THE RUNAWAY PLOT.
New Year’s thoughts and meditations--Again hired by Freeland--
Kindness no compensation for slavery--Incipient steps toward
escape--Considerations leading thereto--Hostility to slavery--
Solemn vow taken--Plan divulged to slaves--Columbian Orator again--
Scheme gains favor--Danger of discovery--Skill of slaveholders--
Suspicion and coercion--Hymns with double meaning--Consultation--
Password--Hope and fear--Ignorance of Geography--Imaginary
difficulties--Patrick Henry--Sandy a dreamer--Route to the north
mapped out--Objections--Frauds--Passes--Anxieties--Fear of
failure--Strange presentiment--Coincidence--Betrayal--Arrests--
Resistance--Mrs. Freeland--Prison--Brutal jests--Passes eaten--
Denial--Sandy--Dragged behind horses--Slave-traders--Alone in
prison--Sent to Baltimore.
I am now at the beginning of the year 1836, when the mind naturally
occupies itself with the mysteries of life in all its phases--the
ideal, the real, and the actual. Sober people look both ways at
the beginning of a new year, surveying the errors of the past, and
providing against the possible errors of the future. I, too, was thus
exercised. I had little pleasure in retrospect, and the future prospect
was not brilliant. “Notwithstanding,” thought I, “the many resolutions
and prayers I have made in behalf of freedom, I am, this first day
of the year 1836, still a slave, still wandering in the depths of a
miserable bondage. My faculties and powers of body and soul are not
my own, but are the property of a fellow-mortal in no sense superior
to me, except that he has the physical power to compel me to be owned
and controlled by him. By the combined physical force of the community
I am his slave--a slave for life.” With thoughts like these I was
chafed and perplexed, and they rendered me gloomy and disconsolate. The
anguish of my mind cannot be written.
At the close of the year, Mr. Freeland renewed the purchase of my
services of Mr. Auld for the coming year. His promptness in doing so
would have been flattering to my vanity had I been ambitious to win the
reputation of being a valuable slave. Even as it was, I felt a slight
degree of complacency at the circumstance. It showed him to be as well
pleased with me as a slave as I with him as a master. But the kindness
of the slave-master only gilded the chain, it detracted nothing from
its weight or strength. The thought that men are made for other and
better uses than slavery throve best under the gentle treatment of a
kind master. Its grim visage could assume no smiles able to fascinate
the partially enlightened slave into a forgetfulness of his bondage, or
of the desirableness of liberty.
I was not through the first month of my second year with the kind
and gentlemanly Mr. Freeland before I was earnestly considering and
devising plans for gaining that freedom which, when I was but a mere
child, I had ascertained to be the natural and inborn right of every
member of the human family. The desire for this freedom had been
benumbed while I was under the brutalizing dominion of Covey, and
it had been postponed and rendered inoperative by my truly pleasant
Sunday-school engagements with my friends during the year at Mr.
Freeland’s. It had, however, never entirely subsided. I hated slavery
_always_, and my desire for freedom needed only a favorable breeze to
fan it to a blaze at any moment. The thought of being only a creature
of the _present_ and the _past_ troubled me, and I longed to have a
_future_--a future with hope in it. To be shut up entirely to the
past and present is to the soul whose life and happiness is unceasing
progress--what the prison is to the body--a blight and mildew, a hell
of horrors. The dawning of this, another year, awakened me from my
temporary slumber, and roused into life my latent but long-cherished
aspirations for freedom. I became not only ashamed to be contented
in slavery, but ashamed to _seem_ to be contented, and in my present
favorable condition under the mild rule of Mr. Freeland, I am not sure
that some kind reader will not condemn me for being over-ambitious,
and greatly wanting in humility, when I say the truth, that I now
drove from me all thoughts of making the best of my lot, and welcomed
only such thoughts as led me away from the house of bondage. The
intensity of my desire to be free, quickened by my present favorable
circumstances, brought me to the determination to _act_ as well as
to think and speak. Accordingly, at the beginning of this year 1836,
I took upon me a solemn vow, that the year which had just now dawned
upon me should not close without witnessing an earnest attempt, on
my part, to gain my liberty. This vow only bound me to make good my
own individual escape, but my friendship for my brother-slaves was
so affectionate and confiding that I felt it my duty, as well as my
pleasure, to give them an opportunity to share in my determination.
Toward Henry and John Harris I felt a friendship as strong as one man
can feel for another, for I could have died with and for them. To them,
therefore, with suitable caution, I began to disclose my sentiments and
plans, sounding them the while on the subject of running away, provided
a good chance should offer. I need not say that I did my _very best_
to imbue the minds of my dear friends with my own views and feelings.
Thoroughly awakened now, and with a definite vow upon me, all my
little reading which had any bearing on the subject of human rights
was rendered available in my communications with my friends. That gem
of a book, the Columbian Orator, with its eloquent orations and spicy
dialogues denouncing oppression and slavery--telling what had been
dared, done, and suffered by men, to obtain the inestimable boon of
liberty, was still fresh in my memory, and whirled into the ranks of
my speech with the aptitude of well-trained soldiers going through the
drill. I here began my public speaking. I canvassed with Henry and John
the subject of slavery, and dashed against it the condemning brand of
God’s eternal justice. My fellow-servants were neither indifferent,
dull, nor inapt. Our feelings were more alike than our opinions. All,
however, were ready to act when a feasible plan should be proposed.
