Then we came up to the Market Cross, and there besides the great number

of people who passed and repassed, we saw a great parade or kind of

meeting, like an exchange of gentlemen, of all ranks and qualities, and

this encouraged my captain again, and he pleased himself with that

sight.

It was while we were looking, and wondering at what we saw here, that

we were surprised with a sight which we little expected. We observed

the people running on a sudden, as to see some strange thing just

coming along; and strange it was indeed: for we see two men naked from

the waist upwards run by us as swift as the wind, and we imagined

nothing but that it was two men running a race for some mighty wager.

On a sudden we found two long, small ropes or lines, which hung down at

first, pulled straight, and the two racers stopped, and stood still,

one close by the other. We could not imagine what this meant, but the

reader may judge at our surprise when we found a man follow after, who

had the ends of both those lines in his hands, and who, when he came up

to them, gave each of them two frightful lashes with a wire whip or

lash, which he held in the other hand. And then the two poor naked

wretches run on again to the length of their line or tether, where they

waited for the like salutation; and in this manner they danced the

length of the whole street, which is about half-a-mile.

This was a dark prospect to my captain, and put him in mind, not only

of what he was to expect if he made a slip in the way of his profession

in this place, but also of what he had suffered when he was but a boy,

at the famous place called Bridewell.

But this was not all; for, as we saw the execution, so we were curious

to examine into the crime too; and we asked a young fellow who stood

near us what the two men had done for which they suffered that

punishment. The fellow, an unhappy, ill-natured Scotchman, perceived by

our speech that we were Englishmen, and by our question that we were

strangers, told us, with a malicious wit, that they were two

Englishmen, and that they were whipped so for picking pockets, and

other petty thieveries, and that they were afterwards to be sent away

over the border into England.

Now this was every word of it false, and was only formed by his nimble

invention to insult us as Englishmen; for when we inquired further,

they were both Scotchmen, and were thus scourged for the usual offences

for which we give the like punishment in England. And the man who held

the line and scourged them was the city hangman, who (by the way) is

there an officer of note, has a constant salary, and is a man of

substance; and not only so, but a most dexterous fellow in his office,

and makes a great deal of money of his employment.

This sight, however, was very shocking to us; and my captain turned to

me: “Come,” says he, “let us go away; I won’t stay here any longer.” I

was glad to hear him say so, but did not think he had meant or intended

what he said. However, we went back to our quarters, and kept pretty

much within, only that in the evenings we walked about. But even then

my captain found no employment, no encouragement. Two or three times,

indeed, he made a prize of some mercery and millinery goods; but when

he had them he knew not what to do with them, so that, in short, he was

forced to be honest in spite of his goodwill to be otherwise.

We remained here about a month, when, on a sudden, my captain was gone,

horse and all, and I knew nothing what was become of him. Nor did I

ever see or hear of him for eighteen months after, nor did he so much

as leave the least notice for me, either whither he was gone or whether

he would return to Edinburgh again or no.

I took his leaving me very heinously, not knowing what to do with

myself, being a stranger in the place; and, on the other hand, my money

abated apace too. I had for the most part of this time my horse upon my

hands to keep; and as horses yield but a sorry price in Scotland, I

found no opportunity to make much of him; and, on the other hand, I had

a secret resolution, if I had gone back to England, to have restored

him to the owner, at Puckeridge, by Ware. And so I should have wronged

him of nothing but the use of him for so long a time; but I found an

occasion to answer all my designs about the horse to advantage.

There came a man to the stabler—so they call the people at Edinburgh

that take in horses to keep—and wanted to know if he could hear of any

returned horses for England. My landlord, so we called him, came

bluntly to me one day, and asked me if my horse was my own. It was an

odd question, as my circumstances stood, and puzzled me at first; and I

asked why, and what was the matter. “Because,” says he, “if it be a

hired horse in England, as is often the case with Englishmen who come

to Scotland, I could help you to send it back, and get you something

for riding.” So he expressed himself.

I was very glad of the occasion, and, in short, took security there of

the person for delivering the horse safe and sound, and had 15s.

sterling for the riding him. Upon this agreement, I gave order to leave

the horse at the Falcon, at Puckeridge, and where I heard, many years

after, that he was honestly left, and that the owner had him again, but

had nothing for the loan of him.

Being thus eased of the expense of my horse, and having nothing at all

to do, I began to consider with myself what would become of me, and

what I could turn my hand to. I had not much diminished my stock of

money, for though I was all the way so wary that I would not join with

my captain in his desperate attempts, yet I made no scruple to live at

his expense, which, as I came out of England only to keep him company,

had been but just, had I not known that all he had to spend upon me was

what he robbed honest people of, and that I was all that while a

receiver of stolen goods. But I was not come off so far then as to

scruple that part at all.

In the next place, I was not so anxious about my money running low,

because I knew what a reserve I had made at London. But still I was

very willing to have engaged in any honest employment for a livelihood,

for I was sick indeed of the wandering life which I had led, and was

resolved to thieve no more. But then two or three things which I had

offered me I lost, because I could not write or read.

This afflicted me a great while very much; but the stabler, as I have

called him, delivered me from my anxiety that way by bringing me to an

honest but a poor young man, who undertook to teach me both to write

and read, and in a little time too, and for a small expense, if I would

take pains at it. I promised all possible diligence, and to work I went

with it, but found the writing much more difficult to me than the

reading.

However, in half a year’s time, or thereabouts, I could read, and write

too, tolerably well, insomuch that I began to think I was now fit for

business. And I got by it into the service of a certain officer of the

customs, who employed me for a time; but as he set me to do little but

pass and repass between Leeds and Edinburgh, with the accounts which he

kept for the farmers of the customs there, leaving me to live at my own

expense till my wages should be due, I run out the little money I had

left, in clothes and subsistence, and a little before the year’s end,

when I was to have £12 English money, truly my master was turned out of

his place; and, which was worse, having been charged with some

misapplications, was obliged to take shelter in England, and so we that

were servants, for there were three of us, were left to shift for

ourselves.

This was a hard case for me in a strange place, and I was reduced by it

to the last extremity. I might have gone for England, an English ship

being there. The master proffered me to give me my passage (upon

telling him my distress), and to take my word for the payment of 10s.

when I came there. But my captain appeared just then under new

circumstances, which obliged him not to go away, and I was loth to

leave him. It seems we were yet further to take our fate together.

I have mentioned that he left me, and that I saw him no more for

eighteen months. His rambles and adventures were many in that time. He

went to Glasgow, played some remarkable pranks there, escaped almost

miraculously from the gallows; got over to Ireland, wandered about

there, turned raparee, and did some villainous things there, and

escaped from Londonderry, over to the Highlands in the north of

Scotland; and about a month before I was left destitute at Leith by my

master, behold! my noble Captain Jacque came in there, on board the

ferry-boat from Fife, being, after all adventures and successes,

advanced to the dignity of a foot-soldier in a body of recruits raised

in the north for the regiment of Douglas.

After my disaster, being reduced almost as low as my captain, I found

no better shift before me, at least for the present, than to enter

myself a soldier too; and thus we were ranked together, with each of us

a musket upon our shoulders; and I confess that thing did not sit so

ill upon me as I thought at first it would have done; for though I

fared hard and lodged ill (for the last, especially, is the fate of

poor soldiers in that part of the world), yet to me that had been used

to lodge on the ashes in the glass house, this was no great matter. I

had a secret satisfaction at being now under no necessity of stealing,

and living in fear of a prison, and of the lash of the hangman—a thing

which, from the time I saw it in Edinburgh, was so terrible to me that

I could not think of it without horror. And it was an inexpressible

ease to my mind that I was now in a certain way of living, which was

honest, and which I could say was not unbecoming a gentleman.

Whatever was my satisfaction in that part, yet other circumstances did

not equally concur to make this life suit me; for after we had been

about six months in this figure, we were informed that the recruits

were all to march for England, and to be shipped off at Newcastle, or

at Hull, to join the regiment, which was then in Flanders.

I should tell you that, before this, I was extremely delighted with the

life of a soldier, and I took the exercise so naturally that the

sergeant that taught us to handle our arms, seeing me so ready at it,

asked me if I had never carried arms before. I told him no; at which he

swore, though jesting. “They call you colonel,” says he, “and I believe

you will be a colonel, or you must be some colonel’s bastard, or you

would never handle your arms as you do, at once or twice showing.”

This pleased me extremely, and encouraged me, and I was mightily taken

with the life of a soldier; but when my captain came and told me the

news, that we were to march for England, and to be shipped off for

Flanders at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, I was surprised very much, and new

thoughts began to come in my mind; as, first, my captain’s condition

was particular, for he durst not appear publicly at Newcastle, as he

must have done if he had marched with the battalion (for they were a

body of above four hundred, and therefore called themselves a

battalion, though we were but recruits, and belonged to several

companies abroad)—I say, he must have marched with them, and been

publicly seen, in which case he would have been apprehended and

delivered up. In the next place I remembered that I had almost £100 in

money in London, and if it should have been asked all the soldiers in

the regiment which of them would go to Flanders a private sentinel if

they had £100 in their pockets, I believe none of them would answer in

the affirmative—£100 being at that time sufficient to buy colours in

any new regiment, though not in that regiment, which was on an old

establishment. This whetted my ambition, and I dreamt of nothing but

being a gentleman officer, as well as a gentleman soldier.

These two circumstances concurring, I began to be very uneasy, and very

unwilling in my thoughts to go over a poor musqueteer into Flanders, to

be knocked on the head at the tune of 3s. 6d. a week. While I was daily

musing on the circumstances of being sent away, as above, and

considering what to do, my captain comes to me one evening: “Hark ye,

Jacque,” says he, “I must speak with you; let us take a walk in the

fields a little out from the houses.” We were quartered at a place

called Park End, near the town of Dunbar, about twenty miles from

Berwick-upon-Tweed, and about sixteen miles from the river Tweed, the

nearest way.

We walked together here, and talked seriously upon the matter. The

captain told me how his case stood, and that he durst not march with

the battalion into Newcastle; that if he did he should be taken out of

the ranks and tried for his life, and that I knew as well as he. “I

could go privately to Newcastle,” says he, “and go through the town

well enough, but to go publicly is to run into the jaws of

destruction.” “Well,” says I, “that is very true; but what will you

do?” “Do!” says he. “Do you think I am so bound by honour, as a

gentleman soldier, that I will be hanged for them? No, no,” says he; “I

am resolved to be gone, and I would have you go with us.” Said I, “What

do you mean by us?” “Why, here is another honest fellow, an Englishman

also,” says he, “that is resolved to desert too, and he has been a long

while in their service, and says he knows how we shall be used abroad,

and he will not go to Flanders, says he, not he.”

“Why,” says I, “you will be shot to death for deserters if you are

taken, and they will send out scouts for you in the morning all over

the country, so that you will certainly fall into their hands.” “As for

that,” says he, “my comrade is thoroughly acquainted with the way, and

he has undertaken to bring us to the banks of the Tweed before they can

come up with us; and when we are on the other side of the Tweed, they

can’t take us up.”

