cheerful, and his owners thought that he had repented of the experience
he had undergone as a runaway, and in the future would prove a more
easily governed chattel. But from the first hour that he had entered
the cabin of the Creole, Madison had been busily engaged in the
selection of men who were to act parts in the great drama. He picked
out each one as if by intuition. Every thing was done at night and in
the dark, as far as the preparation was concerned. The miniature saws
and files were faithfully used when the whites were asleep.
In the other cabin, among the slave women, was one whose beauty at once
attracted attention. Though not tall, she yet had a majestic figure.
Her well-moulded shoulders, prominent bust, black hair which hung in
ringlets, mild blue eyes, finely-chiselled mouth, with a splendid
set of teeth, a turned and well-rounded chin, skin marbled with the
animation of life, and veined by blood given to her by her master,
she stood as the representative of two races. With only one eighth of
African, she was what is called at the south an "octoroon." It was said
that her grandfather had served his country in the revolutionary war,
as well as in both houses of Congress. This was Susan, the wife of
Madison. Few slaves, even among the best used house servants, had so
good an opportunity to gain general information as she. Accustomed to
travel with her mistress, Susan had often been to Richmond, Norfolk,
White Sulphur Springs, and other places of resort for the aristocracy
of the Old Dominion. Her language was far more correct than most slaves
in her position. Susan was as devoted to Madison as she was beautiful
and accomplished.
After the arrest of her husband, and his confinement in Richmond
jail, it was suspected that Susan had long been in possession of the
knowledge of his whereabouts when in Canada, and knew of his being in
the neighborhood; and for this crime it was resolved that she should be
sold and sent off to a southern plantation, where all hope of escape
would be at an end. Each was not aware that the other was on board the
Creole, for Madison and Susan were taken to their respective cabins at
different times. On the ninth day out, the Creole encountered a rough
sea, and most of the slaves were sick, and therefore were not watched
with that vigilance that they had been since she first sailed. This
was the time for Madison and his accomplices to work, and nobly did
they perform their duty. Night came on; the first watch had just been
summoned, the wind blowing high, when Madison succeeded in reaching
the quarter deck, followed by eighteen others, all of whom sprang
to different parts of the vessel, seizing whatever they could wield
as weapons. The crew were nearly all on deck. Captain Enson and Mr.
Merritt, the first mate, were standing together, while Hewell was
seated on the companion smoking a cigar. The appearance of the slaves
all at once, and the loud voice and commanding attitude of their
leader, so completely surprised the whites, that--
"They spake not a word;
But, like dumb statues, or breathless stones,
Stared at each other, and looked deadly pale."
The officers were all armed; but so swift were the motions of Madison
that they had nearly lost command of the vessel before they attempted
to use their weapons.
Hewell, the greater part of whose life had been spent on the plantation
in the capacity of a negro-driver, and who knew that the defiant looks
of these men meant something, was the first to start. Drawing his old
horse pistol from under his coat, he fired at one of the blacks and
killed him. The next moment Hewell lay dead upon the deck, for Madison
had struck him with a capstan bar. The fight now became general, the
white passengers, as well as all the crew, taking part. The battle
was Madison's element, and he plunged into it without any care for
his own preservation or safety. He was an instrument of enthusiasm,
whose value and whose place was in his inspiration. "If the fire of
heaven was in my hands, I would throw it at these cowardly whites,"
said he to his companions, before leaving their cabin. But in this he
did not mean revenge, only the possession of his freedom and that of
his fellow-slaves. Merritt and Gifford, the first and second mates of
the vessel, both attacked the heroic slave at the same time. Both were
stretched out upon the deck with a single blow each, but were merely
wounded; they were disabled, and that was all that Madison cared for
for the time being. The sailors ran up the rigging for safety, and a
moment more he that had worn the fetters an hour before was master of
the brig Creole. His commanding attitude and daring orders, now that
he was free, and his perfect preparation for the grand alternative of
liberty or death which stood before him, are splendid exemplifications
of the truly heroic. After his accomplices had covered the slaver's
deck, Madison forbade the shedding of more blood, and ordered the
sailors to come down, which they did, and with his own hands he dressed
their wounds. A guard was placed over all except Merritt, who was
retained to navigate the vessel. With a musket doubly charged, and
pointed at Merritt's breast, the slave made him swear that he would
faithfully take the brig into a British port. All things now secure,
and the white men in chains or under guard, Madison ordered that the
fetters should be severed from the limbs of those slaves who still
wore them. The next morning "Captain Washington" (for such was the
name he now bore) ordered the cook to provide the best breakfast that
the store room could furnish, intending to surprise his fellow-slaves,
and especially the females, whom he had not yet seen. But little did
he think that the woman for whom he had risked his liberty and life
would meet him at the breakfast table. The meeting of the hero and his
beautiful and accomplished wife, the tears of joy shed, and the hurrahs
that followed from the men, can better be imagined than described.