“Show us how the thing is to be done,” said they, “and all else is
clear.”
We were all, except Sandy, quite clear from slaveholding priestcraft.
It was in vain that we had been taught from the pulpit at St. Michaels
the duty of obedience to our masters; to recognize God as the author
of our enslavement; to regard running away an offense, alike against
God and man; to deem our enslavement a merciful and beneficial
arrangement; to esteem our condition in this country a paradise to
that from which we had been snatched in Africa; to consider our hard
hands and dark color as God’s displeasure, and as pointing us out as
the proper subjects of slavery; that the relation of master and slave
was one of reciprocal benefits; that our work was not more serviceable
to our masters than our master’s thinking was to us. I say it was in
vain that the pulpit of St. Michaels had constantly inculcated these
plausible doctrines. Nature laughed them to scorn. For my part, I had
become altogether too big for my chains. Father Lawson’s solemn words
of what I ought to be, and what I might be in the providence of God,
had not fallen dead on my soul. I was fast verging toward manhood, and
the prophesies of my childhood were still unfulfilled. The thought
that year after year had passed away, and my best resolutions to run
away had failed and faded, that I was still a slave, with chances for
gaining my freedom diminished and still diminishing--was not a matter
to be slept over easily. But here came a trouble. Such thoughts and
purposes as I now cherished could not agitate the mind long without
making themselves manifest to scrutinizing and unfriendly observers.
I had reason to fear that my sable face might prove altogether too
transparent for the safe concealment of my hazardous enterprise. Plans
of great moment have leaked through stone walls, and revealed their
projectors. But here was no stone wall to hide my purpose. I would
have given my poor tell-tale face for the immovable countenance of an
Indian, for it was far from proof against the daily searching glances
of those whom I met.
It was the interest and business of slaveholders to study human nature,
and the slave nature in particular, with a view to practical results;
and many of them attained astonishing proficiency in this direction.
They had to deal not with earth, wood, and stone, but with _men_; and
by every regard they had for their safety and prosperity they had need
to know the material on which they were to work. So much intellect as
the slaveholder had round him required watching. Their safety depended
on their vigilance. Conscious of the injustice and wrong they were
every hour perpetrating, and knowing what they themselves would do if
they were victims of such wrongs, they were constantly looking out for
the first signs of the dread retribution. They watched, therefore, with
skilled and practiced eyes, and learned to read, with great accuracy,
the state of mind and heart of the slave through his sable face.
Unusual sobriety, apparent abstraction, sullenness, and indifference,--
indeed, any mood out of the common way,--afforded ground for suspicion
and inquiry. Relying on their superior position and wisdom, they “would
often hector the slave into a confession by affecting to know the truth
of their accusations. “You have got the devil in you, and we’ll whip
him out of you,” they would say. I have often been put thus to the
torture on bare suspicion. This system had its disadvantages as well as
its opposite--the slave being sometimes whipped into the confession
of offenses which he never committed. It will be seen that the good
old rule, “A man is to be held innocent until proved to be guilty,”
did not hold good on the slave plantation. Suspicion and torture were
the approved methods of getting at the truth there. It was necessary,
therefore, for me to keep a watch over my deportment, lest the enemy
should get the better of me. But with all our caution and studied
reserve, I am not sure that Mr. Freeland did not suspect that all was
not right with us. It _did_ seem that he watched us more narrowly
after the plan of escape had been conceived and discussed amongst us.
Men seldom see themselves as others see them; and while to ourselves
everything connected with our contemplated escape appeared concealed,
Mr. Freeland may, with the peculiar prescience of a slaveholder, have
mastered the huge thought which was disturbing our peace. As I now
look back, I am the more inclined to think he suspected us, because,
prudent as we were, I can see that we did many silly things very well
calculated to awaken suspicion. We were at times remarkably buoyant,
singing hymns, and making joyous exclamations, almost as triumphant in
their tone as if we had reached a land of freedom and safety. A keen
observer might have detected in our repeated singing of
“O Canaan, sweet Canaan,
I am bound for the land of Canaan,”
something more than a hope of reaching heaven. We meant to reach the
_North_, and the North was our Canaan.
“I thought I heard them say
There were lions in the way;
I don’t expect to stay
Much longer here.
Run to Jesus, shun the danger--
I don’t expect to stay
Much longer here,”
was a favorite air, and had a double meaning. In the lips of some it
meant the expectation of a speedy summons to a world of spirits; but in
the lips of our company, it simply meant a speedy pilgrimage to a free
State, and deliverance from all the evils and dangers of slavery.
