EARLY REFLECTIONS ON SLAVERY—PRESENTIMENT OF ONE DAY BEING A
FREEMAN—COMBAT BETWEEN AN OVERSEER AND A SLAVEWOMAN—THE ADVANTAGES OF
RESISTANCE—ALLOWANCE DAY ON THE HOME PLANTATION—THE SINGING OF
SLAVES—AN EXPLANATION—THE SLAVES FOOD AND CLOTHING—NAKED CHILDREN—LIFE
IN THE QUARTER—DEPRIVATION OF SLEEP—NURSING CHILDREN CARRIED TO THE
FIELD—DESCRIPTION OF THE COWSKIN—THE ASH-CAKE—MANNER OF MAKING IT—THE
DINNER HOUR—THE CONTRAST.
The heart-rending incidents, related in the foregoing chapter, led me,
thus early, to inquire into the nature and history of slavery. _Why am
I a slave? Why are some people slaves, and others masters? Was there
ever a time this was not so? How did the relation commence?_ These were
the perplexing questions which began now to claim my thoughts, and to
exercise the weak powers of my mind, for I was still but a child, and
knew less than children of the same age in the free states. As my
questions concerning these things were only put to children a little
older, and little better informed than myself, I was not rapid in
reaching a solid footing. By some means I learned from these inquiries
that _“God, up in the sky,”_ made every body; and that he made _white_
people to be masters and mistresses, and _black_ people to be slaves.
This did not satisfy me, nor lessen my interest in the subject. I was
told, too, that God was good, and that He knew what was best for me,
and best for everybody. This was less satisfactory than the first
statement; because it came, point blank, against all my notions of
goodness. It was not good to let old master cut the flesh off Esther,
and make her cry so. Besides, how did people know that God made black
people to be slaves? Did they go up in the sky and learn it? or, did He
come down and tell them so? All was dark here. It was some relief to my
hard notions of the goodness of God, that, although he made white men
to be slaveholders, he did not make them to be _bad_ slaveholders, and
that, in due time, he would punish the bad slaveholders; that he would,
when they died, send them to the bad place, where they would be “burnt
up.” Nevertheless, I could not reconcile the relation of slavery with
my crude notions of goodness.
Then, too, I found that there were puzzling exceptions to this theory
of slavery on both sides, and in the middle. I knew of blacks who were
_not_ slaves; I knew of whites who were _not_ slaveholders; and I knew
of persons who were _nearly_ white, who were slaves. _Color_,
therefore, was a very unsatisfactory basis for slavery.
Once, however, engaged in the inquiry, I was not very long in finding
out the true solution of the matter. It was not _color_, but _crime_,
not _God_, but _man_, that afforded the true explanation of the
existence of slavery; nor was I long in finding out another important
truth, viz: what man can make, man can unmake. The appalling darkness
faded away, and I was master of the subject. There were slaves here,
direct from Guinea; and there were many who could say that their
fathers and mothers were stolen from Africa—forced from their homes,
and compelled to serve as slaves. This, to me, was knowledge; but it
was a kind of knowledge which filled me with a burning hatred of
slavery, increased my suffering, and left me without the means of
breaking away from my bondage. Yet it was knowledge quite worth
possessing. I could not have been more than seven or eight years old,
when I began to make this subject my study. It was with me in the woods
and fields; along the shore of the river, and wherever my boyish
wanderings led me; and though I was, at that time, quite ignorant of
the existence of the free states, I distinctly remember being, _even
then_, most strongly impressed with the idea of being a freeman some
day. This cheering assurance was an inborn dream of my human nature a
constant menace to slavery—and one which all the powers of slavery were
unable to silence or extinguish.