“And when would you go away?” says I.

“This minute,” says he; “no time to be lost; ’tis a fine moonshining

night.”

“I have none of my baggage,” says I; “let me go back and fetch my linen

and other things.”

“Your linen is not much, I suppose,” says he, “and we shall easily get

more in England the old way.”

“No,” says I, “no more of your old ways. It has been owing to those old

ways that we are now in such a strait.”

“Well, well,” says he, “the old ways are better than this starving life

of a gentleman, as we call it.”

“But,” says I, “we have no money in our pockets. How shall we travel?”

“I have a little,” says the captain, “enough to help us on to

Newcastle; and if we can get none by the way, we will get some

collier-ship to take us in and carry us to London by sea.”

“I like that the best of all the measures you have laid yet,” said I;

and so I consented to go, and went off with him immediately. The

cunning rogue, having lodged his comrade a mile off under the hills,

had dragged me by talking with him, by little and little, that way,

till just when I consented he was in sight, and he said, “Look, there’s

my comrade!” who I knew presently, having seen him among the men.

Being thus gotten under the hills, and a mile off the way, and the day

just shut in, we kept on apace, resolving, if possible, to get out of

the reach of our pursuers before they should miss us or know anything

of our being gone.

We plied our time so well and travelled so hard that by five o’clock in

the morning, we were at a little village whose name I forget; but they

told us that we were within eight miles of the Tweed, and that as soon

as we should be over the river we were on English ground.

We refreshed a little here, but marched on with but little stay.

However, it was half-an-hour past eight in the morning before we

reached the Tweed, so it was at least twelve miles, when they told us

it was but eight. Here we overtook two more of the same regiment, who

had deserted from Haddington, where another part of the recruits were

quartered.

Those were Scotchmen, and very poor, having not one penny in their

pockets, and had no more when they made their escape but 8s. between

them. And when they saw us, whom they knew to be of the same regiment

they took us to be pursuers, and that we came to lay hold of them; upon

which they stood upon their defence, having the regiment swords on, as

we had also, but none of the mounting or clothing; for we were not to

receive the clothing till we came to the regiment in Flanders.

It was not long before we made them understand that we were in the same

circumstances with themselves, and so we soon became one company; and

after resting some time on the English side of the river (for we were

heartily tired, and the others were as much fatigued as we were)—I say,

after resting awhile, we set forwards towards Newcastle, whither we

resolved to go to get our passage by sea to London; for we had not

money to hold us out any farther.

Our money was ebbed very low; for though I had one piece of gold in my

pocket, which I kept reserved for the last extremity, yet it was but

half-a-guinea, and my captain had bore all our charges as far as his

money would go, so that when we came to Newcastle we had but sixpence

left in all to help ourselves, and the two Scots had begged their way

all along the road.

We contrived to come into Newcastle in the dusk of the evening, and

even then we durst not venture into the public part of the town, but

made down towards the river, something below the town, where some

glass-houses stand. Here we knew not what to do with ourselves; but,

guided by our fate, we put a good face upon the matter, and went into

an alehouse, sat down, and called for a pint of beer.

The house was kept by a woman only—that is to say, we saw no other; and

as she appeared very frank and entertained us cheerfully, we at last

told our condition, and asked her if she could not help us to some kind

master of a collier that would give us a passage to London by sea. The

subtle devil, who immediately found us proper fish for her hook, gave

us the kindest words in the world, and told us she was heartily sorry

she had not seen us one day sooner; that there was a collier-master, of

her particular acquaintance, that went away but with the morning tide;

that the ship was fallen down to Shields, but she believed was hardly

over the bar yet, and she would send to his house and see if he was

gone on board; for sometimes the masters do not go away till a tide

after the ship, and she was sure, if he was not gone, she could prevail

with him to take us all in; but then she was afraid we must go on board

immediately, the same night.

We begged her to send to his house, for we knew not what to do, and if

she could oblige him to take us on board, we did not care what time of

night it was; for, as we had no money, we had no lodging, and we wanted

nothing but to be on board.

We looked upon this as a mighty favour, that she sent to the master’s

house, and, to our greater joy, she brought us word about an hour after

that he was not gone, and was at a tavern in the town, whither his boy

had been to fetch him, and that he had sent word he would call there in

the way home.

This was all in our favour, and we were extremely pleased with it.

About an hour after, the landlady being in the room with us, her maid

brings us word the master was below. So down she goes to him, telling

us she would go and tell him our case, and see to persuade him to take

us all on board. After some time she comes up with him, and brings him

into the room to us. “Where are these honest gentlemen soldiers,” says

he, “that are in such distress?” We stood all up, and paid our respects

to him. “Well, gentlemen, and is all your money spent?”

“Indeed it is,” said one of our company, “and we shall be infinitely

obliged to you, sir, if you will give us a passage. We will be very

willing to do anything we can in the ship, though we are not seamen.”

“Why,” says he, “were none of you ever at sea in your lives?”

“No,” says we, “not one of us.”

“You will be able to do me no service, then,” says he; “for you will be

all sick. Well, however,” says he, “for my good landlady’s sake here,

I’ll do it; but are you all ready to go on board, for I go on board

this very night?”

“Yes, sir,” says we again; “we are ready to go this minute.”

“No, no,” says he very kindly; “we’ll drink together. Come, landlady,”

says he, “make these honest gentlemen a sneaker of punch.”

We looked at one another, for we knew we had no money, and he perceived

it. “Come, come,” says he, “don’t be concerned at your having no money;

my landlady here and I never part with dry lips. Come, goodwife,” says

he, “make the punch as I bid you.”

We thanked him and said, “God bless you, noble captain,” a hundred

times over, being overjoyed with such good luck. While we were drinking

the punch he calls the landlady: “Come,” says he, “I’ll step home and

take my things, and bid them good-bye, and order the boat to come at

high water and take me up here. And pray, goodwife,” says he, “get me

something for supper. Sure, if I can give these honest men their

passage, I may give them a bit of victuals too; it may be they han’t

had much for dinner.”

With this away he went, and in a little while we heard the jack

a-going; and one of us, going down stairs for a spy, brought us word

there was a good leg of mutton at the fire. In less than an hour our

captain came again, and came up to us, and blamed us that we had not

drank all the punch out. “Come,” says he, “don’t be bashful; when that

is out we can have another. When I am obliging poor men, I love to do

it handsomely.”

We drank on, and drank the punch out, and more was brought up, and he

pushed it about apace; and then came up a leg of mutton, and I need not

say that we ate heartily, being told several times that we should pay

nothing. After supper was done he bids my landlady ask if the boat was

come. And she brought word no; it was not high water by a good deal.

“No!” says he. “Well, then, give us some more punch.” So more punch was

brought in, and, as was afterwards confessed, something was put into

it, or more brandy than ordinary, and by that time the punch was drunk

out we were all very drunk; and as for me, I was asleep.

About the time that was out we were told the boat was come; so we

tumbled out, almost over one another, into the boat, and away we went,

and our captain in the boat. Most of us, if not all, fell asleep, till

after some time, though how much or how far going we knew not, the boat

stopped, and we were waked and told we were at the ship’s side, which

was true; and with much help and holding us, for fear we should fall

overboard, we were all gotten into the ship. All I remember of it was

this, that as soon as we were on board our captain, as we called him,

called out thus: “Here, boatswain, take care of these gentlemen, and

give them good cabins, and let them turn in and go to sleep, for they

are very weary;” and so indeed we were, and very drunk too, being the

first time I had ever drank punch in my life.

Well, care was taken of us according to order, and we were put into

very good cabins, where we were sure to go immediately to sleep. In the

meantime the ship, which was indeed just ready to go, and only on

notice given had come to an anchor for us at Shields, weighed, stood

over the bar, and went off to sea; and when we waked, and began to peep

abroad, which was not till near noon the next day, we found ourselves a

great way at sea; the land in sight, indeed, but at a great distance,

and all going merrily on for London, as we understood it. We were very

well used and well satisfied with our condition for about three days,

when we began to inquire whether we were not almost come, and how much

longer it would be before we should come into the river. “What river?”

says one of the men. “Why, the Thames,” says my Captain Jacque. “The

Thames!” says the seaman. “What do you mean by that? What, han’t you

had time enough to be sober yet?” So Captain Jacque said no more, but

looked about him like a fool; when, a while after, some other of us

asked the like question, and the seaman, who knew nothing of the cheat,

began to smell a trick, and turning to the other Englishman that came

with us, “Pray,” says he, “where do you fancy you are going, that you

ask so often about it?” “Why, to London,” says he. “Where should we be

going? We agreed with the captain to carry us to London.” “Not with the

captain,” says he, “I dare say. Poor men! you are all cheated; and I

thought so when I saw you come aboard with that kidnapping rogue

Gilliman. Poor men!” adds he, “you are all be trayed. Why, you are

going to Virginia, and the ship is bound to Virginia.”

The Englishman falls a-storming and raving like a madman, and we

gathering round him, let any man guess, if they can, what was our

surprise and how we were confounded when we were told how it was. In

short, we drew our swords and began to lay about us, and made such a

noise and hurry in the ship that at last the seamen were obliged to

call out for help. The captain commanded us to be disarmed in the first

place, which was not, however, done without giving and receiving some

wounds, and afterwards he caused us to be brought to him into the great

cabin.

Here he talked very calmly to us, that he was really very sorry for

what had befallen us; that he perceived we had been trepanned, and that

the fellow who had brought us on board was a rogue that was employed by

a sort of wicked merchants not unlike himself; that he supposed he had

been represented to us as captain of the ship, and asked us if it was

not so. We told him yes, and gave him a large account of ourselves, and

how we came to the woman’s house to inquire for some master of a

collier to get a passage to London, and that this man engaged to carry

us to London in his own ship, and the like, as is related above.

He told us he was very sorry for it, and he had no hand in it; but it

was out of his power to help us, and let us know very plainly what our

condition was; namely, that we were put on board his ship as servants

to be delivered at Maryland to such a man, whom he named to us; but

that, however, if we would be quiet and orderly in the ship, he would

use us well in the passage, and take care we should be used well when

we came there, and that he would do anything for us that lay in his

power; but if we were unruly and refractory, we could not expect but he

must take such measures as to oblige us to be satisfied; and that, in

short, we must be handcuffed, carried down between the decks and kept

as prisoners, for it was his business to take care that no disturbance

must be in the ship.