I had succeeded in winning to my scheme a company of five young men,
the very flower of the neighborhood, each one of whom would have
commanded one thousand dollars in the home market. At New Orleans
they would have brought fifteen hundred dollars apiece, and perhaps
more. Their names were as follows: Henry Harris, John Harris, Sandy
Jenkins, Charles Roberts, and Henry Bailey. I was the youngest but one
of the party. I had, however, the advantage of them all in experience,
and in a knowledge of letters. This gave me a great influence over
them. Perhaps not one of them, left to himself, would have dreamed
of escape as a possible thing. They all wanted to be free, but the
serious thought of running away had not entered into their minds until
I won them to the undertaking. They all were tolerably well off--
for slaves--and had dim hopes of being set free some day by their
masters. If any one is to blame for disturbing the quiet of the slaves
and slave-masters of the neighborhood of St. Michaels, I AM THE MAN.
I claim to be the instigator of the high crime (as the slaveholders
regarded it), and I kept life in it till life could be kept in it no
longer.
Pending the time of our contemplated departure out of our Egypt, we met
often by night, and on every Sunday. At these meetings we talked the
matter over, told our hopes and fears, and the difficulties discovered
or imagined; and, like men of sense, we counted the cost of the
enterprise to which we were committing ourselves. These meetings must
have resembled, on a small scale, the meetings of the revolutionary
conspirators in their primary condition. We were plotting against our
(so-called) lawful rulers, with this difference--we sought our own
good, and not the harm of our enemies. We did not seek to overthrow
them, but to escape from them. As for Mr. Freeland, we all liked him,
and would gladly have remained with him _as free men_. _Liberty_ was
our aim, and we had now come to think that we had a right to it against
every obstacle, even against the lives of our enslavers.
We had several words, expressive of things important to us, which we
understood, but which, even if distinctly heard by an outsider, would
have conveyed no certain meaning. I hated this secresy, but where
slavery was powerful, and liberty weak, the latter was driven to
concealment or destruction.
The prospect was not always bright. At times we were almost tempted
to abandon the enterprise, and to try to get back to that comparative
peace of mind which even a man under the gallows might feel when all
hope of escape had vanished. We were confident, bold, and determined,
at times, and again doubting, timid, and wavering, whistling, like the
boy in the grave-yard, to keep away the spirits.
To look at the map and observe the proximity of Eastern shore,
Maryland, to Delaware and Pennsylvania, it may seem to the reader quite
absurd to regard the proposed escape as a formidable undertaking. But
to _understand_, some one has said, a man must _stand under_. The
real distance was great enough, but the imagined distance was, to our
ignorance, much greater. Slaveholders sought to impress their slaves
with a belief in the boundlessness of slave territory, and of their
own limitless power. Our notions of the geography of the country were
very vague and indistinct. The distance, however, was not the chief
trouble, for the nearer the lines of a slave state to the borders of a
free state the greater was the trouble. Hired kidnappers infested the
borders. Then, too, we knew that merely reaching a free state did not
free us, that wherever caught we could be returned to slavery. We knew
of no spot this side the ocean where we could be safe. We had heard of
Canada, then the only real Canaan of the American bondman, simply as
a country to which the wild goose and the swan repaired at the end of
winter to escape the heat of summer, but not as the home of man. I knew
something of Theology, but nothing of Geography. I really did not know
that there was a state of New York or a state of Massachusetts. I had
heard of Pennsylvania, Delaware, and New Jersey, and all the southern
states, but was utterly ignorant of the free states. New York City was
our northern limit, and to go there and to be forever harassed with
the liability of being hunted down and returned to slavery, with the
certainty of being treated ten times worse than ever before, was a
prospect which might well cause some hesitation. The case sometimes,
to our excited visions, stood thus: At every gate through which we had
to pass we saw a watchman; at every ferry a guard; on every bridge a
sentinel, and in every wood a patrol or slave-hunter. We were hemmed
in on every side. The good to be sought and the evil to be shunned
were flung in the balance and weighed against each other. On the one
hand stood slavery, a stern reality glaring frightfully upon us, with
the blood of millions in its polluted skirts, terrible to behold,
greedily devouring our hard earnings and feeding it upon our flesh.
This was the evil from which to escape. On the other hand, far away,
back in the hazy distance, where all forms seemed but shadows under
the flickering light of the north star, behind some craggy hill or
snow-capped mountain, stood a doubtful freedom, half frozen, beckoning
us to her icy domain. This was the good to be sought. The inequality
was as great as that between certainty and uncertainty. This in itself
was enough to stagger us; but when we came to survey the untrodden
road and conjecture the many possible difficulties we were appalled,
and at times, as I have said, were upon the point of giving over the
struggle altogether. The reader can have little idea of the phantoms
which would flit, in such circumstances, before the uneducated mind
of the slave. Upon either side we saw grim death, assuming a variety
of horrid shapes. Now it was starvation, causing us, in a strange and
friendless land, to eat our own flesh. Now we were contending with the
waves and were drowned. Now we were hunted by dogs and overtaken, and
torn to pieces by their merciless fangs. We were stung by scorpions,
chased by wild beasts, bitten by snakes, and worst of all, after having
succeeded in swimming rivers, encountering wild beasts, sleeping in the
woods, suffering hunger, cold, heat, and nakedness, overtaken by hired
kidnappers, who in the name of law and for the thrice-cursed reward
would, perchance, fire upon us, kill some, wound others, and capture
all. This dark picture, drawn by ignorance and fear, at times greatly
shook our determination, and not unfrequently caused us to
“Rather bear the ills we had,
Than flee to others which we knew not of.”