Up to the time of the brutal flogging of my Aunt Esther—for she was my
own aunt—and the horrid plight in which I had seen my cousin from
Tuckahoe, who had been so badly beaten by the cruel Mr. Plummer, my
attention had not been called, especially, to the gross features of
slavery. I had, of course, heard of whippings and of savage
_rencontres_ between overseers and slaves, but I had always been out of
the way at the times and places of their occurrence. My plays and
sports, most of the time, took me from the corn and tobacco fields,
where the great body of the hands were at work, and where scenes of
cruelty were enacted and witnessed. But, after the whipping of Aunt
Esther, I saw many cases of the same shocking nature, not only in my
master’s house, but on Col. Lloyd’s plantation. One of the first which
I saw, and which greatly agitated me, was the whipping of a woman
belonging to Col. Lloyd, named Nelly. The offense alleged against
Nelly, was one of the commonest and most indefinite in the whole
catalogue of offenses usually laid to the charge of slaves, viz:
“impudence.” This may mean almost anything, or nothing at all, just
according to the caprice of the master or overseer, at the moment. But,
whatever it is, or is not, if it gets the name of “impudence,” the
party charged with it is sure of a flogging. This offense may be
committed in various ways; in the tone of an answer; in answering at
all; in not answering; in the expression of countenance; in the motion
of the head; in the gait, manner and bearing of the slave. In the case
under consideration, I can easily believe that, according to all
slaveholding standards, here was a genuine instance of impudence. In
Nelly there were all the necessary conditions for committing the
offense. She was a bright mulatto, the recognized wife of a favorite
“hand” on board Col. Lloyd’s sloop, and the mother of five sprightly
children. She was a vigorous and spirited woman, and one of the most
likely, on the plantation, to be guilty of impudence. My attention was
called to the scene, by the noise, curses and screams that proceeded
from it; and, on going a little in that direction, I came upon the
parties engaged in the skirmish. Mr. Siever, the overseer, had hold of
Nelly, when I caught sight of them; he was endeavoring to drag her
toward a tree, which endeavor Nelly was sternly resisting; but to no
purpose, except to retard the progress of the overseer’s plans.
Nelly—as I have said—was the mother of five children; three of them
were present, and though quite small (from seven to ten years old, I
should think) they gallantly came to their mother’s defense, and gave
the overseer an excellent pelting with stones. One of the little
fellows ran up, seized the overseer by the leg and bit him; but the
monster was too busily engaged with Nelly, to pay any attention to the
assaults of the children. There were numerous bloody marks on Mr.
Sevier’s face, when I first saw him, and they increased as the struggle
went on. The imprints of Nelly’s fingers were visible, and I was glad
to see them. Amidst the wild screams of the children—“_Let my mammy
go”—“let my mammy go_”—there escaped, from between the teeth of the
bullet-headed overseer, a few bitter curses, mingled with threats, that
“he would teach the d—d b—h how to give a white man impudence.” There
is no doubt that Nelly felt herself superior, in some respects, to the
slaves around her. She was a wife and a mother; her husband was a
valued and favorite slave. Besides, he was one of the first hands on
board of the sloop, and the sloop hands—since they had to represent the
plantation abroad—were generally treated tenderly. The overseer never
was allowed to whip Harry; why then should he be allowed to whip
Harry’s wife? Thoughts of this kind, no doubt, influenced her; but, for
whatever reason, she nobly resisted, and, unlike most of the slaves,
seemed determined to make her whipping cost Mr. Sevier as much as
possible. The blood on his (and her) face, attested her skill, as well
as her courage and dexterity in using her nails. Maddened by her
resistance, I expected to see Mr. Sevier level her to the ground by a
stunning blow; but no; like a savage bull-dog—which he resembled both
in temper and appearance—he maintained his grip, and steadily dragged
his victim toward the tree, disregarding alike her blows, and the cries
of the children for their mother’s release. He would, doubtless, have
knocked her down with his hickory stick, but that such act might have
cost him his place. It is often deemed advisable to knock a _man_ slave
down, in order to tie him, but it is considered cowardly and
inexcusable, in an overseer, thus to deal with a _woman_. He is
expected to tie her up, and to give her what is called, in southern
parlance, a “genteel flogging,” without any very great outlay of
strength or skill. I watched, with palpitating interest, the course of
the preliminary struggle, and was saddened by every new advantage
gained over her by the ruffian. There were times when she seemed likely
to get the better of the brute, but he finally overpowered her, and
succeeded in getting his rope around her arms, and in firmly tying her
to the tree, at which he had been aiming. This done, and Nelly was at
the mercy of his merciless lash; and now, what followed, I have no
heart to describe. The cowardly creature made good his every threat;
and wielded the lash with all the hot zest of furious revenge. The
cries of the woman, while undergoing the terrible infliction, were
mingled with those of the children, sounds which I hope the reader may
never be called upon to hear. When Nelly was untied, her back was
covered with blood. The red stripes were all over her shoulders. She
was whipped—severely whipped; but she was not subdued, for she
continued to denounce the overseer, and to call him every vile name. He
had bruised her flesh, but had left her invincible spirit undaunted.