Madison's cup of joy was filled to the brim. He had not only gained his
own liberty and that of one hundred and thirty-four others, but his
dear Susan was safe. Only one man, Hewell, had been killed. Captain
Enson and others, who were wounded, soon recovered; and were kindly
treated by Madison; but they nevertheless proved ungrateful; for on the
second night, Captain Enson, Mr. Gifford, and Merritt took advantage
of the absence of Madison from the deck, and attempted to retake the
vessel. The slaves, exasperated at this treachery, fell upon the whites
with deadly weapons. The captain and his men fled to the cabin, pursued
by the blacks. Nothing but the heroism of the negro leader saved the
lives of the white men on this occasion, for as the slaves were rushing
into the cabin, Madison threw himself between them and their victims,
exclaiming, "Stop! no more blood. My life, that was perilled for your
liberty, I will lay down for the protection of these men. They have
proved themselves unworthy of life, which we granted them; still let us
be magnanimous." By the kind heart and noble bearing of Madison, the
vile slave-traders were again permitted to go unwhipped of justice.
This act of humanity raised the uncouth son of Africa far above his
Anglo-Saxon oppressors.
The next morning the Creole landed at Nassau, New Providence, where the
noble and heroic slaves were warmly greeted by the inhabitants, who at
once offered protection, and extended their hospitality to them. Not
many months since, an American ship went ashore at Nassau, and among
the first to render assistance to the crew was Madison Washington.
HENRY BIBB.
Henry Bibb, like most fugitive slaves, did not know who his father was;
that his mother was a slave was sufficient to decide his lot, and to
send him, under fear of the lash, while yet a mere infant, to labor
on his master's farm: when sufficiently old to be of much use to any
one, he was hired out to one person and another for the space of eight
or ten years, the proceeds of his labor going, we are told, to defray
the expense of educating his owner's daughters. The year of Henry
Bibb's birth was a memorable one--1815; little, however, knew he of
European struggles; he had a great battle of his own to fight against
tremendous odds, and he seems to have fought it bravely. He formed the
determination to be free at a very early age, and nothing could shake
it; starvation, imprisonment, scourging, lacerating, punishments of
every kind, and of every degree of severity short of actual death, were
tried in vain; they could not subdue his indomitable spirit.
His first attempt to escape was made when he was about ten years of
age, and from that time to 1840 his life was a constant series of
flights and recaptures, the narrative of which makes one thrill and
shudder at the sufferings endured and the barbarities inflicted.
Securing his freedom by his own good legs, Henry Bibb at once began
seeking an education; and in this he succeeded far beyond many white
men who have had all the avenues to learning open to them. In personal
appearance he was tall and slim, a pleasing countenance, half white,
hair brown, eyes gray, and possessed a musical voice, and a wonderful
power of delivery. No one who heard Mr. Bibb, in the years 1847,
'8, and '9, can forget the deep impression that he left behind him.
His natural eloquence and his songs enchained an audience as long
as the speaker wanted them. In 1849, we believe, he went to Canada,
and started a weekly paper called _The Voice of the Fugitives_, at
Windsor. His journal was well conducted, and was long regarded as
indispensable in every fugitive's house. His first wife being left in
slavery, and no hope of her escaping, Mr. Bibb married for his second
wife the well-educated and highly-cultivated Mary E. Miles, of Boston.
