Not far from this time Nat Turner’s insurrection broke out; and the
news threw our town into great commotion. Strange that they should be
alarmed, when their slaves were so “contented and happy”! But so it was.
It was always the custom to have a muster every year. On that occasion
every white man shouldered his musket. The citizens and the so-called
country gentlemen wore military uniforms. The poor whites took their
places in the ranks in every-day dress, some without shoes, some
without hats. This grand occasion had already passed; and when the
slaves were told there was to be another muster, they were surprised
and rejoiced. Poor creatures! They thought it was going to be a
holiday. I was informed of the true state of affairs, and imparted it
to the few I could trust. Most gladly would I have proclaimed it to
every slave; but I dared not. All could not be relied on. Mighty is the
power of the torturing lash.
By sunrise, people were pouring in from every quarter within twenty
miles of the town. I knew the houses were to be searched; and I
expected it would be done by country bullies and the poor whites. I
knew nothing annoyed them so much as to see colored people living
in comfort and respectability; so I made arrangements for them with
especial care. I arranged every thing in my grandmother’s house as
neatly as possible. I put white quilts on the beds, and decorated
some of the rooms with flowers. When all was arranged, I sat down at
the window to watch. Far as my eye could reach, it rested on a motley
crowd of soldiers. Drums and fifes were discoursing martial music. The
men were divided into companies of sixteen, each headed by a captain.
Orders were given, and the wild scouts rushed in every direction,
wherever a colored face was to be found.
It was a grand opportunity for the low whites, who had no negroes
of their own to scourge. They exulted in such a chance to exercise
a little brief authority, and show their subserviency to the
slaveholders; not reflecting that the power which trampled on the
colored people also kept themselves in poverty, ignorance, and moral
degradation. Those who never witnessed such scenes can hardly believe
what I know was inflicted at this time on innocent men, women,
and children, against whom there was not the slightest ground for
suspicion. Colored people and slaves who lived in remote parts of
the town suffered in an especial manner. In some cases the searchers
scattered powder and shot among their clothes, and then sent other
parties to find them, and bring them forward as proof that they were
plotting insurrection. Every where men, women, and children were
whipped till the blood stood in puddles at their feet. Some received
five hundred lashes; others were tied hands and feet, and tortured
with a bucking paddle, which blisters the skin terribly. The dwellings
of the colored people, unless they happened to be protected by some
influential white person, who was nigh at hand, were robbed of clothing
and every thing else the marauders thought worth carrying away.
All day long these unfeeling wretches went round, like a troop of
demons, terrifying and tormenting the helpless. At night, they formed
themselves into patrol bands, and went wherever they chose among the
colored people, acting out their brutal will. Many women hid themselves
in woods and swamps, to keep out of their way. If any of the husbands
or fathers told of these outrages, they were tied up to the public
whipping post, and cruelly scourged for telling lies about white men.
The consternation was universal. No two people that had the slightest
tinge of color in their faces dared to be seen talking together.
I entertained no positive fears about our household, because we were
in the midst of white families who would protect us. We were ready to
receive the soldiers whenever they came. It was not long before we
heard the tramp of feet and the sound of voices. The door was rudely
pushed open; and in they tumbled, like a pack of hungry wolves. They
snatched at every thing within their reach. Every box, trunk, closet,
and corner underwent a thorough examination. A box in one of the
drawers containing some silver change was eagerly pounced upon. When I
stepped forward to take it from them, one of the soldiers turned and
said angrily, “What d’ye foller us fur? D’ye s’pose white folks is come
to steal?”
I replied, “You have come to search; but you have searched that box,
and I will take it, if you please.”
At that moment I saw a white gentleman who was friendly to us; and I
called to him, and asked him to have the goodness to come in and stay
till the search was over. He readily complied. His entrance into the
house brought in the captain of the company, whose business it was
to guard the outside of the house, and see that none of the inmates
left it. This officer was Mr. Litch, the wealthy slaveholder whom I
mentioned, in the account of neighboring planters, as being notorious
for his cruelty. He felt above soiling his hands with the search. He
merely gave orders; and, if a bit of writing was discovered, it was
carried to him by his ignorant followers, who were unable to read.
My grandmother had a large trunk of bedding and table cloths. When that
was opened, there was a great shout of surprise; and one exclaimed,
“Where’d the damned niggers git all dis sheet an’ table clarf?”
My grandmother, emboldened by the presence of our white protector,
said, “You may be sure we didn’t pilfer ’em from _your_ houses.”
“Look here, mammy,” said a grim-looking fellow without any coat, “you
seem to feel mighty gran’ ’cause you got all them ’ere fixens. White
folks oughter have ’em all.”