My captain raved like a madman, swore at the captain, told him he would

not fail to cut his throat, either on board or ashore, whenever he came

within his reach; and that, if he could not do it now, he would do it

after he came to England again, if ever he durst show his face there

again. For he might depend upon it, if he was carried away to Virginia,

he should find his way to England again; that, if it was twenty years

after, he would have satisfaction of him. “Well, young man,” says the

captain, smiling, “’tis very honestly said, and then I must take care

of you while I have you here, and afterwards I must take care of

myself.” “Do your worst,” says Jacque boldly; “I’ll pay you home for it

one time or other.” “I must venture that, young man,” says he, still

calmly, “but for the present you and I must talk a little;” so he bids

the boatswain, who stood near him, secure him, which he did. I spoke to

him to be easy and patient, and that the captain had no hand in our

misfortune.

“No hand in it! D—n him,” said he aloud, “do you think he is not

confederate in this villainy? Would any honest man receive innocent

people on board his ship and not inquire of their circumstances, but

carry them away and not speak to them? And now he knows how barbarously

we are treated, why does he not set us on shore again? I tell you he is

a villain, and none but him. Why does he not complete his villainy and

murder us, and then he will be free from our revenge? But nothing else

shall ever deliver him from my hands but sending us to the d—l, or

going thither himself; and I am honester in telling him so fairly than

he has been to me, and am in no passion any more than he is.”

The captain was, I say, a little shocked at his boldness, for he talked

a great deal more of the same kind, with a great deal of spirit and

fire, and yet without any disorder in his temper. Indeed I was

surprised at it, for I never had heard him talk so well and so much to

the purpose in my life. The captain was, I say, a little shocked at it.

However, he talked very handsomely to him, and said to him, “Look ye,

young man, I bear with you the more because I am sensible your case is

very hard; and yet I cannot allow your threatening me neither, and you

oblige me by that to be severer with you than I intended. However, I

will do nothing to you but what your threatening my life makes

necessary.” The boatswain called out to have him to the geers, as they

called it, and to have him taste the cat-o’-nine-tails—all which were

terms we did not understand till afterwards, when we were told he

should have been whipped and pickled, for they said it was not to be

suffered. But the captain said, “No, no; the young man has been really

injured, and has reason to be very much provoked; but I have not

injured him,” says he. And then he protested he had no hand in it, that

he was put on board, and we also, by the owner’s agent, and for their

account; that it was true that they did always deal in servants, and

carried a great many every voyage, but that it was no profit to him as

commander; but they were always put on board by the owners, and that it

was none of his business to inquire about them; and, to prove that he

was not concerned in it, but was very much troubled at so base a thing,

and that he would not be instrumental to carry us away against our

wills, if the wind and the weather would permit, he would set us on

shore again, though, as it blowed then, the wind being at south-west

and a hard gale, and that they were already as far as the Orkneys, it

was impossible.

But the captain was the same man. He told him that, let the wind blow

how it would, he ought not to carry us away against our consent; and as

to his pretences of his owners and the like, it was saying of nothing

to him, for it was he, the captain, that carried us away, and that,

whatever rogue trepanned us on board, now he knew it, he ought no more

to carry us away than murder us; and that he demanded to be set on

shore, or else he, the captain, was a thief and a murderer.

The captain continued mild still; and then I put in with an argument

that had like to have brought us all back, if the weather had not

really hindered it; which, when I came to understand sea affairs

better, I found was indeed so, and that it had been impossible. I told

the captain that I was sorry that my brother was so warm, but that our

usage was villainous, which he could not deny. Then I took up the air

of what my habit did not agree with. I told him that we were not people

to be sold for slaves, that though we had the misfortune to be in a

circumstance that obliged us to conceal ourselves, having disguised

ourselves to get out of the army, as being not willing to go into

Flanders, yet that we were men of substance, and able to discharge

ourselves from the service when it came to that; and, to convince him

of it, I told him I would give him sufficient security to pay £20

apiece for my brother and myself; and in as short time as we could send

from the place he should put into London, and receive a return. And, to

show that I was able to do it, I pulled out my bill for £94 from the

gentleman of the custom-house, and who, to my infinite satisfaction, he

knew as soon as he saw the bill. He was astonished at this, and,

lifting up his hands, “By what witchcraft,” says he, “were ye brought

hither!”

“As to that,” says I, “we have told you the story, and we add nothing

to it; but we insist upon it that you will do this justice to us now.”

“Well,” says he, “I am very sorry for it, but I cannot answer putting

back the ship; neither, if I could,” says he, “is it practicable to be

done.”

While this discourse lasted the two Scotchmen and the other Englishman

were silent; but as I seemed to acquiesce, the Scotchmen began to talk

to the same purpose, which I need not repeat, and had not mentioned but

for a merry passage that followed. After the Scotchmen had said all

they could, and the captain still told them they must submit,—“And will

you then carry us to Virginia?” “Yes,” says the captain. “And will we

be sold,” says the Scotchman, “when we come there?” “Yes,” says the

captain. “Why then, sir,” says the Scotchman, “the devil will have you

at the hinder end of the bargain.” “Say you so,” says the captain,

smiling. “Well, well, let the devil and I alone to agree about that; do

you be quiet and behave civilly, as you should do, and you shall be

used as kindly, both here and there too, as I can.” The poor Scotchmen

could say little to it, nor I, nor any of us; for we saw there was no

remedy but to leave the devil and the captain to agree among

themselves, as the captain had said, as to the honesty of it.

Thus, in short, we were all, I say, obliged to acquiesce but my

captain, who was so much the more obstinate when he found that I had a

fund to make such an offer upon; nor could all my persuasions prevail

with him. The captain of the ship and he had many pleasant dialogues

about this in the rest of the voyage, in which Jacque never treated him

with any language but that of kidnapper and villain, nor talked of

anything but of taking his revenge of him. But I omit that part, though

very diverting, as being no part of my own story.

In short, the wind continued to blow hard, though very fair, till, as

the seamen said, we were past the islands on the north of Scotland, and

that we began to steer away westerly (which I came to understand

since). As there was no land any way for many hundred leagues, so we

had no remedy but patience, and to be easy as we could; only my surly

Captain Jacque continued the same man all the way.

We had a very good voyage, no storms all the way, and a northerly wind

almost twenty days together; so that, in a word, we made the capes of

Virginia in two-and-thirty days from the day we steered west, as I have

said, which was in the latitude of 60 degrees 30 minutes, being to the

north of the isle of Great Britain; and this, they said, was a very

quick passage.

Nothing material happened to me during the voyage; and indeed, when I

came there, I was obliged to act in so narrow a compass that nothing

very material could present itself.

When we came ashore, which was in a great river which they call

Potomac, the captain asked us, but me more particularly, whether I had

anything to propose to him now. Jacque answered, “Yes, I have something

to propose to you, captain; that is, that I have promised you to cut

your throat, and depend upon it I will be as good as my word.” “Well,

well,” says the captain, “if I can’t help it, you shall;” so he turned

away to me. I understood him very well what he meant; but I was now out

of the reach of any relief; and as for my note, it was now but a bit of

paper of no value, for nobody could receive it but myself. I saw no

remedy, and so talked coldly to him of it as of a thing I was

indifferent about; and indeed I was grown indifferent, for I considered

all the way on the voyage, that as I was bred a vagabond, had been a

pickpocket and a soldier, and was run from my colours, and that I had

no settled abode in the world, nor any employ to get anything by,

except that wicked one I was bred to, which had the gallows at the

heels of it, I did not see but that this service might be as well to me

as other business. And this I was particularly satisfied with when they

told me that after I had served out the five years’ servitude I should

have the courtesy of the country (as they called it); that is, a

certain quantity of land to cultivate and plant for myself. So that now

I was like to be brought up to something by which I might live, without

that wretched thing called stealing, which my very soul abhorred, and

which I had given over, as I have said, ever since that wicked time

that I robbed the poor widow of Kentish Town.

In this mind I was when I arrived at Virginia; and so, when the captain

inquired of me what I intended to do, and whether I had anything to

propose—that is to say, he meant whether I would give him my bill,

which he wanted to be fingering very much—I answered coldly, my bill

would be of no use to me now, for nobody would advance anything upon

it. Only this I would say to him, that if he would carry me and Captain

Jacque back to England, and to London again, I would pay him the £20

off my bill for each of us. This he had no mind to; “for, as to your

brother,” says he, “I would not take him into my ship for twice £20, he

is such a hardened, desperate villain,” says he; “I should be obliged

to carry him in irons as I brought him hither.”

Thus we parted with our captain or kidnapper, call him as you will. We

were then delivered to the merchants to whom we were consigned, who

again disposed of us as they thought fit; and in a few days we were

separated.

As for my Captain Jacque, to make short of the story, that desperate

rogue had the luck to have a very easy, good master, whose easiness and

good humour he abused very much; and, in particular, took an

opportunity to run away with a boat which his master entrusted him and

another with to carry some provisions down the river to another

plantation which he had there. This boat and provisions they ran away

with, and sailed north to the bottom of the bay, as they call it, and

into a river called Susquehanna, and there quitting the boat, they

wandered through the woods, till they came to Pennsylvania, from whence

they made shift to get passage to New England, and from thence home;

where, falling in among his old companions and to the old trade, he was

at length taken and hanged, about a month before I came to London,

which was near twenty years afterwards.

My part was harder at the beginning, though better at the latter end. I

was disposed of, that is to say, sold, to a rich planter whose name was

Smith, and with me the other Englishman, who was my fellow-deserter,

that Jacque brought me to when we went off from Dunbar.

We were now fellow-servants, and it was our lot to be carried up a

small river or creek which falls into Potomac river, about eight miles

from the great river. Here we were brought to the plantation, and put

in among about fifty servants, as well negroes as others; and being

delivered to the head man, or director, or manager of the plantation,

he took care to let us know that we must expect to work, and very hard

too; for it was for that purpose his master bought servants, and for no

other. I told him, very submissively, that since it was our misfortune

to come into such a miserable condition as we were in, we expected no

other; only we desired we might be showed our business, and be allowed

to learn it gradually, since he might be sure we had not been used to

labour; and I added that when he knew particularly by what methods we

were brought and betrayed into such a condition, he would perhaps see

cause at least to show us that favour, if not more. This I spoke with

such a moving tone as gave him a curiosity to inquire into the

particulars of our story, which I gave him at large, a little more to

our advantage, too, than ordinary.

This story, as I hoped it would, did move him to a sort of tenderness;

but yet he told us that his master’s business must be done, and that he

expected we must work as above; that he could not dispense with that

upon any account whatever. Accordingly, to work we went; and indeed we

had three hard things attending us; namely, we worked hard, lodged

hard, and fared hard. The first I had been an utter stranger to; the

last I could shift well enough with.

During this scene of life I had time to reflect on my past hours, and

upon what I had done in the world; and though I had no great capacity

of making a clear judgment, and very little reflections from

conscience, yet it made some impressions upon me; and particularly,

that I was brought into this miserable condition of a slave by some

strange directing power as a punishment for the wickedness of my

younger years; and this thought was increased upon the following

occasion. The master whose service I was now engaged in was a man of

substance and figure in the country, and had abundance of servants, as

well negroes as English; in all, I think, he had near two hundred; and

among so many, as some grew every year infirm and unable to work,

others went off upon their time being expired, and others died; and by

these and other accidents the number would diminish, if they were not

often recruited and filled, and this obliged him to buy more every

year.

