ANOTHER PRESSURE OF THE TYRANT’S VICE.
Experience at Covey’s summed up--First six months severer than the
remaining six--Preliminaries to the change--Reasons for narrating
the circumstances--Scene in the treading-yard--Author taken ill--
Escapes to St. Michaels--The pursuit--Suffering in the woods--
Talk with Master Thomas--His beating--Driven back to Covey’s--
The slaves never sick--Natural to expect them to feign sickness--
Laziness of slaveholders.
The reader has but to repeat, in his mind, once a week the scene in
the woods, where Covey subjected me to his merciless lash, to have a
true idea of my bitter experience, during the first six months of the
breaking process through which he carried me. I have no heart to repeat
each separate transaction. Such a narration would fill a volume much
larger than the present one. I aim only to give the reader a truthful
impression of my slave-life, without unnecessarily affecting him with
harrowing details.
As I have intimated that my hardships were much greater during the
first six months of my stay at Covey’s than during the remainder of
the year, and as the change in my condition was owing to causes which
may help the reader to a better understanding of human nature, when
subjected to the terrible extremities of slavery, I will narrate the
circumstances of this change, although I may seem thereby to applaud my
own courage.
You have, dear reader, seen me humbled, degraded, broken down,
enslaved, and brutalized; and you understand how it was done; now let
us see the converse of all this, and how it was brought about; and this
will take us through the year 1834.
On one of the hottest days of the month of August, of the year just
mentioned, had the reader been passing through Covey’s farm, he might
have seen me at work in what was called the “treading-yard”--a yard
upon which wheat was trodden out from the straw by the horses’ feet. I
was there at work feeding the “fan,” or rather bringing wheat to the
fan, while Bill Smith was feeding. Our force consisted of Bill Hughes,
Bill Smith, and a slave by the name of Eli, the latter having been
hired for the occasion. The work was simple, and required strength
and activity, rather than any skill or intelligence; and yet to one
entirely unused to such work, it came very hard. The heat was intense
and overpowering, and there was much hurry to get the wheat trodden out
that day, through the fan; since if that work was done an hour before
sundown, the hands would have, according to a promise of Covey, that
hour added to their night’s rest. I was not behind any of them in the
wish to complete the day’s work before sundown, and hence I struggled
with all my might to get it forward. The promise of one hour’s repose
on a week day was sufficient to quicken my pace, and to spur me on
to extra endeavor. Besides, we had all planned to go fishing, and I
certainly wished to have a hand in that. But I was disappointed, and
the day turned out to be one of the bitterest I ever experienced.
About three o’clock, while the sun was pouring down his burning rays,
and not a breeze was stirring, I broke down; my strength failed me; I
was seized with a violent aching of the head, attended with extreme
dizziness, and trembling in every limb. Finding what was coming,
and feeling it would never do to stop work, I nerved myself up, and
staggered on, until I fell by the side of the wheat fan, with a feeling
that the earth had fallen in upon me. This brought the entire work to a
dead stand. There was work for four: each one had his part to perform,
and each part depended on the other, so that when one stopped, all were
compelled to stop. Covey, who had become my dread, was at the house,
about a hundred yards from where I was fanning, and instantly, upon
hearing the fan stop, he came down to the treading-yard to inquire into
the cause of the stopping. Bill Smith told him I was sick, and that I
was unable longer to bring wheat to the fan.
I had by this time crawled away under the side of a post-and-rail fence
in the shade, and was exceedingly ill. The intense heat of the sun,
the heavy dust rising from the fan, the stooping to take up the wheat
from the yard, together with the hurrying to get through, had caused a
rush of blood to my head. In this condition Covey, finding out where I
was, came to me; and after standing over me a while he asked what the
matter was. I told him as well as I could, for it was with difficulty
that I could speak. He gave me a savage kick in the side which jarred
my whole frame, and commanded me to get up. The monster had obtained
complete control over me, and if he had commanded me to do any possible
thing I should, in my then state of mind, have endeavored to comply.