I am not disposed to magnify this circumstance in my experience, and
yet I think I shall seem to be so disposed to the reader, but no man
can tell the intense agony which was felt by the slave when wavering on
the point of making his escape. All that he has is at stake, and even
that which he has not is at stake also. The life which he has may be
lost, and the liberty which he seeks may not be gained.
Patrick Henry, to a listening senate which was thrilled by his magic
eloquence and ready to stand by him in his boldest flights, could say,
“Give me liberty or give me death,” and this saying was a sublime one,
even for a freeman; but incomparably more sublime is the same sentiment
when _practically_ asserted by men accustomed to the lash and chain,
men whose sensibilities must have become more or less deadened by their
bondage. With us it was a doubtful liberty, at best, that we sought,
and a certain lingering death in the rice swamps and sugar fields if
we failed. Life is not lightly regarded by men of sane minds. It is
precious both to the pauper and to the prince, to the slave and to his
master; and yet I believe there was not one among us who would not
rather have been shot down than pass away life in hopeless bondage.
In the progress of our preparations Sandy (the root man) became
troubled. He began to have distressing dreams. One of these, which
happened on a Friday night, was to him of great significance, and I am
quite ready to confess that I felt somewhat damped by it myself. He
said, “I dreamed last night that I was roused from sleep by strange
noises like the noises of a swarm of angry birds that caused a roar as
they passed, and which fell upon my ear like a coming gale over the
tops of the trees. Looking up to see what it could mean I saw you,
Frederick, in the claws of a huge bird, surrounded by a large number
of birds of all colors and sizes. These were all pecking at you, while
you, with your arms, seemed to be trying to protect your eyes. Passing
over me, the birds flew in a southwesterly direction, and I watched
them until they were clean out of sight. Now I saw this as plainly as
I now see you; and furder, honey, watch de Friday night dream; dare
is sumpon in it shose you born; dare is indeed, honey.” I did not like
the dream, but I showed no concern, attributing it to the general
excitement and perturbation consequent upon our contemplated plan to
escape. I could not, however, shake off its effect at once. I felt that
it boded no good. Sandy was unusually emphatic and oracular, and his
manner had much to do with the impression made upon me.
The plan which I recommended, and to which my comrades consented, for
our escape, was to take a large canoe owned by Mr. Hamilton, and on
the Saturday night previous to the Easter holidays launch out into the
Chesapeake bay and paddle for its head, a distance of seventy miles,
with all our might. On reaching this point we were to turn the canoe
adrift and bend our steps toward the north star till we reached a free
state.
There were several objections to this plan. In rough weather the waters
of the Chesapeake are much agitated, and there would be danger, in
a canoe, of being swamped by the waves. Another objection was that
the canoe would soon be missed, the absent slaves would at once be
suspected of having taken it, and we should be pursued by some of the
fast-sailing craft out of St. Michaels. Then again, if we reached the
head of the bay and turned the canoe adrift, she might prove a guide to
our track and bring the hunters after us.
These and other objections were set aside by the stronger ones, which
could be urged against every other plan that could then be suggested.
On the water we had a chance of being regarded as fishermen, in the
service of a master. On the other hand, by taking the land route,
through the counties adjoining Delaware, we should be subjected to all
manner of interruptions, and many disagreeable questions, which might
give us serious trouble. Any white man, if he pleased, was authorized
to stop a man of color on any road, and examine and arrest him. By
this arrangement many abuses (considered such even by slaveholders)
occurred. Cases have been known where freemen, being called upon to
show their free papers by a pack of ruffians, and on the presentation
of the papers, the ruffians have torn them up, and seized the victim
and sold him to a life of endless bondage.
The week before our intended start, I wrote a pass for each of our
party, giving them permission to visit Baltimore during the Easter
holidays. The pass ran after this manner:
“This is to certify that I, the undersigned, have given the bearer,
my servant John, full liberty to go to Baltimore to spend the
Easter holidays.
W. H.
NEAR ST. MICHAELS, Talbot Co., Md.”
Although we were not going to Baltimore, and were intending to land
east of North Point, in the direction I had seen the Philadelphia
steamers go, these passes might be useful to us in the lower part of
the bay, while steering towards Baltimore. These were not, however,
to be shown by us, until all other answers failed to satisfy the
inquirer. We were all fully alive to the importance of being calm and
self-possessed when accosted, if accosted we should be; and we more
than once rehearsed to each other how we should behave in the hour of
trial.
Those were long, tedious days and nights. The suspense was painful in
the extreme. To balance probabilities, where life and liberty hang on
the result, requires steady nerves. I panted for action, and was glad
when the day, at the close of which we were to start, dawned upon us.