It happened while I was here that a ship arrived from London with

several servants, and among the rest was seventeen transported felons,

some burnt in the hand, others not; eight of whom my master bought for

the time specified in the warrant for their transportation

respectively, some for a longer, some a shorter, term of years.

Our master was a great man in the country, and a justice of peace,

though he seldom came down to the plantation where I was. Yet, as the

new servants were brought on shore and delivered at our plantation, his

worship came thither, in a kind of state, to see and receive them. When

they were brought before him I was called, among other servants, as a

kind of guard, to take them into custody after he had seen them, and

carry them to the work. They were brought by a guard of seamen from the

ship, and the second mate of the ship came with them, and delivered

them to our master, with the warrant for their transportation, as

above.

When his worship had read over the warrants, he called them over by

their names, one by one, and having let them know, by his reading the

warrants over again to each man respectively, that he knew for what

offences they were transported, he talked to every one separately very

gravely; let them know how much favour they had received in being saved

from the gallows, which the law had appointed for their crimes; that

they were not sentenced to be transported, but to be hanged, and that

transportation was granted them upon their own request and humble

petition.

Then he laid before them that they ought to look upon the life they

were just going to enter upon as just beginning the world again; that

if they thought fit to be diligent and sober, they would, after the

time they were ordered to serve was expired, be encouraged by the

constitution of the country to settle and plant for themselves; and

that even he himself would be so kind to them, that if he lived to see

any of them serve their time faithfully out, it was his custom to

assist his servants in order to their settling in that country,

according as their behaviour might merit from him; and they would see

and know several planters round about them who now were in very good

circumstances, and who formerly were only his servants, in the same

condition with them, and came from the same place—that is to say,

Newgate; and some of them had the mark of it in their hands, but were

now very honest men and lived in very good repute.

Among the rest of his new servants, he came to a young fellow not above

seventeen or eighteen years of age, and his warrant mentions that he

was, though a young man, yet an old offender; that he had been several

times condemned, but had been respited or pardoned, but still he

continued an incorrigible pickpocket; that the crime for which he was

now transported was for picking a merchant’s pocket-book, or

letter-case, out of his pocket, in which was bills of exchange for a

very great sum of money; that he had afterwards received the money upon

some of the bills, but that going to a goldsmith in Lombard Street with

another bill, and having demanded the money, he was stopped, notice

having been given of the loss of them; that he was condemned to die for

the felony, and being so well known for an old offender, had certainly

died, but the merchant, upon his earnest application, had obtained that

he should be transported, on condition that he restored all the rest of

his bills, which he had done accordingly.

Our master talked a long time to this young fellow; mentioned, with

some surprise, that he so young should have followed such a wicked

trade so long as to obtain the name of an old offender at so young an

age; and that he should be styled incorrigible, which is to signify

that notwithstanding his being whipped two or three times, and several

times punished by imprisonment, and once burnt in the hand, yet nothing

would do him any good, but that he was still the same. He talked mighty

religiously to this boy, and told him God had not only spared him from

the gallows, but had now mercifully delivered him from the opportunity

of committing the same sin again, and put it into his power to live an

honest life, which perhaps he knew not how to do before; and though

some part of his life now might be laborious, yet he ought to look on

it to be no more than being put out apprentice to an honest trade, in

which, when he came out of his time, he might be able to set up for

himself and live honestly.

Then he told him that while he was a servant he would have no

opportunity to be dishonest; so when he came to be for himself he would

have no temptation to it; and so, after a great many other kind things

said to him and the rest, they were dismissed.

I was exceedingly moved at this discourse of our master’s, as anybody

would judge I must be, when it was directed to such a young rogue, born

a thief, and bred up a pickpocket, like myself; for I thought all my

master said was spoken to me, and sometimes it came into my head that

sure my master was some extraordinary man, and he knew all things that

ever I had done in my life.

But I was surprised to the last degree when my master, dismissing all

the rest of us servants, pointed at me, and speaking to his head-clerk,

“Here,” says he, “bring that young fellow hither to me.”

I had been near a year in the work, and I had plied it so well that the

clerk, or headman, either flattered me or did really believe that I

behaved very well. But I was terribly frighted to hear myself called

out aloud, just as they used to call for such as had done some

misdemeanour, and were to be lashed or otherwise corrected.

I came in like a malefactor indeed, and thought I looked like one just

taken in the fact and carried before the justice; and indeed when I

came in, for I was carried into an inner room or parlour in the house

to him (his discourse to the rest was in a large hall, where he sat in

a seat like a lord judge upon the bench, or a petty king upon his

throne); when I came in, I say, he ordered his man to withdraw, and I

standing half naked and bare-headed, with my haugh, or hoe, in my hand

(the posture and figure I was in at my work), near the door, he bade me

lay down my hoe and come nearer. Then he began to look a little less

stern and terrible than I fancied him to look before, or, perhaps, both

his countenance then and before might be to my imagination differing

from what they really were; for we do not always judge those things by

the real temper of the person, but by the measure of our apprehensions.

“Hark ye, young man, how old are you?” says my master; and so our

dialogue began.

_Jacque_. Indeed, sir, I do not know.

_Mast_. What is your name?

_Jacque_. They call me Colonel[4] here, but my name is Jacque, an’t

please your worship.

_Mast_. But prithee, what is thy name?

_Jacque_. Jacque.

_Mast_. What! is thy Christian name, then, Colonel, and thy surname

Jacque?

_Jacque_. Truly, sir, to tell your honour the truth, I know little or

nothing of myself,[5] nor what my true name is; but thus I have been

called ever since I remember. Which is my Christian name, or which my

surname, or whether I was ever christened or not, I cannot tell.

_Mast_. Well, however, that’s honestly answered. Pray, how came you

hither, and on what account are you made a servant here?

_Jacque_. I wish your honour could have patience with me to hear the

whole story; it is the hardest and most unjust thing that ever came

before you.

_Mast_. Say you so? Tell it me at large, then. I’ll hear it, I promise

that, if it be an hour long.

This encouraged me, and I began at being a soldier, and being persuaded

to desert at Dunbar, and gave him all the particulars, as they are

related above, to the time of my coming on shore and the captain

talking to me about my bill after I arrived here. He held up his hands

several times as I went on, expressing his abhorrence of the usage I

had met with at Newcastle, and inquired the name of the master of the

ship; “for,” said he, “that captain, for all his smooth words, must be

a rogue.” So I told him his name, and the name of the ship, and he took

it down in his book, and then he went on.

_Mast_. But pray answer me, honestly too, to another question: What was

it made you so much concerned at my talking to the boy there, the

pickpocket?

_Jacque_. An’t please your honour, it moved me to hear you talk so

kindly to a poor slave.

_Mast_. And was that all? Speak truly now.

_Jacque_. No, indeed; but a secret wish came into my thoughts, that

you, that were so good to such a creature as that, could but one way or

other know my case, and that if you did, you would certainly pity me,

and do something for me.

_Mast_. Well, but was there nothing in his case that hit your own, that

made you so affected with it; for I saw tears come from your eyes and

it was that made me call to speak to you?

_Jacque_. Indeed, sir, I have been a wicked, idle boy, and was left

desolate in the world; but that boy is a thief, and condemned to be

hanged. I never was before a court of justice in my life.

_Mast_. Well, I won’t examine you too far. If you were never before a

court of justice, and are not a criminal transported, I have nothing

further to inquire of you. You have been ill used, that’s certain; and

was it that that affected you?

_Jacque_. Yes, indeed, please your honour. (We all called him his

honour, or his worship.)

_Mast_. Well, now I do know your case, what can I do for you? You speak

of a bill of £94 of which you would have given the captain £40 for your

liberty; have you that bill in your keeping still?

_Jacque_. Yes, sir; here it is.

I pulled it out of the waistband of my drawers, where I always found

means to preserve it, wrapped up in a piece of paper, and pinned to the

waistband, and yet almost worn out, too, with often pinning and

removing. So I gave it to him to read, and he read it.

_Mast_. And is this gentleman in being that gave you the bill?

_Jacque_. Yes, sir; he was alive and in good health when I came from

London, which you may see by the date of the bill, for I came away the

next day.

_Mast_. I do not wonder that the captain of the ship was willing to get

this bill of you when you came on shore here.

_Jacque_. I would have given it into his possession if he would have

carried me and my brother back again to England, and have taken what he

asked for us out of it.

_Mast_. Ay; but he knew better than that, too. He knew, if he had any

friends there, they would call him to an account for what he had done.

But I wonder he did not take it from you while you were at sea, either

by fraud or by force.

_Jacque_. He did not attempt that indeed.

_Mast_. Well, young man, I have a mind to try if I can do you any

service in this case. On my word, if the money can be paid, and you can

get it safe over, I might put you in a way how to be a better man than

your master, if you will be honest and diligent.

_Jacque_. As I have behaved myself in your service, sir, you will, I

hope, judge of the rest.

_Mast_. But perhaps you hanker after returning to England?

_Jacque_. No, indeed, sir; if I can but get my bread honestly here, I

have no mind to go to England; for I know not how to get my bread

there. If I had, I had not ’listed for a soldier.

_Mast_. Well, but I must ask you some questions about that part

hereafter; for ’tis indeed something strange that you should list for a

soldier when you had £94 in your pocket.

_Jacque_. I shall give your worship as particular account of that as I

have of the other part of my life, if you please; but ’tis very long.

_Mast_. Well, we will have that another time. But to the case in hand.

Are you willing I should send to anybody at London to talk with that

gentleman that gave you the bill; not to take the money of him, but to

ask him only whether he has so much money of yours in his hands, and

whether he will part with it when you shall give order, and send the

bill, or a duplicate of it; that is (says he) the copy? (And it was

well he did say so, for I did not understand the word duplicate at

all.)

_Jacque_. Yes, sir; I will give you the bill itself, if you please. I

can trust it with you, though I could not with him.

_Mast_. No, no, young man, I won’t take it from you.

_Jacque_. I wish your worship would please to keep it for me, for if I

should lose it, then I am quite undone.

_Mast_. I will keep it for you, Jacque, if you will; but then you shall

have a note under my hand, signifying that I have it, and will return

it you upon demand, which will be as safe to you as the bill. I won’t

take it else.

So I gave my master the bill, and he gave me his note for it; and he

was a faithful steward for me, as you will hear in its place. After

this conference I was dismissed, and went to my work; but about two

hours after, the steward, or the overseer of the plantation, came

riding by, and coming up to me as I was at work, pulled a bottle out of

his pocket, and calling me to him, gave me a dram of rum. When, in good

manners, I had taken but a little sup, he held it out to me again, and

bade me take another, and spoke wondrous civilly to me, quite otherwise

than he used to do.

