PAINFUL MEDITATIONS--JAMES H. BURCH--WILLIAMS' SLAVE PEN IN
WASHINGTON--THE LACKEY, RADBURN--ASSERT MY FREEDOM--THE ANGER OF
THE TRADER--THE PADDLE AND CAT-O'-NINETAILS--THE WHIPPING--NEW
ACQUAINTANCES--RAY, WILLIAMS, AND RANDALL--ARRIVAL OF LITTLE EMILY
AND HER MOTHER IN THE PEN--MATERNAL SORROWS--THE STORY OF ELIZA.
Some three hours elapsed, during which time I remained seated on the
low bench, absorbed in painful meditations. At length I heard the
crowing of a cock, and soon a distant rumbling sound, as of carriages
hurrying through the streets, came to my ears, and I knew that it
was day. No ray of light, however, penetrated my prison. Finally,
I heard footsteps immediately overhead, as of some one walking to
and fro. It occurred to me then that I must be in an underground
apartment, and the damp, mouldy odors of the place confirmed the
supposition. The noise above continued for at least an hour, when,
at last, I heard footsteps approaching from without. A key rattled
in the lock--a strong door swung back upon its hinges, admitting a
flood of light, and two men entered and stood before me. One of them
was a large, powerful man, forty years of age, perhaps, with dark,
chestnut-colored hair, slightly interspersed with gray. His face was
full, his complexion flush, his features grossly coarse, expressive
of nothing but cruelty and cunning. He was about five feet ten inches
high, of full habit, and, without prejudice, I must be allowed to say,
was a man whose whole appearance was sinister and repugnant. His name
was James H. Burch, as I learned afterwards--a well-known slave-dealer
in Washington; and then, or lately, connected in business, as a
partner, with Theophilus Freeman, of New-Orleans. The person who
accompanied him was a simple lackey, named Ebenezer Radburn, who acted
merely in the capacity of turnkey. Both of these men still live in
Washington, or did, at the time of my return through that city from
slavery in January last.
The light admitted through the open door enabled me to observe the
room in which I was confined. It was about twelve feet square--the
walls of solid masonry. The floor was of heavy plank. There was one
small window, crossed with great iron bars, with an outside shutter,
securely fastened.
An iron-bound door led into an adjoining cell, or vault, wholly
destitute of windows, or any means of admitting light. The furniture
of the room in which I was, consisted of the wooden bench on which
I sat, an old-fashioned, dirty box stove, and besides these, in
either cell, there was neither bed, nor blanket, nor any other thing
whatever. The door, through which Burch and Radburn entered, led
through a small passage, up a flight of steps into a yard, surrounded
by a brick wall ten or twelve feet high, immediately in rear of a
building of the same width as itself. The yard extended rearward from
the house about thirty feet. In one part of the wall there was a
strongly ironed door, opening into a narrow, covered passage, leading
along one side of the house into the street. The doom of the colored
man, upon whom the door leading out of that narrow passage closed,
was sealed. The top of the wall supported one end of a roof, which
ascended inwards, forming a kind of open shed. Underneath the roof
there was a crazy loft all round, where slaves, if so disposed, might
sleep at night, or in inclement weather seek shelter from the storm.
It was like a farmer's barnyard in most respects, save it was so
constructed that the outside world could never see the human cattle
that were herded there.
The building to which the yard was attached, was two stories high,
fronting on one of the public streets of Washington. Its outside
presented only the appearance of a quiet private residence. A stranger
looking at it, would never have dreamed of its execrable uses. Strange
as it may seem, within plain sight of this same house, looking down
from its commanding height upon it, was the Capitol. The voices of
patriotic representatives boasting of freedom and equality, and the
rattling of the poor slave's chains, almost commingled. A slave pen
within the very shadow of the Capitol!
* * * * *
Such is a correct description as it was in 1841, of Williams' slave
pen in Washington, in one of the cellars of which I found myself so
unaccountably confined.
"Well, my boy, how do you feel now?" said Burch, as he entered through
the open door. I replied that I was sick, and inquired the cause of my
imprisonment. He answered that I was his slave--that he had bought me,
and that he was about to send me to New-Orleans. I asserted, aloud and
boldly, that I was a free man--a resident of Saratoga, where I had a
wife and children, who were also free, and that my name was Northup.