Sleeping the night before was out of the question. I probably felt
more deeply than any of my companions, because I was the instigator
of the movement. The responsibility of the whole enterprise rested
on my shoulders. The glory of success, and the shame and confusion
of failure, could not be matters of indifference to me. Our food
was prepared, our clothes were packed; we were all ready to go, and
impatient for Saturday morning--considering _that_ the last of our
bondage.
I cannot describe the tempest and tumult of my brain that morning. The
reader will please bear in mind that in a slave State an unsuccessful
runaway was not only subjected to cruel torture, and sold away to the
far South, but he was frequently execrated by the other slaves. He
was charged with making the condition of the other slaves intolerable
by laying them all under the suspicion of their masters--subjecting
them to greater vigilance, and imposing greater limitations on their
privileges. I dreaded murmurs from this quarter. It was difficult, too,
for a slave-master to believe that slaves escaping had not been aided
in their flight by some one of their fellow-slaves. When, therefore, a
slave was missing, every slave on the place was closely examined as to
his knowledge of the undertaking.
Our anxiety grew more and more intense, as the time of our intended
departure drew nigh. It was truly felt to be a matter of life and
death with us, and we fully intended to _fight_, as well as _run_,
if necessity should occur for that extremity. But the trial hour
had not yet come. It was easy to resolve, but not so easy to act. I
expected there might be some drawing back at the last; it was natural
there should be; therefore, during the intervening time, I lost no
opportunity to explain away difficulties, remove doubts, dispel fears,
and inspire all with firmness. It was too late to look back, and now
was the time to go forward. I appealed to the pride of my comrades by
telling them that if after having solemnly promised to go, as they had
done, they now failed to make the attempt, they would in effect brand
themselves with cowardice, and might well sit down, fold their arms,
and acknowledge themselves fit only to be slaves. This detestable
character all were unwilling to assume. Every man except Sandy (he,
much to our regret, withdrew) stood firm, and at our last meeting we
pledged ourselves afresh, and in the most solemn manner, that at the
time appointed we _would_ certainly start on our long journey for a
free country. This meeting was in the middle of the week, at the end of
which we were to start.
Early on the appointed morning we went as usual to the field, but with
hearts that beat quickly and anxiously. Any one intimately acquainted
with us might have seen that all was not well with us, and that some
monster lingered in our thoughts. Our work that morning was the same as
it had been for several days past--drawing out and spreading manure.
While thus engaged, I had a sudden presentiment, which flashed upon me
like lightning in a dark night, revealing to the lonely traveler the
gulf before and the enemy behind. I instantly turned to Sandy Jenkins,
who was near me, and said: “_Sandy, we are betrayed!_ something has
just told me so.” I felt as sure of it as if the officers were in
sight. Sandy said: “Man, dat is strange; but I feel just as you do.” If
my mother--then long in her grave--had appeared before me and told
me that we were betrayed, I could not at that moment have felt more
certain of the fact.
In a few minutes after this, the long, low, and distant notes of the
horn summoned us from the field to breakfast. I felt as one may be
supposed to feel before being led forth to be executed for some great
offense. I wanted no breakfast, but I went with the other slaves toward
the house for form’s sake. My feelings were not disturbed as to the
right of running away; on that point I had no misgiving whatever, but
from a sense of the consequences of failure.
In thirty minutes after that vivid impression came the apprehended
crash. On reaching the house, and glancing my eye toward the lane gate,
the worst was at once made known. The lane gate to Mr. Freeland’s house
was nearly half a mile from the door, and much shaded by the heavy wood
which bordered the main road. I was, however, able to descry four white
men and two colored men approaching. The white men were on horseback,
and the colored men were walking behind, and seemed to be tied. “_It
is indeed all over with us; we are surely betrayed_,” I thought to
myself. I became composed, or at least comparatively so, and calmly
awaited the result. I watched the ill-omened company entering the gate.