This encouraged me and heartened me very much, but yet I had no

particular view of anything, or which way I should have any relief.

A day or two after, when we were all going out to our work in the

morning, the overseer called me to him again, and gave me a dram and a

good piece of bread, and bade me come off from my work about one

o’clock, and come to him to the house, for he must speak with me.

When I came to him, I came, to be sure, in the ordinary habit of a poor

half-naked slave. “Come hither, young man,” says he, “and give me your

hoe.” When I gave it him, “Well,” says he, “you are to work no more in

this plantation.”

I looked surprised, and as if I was frighted. “What have I done, sir?”

said I; “and whither am I to be sent away?”

“Nay, nay,” says he, and looked very pleasantly, “do not be frighted;

’tis for your good; ’tis not to hurt you. I am ordered to make an

overseer of you, and you shall be a slave no longer.”

“Alas!” says I to him, “I an overseer! I am in no condition for it. I

have no clothes to put on, no linen, nothing to help myself.”

“Well, well,” says he, “you may be better used than you are aware of.

Come hither with me.” So he led me into a vast, great warehouse, or,

rather, set of warehouses, one within another, and calling the

warehouse-keeper, “Here,” says he, “you must clothe this man, and give

him everything necessary, upon the foot of number five, and give the

bill to me. Our master has ordered me to allow it in the account of the

west plantation.” That was, it seems, the plantation where I was to go.

Accordingly, the warehouse-keeper carried me into an inner warehouse,

where were several suits of clothes of the sort his orders mentioned,

which were plain but good sorts of clothes, ready made, being of a good

broadcloth, about 11s. a yard in England; and with this he gave me

three good shirts, two pair of shoes, stockings, and gloves, a hat, six

neckcloths, and, in short, everything I could want; and when he had

looked everything out, and fitted them, he lets me into a little room

by itself. “Here,” says he; “go in there a slave, and come out a

gentleman;” and with that carried everything into the room, and,

shutting the door, bid me put them on, which I did most willingly; and

now you may believe that I began to hope for something better than

ordinary.

In a little while after this came the overseer, and gave me joy of my

new clothes, and told me I must go with him. So I was carried to

another plantation, larger than that where I worked before, and where

there were two overseers or clerks; one within doors, and one without.

This last was removed to another plantation, and I was placed there in

his room (that is to say, as the clerk without doors), and my business

was to look after the servants and negroes, and take care that they did

their business, provide their food, and, in short, both govern and

direct them.

I was elevated to the highest degree in my thoughts at this

advancement, and it is impossible for me to express the joy of my mind

upon this occasion; but there came a difficulty upon me, that shocked

me so violently and went so against my very nature that I really had

almost forfeited my place about it, and, in all appearance, the favour

of our master, who had been so generous to me; and this was, that when

I entered upon my office, I had a horse given me and a long horsewhip,

like what we call in England a hunting-whip. The horse was to ride up

and down all over the plantation, to see the servants and negroes did

their work; and, the plantation being so large, it could not be done on

foot, at least so often and so effectively as was required; and the

horsewhip was given me to correct and lash the slaves and servants when

they proved negligent or quarrelsome, or, in short, were guilty of any

offence. This part turned the very blood within my veins, and I could

not think of it with any temper, that I, who was but yesterday a

servant or slave like them, and under the authority of the same lash,

should lift up my hand to the cruel work which was my terror but the

day before. This, I say, I could not do; insomuch that the negroes

perceived it, and I had soon so much contempt upon my authority that we

were all in disorder.

The ingratitude of their return for the compassion I showed them

provoked me, I confess, and a little hardened my heart; and I began

with the negroes, two of whom I was obliged to correct; and I thought I

did it most cruelly; but after I had lashed them till every blow I

struck them hurt myself and I was ready to faint at the work, the

rogues laughed at me, and one of them had the impudence to say, behind

my back, that, if he had the whipping of me, he would show me better

how to whip a negro.

Well, however, I had no power to do it in such a barbarous manner as I

found it was necessary to have it done; and the defect began to be a

detriment to our master’s business. And now I began indeed to see that

the cruelty so much talked of, used in Virginia and Barbados, and other

colonies, in whipping the negro slaves, was not so much owing to the

tyranny and passion and cruelty of the English, as had been reported,

the English not being accounted to be of a cruel disposition, and

really are not so; but that it is owing to the brutality and obstinate

temper of the negroes, who cannot be managed by kindness and courtesy,

but must be ruled with a rod of iron, beaten with scorpions, as the

Scripture calls it, and must be used as they do use them, or they would

rise and murder all their masters; which, their numbers considered,

would not be hard for them to do, if they had arms and ammunition

suitable to the rage and cruelty of their nature.

But I began to see at the same time that this brutal temper of the

negroes was not rightly managed; that they did not take the best course

with them to make them sensible, either of mercy or punishment; and it

was evident to me that even the worst of those tempers might be brought

to a compliance without the lash, or at least without so much of it as

they generally inflicted.

Our master was really a man of humanity himself, and was sometimes so

full of tenderness that he would forbid the severities of his overseers

and stewards; but he saw the necessity of it, and was obliged at last

to leave it to the discretion of his upper servants. Yet he would often

bid them be merciful, and bid them consider the difference of the

constitution of the bodies of the negroes, some being less able to bear

the tortures of their punishment than others, and some of them less

obstinate, too, than others.

However, somebody was so officious as to inform him against me upon

this occasion, and let him know that I neglected his affairs, and that

the servants were under no government; by which means his plantation

was not duly managed, and that all things were in disorder.

This was a heavy charge for a young overseer, and his honour came like

a judge, with all his attendants, to look into things and hear the

cause. However, he was so just to me as that, before he censured me, he

resolved to hear me fully, and that not only publicly, but in private

too. And the last part of this was my particular good fortune; for, as

he had formerly allowed me to speak to him with freedom, so I had the

like freedom now, and had full liberty to explain and defend myself.

I knew nothing of the complaint against me till I had it from his own

mouth, nor anything of his coming till I saw him in the very

plantation, viewing his work, and viewing the several pieces of ground

that were ordered to be new planted; and after he had rode all round,

and seen things in the condition which they were to be seen in, how

every thing was in its due order, and the servants and negroes were all

at work, and everything appearing to his mind, he went into the house.

As I saw him come up the walks I ran towards him and made my homage,

and gave him my humble thanks for the goodness he had showed me in

taking me from the miserable condition I was in before, and employing

and entrusting me in his business; and he looked pleasant enough,

though he did not say much at first; and I attended him through the

whole plantation, gave him an account of everything as we went along,

answered all his objections and inquiries everywhere in such a manner

as it seems he did not expect; and, as he acknowledged afterwards,

everything was very much to his satisfaction.

There was an overseer, as I observed, belonging to the same plantation,

who was, though not over me, yet in a work superior to mine; for his

business was to see the tobacco packed up and deliver it either on

board the sloops or otherwise, as our master ordered, and to receive

English goods from the grand warehouse, which was at the other

plantation, because that was nearest the water-side; and, in short, to

keep the accounts.

This overseer, an honest and upright man, made no complaint to him of

his business being neglected, as above, or of anything like it, though

he inquired of him about it, and that very strictly, too.

I should have said, that as he rid over the plantation, he came in his

round to the place where the servants were usually corrected when they

had done any fault; and there stood two negroes, with their hands tied

behind them, as it were under sentence; and when he came near them they

fell on their knees and made pitiful signs to him for mercy. “Alas!

alas!” says he, turning to me, “why did you bring me this way? I do not

love such sights. What must I do now? I must pardon them; prithee, what

have they done?” I told him the particular offences which they were

brought to the place for. One had stole a bottle of rum, and had made

himself drunk with it, and, when he was drunk, had done a great many

mad things, and had attempted to knock one of the white servants’

brains out with a handspike, but that the white man had avoided the

blow, and, striking up the negro’s heels, had seized him and brought

him prisoner thither, where he had lain all night; and that I had told

him he was to be whipped that day, and the next three days, twice every

day.

“And could you be so cruel?” says his honour. “Why, you would kill the

poor wretch; and so, beside the blood which you would have to answer

for, you would lose me a lusty man negro, which cost me at least £30 or

£40, and bring a reproach upon my whole plantation. Nay, and more than

that, some of them in revenge would murder me, if ever it was in their

power.”

“Sir,” says I, “if those fellows are not kept under by violence, I

believe you are satisfied nothing is to be done with them; and it is

reported in your works that I have been rather their jest than their

terror, for want of using them as they deserve; and I was resolved, how

much soever it is against my own disposition, that your service should

not suffer for my unseasonable forbearance; and therefore, if I had

scourged him to death——” “Hold,” says he; “no, no, by no means any such

severity in my bounds. Remember, young man; you were once a servant.

Deal as you would acknowledge it would be just to deal with you in his

case, and mingle always some mercy. I desire it, and let the

consequence of being too gentle be placed to my account.”

This was as much as I could desire, and the more because what passed

was in public, and several, both negroes and white servants, as well as

the particular persons who had accused me, heard it all, though I did

not know it. “A cruel dog of an overseer,” says one of the white

servants behind; “he would have whipped poor bullet-head”—so they

called the negro that was to be punished—“to death if his honour had

not happened to come to-day.”

However, I urged the notorious crime this fellow was guilty of, and the

danger there was in such forbearance, from the refractory and

incorrigible temper of the negroes, and pressed a little the necessity

of making examples. But he said, “Well, well, do it the next time, but

not now;” so I said no more.

The other fellow’s crime was trifling compared with this; and the

master went forward, talking of it to me, and I following him, till we

came to the house; when, after he had been sat down a while, he called

me to him, and, not suffering my accusers to come near till he had

heard my defence, he began with me thus:—

_Mast_. Hark ye, young man, I must have some discourse with you. Your

conduct is complained of since I set you over this plantation. I

thought your sense of the obligation I had laid on you would have

secured your diligence and faithfulness to me.

_Jacque_. I am very sorry any complaint should be made of me, because

the obligation I am under to your honour (and which I freely confess)

does bind me to your interest in the strongest manner imaginable; and,

however I may have mistaken my business, I am sure I have not willingly

neglected it.

_Mast_. Well, I shall not condemn you without hearing you, and

therefore I called you in now to tell you of it.

_Jacque_. I humbly thank your honour. I have but one petition more, and

that is, that I may know my accusation; and, if you please, my

accusers.

_Mast_. The first you shall, and that is the reason of my talking to

you in private; and if there is any need of a further hearing, you

shall know your accusers too. What you are charged with is just

contrary to what appeared to me just now, and therefore you and I must

come to a new understanding about it, for I thought I was too cunning

for you, and now I think you have been too cunning for me.

_Jacque_. I hope your honour will not be offended that I do not fully

understand you.

_Mast_. I believe you do not. Come, tell me honestly, did you really

intend to whip the poor negro twice a day for four days together; that

is to say, to whip him to death, for that would have been the English

of it, and the end of it?