Such floggings are seldom repeated by the same overseer. They prefer to
whip those who are most easily whipped. The old doctrine that
submission is the very best cure for outrage and wrong, does not hold
good on the slave plantation. He is whipped oftenest, who is whipped
easiest; and that slave who has the courage to stand up for himself
against the overseer, although he may have many hard stripes at the
first, becomes, in the end, a freeman, even though he sustain the
formal relation of a slave. “You can shoot me but you can’t whip me,”
said a slave to Rigby Hopkins; and the result was that he was neither
whipped nor shot. If the latter had been his fate, it would have been
less deplorable than the living and lingering death to which cowardly
and slavish souls are subjected. I do not know that Mr. Sevier ever
undertook to whip Nelly again. He probably never did, for it was not
long after his attempt to subdue her, that he was taken sick, and died.
The wretched man died as he had lived, unrepentant; and it was
said—with how much truth I know not—that in the very last hours of his
life, his ruling passion showed itself, and that when wrestling with
death, he was uttering horrid oaths, and flourishing the cowskin, as
though he was tearing the flesh off some helpless slave. One thing is
certain, that when he was in health, it was enough to chill the blood,
and to stiffen the hair of an ordinary man, to hear Mr. Sevier talk.
Nature, or his cruel habits, had given to his face an expression of
unusual savageness, even for a slave-driver. Tobacco and rage had worn
his teeth short, and nearly every sentence that escaped their
compressed grating, was commenced or concluded with some outburst of
profanity. His presence made the field alike the field of blood, and of
blasphemy. Hated for his cruelty, despised for his cowardice, his death
was deplored by no one outside his own house—if indeed it was deplored
there; it was regarded by the slaves as a merciful interposition of
Providence. Never went there a man to the grave loaded with heavier
curses. Mr. Sevier’s place was promptly taken by a Mr. Hopkins, and the
change was quite a relief, he being a very different man. He was, in
all respects, a better man than his predecessor; as good as any man can
be, and yet be an overseer. His course was characterized by no
extraordinary cruelty; and when he whipped a slave, as he sometimes
did, he seemed to take no especial pleasure in it, but, on the
contrary, acted as though he felt it to be a mean business. Mr. Hopkins
stayed but a short time; his place much to the regret of the slaves
generally—was taken by a Mr. Gore, of whom more will be said hereafter.
It is enough, for the present, to say, that he was no improvement on
Mr. Sevier, except that he was less noisy and less profane.
I have already referred to the business-like aspect of Col. Lloyd’s
plantation. This business-like appearance was much increased on the two
days at the end of each month, when the slaves from the different farms
came to get their monthly allowance of meal and meat. These were gala
days for the slaves, and there was much rivalry among them as to _who_
should be elected to go up to the great house farm for the allowance,
and, indeed, to attend to any business at this (for them) the capital.
The beauty and grandeur of the place, its numerous slave population,
and the fact that Harry, Peter and Jake the sailors of the sloop—almost
always kept, privately, little trinkets which they bought at Baltimore,
to sell, made it a privilege to come to the great house farm. Being
selected, too, for this office, was deemed a high honor. It was taken
as a proof of confidence and favor; but, probably, the chief motive of
the competitors for the place, was, a desire to break the dull monotony
of the field, and to get beyond the overseer’s eye and lash. Once on
the road with an ox team, and seated on the tongue of his cart, with no
overseer to look after him, the slave was comparatively free; and, if
thoughtful, he had time to think. Slaves are generally expected to sing
as well as to work. A silent slave is not liked by masters or
overseers. _“Make a noise,” “make a noise,”_ and _“bear a hand,”_ are
the words usually addressed to the slaves when there is silence amongst
them. This may account for the almost constant singing heard in the
southern states. There was, generally, more or less singing among the
teamsters, as it was one means of letting the overseer know where they
were, and that they were moving on with the work. But, on allowance
day, those who visited the great house farm were peculiarly excited and
noisy. While on their way, they would make the dense old woods, for
miles around, reverberate with their wild notes. These were not always
merry because they were wild. On the contrary, they were mostly of a
plaintive cast, and told a tale of grief and sorrow. In the most
boisterous outbursts of rapturous sentiment, there was ever a tinge of
deep melancholy. I have never heard any songs like those anywhere since
I left slavery, except when in Ireland. There I heard the same _wailing
notes_, and was much affected by them. It was during the famine of
1845-6. In all the songs of the slaves, there was ever some expression
in praise of the great house farm; something which would flatter the
pride of the owner, and, possibly, draw a favorable glance from him.
I am going away to the great house farm,
O yea! O yea! O yea!
My old master is a good old master,
O yea! O yea! O yea!