His remarks were interrupted by a chorus of voices shouting, “We’s got
’em! We’s got ’em! Dis ’ere yaller gal’s got letters!”
There was a general rush for the supposed letter, which, upon
examination, proved to be some verses written to me by a friend. In
packing away my things, I had overlooked them. When their captain
informed them of their contents, they seemed much disappointed. He
inquired of me who wrote them. I told him it was one of my friends.
“Can you read them?” he asked. When I told him I could, he swore, and
raved, and tore the paper into bits. “Bring me all your letters!” said
he, in a commanding tone. I told him I had none. “Don’t be afraid,” he
continued, in an insinuating way. “Bring them all to me. Nobody shall
do you any harm.” Seeing I did not move to obey him, his pleasant tone
changed to oaths and threats. “Who writes to you? half free niggers?”
inquired he. I replied, “O, no; most of my letters are from white
people. Some request me to burn them after they are read, and some I
destroy without reading.”
An exclamation of surprise from some of the company put a stop to our
conversation. Some silver spoons which ornamented an old-fashioned
buffet had just been discovered. My grandmother was in the habit of
preserving fruit for many ladies in the town, and of preparing suppers
for parties; consequently she had many jars of preserves. The closet
that contained these was next invaded, and the contents tasted. One
of them, who was helping himself freely, tapped his neighbor on the
shoulder, and said, “Wal done! Don’t wonder de niggers want to kill
all de white folks, when dey live on ’sarves” [meaning preserves]. I
stretched out my hand to take the jar, saying, “You were not sent here
to search for sweetmeats.”
“And what _were_ we sent for?” said the captain, bristling up to me. I
evaded the question.
The search of the house was completed, and nothing found to condemn
us. They next proceeded to the garden, and knocked about every bush
and vine, with no better success. The captain called his men together,
and, after a short consultation, the order to march was given. As they
passed out of the gate, the captain turned back, and pronounced a
malediction on the house. He said it ought to be burned to the ground,
and each of its inmates receive thirty-nine lashes. We came out of
this affair very fortunately; not losing any thing except some wearing
apparel.
Towards evening the turbulence increased. The soldiers, stimulated
by drink, committed still greater cruelties. Shrieks and shouts
continually rent the air. Not daring to go to the door, I peeped under
the window curtain. I saw a mob dragging along a number of colored
people, each white man, with his musket upraised, threatening instant
death if they did not stop their shrieks. Among the prisoners was a
respectable old colored minister. They had found a few parcels of shot
in his house, which his wife had for years used to balance her scales.
For this they were going to shoot him on Court House Green. What a
spectacle was that for a civilized country! A rabble, staggering under
intoxication, assuming to be the administrators of justice!
The better class of the community exerted their influence to save the
innocent, persecuted people; and in several instances they succeeded,
by keeping them shut up in jail till the excitement abated. At last
the white citizens found that their own property was not safe from the
lawless rabble they had summoned to protect them. They rallied the
drunken swarm, drove them back into the country, and set a guard over
the town.
The next day, the town patrols were commissioned to search colored
people that lived out of the city; and the most shocking outrages were
committed with perfect impunity. Every day for a fortnight, if I looked
out, I saw horsemen with some poor panting negro tied to their saddles,
and compelled by the lash to keep up with their speed, till they
arrived at the jail yard. Those who had been whipped too unmercifully
to walk were washed with brine, tossed into a cart, and carried to
jail. One black man, who had not fortitude to endure scourging,
promised to give information about the conspiracy. But it turned out
that he knew nothing at all. He had not even heard the name of Nat
Turner. The poor fellow had, however, made up a story, which augmented
his own sufferings and those of the colored people.
The day patrol continued for some weeks, and at sundown a night
guard was substituted. Nothing at all was proved against the colored
people, bond or free. The wrath of the slaveholders was somewhat
appeased by the capture of Nat Turner. The imprisoned were released.
The slaves were sent to their masters, and the free were permitted
to return to their ravaged homes. Visiting was strictly forbidden on
the plantations. The slaves begged the privilege of again meeting at
their little church in the woods, with their burying ground around it.
It was built by the colored people, and they had no higher happiness
than to meet there and sing hymns together, and pour out their hearts
in spontaneous prayer. Their request was denied, and the church was
demolished. They were permitted to attend the white churches, a certain
portion of the galleries being appropriated to their use. There, when
every body else had partaken of the communion, and the benediction
had been pronounced, the minister said, “Come down, now, my colored
friends.” They obeyed the summons, and partook of the bread and wine,
in commemoration of the meek and lowly Jesus, who said, “God is your
Father, and all ye are brethren.”