_Jacque_. If I may be permitted to guess, sir, I believe I know the

charge that is brought against me, and that your honour has been told

that I have been too gentle with the negroes, as well as other

servants; and that when they deserved to be used with the accustomed

severity of the country, I have not given them half enough; and that by

this means they are careless of your business, and that your plantation

is not well looked after, and the like.

_Mast_. Well, you guess right. Go on.

_Jacque_. The first part of the charge I confess, but the last I deny,

and appeal to your honour’s strictest examination into every part of

it.

_Mast_. If the last part could be true, I would be glad the first were;

for it would be an infinite satisfaction to me that, my business not

being neglected, nor our safety endangered, those poor wretches could

be used with more humanity; for cruelty is the aversion of my nature,

and it is the only uncomfortable thing that attends me in all my

prosperity.

_Jacque_. I freely acknowledge, sir, that at first it was impossible

for me to bring myself to that terrible work. How could I, that was but

just come out of the terror of it myself, and had but the day before

been a poor naked, miserable servant myself, and might be to-morrow

reduced to the same condition again; how could I use this terrible

weapon[6] on the naked flesh of my fellow-servants, as well as

fellow-creatures? At least, sir, when my duty made it absolutely

necessary, I could not do it without the utmost horror. I beseech you,

pardon me if I have such a tenderness in my nature, that though I might

be fit to be your servant, I am incapable of being an executioner,

having been an offender myself.

_Mast_. Well, but how, then, can my business be done? And how will this

terrible obstinacy of the negroes, who, they tell me, can be no

otherwise governed, be kept from neglect of their work, or even

insolence and rebellion?

_Jacque_. This brings me, sir, to the latter part of my defence; and

here I hope your honour will be pleased to call my accusers, or that

you will give yourself the trouble of taking the exactest view of your

plantation, and see, or let them show you, if anything is neglected, if

your business has suffered in anything, or if your negroes or other

servants are under less government than they were before; and if, on

the contrary, I have found out that happy secret, to have good order

kept, the business of the plantation done, and that with diligence and

despatch, and that the negroes are kept in awe, the natural temper of

them subjected, and the safety and peace of your family secured, as

well by gentle means as by rough, by moderate correction as by torture

and barbarity, by a due awe of just discipline as by the horror of

unsufferable torments, I hope your honour will not lay that sin to my

charge.

_Mast_. No, indeed; you would be the most acceptable manager that ever

I employed. But how, then, does this consist with the cruel sentence

you had passed on the poor fellow that is in your condemned hole

yonder, who was to be whipped eight times in four days?

_Jacque_. Very well, sir. First, sir, he remains under the terrible

apprehensions of a punishment so severe as no negro ever had before.

This fellow, with your leave, I intended to release to-morrow without

any whipping at all, after talking to him in my way about his offence,

and raising in his mind a sense of the value of pardon. And if this

makes him a better servant than the severest whipping will do, then, I

presume, you would allow I have gained a point.

_Mast_. Ay; but what if it should not be so? For these fellows have no

sense of gratitude.

_Jacque_. That is, sir, because they are never pardoned. If they

offend, they never know what mercy is; and what, then, have they to be

grateful for?

_Mast_. Thou art in the right indeed. Where there is no mercy showed,

there is no obligation laid upon them.

_Jacque_. Besides, sir, if they have at any time been let go, which is

very seldom, they are not told what the case is. They take no pains

with them to imprint principles of gratitude on their minds, to tell

them what kindness is shown them, and what they are indebted for it,

and what they might gain in the end by it.

_Mast_. But do you think such usage would do? Would it make any

impression? You persuade yourself it would, but you see ’tis against

the received notion of the whole country.

_Jacque_. There are, it may be, public and national mistakes and errors

in conduct, and this is one.

_Mast_. Have you tried it? You cannot say it is a mistake till you have

tried and proved it to be so.

_Jacque_. Your whole plantation is a proof of it. This very fellow had

never acted as he did if he had not gotten rum in his head, and been

out of the government of himself; so that, indeed, all the offence I

ought to have punished him for had been that of stealing a bottle of

rum and drinking it all up; in which case, like Noah, he did not know

the strength of it, and when he had it in his head he was a madman, he

was as one raging and distracted; so that, for all the rest, he

deserved pity rather than punishment.

_Mast_. Thou art right, certainly right, and thou wilt be a rare fellow

if thou canst bring these notions into practice. I wish you had tried

it upon any one particular negro, that I might see an example. I would

give £500 if it could be brought to bear.

_Jacque_. I desire nothing, sir, but your favour, and the advantage of

obliging you. I will show you an example of it among your own negroes,

and all the plantation will acknowledge it.

_Mast_. You make my very heart glad within me, Jacque. If you can bring

this to pass, I here give you my word I’ll not only give you your own

freedom, but make a man of you for this world as long as you live.

Upon this I bowed to him very respectfully, and told him the following

story:—‘There is a negro, sir, in your plantation who has been your

servant several years before I came. He did a fault that was of no

great consequence in itself, but perhaps would have been worse if they

had indeed gone further; and I had him brought into the usual place,

and tied him by the thumbs for correction, and he was told that he

should be whipped and pickled in a dreadful manner. After I had made

proper impressions on his mind of the terror of his punishment, and

found that he was sufficiently humbled by it, I went into the house,

and caused him to be brought out, just as they do when they go to

correct the negroes on such occasions. When he was stripped and tied up

he had two lashes given him, that was indeed very cruel ones, and I

called to them to hold. ‘Hold!’ said I to the two men that had just

began to lay on upon the poor fellow: ‘Hold!’ said I, ‘let me talk with

him.’

“So he was taken down. Then I began and represented to him how kind

you, that were his great master,[7] had been to him; that you had never

done him any harm; that you had used him gently, and he had never been

brought to this punishment in so many years, though he had done some

faults before; that this was a notorious offence, for he had stolen

some rum, and made himself and two other negroes drunk-mad;[8] and had

abused two women negroes, who had husbands in our master’s service, but

in another plantation; and played several pranks, and for this I had

appointed him this punishment.

“He shook his head, and made signs that he was _muchee sorree_, as he

called it. ‘And what will you say or do,’ said I, ‘if I should prevail

with the great master to pardon you? I have a mind to go and see if I

can beg for you.’ He told me he would lie down, let me kill him. ‘Me

will,’ says he, ‘run, go, fetch, bring for you as long as me live.’

This was the opportunity I had a mind to have, to try whether, as

negroes have all the other faculties of reasonable creatures, they had

not also some sense of kindness, some principles of natural generosity,

which, in short, is the foundation of gratitude; for gratitude is the

product of generous principles.”

“You please me with the beginning of this story,” says he; “I hope you

have carried it on.”

“Yes, sir,” says I; “it has been carried on further perhaps than you

imagine, or will think has been possible in such a case.

“But I was not so arrogant as to assume the merit to myself. ‘No, no,’

said I, ‘I do not ask you to go or run for me; you must do all that for

our great master, for it will be from him entirely that you will be

pardoned at all, for your offence is against him; and what will you

say? Will you be grateful to him, and run, go, fetch, bring, for him,

as long as you live, as you have said you would for me?’

“’Yes, indeed,’ says he, ‘and muchee do, muchee do, for you too’ (he

would not leave me out); ‘you ask him for me.’

“Well, I put off all his promised gratitude to me from myself, as was

my duty, and placed it to your account; told him I knew you was muchee

good, muchee pitiful, and I would persuade you if I could; and so told

him I would go to you, and he should be whipped no more till I came

again; but, ‘Hark ye, Mouchat,’ says I (that was the negro’s name),

’they tell me, when I came hither, that there is no showing kindness to

any of you negroes; that when we spare you from whipping you laugh at

us, and are the worse.’

“He looked very serious at me, and said, ‘Oh, that not so; the masters

say so, but no be so, no be so, indeede, indeede,’ and so we parleyed.”

_Jacque_. Why do they say so, then? To be sure they have tried you all.

_Negro_. No, no, they no try; they say so, but no try.

_Jacque_. I hear them all say so.

_Negro_. Me tell you the true; they have no mercie; they beat us cruel,

all cruel; they never have show mercie. How can they tell we be no

better?

_Jacque_. What! do they never spare?

_Negro_. Master, me speakee the true; they never give mercie; they

always whippee, lashee, knockee down, all cruel. Negro be muchee better

man, do muchee better work, but they tell us no mercie.

_Jacque_. But what, do they never show any mercy?

_Negro_. No, never; no, never; all whippee; all whippee, cruel, worse

than they whippee de horse, whippee de dog.

_Jacque_. But would they be better if they did?

_Negro_. Yes, yes; negro be muchee better if they be mercie. When they

be whippee, whippee, negro muchee cry, muchee hate; would kill if they

had de gun. But when they makee de mercie, then negro tell de great

tankee, and love to worke, and do muchee worke; and because he good

master to them.

_Jacque_. They say no; you would laugh at them and mock when they show

mercy.

_Negro_. How they say when they show mercie? They never show mercie; me

never see them show one mercie since me live.

“Now, sir,” said I, “if this be so, really they go, I dare say,

contrary to your inclination, for I see you are but too full of pity

for the miserable. I saw it in my own case; and upon a presumption that

you had rather have your work done from a principle of love than fear,

without making your servants bleed for every trifle, if it were

possible; I say, upon this presumption I dealt with this Mouchat, as

you shall hear.”

_Mast_. I have never met with anything of this kind since I have been a

planter, which is now about forty years. I am delighted with the story.

Go on; I expect a pleasant conclusion.

_Jacque_. The conclusion, sir, will be, I believe, as much to your

satisfaction as the beginning; for it every way answered my

expectation, and will yours also, and show you how you might be

faithfully served if you pleased, for ’tis certain you are not so

served now.

_Mast_. No, indeed; they serve me but just as they do the devil, for

fear I should hurt them. But ’tis contrary to an ingenuous spirit to

delight in such service. I abhor it, if I could but know how to get any

other.

_Jacque_. It is easy, sir, to show you that you may be served upon

better principles, and consequently be better served, and more to your

satisfaction; and I dare undertake to convince you of it.

_Mast_. Well, go on with the story.

_Jacque_. After I had talked thus to him I said, “Well, Mouchat, I

shall see how you will be afterwards, if I can get our great master to

be merciful to you at this time.”

_Negro_. Yes, you shall see; you muchee see, muchee see.

“Upon this I called for my horse and went from him, and made as if I

rode away to you, who they told me was in the next plantation; and

having stayed four or five hours, I came back and talked to him again,

told him that I had waited on you, and that you had heard of his

offence, was highly provoked, and had resolved to cause him to be

severely punished for an example to all the negroes in the plantation;

but that I had told you how penitent he was, and how good he would be

if you would pardon him; and had at last prevailed on you. That you had

told me what all people said of the negroes; how, that to show them

mercy was to make them think you were never in earnest with them, and

that you did but trifle and play with them. However, that I had told

you what he had said of himself, and that it was not true of the

negroes, and that the white men said it, but that they could not know

because they did never show any mercy, and therefore had never tried;

that I had persuaded you to show mercy, to try whether kindness would

prevail as much as cruelty. ‘And now, Mouchat,’ said I, ‘you will be

let go. Pray let our great master see that I have said true.’ So I

ordered him to be untied, gave him a dram of rum out of my

pocket-bottle, and ordered them to give him some victuals.