Successful flight was impossible, and I made up my mind to stand and
meet the evil, whatever it might be, for I was not altogether without
a slight hope that things might turn differently from what I had at
first feared. In a few moments in came Mr. William Hamilton, riding
very rapidly and evidently much excited. He was in the habit of riding
very slowly, and was seldom known to gallop his horse. This time his
horse was nearly at full speed, causing the dust to roll thick behind
him. Mr. Hamilton, though one of the most resolute men in the whole
neighborhood, was, nevertheless, a remarkably mild-spoken man, and,
even when greatly excited, his language was cool and circumspect. He
came to the door, and inquired if Mr. Freeland was in? I told him
that Mr. Freeland was at the barn. Off the old gentleman rode toward
the barn, with unwonted speed. In a few moments Mr. Hamilton and
Mr. Freeland came down from the barn to the house, and just as they
made their appearance in the front-yard three men, who proved to be
constables, came dashing into the lane on horseback, as if summoned
by a sign requiring quick work. A few seconds brought them into the
front-yard, where they hastily dismounted and tied their horses. This
done, they joined Mr. Freeland and Mr. Hamilton, who were standing a
short distance from the kitchen. A few moments were spent as if in
consulting how to proceed, and then the whole party walked up to the
kitchen door. There was now no one in the kitchen but myself and John
Harris; Henry and Sandy were yet in the barn. Mr. Freeland came inside
the kitchen door, and with an agitated voice called me by name, and
told me to come forward, that there were some gentlemen who wished to
see me. I stepped toward them at the door, and asked what they wanted;
when the constables grabbed me, and told me that I had better not
resist; that I had been in a scrape, or was said to have been in one;
that they were merely going to take me where I could be examined; that
they would have me brought before my master at St. Michaels, and if the
evidence against me was not proved true I should be acquitted. I was
now firmly tied, and completely at the mercy of my captors. Resistance
was idle. They were five in number, armed to the teeth. When they had
secured me, they turned to John Harris, and in a few moments succeeded
in tying him as firmly as they had tied me. They next turned toward
Henry Harris, who had now returned from the barn. “Cross your hands,”
said the constable to Henry. “I won’t,” said Henry, in a voice so firm
and clear, and in a manner so determined, as for a moment to arrest
all proceedings. “Won’t you cross your hands?” said Tom Graham, the
constable. “_No, I won’t_,” said Henry, with increasing emphasis. Mr.
Hamilton, Mr. Freeland, and the officers now came near to Henry. Two
of the constables drew out their shining pistols, and swore, by the
name of God, that he should cross his hands or they would shoot him
down. Each of these hired ruffians now cocked their pistols, and, with
fingers apparently on the triggers, presented their deadly weapons to
the breast of the unarmed slave, saying, if he did not cross his hands,
they would “blow his d----d heart out of him.” “_Shoot me, shoot me_,”
said Henry; “you can’t kill me but once. _Shoot, shoot_, and be damned!
I won’t be tied!” This the brave fellow said in a voice as defiant and
heroic in its tone as was the language itself; and at the moment of
saying this, with the pistols at his very breast, he quickly raised his
arms, and dashed them from the puny hands of his assassins, the weapons
flying in all directions. Now came the struggle. All hands rushed upon
the brave fellow, and after beating him for some time they succeeded
in overpowering and tying him. Henry put me to shame; he fought, and
fought bravely. John and I had made no resistance. The fact is, I never
saw much use of fighting where there was no reasonable probability of
whipping anybody. Yet there was something almost providential in the
resistance made by Henry. But for that resistance every soul of us
would have been hurried off to the far South. Just a moment previous
to the trouble with Henry, Mr. Hamilton _mildly_ said,--and this gave
me the unmistakable clue to the cause of our arrest,--“Perhaps we had
now better make a search for those protections, which we understand
Frederick has written for himself and the rest.” Had these passes
been found, they would have been point-blank proof against us, and
would have confirmed all the statements of our betrayer. Thanks to
the resistance of Henry, the excitement produced by the scuffle drew
all attention in that direction, and I succeeded in flinging my pass,
unobserved, into the fire. The confusion attendant on the scuffle, and
the apprehension of still further trouble, perhaps, led our captors
to forego, for the time, any search for “_those protections_ which
Frederick was said to have written for his companions;” so we were not
yet convicted of the purpose to run away, and it was evident that there
was some doubt on the part of all whether we had been guilty of such
purpose.
Just as we were all completely tied, and about ready to start toward
St. Michaels, and thence to jail, Mrs. Betsey Freeland (mother to
William, who was much attached, after the Southern fashion, to Henry
and John, they having been reared from childhood in her house) came to
the kitchen door with her hands full of biscuits, for we had not had
our breakfast that morning, and divided them between Henry and John.
This done, the lady made the following parting address to me, pointing
her bony finger at me: “You devil! you yellow devil! It was you who
put it into the heads of Henry and John to run away. But for you, _you
long-legged, yellow devil_, Henry and John would never have thought of
running away.” I gave the lady a look which called forth from her a
scream of mingled wrath and terror, as she slammed the kitchen door and
went in, leaving me, with the rest, in hands as harsh as her own broken
voice.
[Illustration: DRIVEN TO JAIL FOR RUNNING AWAY.]
Could the kind reader have been riding along the main road to or from
Easton that morning, his eye would have met a painful sight. He would
have seen five young men, guilty of no crime save that of preferring
_liberty_ to _slavery_, drawn along the public highway--firmly bound
together, tramping through dust and heat, bare-footed and bare-headed--
fastened to three strong horses, whose riders were armed with pistols
and daggers, on their way to prison like felons, and suffering every
possible insult from the crowds of idle, vulgar people, who clustered
round, and heartlessly made their failure to escape the occasion for
all manner of ribaldry and sport. As I looked upon this crowd of vile
persons, and saw myself and friends thus assailed and persecuted, I
could not help seeing the fulfilment of Sandy’s dream. I was in the
hands of moral vultures, and held in their sharp talons, and was being
hurried away toward Easton, in a southeasterly direction, amid the
jeers of new birds of the same feather, through every neighborhood we
passed. It seemed to me that everybody was out, and knew the cause of
our arrest, and awaited our passing in order to feast their vindictive
eyes on our misery.