This they would sing, with other words of their own improvising—jargon
to others, but full of meaning to themselves. I have sometimes thought,
that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress truly
spiritual-minded men and women with the soul-crushing and death-dealing
character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of its mere
physical cruelties. They speak to the heart and to the soul of the
thoughtful. I cannot better express my sense of them now, than ten
years ago, when, in sketching my life, I thus spoke of this feature of
my plantation experience:
I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meanings of those rude,
and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle, so
that I neither saw or heard as those without might see and hear. They
told a tale which was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension;
they were tones, loud, long and deep, breathing the prayer and
complaint of souls boiling over with the bitterest anguish. Every tone
was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God for deliverance
from chains. The hearing of those wild notes always depressed my
spirits, and filled my heart with ineffable sadness. The mere
recurrence, even now, afflicts my spirit, and while I am writing these
lines, my tears are falling. To those songs I trace my first glimmering
conceptions of the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can never get
rid of that conception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my
hatred of slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds.
If any one wishes to be impressed with a sense of the soul-killing
power of slavery, let him go to Col. Lloyd’s plantation, and, on
allowance day, place himself in the deep, pine woods, and there let
him, in silence, thoughtfully analyze the sounds that shall pass
through the chambers of his soul, and if he is not thus impressed, it
will only be because “there is no flesh in his obdurate heart.”
The remark is not unfrequently made, that slaves are the most contended
and happy laborers in the world. They dance and sing, and make all
manner of joyful noises—so they do; but it is a great mistake to
suppose them happy because they sing. The songs of the slave represent
the sorrows, rather than the joys, of his heart; and he is relieved by
them, only as an aching heart is relieved by its tears. Such is the
constitution of the human mind, that, when pressed to extremes, it
often avails itself of the most opposite methods. Extremes meet in mind
as in matter. When the slaves on board of the “Pearl” were overtaken,
arrested, and carried to prison—their hopes for freedom blasted—as they
marched in chains they sang, and found (as Emily Edmunson tells us) a
melancholy relief in singing. The singing of a man cast away on a
desolate island, might be as appropriately considered an evidence of
his contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave. Sorrow and
desolation have their songs, as well as joy and peace. Slaves sing more
to _make_ themselves happy, than to express their happiness.
It is the boast of slaveholders, that their slaves enjoy more of the
physical comforts of life than the peasantry of any country in the
world. My experience contradicts this. The men and the women slaves on
Col. Lloyd’s farm, received, as their monthly allowance of food, eight
pounds of pickled pork, or their equivalent in fish. The pork was often
tainted, and the fish was of the poorest quality—herrings, which would
bring very little if offered for sale in any northern market. With
their pork or fish, they had one bushel of Indian meal—unbolted—of
which quite fifteen per cent was fit only to feed pigs. With this, one
pint of salt was given; and this was the entire monthly allowance of a
full grown slave, working constantly in the open field, from morning
until night, every day in the month except Sunday, and living on a
fraction more than a quarter of a pound of meat per day, and less than
a peck of corn-meal per week. There is no kind of work that a man can
do which requires a better supply of food to prevent physical
exhaustion, than the field-work of a slave. So much for the slave’s
allowance of food; now for his raiment. The yearly allowance of
clothing for the slaves on this plantation, consisted of two tow-linen
shirts—such linen as the coarsest crash towels are made of; one pair of
trowsers of the same material, for summer, and a pair of trowsers and a
jacket of woolen, most slazily put together, for winter; one pair of
yarn stockings, and one pair of shoes of the coarsest description. The
slave’s entire apparel could not have cost more than eight dollars per
year. The allowance of food and clothing for the little children, was
committed to their mothers, or to the older slavewomen having the care
of them. Children who were unable to work in the field, had neither
shoes, stockings, jackets nor trowsers given them. Their clothing
consisted of two coarse tow-linen shirts—already described—per year;
and when these failed them, as they often did, they went naked until
the next allowance day. Flocks of little children from five to ten
years old, might be seen on Col. Lloyd’s plantation, as destitute of
clothing as any little heathen on the west coast of Africa; and this,
not merely during the summer months, but during the frosty weather of
March. The little girls were no better off than the boys; all were
nearly in a state of nudity.
As to beds to sleep on, they were known to none of the field hands;
nothing but a coarse blanket—not so good as those used in the north to
cover horses—was given them, and this only to the men and women. The
children stuck themselves in holes and corners, about the quarters;
often in the corner of the huge chimneys, with their feet in the ashes
to keep them warm. The want of beds, however, was not considered a very
great privation. Time to sleep was of far greater importance, for, when
the day’s work is done, most of the slaves have their washing, mending
and cooking to do; and, having few or none of the ordinary facilities
for doing such things, very many of their sleeping hours are consumed
in necessary preparations for the duties of the coming day.