I complained bitterly of the strange treatment I had received, and
threatened, upon my liberation, to have satisfaction for the wrong.
He denied that I was free, and with an emphatic oath, declared that I
came from Georgia. Again and again I asserted I was no man's slave,
and insisted upon his taking off my chains at once. He endeavored to
hush me, as if he feared my voice would be overheard. But I would not
be silent, and denounced the authors of my imprisonment, whoever they
might be, as unmitigated villains. Finding he could not quiet me, he
flew into a towering passion. With blasphemous oaths, he called me
a black liar, a runaway from Georgia, and every other profane and
vulgar epithet that the most indecent fancy could conceive.
During this time Radburn was standing silently by. His business was,
to oversee this human, or rather inhuman stable, receiving slaves,
feeding and whipping them, at the rate of two shillings a head per
day. Turning to him, Burch ordered the paddle and cat-o'-ninetails
to be brought in. He disappeared, and in a few moments returned
with these instruments of torture. The paddle, as it is termed in
slave-beating parlance, or at least the one with which I first became
acquainted, and of which I now speak, was a piece of hard-wood
board, eighteen or twenty inches long, moulded to the shape of an
old-fashioned pudding stick, or ordinary oar. The flattened portion,
which was about the size in circumference of two open hands, was bored
with a small auger in numerous places. The cat was a large rope of
many strands--the strands unraveled, and a knot tied at the extremity
of each.
As soon as these formidable whips appeared, I was seized by both
of them, and roughly divested of my clothing. My feet, as has been
stated, were fastened to the floor. Drawing me over the bench, face
downwards, Radburn placed his heavy foot upon the fetters, between my
wrists, holding them painfully to the floor. With the paddle, Burch
commenced beating me. Blow after blow was inflicted upon my naked
body. When his unrelenting arm grew tired, he stopped and asked
if I still insisted I was a free man. I did insist upon it, and then
the blows were renewed, faster and more energetically, if possible,
than before. When again tired, he would repeat the same question, and
receiving the same answer, continue his cruel labor. All this time,
the incarnate devil was uttering most fiendish oaths. At length the
paddle broke, leaving the useless handle in his hand. Still I would
not yield. All his brutal blows could not force from my lips the foul
lie that I was a slave. Casting madly on the floor the handle of the
broken paddle, he seized the rope. This was far more painful than the
other. I struggled with all my power, but it was in vain. I prayed
for mercy, but my prayer was only answered with imprecations and with
stripes. I thought I must die beneath the lashes of the accursed
brute. Even now the flesh crawls upon my bones, as I recall the scene.
I was all on fire. My sufferings I can compare to nothing else than
the burning agonies of hell!
[Illustration: SCENE IN THE SLAVE PEN AT WASHINGTON.]
At last I became silent to his repeated questions. I would make no
reply. In fact, I was becoming almost unable to speak. Still he plied
the lash without stint upon my poor body, until it seemed that the
lacerated flesh was stripped from my bones at every stroke. A man with
a particle of mercy in his soul would not have beaten even a dog so
cruelly. At length Radburn said that it was useless to whip me any
more--that I would be sore enough. Thereupon, Burch desisted, saying,
with an admonitory shake of his fist in my face, and hissing the
words through his firm-set teeth, that if ever I dared to utter again
that I was entitled to my freedom, that I had been kidnapped, or any
thing whatever of the kind, the castigation I had just received was
nothing in comparison with what would follow. He swore that he would
either conquer or kill me. With these consolatory words, the fetters
were taken from my wrists, my feet still remaining fastened to the
ring; the shutter of the little barred window, which had been opened,
was again closed, and going out, locking the great door behind them, I
was left in darkness as before.
In an hour, perhaps two, my heart leaped to my throat, as the key
rattled in the door again. I, who had been so lonely, and who had
longed so ardently to see some one, I cared not who, now shuddered
at the thought of man's approach. A human face was fearful to me,
especially a white one. Radburn entered, bringing with him, on a tin
plate, a piece of shriveled fried pork, a slice of bread and a cup
of water. He asked me how I felt, and remarked that I had received a
pretty severe flogging. He remonstrated with me against the propriety
of asserting my freedom. In rather a patronizing and confidential
manner, he gave it to me as his advice, that the less I said on that
subject the better it would be for me. The man evidently endeavored
to appear kind--whether touched at the sight of my sad condition, or
with the view of silencing, on my part, any further expression of
my rights, it is not necessary now to conjecture. He unlocked the
fetters from my ankles, opened the shutters of the little window, and
departed, leaving me again alone.