Some said “_I ought to be hanged_;” and others, “_I ought to be
burned_;” others I ought to have the “hide” taken off my back; while no
one gave us a kind word or sympathizing look, except the poor slaves
who were lifting their heavy hoes, and who cautiously glanced at us
through the post-and-rail fences, behind which they were at work. Our
sufferings that morning can be more easily imagined than described. Our
hopes were all blasted at one blow. The cruel injustice, the victorious
crime, and the helplessness of innocence, led me to ask in my ignorance
and weakness: Where is now the God of justice and mercy? and why have
these wicked men the power thus to trample upon our rights, and to
insult our feelings? and yet in the next moment came the consoling
thought, “the day of the oppressor will come at last.” Of one thing
I could be glad: not one of my dear friends upon whom I had brought
this great calamity, either by word or look, reproached me for having
led them into it. We were a band of brothers, and never dearer to
each other than now. The thought which gave us the most pain was the
probable separation which would now take place in case we were sold
off to the far South, as we were likely to be. While the constables
were looking forward, Henry and I, being fastened together, could
occasionally exchange a word without being observed by the kidnappers
who had us in charge. “What shall I do with my pass?” said Henry. “Eat
it with your biscuit,” said I; “it won’t do to tear it up.” We were
now near St. Michaels. The direction concerning the passes was passed
around, and executed. “Own nothing,” said I. “Own nothing” was passed
round, enjoined, and assented to. Our confidence in each other was
unshaken, and we were quite resolved to succeed or fail together; as
much after the calamity which had befallen us as before.
On reaching St. Michaels we underwent a sort of examination at my
master’s store, and it was evident to my mind that Master Thomas
suspected the truthfulness of the evidence upon which they had acted
in arresting us, and that he only affected, to some extent, the
positiveness with which he asserted our guilt. There was nothing said
by any of our company which could, in any manner, prejudice our cause,
and there was hope yet that we should be able to return to our homes,
if for nothing else, at least to find out the guilty man or woman who
betrayed us.
To this end we all denied that we had been guilty of intended flight.
Master Thomas said that the evidence he had of our intention to run
away was strong, enough to hang us in a case of murder. “But,” said
I, “the cases are not equal; if murder were committed,--the thing is
done! but we have not run away. Where is the evidence against us? We
were quietly at our work.” I talked thus, with unusual freedom, to
bring out the evidence against us, for we all wanted, above all things,
to know who had betrayed us, that we might have something tangible on
which to pour our execrations. From something which dropped, in the
course of the talk, it appeared that there was but one witness against
us, and that that witness could not be produced. Master Thomas would
not tell us who his informant was, but we suspected, and suspected
_one_ person only. Several circumstances seemed to point Sandy out as
our betrayer. His entire knowledge of our plans, his participation
in them, his withdrawal from us, his dream and his simultaneous
presentiment that we were betrayed, the taking us and the leaving him,
were calculated to turn suspicion toward him, and yet we could not
suspect him. We all loved him too well to think it possible that he
could have betrayed us. So we rolled the guilt on other shoulders.
We were literally dragged, that morning, behind horses, a distance of
fifteen miles, and placed in the Easton jail. We were glad to reach
the end of our journey, for our pathway had been full of insult and
mortification. Such is the power of public opinion that it is hard,
even for the innocent, to feel the happy consolations of innocence when
they fall under the maledictions of this power. How could we regard
ourselves as in the right, when all about us denounced us as criminals,
and had the power and the disposition to treat us as such.
In jail we were placed under the care of Mr. Joseph Graham, the sheriff
of the county. Henry and John and myself were placed in one room,
and Henry Bailey and Charles Roberts in another by themselves. This
separation was intended to deprive us of the advantage of concert, and
to prevent trouble in jail.
Once shut up, a new set of tormentors came upon us. A swarm of imps
in human shape,--the slave-traders and agents of slave-traders--who
gathered in every country town of the state watching for chances to
buy human flesh (as buzzards watch for carrion), flocked in upon us
to ascertain if our masters had placed us in jail to be sold. Such a
set of debased and villainous creatures I never saw before and hope
never to see again. I felt as if surrounded by a pack of _fiends_ fresh
from _perdition_. They laughed, leered, and grinned at us, saying,
“Ah, boys, we have got you, haven’t we? So you were about to make your
escape? Where were you going to?” After taunting us in this way as long
as they liked they one by one subjected us to an examination, with a
view to ascertain our value, feeling our arms and legs and shaking us
by the shoulders, to see if we were sound and healthy, impudently
asking us, “how we would like to have them for masters?” To such
questions we were quite dumb (much to their annoyance). One fellow told
me, “if he had me he would cut the devil out of me pretty quick.”