After being in Canada a while, the two opened a school for their
escaped brothers and sisters, which proved a lasting benefit to that
much-injured class. His efforts to purchase a tract of land, and to
deal it out in lots to the fugitives at a reasonable price, was only
one of the many kind acts of this good man. There are few characters
more worthy of the student's study and imitation than that of Henry
Bibb. From an ignorant slave, he became an educated free man, by his
own powers, and left a name that will not soon fade away.
In one of Cassimir de la Vigne's dramas, we met with an expression
which struck us forcibly. It was said of Don John, who was ignorant of
his birth, that perhaps he was a nobody; to which he replied, "That a
man of good character and honorable conduct could never be a nobody."
We consider this an admirable reply, and have endeavored to prove this
truth by the foregoing example. If it is gratifying and noble to bear
with honor the name of one's father, it is surely more noble to make
a name for one's self; and our heart tells us that among our young
readers there is more than one who will exclaim with ardor, and with a
firm resolution to fulfil his promise, _I, too, shall make a name_.
PLACIDO.
In the year 1830, there was a young man in Havana, son of a woman
who had been brought, when a child, from the coast of Africa, and
sold as a slave. Being with a comparatively kind master, he soon
found opportunity to begin developing the genius which at a later
period showed itself. The young slave was called Placido. He took an
especial interest in poetry, and often wrote poems that were set to
music and sung in the drawing rooms of the most refined companies
which assembled in the city. His young master paying his addresses to
a rich heiress, the slave was requested to write a poem embodying the
master's passion for the young lady. Placido acquitted himself to the
entire satisfaction of the lover, who copied the epistle in his own
hand, and sent it on its mission. The slave's compositions were so much
admired that they found their way into the newspaper; but no one knew
the negro as the author. In 1838, these poems, together with a number
which had never appeared in print, were intrusted to a white man, who
sent them to England, where they were published and much praised for
the talent and scholarly attainment which they developed. A number of
young whites, who were well acquainted with Placido and his genius,
resolved to purchase him and present him his freedom, which they did in
the year 1842. But a new field had opened itself to the freed black,
and he began to tread in its paths. Freedom for himself was only the
beginning; he sighed to make others free. The imaginative brain of
the poet produced verses which the slaves sung in their own rude way,
and which kindled in their hearts a more intense desire for liberty.
Placido planned an insurrection of the slaves, in which he was to be
their leader and deliverer; but the scheme failed. After a hasty trial,
he was convicted and sentenced to death. The fatal day came; he walked
to the place of execution with as much calmness as if it had been to an
ordinary resort of pleasure. His manly and heroic bearing excited the
sympathy and admiration of all who saw him. As he arrived at the fatal
spot he began reciting the following hymn, which he had written in his
cell the previous night:--
TO GOD--A PRAYER.
"Almighty God! whose goodness knows no bound,
To thee I flee in my severe distress;
O let thy potent arm my wrongs redress,
And rend the odious veil by slander wound
About my brow. The base world's arm confound,
Who on my front would now the seal of shame impress.
God of my sires, to whom all kings must yield,
Be thou alone my shield; protect me now:
All power is His, to whom the sea doth owe
His countless stores; who clothed with light heaven's field,
And made the sun, and air, and polar seas congealed;
All plants with life endowed, and made the rivers flow.
All power is thine: 'twas thy creative might
This goodly frame of things from chaos brought,
Which unsustained by thee would still be nought,
As erst it lay deep in the womb of night,
Ere thy dread word first called it into light;
Obedient to thy call, it lived, and moved, and thought.
Thou know'st my heart, O God, supremely wise;
Thine eye, all-seeing, cannot be deceived;
By thee mine inmost soul is clear perceived,
As objects gross are through transparent skies
By mortal ken. Thy mercy exercise,
Lest slander foul exult o'er innocence aggrieved.
But if 'tis fixed, by thy decree divine,
That I must bear the pain of guilt and shame,
And that my foes this cold and senseless frame
Shall rudely treat with scorn and shouts malign,
Give thou the word, and I my breath resign,
Obedient to thy will. Blest be thy holy name!"
