unnoticed and mingled with them.
My good friend, whose name was John Manning, was an Englishman by
birth, and a noble-hearted, generous sailor as ever walked a deck. He
had lived in Boston--was a tall, well-built man, about twenty-four
years old, with a face somewhat pock-marked, but full of benevolent
expression.
Nothing to vary the monotony of our daily life occurred, until we
reached New-Orleans. On coming to the levee, and before the vessel was
made fast, I saw Manning leap on shore and hurry away into the city.
As he started off he looked back over his shoulder significantly,
giving me to understand the object of his errand. Presently he
returned, and passing close by me, hunched me with his elbow, with a
peculiar wink, as much as to say, "it is all right."
The letter, as I have since learned, reached Sandy Hill. Mr. Northup
visited Albany and laid it before Governor Seward, but inasmuch as
it gave no definite information as to my probable locality, it was
not, at that time, deemed advisable to institute measures for my
liberation. It was concluded to delay, trusting that a knowledge of
where I was might eventually be obtained.
A happy and touching scene was witnessed immediately upon our
reaching the levee. Just as Manning left the brig, on his way to the
post-office, two men came up and called aloud for Arthur. The latter,
as he recognized them, was almost crazy with delight. He could hardly
be restrained from leaping over the brig's side; and when they met
soon after, he grasped them by the hand, and clung to them a long,
long time. They were men from Norfolk, who had come on to New-Orleans
to rescue him. His kidnappers, they informed him, had been arrested,
and were then confined in the Norfolk prison. They conversed a few
moments with the captain, and then departed with the rejoicing Arthur.
But in all the crowd that thronged the wharf, there was no one who
knew or cared for me. Not one. No familiar voice greeted my ears, nor
was there a single face that I had ever seen. Soon Arthur would rejoin
his family, and have the satisfaction of seeing his wrongs avenged:
my family, alas, should I ever see them more? There was a feeling
of utter desolation in my heart, filling it with a despairing and
regretful sense, that I had not gone down with Robert to the bottom of
the sea.
Very soon traders and consignees came on board. One, a tall,
thin-faced man, with light complexion and a little bent, made his
appearance, with a paper in his hand. Burch's gang, consisting of
myself, Eliza and her children, Harry, Lethe, and some others, who had
joined us at Richmond, were consigned to him. This gentleman was Mr.
Theophilus Freeman. Reading from his paper, he called, "Platt." No one
answered. The name was called again and again, but still there was no
reply. Then Lethe was called, then Eliza, then Harry, until the list
was finished, each one stepping forward as his or her name was called.
"Captain, where's Platt?" demanded Theophilus Freeman.
The captain was unable to inform him, no one being on board answering
to that name.
"Who shipped _that_ nigger?" he again inquired of the captain,
pointing to me.
"Burch," replied the captain.
"Your name is Platt--you answer my description. Why don't you come
forward?" he demanded of me, in an angry tone.
I informed him that was not my name; that I had never been called by
it, but that I had no objection to it as I knew of.
"Well, I will learn you your name," said he; "and so you won't forget
it either, by ----," he added.
Mr. Theophilus Freeman, by the way, was not a whit behind his partner,
Burch, in the matter of blasphemy. On the vessel I had gone by the
name of "Steward," and this was the first time I had ever been
designated as Platt--the name forwarded by Burch to his consignee.
From the vessel I observed the chain-gang at work on the levee. We
passed near them as we were driven to Freeman's slave pen. This pen is
very similar to Goodin's in Richmond, except the yard was enclosed by
plank, standing upright, with ends sharpened, instead of brick walls.
Including us, there were now at least fifty in this pen. Depositing
our blankets in one of the small buildings in the yard, and having
been called up and fed, we were allowed to saunter about the enclosure
until night, when we wrapped our blankets round us and laid down
under the shed, or in the loft, or in the open yard, just as each one
preferred.
It was but a short time I closed my eyes that night. Thought was
busy in my brain. Could it be possible that I was thousands of miles
from home--that I had been driven through the streets like a dumb
beast--that I had been chained and beaten without mercy--that I was
even then herded with a drove of slaves, a slave myself? Were the
events of the last few weeks realities indeed?--or was I passing only
through the dismal phases of a long, protracted dream? It was no
illusion. My cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. Then I lifted up
my hands to God, and in the still watches of the night, surrounded by
the sleeping forms of my companions, begged for mercy on the poor,
forsaken captive. To the Almighty Father of us all--the freeman and
the slave--I poured forth the supplications of a broken spirit,
imploring strength from on high to bear up against the burden of my
troubles, until the morning light aroused the slumberers, ushering in
another day of bondage.
CHAPTER VI.
FREEMAN'S INDUSTRY--CLEANLINESS AND CLOTHES--EXERCISING IN THE SHOW
ROOM--THE DANCE--BOB, THE FIDDLER--ARRIVAL OF CUSTOMERS--SLAVES
EXAMINED--THE OLD GENTLEMAN OF NEW-ORLEANS--SALE OF DAVID,
CAROLINE AND LETHE--PARTING OF RANDALL AND ELIZA--SMALL POX--THE
HOSPITAL--RECOVERY AND RETURN TO FREEMAN'S SLAVE PEN--THE PURCHASER
OF ELIZA, HARRY AND PLATT--ELIZA'S AGONY ON PARTING FROM LITTLE EMILY.
The very amiable, pious-hearted Mr. Theophilus Freeman, partner
or consignee of James H. Burch, and keeper of the slave pen in
New-Orleans, was out among his animals early in the morning. With an
occasional kick of the older men and women, and many a sharp crack of
the whip about the ears of the younger slaves, it was not long before
they were all astir, and wide awake. Mr. Theophilus Freeman bustled
about in a very industrious manner, getting his property ready for the
sales-room, intending, no doubt, to do that day a rousing business.
In the first place we were required to wash thoroughly, and those with
beards, to shave. We were then furnished with a new suit each, cheap,
but clean. The men had hat, coat, shirt, pants and shoes; the women
frocks of calico, and handkerchiefs to bind about their heads. We were
now conducted into a large room in the front part of the building
to which the yard was attached, in order to be properly trained,
before the admission of customers. The men were arranged on one side
of the room, the women on the other. The tallest was placed at the
head of the row, then the next tallest, and so on in the order of
their respective heights. Emily was at the foot of the line of women.
Freeman charged us to remember our places; exhorted us to appear smart
and lively,--sometimes threatening, and again, holding out various