These negro-buyers were very offensive to the genteel southern
Christian public. They were looked upon in respectable Maryland society
as necessary but detestable characters. As a class, they were hardened
ruffians, made such by nature and by occupation. Yes, they were the
legitimate fruit of slavery, and were second in villainy only to the
slaveholders themselves who made such a class _possible_. They were
mere hucksters of the slave produce of Maryland and Virginia--coarse,
cruel, and swaggering bullies, whose very breathing was of blasphemy
and blood.
Aside from these slave-buyers who infested the prison from time to
time, our quarters were much more comfortable than we had any right to
expect them to be. Our allowance of food was small and coarse, but our
room was the best in the jail--neat and spacious, and with nothing
about it necessarily reminding us of being in prison but its heavy
locks and bolts and the black iron lattice work at the windows. We were
prisoners of state compared with most slaves who were put into that
Easton jail. But the place was not one of contentment. Bolts, bars,
and grated windows are not acceptable to freedom-loving people of any
color. The suspense, too, was painful. Every step on the stairway was
listened to, in the hope that the comer would cast a ray of light on
our fate. We would have given the hair of our heads for half a dozen
words with one of the waiters in Sol. Lowe’s hotel. Such waiters were
in the way of hearing, at the table, the probable course of things. We
could see them flitting about in their white jackets in front of this
hotel, but could speak to none of them.
Soon after the holidays were over, contrary to all our expectations,
Messrs. Hamilton and Freeland came up to Easton; not to make a bargain
with the “Georgia traders,” nor to send us up to Austin Woldfolk, as
was usual in the case of runaway-slaves, but to release Charles, Henry
Harris, Henry Bailey, and John Harris from prison, and this, too,
without the infliction of a single blow. I was left alone in prison.
The innocent had been taken and the guilty left. My friends were
separated from me, and apparently forever. This circumstance caused
me more pain than any other incident connected with our capture and
imprisonment. Thirty-nine lashes on my naked and bleeding back would
have been joyfully borne, in preference to this separation from these,
the friends of my youth. And yet I could not but feel that I was the
victim of something like justice. Why should these young men, who were
led into this scheme by me, suffer as much as the instigator? I felt
glad that they were released from prison, and from the dread prospect
of a life (or death I should rather say) in the rice swamps. It is due
to the noble Henry to say that he was almost as reluctant to leave the
prison with me in it as he had been to be tied and dragged to prison.
But he and we all knew that we should, in all the likelihoods of the
case, be separated, in the event of being sold; and since we were
completely in the hands of our owners they concluded it would be best
to go peaceably home.
Not until this last separation, dear reader, had I touched those
profounder depths of desolation which it is the lot of slaves often to
reach. I was solitary and alone within the walls of a stone prison,
left to a fate of life-long misery. I had hoped and expected much,
for months before, but my hopes and expectations were now withered
and blasted. The ever dreaded slave life in Georgia, Louisiana, and
Alabama,--from which escape was next to impossible--now in my
loneliness stared me in the face. The possibility of ever becoming
anything but an abject slave, a mere machine in the hands of an owner,
had now fled, and it seemed to me it had fled forever. A life of living
death, beset with the innumerable horrors of the cotton field and the
sugar plantation, seemed to be my doom. The fiends who rushed into the
prison when we were first put there continued to visit me and ply me
with questions and tantalizing remarks. I was insulted, but helpless;
keenly alive to the demands of justice and liberty, but with no means
of asserting them. To talk to those imps about justice or mercy would
have been as absurd as to reason with bears and tigers. Lead and steel
were the only arguments that they were capable of appreciating, as the
events of the subsequent years have proved.
After remaining in this life of misery and despair about a week, which
seemed a month, Master Thomas, very much to my surprise and greatly
to my relief, came to the prison and took me out, for the purpose,
as he said, of sending me to Alabama with a friend of his, who would
emancipate me at the end of eight years. I was glad enough to get
out of prison, but I had no faith in the story that his friend would
emancipate me. Besides, I had never heard of his having a friend in
Alabama, and I took the announcement simply as an easy and comfortable
method of shipping me off to the far south. There was a little scandal,
too, connected with the idea of one Christian selling another to the
Georgia traders, while it was deemed every way proper for them to
sell to others. I thought this friend in Alabama was an invention
to meet this difficulty, for Master Thomas was quite jealous of his
religious reputation, however unconcerned he might have been about his
real Christian character. In these remarks it is possible I do him
injustice. He certainly did not exert his power over me as he might
have done in the case, but acted, upon the whole, very generously,
considering the nature of my offense. He had the power and the
provocation to send me, without reserve, into the very everglades of
Florida, beyond the remotest hope of emancipation; and his refusal to
exercise that power must be set down to his credit.
After lingering about St. Michaels a few days and no friend from
Alabama appearing, Master Thomas decided to send me back again to
Baltimore, to live with his brother Hugh, with whom he was now at
peace; possibly he became so by his profession of religion at the
camp-meeting in the Bay side. Master Thomas told me he wished me to go
to Baltimore and learn a trade; and that if I behaved myself properly
he would _emancipate me at twenty-five_. Thanks for this one beam of
hope in the future. The promise had but one fault--it seemed too good
to be true.
[Illustration]