When all preparation for the execution had been finished, Placido asked
the privilege of giving the signal, and it was granted. With his face
wearing an expression of almost superhuman courage, he said in Spanish,
"Adieu, O world; there is no justice or pity for me here. Soldiers,
fire!" Five balls entered his body, but did not deprive him of life.
Still unsubdued, he again spoke, and placing his hand on his breast,
said, "Fire here." Two balls from the reserve entered his heart, and he
fell dead.
Thus died Placido, the slave's poet of freedom. His songs are still
sung in the bondman's hut, and his name is a household word to all.
As the _Marseillaise_ was sung by the revolutionists of France, and
inspired the people with a hatred to oppressors, so will the slaves of
Cuba, at a future day, sing the songs of their poet-martyr, and their
cry will be, "Placido and Liberty."
JEREMIAH B. SANDERSON.
New Bedford has produced a number of highly-intelligent men of the
"doomed race;" men who, by their own efforts, have attained positions,
intellectually, which, if they had been of the more favored class,
would have introduced them into the halls of Congress. One of these
is J. B. Sanderson. An industrious student, and an ardent lover of
literature, he has read more than almost any one of his years within
our circle of acquaintance. History, theology, and the classics, he is
master of. We first met him while he was on a tour through the west,
as a lecturer on slavery, and the impression then made on our mind
became still stronger as we knew more of him. Although not at the time
an ordained minister Mr. Sanderson, in 1848, preached for one of the
religious societies of New Bedford, on Sunday, and attended to his
vocation (hair dresser) during the week. Some of the best educated of
the whites were always in attendance on these occasions. His sermons
were generally beyond the comprehension of his hearers, except those
well read. Emerson, Carlyle, and Theodore Parker, were represented in
his discourses, which were always replete with historical incidents.
Mr. Sanderson has been several years in California, where he now
preaches to an intelligent congregation and is considered one of the
ablest religious teachers in the Pacific state.
"Honor and fame from no condition rise:
Act well your part--there all the honor lies."
"Who does the best his circumstance allows,
Does well, acts nobly: angels could no more."
In stature Mr. Sanderson is somewhat above the medium height, finely
formed, well-developed head, and a pleasing face; an excellent voice,
which he knows how to use. His gestures are correct without being
studied, and his sentences always tell upon his audience. Few speakers
are more happy in their delivery than he. In one of those outbursts
of true eloquence for which he is so noted, we still remember the
impression made upon his hearers, when, on one occasion, he exclaimed,
"Neither men nor governments have a right to sell those of their
species; men and their liberty are neither purchasable nor salable.
This is the law of nature, which is obligatory on all men, at all
times, and in all places."
All accounts from California speak of J. B. Sanderson as doing more for
the enfranchisement and elevation of his race than any one who has gone
from the Atlantic states.
TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
At the commencement of the French revolution, in 1789, there were nine
hundred thousand inhabitants on the Island of St. Domingo. Of these,
seven hundred thousand were Africans, sixty thousand mixed blood,
and the remainder were whites and Caribbeans. Like the involuntary
servitude in our own Southern States, slavery in St. Domingo kept
morality at a low stand. Owing to the amalgamation between masters and
slaves, there arose the mulatto population, which eventually proved to
be the worst enemies of their fathers.
Many of the planters sent their mulatto sons to France to be educated.
When these young men returned to the island, they were greatly
dissatisfied at the proscription which met them wherever they appeared.
White enough to make them hopeful and aspiring, many of the mulattoes
possessed wealth enough to make them influential. Aware, by their
education, of the principles of freedom that were being advocated in
Europe and the United States, they were ever on the watch to seize
opportunities to better their social and political condition. In the
French part of the island alone, twenty thousand whites lived in the
midst of thirty thousand free mulattoes and five hundred thousand
slaves. In the Spanish portion, the odds were still greater in favor of
the slaves. Thus the advantage of numbers and physical strength was on
the side of the oppressed. Right is the most dangerous of weapons--woe
to him who leaves it to his enemies!