I made an effort to rise, but fell back in the attempt before gaining
my feet. He gave me another heavy kick, and again told me to rise. I
again tried, and succeeded in standing up; but upon stooping to get
the tub with which I was feeding the fan I again staggered and fell to
the ground; and I must have so fallen had I been sure that a hundred
bullets would have pierced me through as the consequence. While down in
this sad condition, and perfectly helpless, the merciless negro-breaker
took up the hickory slab with which Hughes had been striking off the
wheat to a level with the sides of the half-bushel measure (a very hard
weapon), and with the edge of it he dealt me a heavy blow on my head
which made a large gash, and caused the blood to run freely, saying at
the same time, “If you have got the headache I’ll cure you.” This done,
he ordered me again to rise, but I made no effort to do so, for I had
now made up my mind that it was useless, and that the heartless villain
might do his worst, he could but kill me and that might put me out of
my misery. Finding me unable to rise, or rather despairing of my doing
so, Covey left me, with a view to getting on with the work without me.
I was bleeding very freely, and my face was soon covered with my warm
blood. Cruel and merciless as was the motive that dealt that blow, the
wound was a fortunate one for me. Bleeding was never more efficacious.
The pain in my head speedily abated, and I was soon able to rise. Covey
had, as I have said, left me to my fate, and the question was, shall
I return to my work, or shall I find my way to St. Michaels and make
Capt. Auld acquainted with the atrocious cruelty of his brother Covey
and beseech him to get me another master? Remembering the object he had
in view in placing me under the management of Covey, and further, his
cruel treatment of my poor crippled cousin Henny, and his meanness in
the matter of feeding and clothing his slaves, there was little ground
to hope for a favorable reception at the hands of Capt. Thomas Auld.
Nevertheless, I resolved to go straight to him, thinking that, if not
animated by motives of humanity, he might be induced to interfere on
my behalf from selfish considerations. “He cannot,” I thought, “allow
his property to be thus bruised and battered, marred and defaced, and
I will go to him about the matter.” In order to get to St. Michaels
by the most favorable and direct road I must walk seven miles, and
this, in my sad condition, was no easy performance. I had already lost
much blood, I was exhausted by over-exertion, my sides were sore from
the heavy blows planted there by the stout boots of Mr. Covey, and I
was in every way in an unfavorable plight for the journey. I however
watched my chance while the cruel and cunning Covey was looking in an
opposite direction, and started off across the field for St. Michaels.
This was a daring step. If it failed it would only exasperate Covey,
and increase the rigors of my bondage during the remainder of my term
of service under him; but the step was taken, and I must go forward. I
succeeded in getting nearly half way across the broad field toward the
woods, when Covey observed me. I was still bleeding, and the exertion
of running had started the blood afresh. “_Come back! Come back!_” he
vociferated, with threats of what he would do if I did not return
instantly. But disregarding his calls and threats, I pressed on toward
the woods as fast as my feeble state would allow. Seeing no signs of
my stopping he caused his horse to be brought out and saddled, as if
he intended to pursue me. The race was now to be an unequal one, and
thinking I might be overhauled by him if I kept the main road I walked
nearly the whole distance in the woods, keeping far enough from the
road to avoid detection and pursuit. But I had not gone far before
my little strength again failed me, and I was obliged to lie down.
The blood was still oozing from the wound in my head, and for a time
I suffered more than I can describe. There I was in the deep woods,
sick and emaciated, pursued by a wretch whose character for revolting
cruelty beggars all opprobrious speech, bleeding and almost bloodless.
I was not without the fear of bleeding to death. The thought of dying
in the woods all alone, and of being torn in pieces by the buzzards,
had not yet been rendered tolerable by my many troubles and hardships,
and I was glad when the shade of the trees and the cool evening breeze
combined with my matted hair to stop the flow of blood. After lying
there about three-quarters of an hour brooding over the singular and
mournful lot to which I was doomed, my mind passing over the whole
scale or circle of belief and unbelief, from faith in the over-ruling
Providence of God, to the blackest atheism, I again took up my journey
toward St. Michaels, more weary and sad than on the morning when I left
Thomas Auld’s for the home of Covey. I was bare-footed, bare-headed,
and in my shirt sleeves. The way was through briers and bogs, and I
tore my feet often during the journey. I was full five hours in going
the seven or eight miles; partly because of the difficulties of the
way, and partly because of the feebleness induced by my illness,
bruises, and loss of blood.