“When the fellow was let loose, he came to me and kneeled down to me,

and took hold of my legs and of my feet, and laid his head upon the

ground, and sobbed and cried like a child that had been corrected, but

could not speak for his life; and thus he continued a long time. I

would have taken him up, but he would not rise; but I cried as fast as

he, for I could not bear to see a poor wretch lie on the ground to me,

that was but a servant the other day like himself. At last, but not

till a quarter of an hour, I made him get up, and then he spoke. ‘Me

muchee know good great master, muchee good you master. No negro

unthankful; me die for them, do me so muchee kind.’

“I dismissed him then, and bid him go to his wife (for he was married),

and not work that afternoon; but as he was going away I called him

again, and talked thus to him.

“’Now, Mouchat,’ says I, ‘you see the white men can show mercy. Now you

must tell all the negroes what has been reported of them; that they

regard nothing but the whip; that if they are used gently they are the

worse, not the better; and that this is the reason why the white men

show them no mercy; and convince them that they would be much better

treated and used kindlier if they would show themselves as grateful for

kind usage as humble after torment; and see if you can work on them.’

“’Me go, me go,’ says he; ‘me muchee talk to them. They be muchee glad

as me be, and do great work to be used kind by de great master.’”

_Mast_. Well, but now what testimony have you of this gratitude you

speak of? Have you seen any alteration among them?

_Jacque_. I come next to that part, sir. About a month after this I

caused a report to be spread abroad in the plantation that I had

offended you, the great master, and that I was turned out of the

plantation, and was to be hanged. Your honour knows that some time ago

you sent me upon your particular business into Potuxent River, where I

was absent twelve days; then I took the opportunity to have this report

spread about among the negroes, to see how it would work.

_Mast_. What! to see how Mouchat would take it?

_Jacque_. Yes, sir; and it made a discovery indeed. The poor fellow did

not believe it presently, but finding I was still absent, he went to

the head-clerk, and standing at his door, said nothing, but looked like

a fool of ten years old. After some time the upper overseer came out,

and seeing him stand there, at first said nothing, supposing he had

been sent of some errand; but observing him to stand stock-still, and

that he was in the same posture and place during the time that he had

passed and repassed two or three times, he stops short the last time of

his coming by. “What do you want,” says he to him, “that you stand idle

here so long?”

“’Me speakee; me tell something,’ says he.

“Then the overseer thought some discovery was at hand, and began to

listen to him. ‘What would you tell me?’ says he.

“’Me tell! Pray,’ says he, ‘where be de other master?’

“He meant he would ask where he was. ‘What other master do you mean?’

says the clerk. ‘What! do you want to speak with the great master? He

can’t be spoke with by you. Pray what is your business? Cannot you tell

it to me?’

“’No, no; me no speakee the great master—the other master,’ says

Mouchat.”

“’What! the colonel?’ says the clerk.

“’Yes, yes; the colonel,’ says he.

“’Why, don’t you know that he is to be hanged to-morrow,’ says the

clerk, ‘for making the great master angry?’[9]

“’Yes, yes,’ says Mouchat; ‘me know, me know; but me want speak; me

tell something.’

“’Well, what would you say?’ says the clerk.

“’Oh! me no let him makee de great master angry.’ With that he kneeled

down to the clerk.

“’What ails you?’ says the clerk. ‘I tell you he must be hanged.’

“’No, no,’ says he; ‘no hang de master. Me kneel for him to great

master.’

“’You kneel for him!’ says the clerk.[10] ’What! do you think the great

master will mind you? He has made the great master angry, and must be

hanged, I tell you. What signifies your begging?’

“_Negro_. Oh! me pray, me pray the great master for him.

“_Clerk_. Why, what ails you that you would pray for him?

“_Negro_. Oh! he beggee the great master for me; now me beggee for him.

The great master muchee good, muchee good; he pardon me when the other

master beggee me; now he pardon him when me beggee for him again.

“_Clerk_. No, no; your begging won’t do. Will you be hanged for him? If

you do that, something may be.

“_Negro_. Yes, yes; me be hang for de poor master that beggee for me.

Mouchat shall hang; the great master shall hangee me, whippee me;

anything to save the poor master that beggee me; yes, yes, indeed.

“_Clerk_. Are you in earnest, Mouchat?

“_Negro_. Yes, indeed; me tellee de true. The great master shall know

me tellee de true, for he shall see the white man hangee me, Mouchat.

Poor negro Mouchat will be hangee, be whippee, anything for the poor

master that beggee for me.

“With this the poor fellow cried most pitifully, and there was no room

to question his being in earnest; when on a sudden I appeared, for I

was fetched to see all this transaction. I was not in the house at

first, but was just come home from the business you sent me of, and

heard it all; and indeed neither the clerk or I could bear it any

longer, so he came out to me. ‘Go to him,’ says he; ‘you have made an

example that will never be forgot, that a negro can be grateful. Go to

him,’ adds he, ‘for I can talk to him no longer.’ So I appeared, and

spoke to him presently, and let him see that I was at liberty; but to

hear how the poor fellow behaved your honour cannot but be pleased.”

_Mast_. Prithee go on. I am pleased with it all; ’tis all a new scene

of negro life to me, and very moving.

_Jacque_. For a good while he stood as if he had been thunderstruck and

stupid; but, looking steadily at me, though not speaking a word, at

last he mutters to himself, with a kind of laugh, “Ay, ay,” says he,

“Mouchat see, Mouchat no see; me wakee, me no wakee; no hangee, no

hangee; he live truly, very live;” and then on a sudden he runs to me,

snatches me away as if I had been a boy of ten years old, and takes me

up upon his back and runs away with me, till I was fain to cry out to

him to stop. Then he sets me down, and looks at me again, then falls

a-dancing about me as if he had been bewitched, just as you have seen

them do about their wives and children when they are merry.

“Well, then, he began to talk with me, and told me what they had said

to him, how I was to be hanged. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘Mouchat, and would you

have been satisfied to be hanged to save me?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ says he; ’be

truly hangee, to beggee you.’

“’But why do you love me so well, Mouchat?’ said I.

“’Did you no beggee me,’ he says, ‘at the great master? You savee me,

make great master muchee good, muchee kind, no whippee me; me no

forget; me be whipped, be hanged, that you no be hanged; me die, that

you no die; me no let any bad be with you all while that me live.’

“Now, sir, your honour may judge whether kindness, well managed, would

not oblige these people as well as cruelty, and whether there are

principles of gratitude in them or no.”

_Mast_. But what, then, can be the reason that we never believed it to

be so before?

_Jacque_. Truly, sir, I fear that Mouchat gave the true reason.

_Mast_. What was that, pray? That we were too cruel?

_Jacque_. That they never had any mercy showed them; that we never

tried them whether they would be grateful or no; that if they did a

fault they were never spared, but punished with the utmost cruelty; so

that they had no passion, no affection, to act upon but that of fear,

which necessarily brought hatred with it; but that if they were used

with compassion they would serve with affection as well as other

servants. Nature is the same, and reason governs in just proportions in

all creatures; but having never been let taste what mercy is, they know

not how to act from a principle of love.

_Mast_. I am convinced it is so. But now, pray tell me, how did you put

this in practice with the poor negroes now in bonds yonder, when you

passed such a cruel sentence upon them that they should be whipped

twice a day, for four days together? Was that showing mercy?

_Jacque_. My method was just the same; and if you please to inquire of

Mr.——, your other servant, you will be satisfied that it was so; for we

agreed upon the same measures as I took with Mouchat; namely, first to

put them into the utmost horror and apprehensions of the cruellest

punishment that they ever heard of, and thereby enhance the value of

their pardon, which was to come as from yourself, but not without our

great intercession. Then I was to argue with them, and work upon their

reason, to make the mercy that was showed them sink deep into their

minds and give lasting impressions; explain the meaning of gratitude to

them, and the nature of an obligation, and the like, as I had done with

Mouchat.

_Mast_. I am answered. Your method is certainly right, and I desire you

may go on with it; for I desire nothing on this side heaven more than

to have all my negroes serve me from principles of gratitude for my

kindness to them. I abhor to be feared like a lion, like a tyrant. It

is a violence upon nature every way, and is the most disagreeable thing

in the world to a generous mind.

_Jacque_. But, sir, I am doubtful that you may not believe that I

intended to act thus with those poor fellows. I beseech you to send for

Mr.——, that he may tell you what we had agreed on before I speak with

him.

_Mast_. What reason have I to doubt that?

_Jacque_. I hope you have not; but I should be very sorry you should

think me capable of executing such a sentence as you have heard me own

I had passed on them, and there can be no way effectually to clear it

up but this.

_Mast_. Well, seeing you put so much weight upon it, he shall be called

for.

[He was called, and being ordered by the master to tell the measures

that were concerted between them for the punishment or management of

those negroes, he gave it just as Jacque had done before.]

_Jacque_. I hope, sir, you are now not only satisfied of the truth of

the account I gave relating to the method we had agreed on, but of its

being so proper and so likely to answer your end.

_Mast_. I am fully satisfied, and shall be glad to see that it answers

the end; for, as I have said, nothing can be more agreeable to me.

Nothing has so much robbed me of the comfort of all my fortunes as the

cruelty used, in my name, on the bodies of those poor slaves.

_Jacque_. It is certainly wrong, sir; it is not only wrong as it is

barbarous and cruel; but it is wrong, too, as it is the worst way of

managing and of having your business done.

_Mast_. It is my aversion; it fills my very soul with horror. I believe

if I should come by while they were using those cruelties on the poor

creatures, I should either sink down at the sight of it or fly into a

rage and kill the fellow that did it; though it is done, too, by my own

authority.

_Jacque_. But, sir, I dare say I shall convince you also that it is

wrong in respect of interest, and that your business shall be better

discharged and your plantations better ordered, and more work done by

the negroes who shall be engaged by mercy and lenity than by those who

are driven and dragged by the whips and the chains of a merciless

tormentor.

_Mast_. I think the nature of the thing speaks itself. Doubtless it

should be so, and I have often thought it would be so, and a thousand

times wished it might be so; but all my English people pretend

otherwise, and that it is impossible to bring the negroes to any sense

of kindness, and consequently not to any obedience of love.

