“To the north,” he replied.
I looked at him to see whether he was in earnest. I saw it all in his
firm, set mouth. I implored him not to go, but he paid no heed to my
words. He said he was no longer a boy, and every day made his yoke
more galling. He had raised his hand against his master, and was to be
publicly whipped for the offence. I reminded him of the poverty and
hardships he must encounter among strangers. I told him he might be
caught and brought back; and that was terrible to think of.
He grew vexed, and asked if poverty and hardships with freedom, were
not preferable to our treatment in slavery. “Linda,” he continued, “we
are dogs here; foot-balls, cattle, every thing that’s mean. No, I will
not stay. Let them bring me back. We don’t die but once.”
He was right; but it was hard to give him up. “Go,” said I, “and break
your mother’s heart.”