By this time I had become stiff and sore; my body was covered with
blisters, and it was with great pain and difficulty that I could
move. From the window I could observe nothing but the roof resting on
the adjacent wall. At night I laid down upon the damp, hard floor,
without any pillow or covering whatever. Punctually, twice a day,
Radburn came in, with his pork, and bread, and water. I had but
little appetite, though I was tormented with continual thirst. My
wounds would not permit me to remain but a few minutes in any one
position; so, sitting, or standing, or moving slowly round, I passed
the days and nights. I was heart sick and discouraged. Thoughts of
my family, of my wife and children, continually occupied my mind.
When sleep overpowered me I dreamed of them--dreamed I was again in
Saratoga--that I could see their faces, and hear their voices calling
me. Awakening from the pleasant phantasms of sleep to the bitter
realities around me, I could but groan and weep. Still my spirit was
not broken. I indulged the anticipation of escape, and that speedily.
It was impossible, I reasoned, that men could be so unjust as to
detain me as a slave, when the truth of my case was known. Burch,
ascertaining I was no runaway from Georgia, would certainly let me
go. Though suspicions of Brown and Hamilton were not unfrequent, I
could not reconcile myself to the idea that they were instrumental to
my imprisonment. Surely they would seek me out--they would deliver
me from thraldom. Alas! I had not then learned the measure of "man's
inhumanity to man," nor to what limitless extent of wickedness he will
go for the love of gain.
In the course of several days the outer door was thrown open, allowing
me the liberty of the yard. There I found three slaves--one of
them a lad of ten years, the others young men of about twenty and
twenty-five. I was not long in forming an acquaintance, and learning
their names and the particulars of their history.
The eldest was a colored man named Clemens Ray. He had lived in
Washington; had driven a hack, and worked in a livery stable there
for a long time. He was very intelligent, and fully comprehended his
situation. The thought of going south overwhelmed him with grief.
Burch had purchased him a few days before, and had placed him there
until such time as he was ready to send him to the New-Orleans market.
From him I learned for the first time that I was in William's Slave
Pen, a place I had never heard of previously. He described to me the
uses for which it was designed. I repeated to him the particulars of
my unhappy story, but he could only give me the consolation of his
sympathy. He also advised me to be silent henceforth on the subject
of my freedom; for, knowing the character of Burch, he assured me
that it would only be attended with renewed whipping. The next
eldest was named John Williams. He was raised in Virginia, not far
from Washington. Burch had taken him in payment of a debt, and he
constantly entertained the hope that his master would redeem him--a
hope that was subsequently realized. The lad was a sprightly child,
that answered to the name of Randall. Most of the time he was playing
about the yard, but occasionally would cry, calling for his mother,
and wondering when she would come. His mother's absence seemed to be
the great and only grief in his little heart. He was too young to
realize his condition, and when the memory of his mother was not in
his mind, he amused us with his pleasant pranks.
At night, Ray, Williams, and the boy, slept in the loft of the shed,
while I was locked in the cell. Finally we were each provided with
blankets, such as are used upon horses--the only bedding I was allowed
to have for twelve years afterwards. Ray and Williams asked me many
questions about New-York--how colored people were treated there; how
they could have homes and families of their own, with none to disturb
and oppress them; and Ray, especially, sighed continually for freedom.
Such conversations, however, were not in the hearing of Burch, or the
keeper Radburn. Aspirations such as these would have brought down the
lash upon our backs.
It is necessary in this narrative, in order to present a full and
truthful statement of all the principal events in the history of my
life, and to portray the institution of Slavery as I have seen and
known it, to speak of well-known places, and of many persons who are
yet living. I am, and always was, an entire stranger in Washington
and its vicinity--aside from Burch and Radburn, knowing no man there,
except as I have heard of them through my enslaved companions. What I
am about to say, if false, can be easily contradicted.