_Jacque_. It may be true, sir, that there may be found here and there a

negro of a senseless, stupid, sordid disposition, perfectly

untractable, undocible, and incapable of due impressions; especially

incapable of the generosity of principle which I am speaking of. You

know very well, sir, there are such among Christians as well as among

the negroes; whence else came the English proverb, That if you save a

thief from the gallows, he shall be the first to cut your throat. But,

sir, if such a refractory, undocible fellow comes in our way, he must

be dealt with, first by the smooth ways to try him, then by the violent

way to break his temper, as they break a horse; and if nothing will do,

such a wretch should be sold off, and others bought in his room; for

the peace of the plantation should not be broken for one

devilish-tempered fellow. And if this was done I doubt not you should

have all your plantations carried on and your work done, and not a

negro or a servant upon it but what would not only work for you, but

even die for you, if there was an occasion for it, as you see this poor

Mouchat would have done for me.

_Mast_. Well, go on with your measures, and may you succeed. I’ll

promise you I will fully make you amends for it. I long to have these

cruelties out of use, in my plantation especially. As for others, let

them do as they will.

Our master being gone, I went to the prisoners, and first I suffered

them to be told that the great master had been there, and that he had

been inclined to pardon them, till he knew what their crime was; but

then he said it was so great a fault that it must be punished. Besides,

the man that talked to them told them that the great master said that

he knew if he had pardoned them they would be but the worse, for that

the negroes were never thankful for being spared, and that there were

no other ways to make them obedient but severity.

One of the poor fellows, more sensible than the other, answered, if any

negro be badder for being kindly used, they should be whipped till they

were muchee better; but that he never knew that, for that he never knew

the negro be kindly use.

This was the same thing as the other had said, and indeed was but too

true, for the overseers really knew no such thing as mercy; and that

notion of the negroes being no other way to be governed but by cruelty

had been the occasion that no other method was ever tried among them.

Again, if a slack hand had at any time been held upon them, it had not

been done with discretion, or as a point of mercy, and managed with the

assistance of argument to convince the negroes of the nature and reason

of it, and to show them what they ought to do in return for it; but it

was perhaps the effect of negligence, ill conduct, and want of

application to the business of the plantation; and then it was no

wonder that the negroes took the advantage of it.

Well, I carried on the affair with these two negroes just as I did with

Mouchat, so I need not repeat the particulars; and they were delivered

with infinite acknowledgments and thanks, even to all the extravagances

of joy usual in those people on such occasions. And such was the

gratitude of those two pardoned fellows that they were the most

faithful and most diligent servants ever after that belonged to the

whole plantation, Mouchat excepted.

In this manner I carried on the plantation fully to his satisfaction;

and before a year more was expired there was scarce any such thing as

correction known in the plantation, except upon a few boys, who were

incapable of the impressions that good usage would have made, even upon

them too, till they had lived to know the difference.

It was some time after this conference that our great master, as we

called him, sent for me again to his dwelling-house, and told me he had

had an answer from England from his friend, to whom he had written

about my bill. I was a little afraid that he was going to ask me leave

to send it to London; but he did not say anything like that, but told

me that his friend had been with the gentleman, and that he owned the

bill, and that he had all the money in his hand that the bill had

mentioned; but that he had promised the young man that had given him

the money (meaning me) not to pay the money to anybody but himself,

though they should bring the bill; the reason of which was, that I did

not know who might get the bill away from me.

“But now, Colonel Jacque,” says he, “as you wrote him an account where

you was, and by what wicked arts you were trepanned, and that it was

impossible for you to have your liberty till you could get the money,

my friend at London has written to me, that, upon making out a due copy

of the bill here, attested by a notary and sent to him, and your

obligation likewise attested, whereby you oblige yourself to deliver

the original to his order after the money is paid, he will pay the

money.”

I told him I was willing to do whatever his honour directed; and so the

proper copies were drawn as I had been told were required.

“But now, what will you do with this money, Jacque?” says he, smiling.

“Will you buy your liberty of me, and go to planting?”

I was too cunning for him now indeed, for I remembered what he had

promised me; and I had too much knowledge of the honesty of his

principles, as well as of the kindness he had for me, to doubt his

being as good as his word; so I turned all this talk of his upon him

another way. I knew that when he asked me if I would buy my liberty and

go to planting, it was to try if I would leave him; so I said, “As to

buying my liberty, sir—that is to say, going out of your service—I had

much rather buy more time in your service, and I am only unhappy that I

have but two years to serve.”

“Come, come, colonel,” says he, “don’t flatter me; I love plain

dealing. Liberty is precious to everybody; if you have a mind to have

your money brought over, you shall have your liberty to begin for

yourself, and I will take care you shall be well used by the country,

and get you a good plantation.”

I still insisted that I would not quit his service for the best

plantation in Maryland; that he had been so good to me, and I believed

I was so useful to him, that I could not think of it; and at last I

added I hoped he could not believe but I had as much gratitude as a

negro.

He smiled, and said he would not be served upon those terms; that he

did not forget what he had promised, nor what I had done in his

plantation; and that he was resolved in the first place to give me my

liberty. So he pulls out a piece of paper, and throws it to me:

“There,” says he, “there’s a certificate of your coming on shore, and

being sold to me for five years, of which you have lived three with me;

and now you are your own master.” I bowed, and told him that I was

sure, if I was my own master, I would be his servant as long as he

would accept of my service. And now we strained courtesies, and he told

me I should be his servant still; but it should be on two conditions:

first, that he would give me £30 a year and my board for my managing

the plantation I was then employed in; and, secondly, that at the same

time he would procure me a new plantation to begin upon my own account,

“For, Colonel Jacque,” says he, smiling, “though you are but a young

man, yet ’tis time you were doing something for yourself.”

I answered that I could do little at a plantation for myself, unless I

neglected his business, which I was resolved not to do on any terms

whatever, but that I would serve him faithfully, if he would accept of

me, as long as he lived. “So you shall,” says he again, “and serve

yourself too.” And thus we parted for that time.

Here I am to observe in the general, to avoid dwelling too long upon a

story, that as the two negroes who I delivered from punishment were

ever after the most diligent and laborious poor fellows in the whole

plantation as above, except Mouchat, of whom I shall speak more

by-and-by, so they not only were grateful themselves for their good

usage, but they influenced the whole plantation; so that the gentle

usage and lenity with which they had been treated had a thousand times

more influence upon them to make them diligent than all the blows and

kicks, whippings, and other tortures could have which they had been

used to. And now the plantation was famous for it; so that several

other planters began to do the same, though I cannot say it was with

the same success, which might be for want of taking pains with them and

working upon their passions in a right manner. It appeared that negroes

were to be reasoned into things as well as other people, and it was by

thus managing their reason that most of the work was done.

However, as it was, the plantations in Maryland were the better for

this undertaking, and they are to this day less cruel and barbarous to

their negroes than they are in Barbados and Jamaica; and ’tis observed

the negroes are not in these colonies so desperate, neither do they so

often run away or so often plot mischief against their master, as they

do in those.

I have dwelt the longer upon it that, if possible, posterity might be

persuaded to try gentler methods with those miserable creatures, and to

use them with humanity; assuring them that if they did so, adding the

common prudence that every particular case would direct them to for

itself, the negroes would do their work faithfully and cheerfully; they

would not find any of that refractoriness and sullenness in their

temper that they pretend now to complain of, but they would be the same

as their Christian servants, except that they would be the more

thankful, and humble, and laborious of the two.

I continued in this station between five and six years after this, and

in all that time we had not one negro whipped, except, as I observed

before, now and then an unlucky boy, and that only for trifles. I

cannot say but we had some ill-natured, ungovernable negroes; but if at

any time such offended, they were pardoned the first time, in the

manner as above, and the second time were ordered to be turned out of

the plantation. And this was remarkable, that they would torment

themselves at the apprehension of being turned away, more by a great

deal than if they had been to be whipped, for then they were only

sullen and heavy. Nay, at length we found the fear of being turned out

of the plantation had as much effect to reform them—that is to say,

make them more diligent—than any torture would have done; and the

reason was evident, namely, because in our plantation they were used

like men, in the other like dogs.

My master owned the satisfaction he took in this blessed change, as he

called it, as long as he lived; and as he was so engaged by seeing the

negroes grateful, he showed the same principle of gratitude to those

that served him as he looked for in those that he served, and

particularly to me; and so I come briefly to that part. The first thing

he did after giving me my liberty as above, and making me an allowance,

was to get the country bounty to me—that is to say, a quantity of land

to begin and plant for myself.

But this he managed a way by himself, and, as I found afterwards, took

up, that is, purchased in my name, about three hundred acres of land,

in a more convenient place than it would have otherwise been allotted

me; and this he did by his interest with the lord proprietor; so that I

had an extent of ground marked out to me, not next but very near one of

his own plantations. When I made my acknowledgment for this to him, he

told me plainly that I was not beholden to him for it all; for he did

it that I might not be obliged to neglect his business for the carrying

on my own, and on that account he would not reckon to me what money he

paid, which, however, according to the custom of the country, was not a

very great sum—I think about £40 or £50.

Thus he very generously gave me my liberty, advanced this money for me,

put me into a plantation for myself, and gave me £30 a year wages for

looking after one of his own plantations.

“But, Colonel,” says he to me, “giving you this plantation is nothing

at all to you if I do not assist you to support it and to carry it on,

and therefore I will give you credit for whatever is needful to you for

the carrying it on; such as tools, provisions for servants, and some

servants to begin; materials to build outhouses, and conveniences of

all sorts for the plantation, and to buy hogs, cows, horses for stock,

and the like; and I’ll take it out of your cargo, which will come from

London, for the money of your bill.”

This was highly obliging and very kind, and the more so, as it

afterwards appeared. In order to this he sent two servants of his own

who were carpenters. As for timber, boards, planks, and all sorts of

such things, in a country almost all made of wood they could not be

wanting. These run me up a little wooden house in less than three

weeks’ time, where I had three rooms, a kitchen, an outhouse, and two

large sheds at a distance from the house for store houses, almost like

barns, with stables at the end of them; and thus I was set up in the

world, and, in short, removed by the degrees that you have heard from a

pickpocket to a kidnapped, miserable slave in Virginia (for Maryland is

Virginia, speaking of them at a distance); then from a slave to a

head-officer or overseer of slaves, and from thence to a

master-planter.

I had now, as above, a house, a stable, two warehouses, and three

hundred acres of land; but, as we say, bare walls make giddy hussies,

so I had neither axe nor hatchet to cut down the trees; horse, nor hog,

nor cow to put upon the land; not a hoe or a spade to break ground, nor

a pair of hands but my own to go to work upon.

But Heaven and kind masters make up all those things to a diligent

servant; and I mention it because people who are either transported or

otherwise trepanned into those places are generally thought to be

rendered miserable and undone; whereas, on the contrary, I would

encourage them, upon my own experience, to depend upon it, that if

their own diligence in the time of service gains them but a good

character, which it will certainly do if they can deserve it, there is

not the poorest and most despicable felon that ever went over but may,

after his time is served, begin for himself, and may in time be sure of

raising a good plantation.