The efforts of Wilberforce, Sharp, Buxton, and Clarkson to abolish
the African slave trade, and their advocacy of the equality of the
races, were well understood by the men of color. They had also learned
their own strength in the island, and that they had the sympathy of
all Europe with them. The news of the oath of the Tennis Court and the
taking of the Bastile at Paris was received with the wildest enthusiasm
by the people of St. Domingo.
The announcement of these events was hailed with delight by both the
white planters and the mulattoes; the former, because they hoped
that a revolution in the mother country would secure to them the
independence of the colony; the latter, because they viewed it as a
movement that would give them equal rights with the whites; and even
the slaves regarded it as a precursor to their own emancipation. But
the excitement which the outbreak at Paris had created amongst the
free men of color and the slaves, at once convinced the planters that
a separation from France would be the death-knell of slavery in St.
Domingo.
Although emancipated by law from the dominion of individuals, the
mulattoes had no rights: shut out from society by their color, deprived
of religious and political privileges, they felt their degradation even
more keenly than the bond slaves. The mulatto son was not allowed to
dine at his father's table, kneel with him in his devotions, bear his
name, inherit his property, nor even to lie in his father's graveyard.
Laboring as they were under the sense of their personal social wrongs,
the mulattoes tolerated, if they did not encourage, low and vindictive
passions. They were haughty and disdainful to the blacks, whom they
scorned, and jealous and turbulent to the whites, whom they hated and
feared.
The mulattoes at once despatched one of their number to Paris, to lay
before the Constitutional Assembly their claim to equal rights with
the whites. Vincent Ogé, their deputy, was well received at Paris
by Lafayette, Brissot, Barnave, and Gregoire, and was admitted to a
seat in the Assembly, where he eloquently portrayed the wrongs of his
race. In urging his claims, he said, if equality was withheld from the
mulattoes, they would appeal to force. This was seconded by Lafayette
and Barnave, who said, "_Perish the colonies rather than a principle_."
The Assembly passed a decree granting the demands of the men of color,
and Ogé was made bearer of the news to his brethren. The planters armed
themselves, met the young deputy on his return to the island, and a
battle ensued. The free colored men rallied around Ogé, but they were
defeated and taken, with their brave leader, were first tortured, and
then broken alive on the wheel.
The prospect of freedom was put down for the time, but the blood of Ogé
and his companions bubbled silently in the hearts of the African race;
they swore to avenge them.
The announcement of the death of Ogé in the halls of the Assembly
at Paris created considerable excitement, and became the topic of
conversation in the clubs and on the Boulevards. Gregoire defended the
course of the colored men, and said, "If Liberty was right in France,
it was right in St. Domingo." He well knew that the crime for which Ogé
had suffered in the West Indies, had constituted the glory of Mirabeau
and Lafayette at Paris, and Washington and Hancock in the United
States. The planters in the island trembled at their own oppressive
acts, and terror urged them on to greater violence. The blood of Ogé
and his accomplices had sown every where despair and conspiracy. The
French sent an army to St. Domingo to enforce the laws.
The planters repelled with force the troops sent out by France,
denying its prerogatives and refusing the civic oath. In the midst of
these thickening troubles, the planters who resided in France were
invited to return and assist in vindicating the civil independence of
the island. Then was it that the mulattoes earnestly appealed to the
slaves, and the result was appalling. The slaves awoke as from an
ominous dream, and demanded their rights with sword in hand. Gaining
immediate success, and finding that their liberty would not be granted
by the planters, they rapidly increased in numbers; and in less than a
week from its commencement, the storm had swept over the whole plain
of the north, from east to west, and from the mountains to the sea.
The splendid villas and rich factories yielded to the furies of the
devouring flames; so that the mountains, covered with smoke and burning
cinders, borne upwards by the wind, looked like volcanoes; and the
atmosphere, as if on fire, resembled a furnace.
Such were the outraged feelings of a people whose ancestors had been
ruthlessly torn from their native land, and sold in the shambles of St.
Domingo. To terrify the blacks and convince them that they could never
be free, the planters were murdering them on every hand by thousands.