I remained in Williams' slave pen about two weeks. The night previous
to my departure a woman was brought in, weeping bitterly, and
leading by the hand a little child. They were Randall's mother and
half-sister. On meeting them he was overjoyed, clinging to her dress,
kissing the child, and exhibiting every demonstration of delight. The
mother also clasped him in her arms, embraced him tenderly, and gazed
at him fondly through her tears, calling him by many an endearing name.
Emily, the child, was seven or eight years old, of light complexion,
and with a face of admirable beauty. Her hair fell in curls around her
neck, while the style and richness of her dress, and the neatness of
her whole appearance indicated she had been brought up in the midst
of wealth. She was a sweet child indeed. The woman also was arrayed
in silk, with rings upon her fingers, and golden ornaments suspended
from her ears. Her air and manners, the correctness and propriety
of her language--all showed, evidently, that she had sometime stood
above the common level of a slave. She seemed to be amazed at
finding herself in such a place as that. It was plainly a sudden and
unexpected turn of fortune that had brought her there. Filling the air
with her complainings, she was hustled, with the children and myself,
into the cell. Language can convey but an inadequate impression of the
lamentations to which she gave incessant utterance. Throwing herself
upon the floor, and encircling the children in her arms, she poured
forth such touching words as only maternal love and kindness can
suggest. They nestled closely to her, as if _there_ only was there any
safety or protection. At last they slept, their heads resting upon
her lap. While they slumbered, she smoothed the hair back from their
little foreheads, and talked to them all night long. She called them
her darlings--her sweet babes--poor innocent things, that knew not the
misery they were destined to endure. Soon they would have no mother
to comfort them--they would be taken from her. What would become of
them? Oh! she could not live away from her little Emmy and her dear
boy. They had always been good children, and had such loving ways. It
would break her heart, God knew, she said, if they were taken from
her; and yet she knew they meant to sell them, and, may be, they would
be separated, and could never see each other any more. It was enough
to melt a heart of stone to listen to the pitiful expressions of that
desolate and distracted mother. Her name was Eliza; and this was the
story of her life, as she afterwards related it:
She was the slave of Elisha Berry, a rich man, living in the
neighborhood of Washington. She was born, I think she said, on his
plantation. Years before, he had fallen into dissipated habits, and
quarreled with his wife. In fact, soon after the birth of Randall,
they separated. Leaving his wife and daughter in the house they had
always occupied, he erected a new one near by, on the estate. Into
this house he brought Eliza; and, on condition of her living with
him, she and her children were to be emancipated. She resided with
him there nine years, with servants to attend upon her, and provided
with every comfort and luxury of life. Emily was his child! Finally,
her young mistress, who had always remained with her mother at the
homestead, married a Mr. Jacob Brooks. At length, for some cause, (as
I gathered from her relation,) beyond Berry's control, a division of
his property was made. She and her children fell to the share of Mr.
Brooks. During the nine years she had lived with Berry, in consequence
of the position she was compelled to occupy, she and Emily had become
the object of Mrs. Berry and her daughter's hatred and dislike. Berry
himself she represented as a man of naturally a kind heart, who always
promised her that she should have her freedom, and who, she had no
doubt, would grant it to her then, if it were only in his power.
As soon as they thus came into the possession and control of the
daughter, it became very manifest they would not live long together.
The sight of Eliza seemed to be odious to Mrs. Brooks; neither could
she bear to look upon the child, half-sister, and beautiful as she was!
The day she was led into the pen, Brooks had brought her from the
estate into the city, under pretence that the time had come when
her free papers were to be executed, in fulfillment of her master's
promise. Elated at the prospect of immediate liberty, she decked
herself and little Emmy in their best apparel, and accompanied him
with a joyful heart. On their arrival in the city, instead of being
baptized into the family of freemen, she was delivered to the trader
Burch. The paper that was executed was a bill of sale. The hope of
years was blasted in a moment. From the height of most exulting
happiness to the utmost depths of wretchedness, she had that day
descended. No wonder that she wept, and filled the pen with wailings
and expressions of heart-rending woe.
Eliza is now dead. Far up the Red River, where it pours its waters
sluggishly through the unhealthy low lands of Louisiana, she rests
in the grave at last--the only resting place of the poor slave! How
all her fears were realized--how she mourned day and night, and never
would be comforted--how, as she predicted, her heart did indeed break,
with the burden of maternal sorrow, will be seen as the narrative
proceeds.