On gaining my master’s store, I presented an appearance of wretchedness
and woe calculated to move any but a heart of stone. From the crown
of my head to the sole of my feet, there were marks of blood. My hair
was all clotted with dust and blood, and the back of my shirt was
literally stiff with the same. Briers and thorns had scarred and torn
my feet and legs. Had I escaped from a den of tigers, I could not
have looked worse. In this plight I appeared before my professedly
_Christian_ master, humbly to invoke the interposition of his power
and authority, to protect me from further abuse and violence. During
the latter part of my tedious journey, I had begun to hope that my
master would now show himself in a nobler light than I had before
seen him. But I was disappointed. I had jumped from a sinking ship
into the sea; I had fled from a tiger to something worse. I told him
all the circumstances, as well as I could: how I was endeavoring to
please Covey; how hard I was at work in the present instance; how
unwillingly I sank down under the heat, toil, and pain; the brutal
manner in which Covey had kicked me in the side, the gash cut in my
head; my hesitation about troubling him (Capt. Auld) with complaints;
but that now I felt it would not be best longer to conceal from him
the outrages committed on me from time to time. At first Master
Thomas seemed somewhat affected by the story of my wrongs, but he
soon repressed whatever feeling he may have had, and became as cold
and hard as iron. It was impossible, _at first_, as I stood before
him, to seem indifferent. I distinctly saw his human nature asserting
its conviction against the slave system, which made cases like mine
_possible_; but, as I have said, humanity fell before the systematic
tyranny of slavery. He first walked the floor, apparently much agitated
by my story, and the spectacle I presented; but soon it was _his_
turn to talk. He began moderately by finding excuses for Covey, and
ended with a full justification of him, and a passionate condemnation
of me. He had no doubt I deserved the flogging. He did not believe I
was sick; I was only endeavoring to get rid of work. My dizziness was
laziness, and Covey did right to flog me as he had done. After thus
fairly annihilating me, and arousing himself by his eloquence, he
fiercely demanded what I wished _him_ to do in the case! With such a
knockdown to all my hopes, and feeling as I did my entire subjection
to his power, I had very little heart to reply. I must not assert my
innocence of the allegations he had piled up against me, for that would
be impudence. The guilt of a slave was always and everywhere presumed,
and the innocence of the slaveholder, or employer, was always asserted.
The word of the slave against this presumption was generally treated
as impudence, worthy of punishment. “Do you dare to contradict me, you
rascal?” was a final silencer of counter-statements from the lips of
a slave. Calming down a little, in view of my silence and hesitation,
and perhaps a little touched at my forlorn and miserable appearance, he
inquired again, what I wanted him to do? Thus invited a second time,
I told him I wished him to allow me to get a new home, and to find a
new master; that as sure as I went back to live again with Mr. Covey,
I should be killed by him; that he would never forgive my coming home
with complaints; that since I had lived with him he had almost crushed
my spirit, and I believed he would ruin me for future service, and that
my life was not safe in his hands. This Master Thomas (_my brother in
the church_) regarded as “nonsense.” There was no danger that Mr. Covey
would kill me; he was a good man, industrious and religious; and he
would not think of removing me from that home; “besides,” said he--and
this I found was the most distressing thought of all to him--“if you
should leave Covey now that your year is but half expired, I should
lose your wages for the entire year. You belong to Mr. Covey for one
year, and you _must go back_ to him, come what will; and you must not
trouble me with any more stories; and if you don’t go immediately home,
I’ll get hold of you myself.” This was just what I expected when I
found he had _prejudged_ the case against me. “But, sir,” I said, “I am
sick and tired, and I _cannot_ get home to-night.” At this he somewhat
relented, and finally allowed me to stay the night, but said I must be
off early in the morning, and concluded his directions by making me
swallow a huge dose of Epsom salts, which was about the only medicine
ever administered to slaves.
It was quite natural for Master Thomas to presume I was feigning
sickness to escape work, for he probably thought that were he in the
place of a slave, with no wages for his work, no praise for well-doing,
no motive for toil but the lash, he would try every possible scheme
by which to escape labor. I say I have no doubt of this; the reason
is, that there were not, under the whole heavens, a set of men who
cultivated such a dread of labor as did the slaveholders. The charge
of laziness against the slaves was ever on their lips, and was the
standing apology for every species of cruelty and brutality. These men
did indeed literally “bind heavy burdens, grievous to be borne, and
laid them upon men’s shoulders, but they themselves would not move them
with one of their fingers.”