The sleeping apartments—if they may be called such—have little regard
to comfort or decency. Old and young, male and female, married and
single, drop down upon the common clay floor, each covering up with his
or her blanket,—the only protection they have from cold or exposure.
The night, however, is shortened at both ends. The slaves work often as
long as they can see, and are late in cooking and mending for the
coming day; and, at the first gray streak of morning, they are summoned
to the field by the driver’s horn.
More slaves are whipped for oversleeping than for any other fault.
Neither age nor sex finds any favor. The overseer stands at the quarter
door, armed with stick and cowskin, ready to whip any who may be a few
minutes behind time. When the horn is blown, there is a rush for the
door, and the hindermost one is sure to get a blow from the overseer.
Young mothers who worked in the field, were allowed an hour, about ten
o’clock in the morning, to go home to nurse their children. Sometimes
they were compelled to take their children with them, and to leave them
in the corner of the fences, to prevent loss of time in nursing them.
The overseer generally rides about the field on horseback. A cowskin
and a hickory stick are his constant companions. The cowskin is a kind
of whip seldom seen in the northern states. It is made entirely of
untanned, but dried, ox hide, and is about as hard as a piece of
well-seasoned live oak. It is made of various sizes, but the usual
length is about three feet. The part held in the hand is nearly an inch
in thickness; and, from the extreme end of the butt or handle, the
cowskin tapers its whole length to a point. This makes it quite elastic
and springy. A blow with it, on the hardest back, will gash the flesh,
and make the blood start. Cowskins are painted red, blue and green, and
are the favorite slave whip. I think this whip worse than the
“cat-o’nine-tails.” It condenses the whole strength of the arm to a
single point, and comes with a spring that makes the air whistle. It is
a terrible instrument, and is so handy, that the overseer can always
have it on his person, and ready for use. The temptation to use it is
ever strong; and an overseer can, if disposed, always have cause for
using it. With him, it is literally a word and a blow, and, in most
cases, the blow comes first.
As a general rule, slaves do not come to the quarters for either
breakfast or dinner, but take their “ash cake” with them, and eat it in
the field. This was so on the home plantation; probably, because the
distance from the quarter to the field, was sometimes two, and even
three miles.
The dinner of the slaves consisted of a huge piece of ash cake, and a
small piece of pork, or two salt herrings. Not having ovens, nor any
suitable cooking utensils, the slaves mixed their meal with a little
water, to such thickness that a spoon would stand erect in it; and,
after the wood had burned away to coals and ashes, they would place the
dough between oak leaves and lay it carefully in the ashes, completely
covering it; hence, the bread is called ash cake. The surface of this
peculiar bread is covered with ashes, to the depth of a sixteenth part
of an inch, and the ashes, certainly, do not make it very grateful to
the teeth, nor render it very palatable. The bran, or coarse part of
the meal, is baked with the fine, and bright scales run through the
bread. This bread, with its ashes and bran, would disgust and choke a
northern man, but it is quite liked by the slaves. They eat it with
avidity, and are more concerned about the quantity than about the
quality. They are far too scantily provided for, and are worked too
steadily, to be much concerned for the quality of their food. The few
minutes allowed them at dinner time, after partaking of their coarse
repast, are variously spent. Some lie down on the “turning row,” and go
to sleep; others draw together, and talk; and others are at work with
needle and thread, mending their tattered garments. Sometimes you may
hear a wild, hoarse laugh arise from a circle, and often a song. Soon,
however, the overseer comes dashing through the field. _“Tumble up!
Tumble up_, and to _work, work,”_ is the cry; and, now, from twelve
o’clock (mid-day) till dark, the human cattle are in motion, wielding
their clumsy hoes; hurried on by no hope of reward, no sense of
gratitude, no love of children, no prospect of bettering their
condition; nothing, save the dread and terror of the slave-driver’s
lash. So goes one day, and so comes and goes another.
But, let us now leave the rough usage of the field, where vulgar
coarseness and brutal cruelty spread themselves and flourish, rank as
weeds in the tropics; where a vile wretch, in the shape of a man,
rides, walks, or struts about, dealing blows, and leaving gashes on
broken-spirited men and helpless women, for thirty dollars per month—a
business so horrible, hardening and disgraceful, that, rather, than
engage in it, a decent man would blow his own brains out—and let the
reader view with me the equally wicked, but less repulsive aspects of
slave life; where pride and pomp roll luxuriously at ease; where the
toil of a thousand men supports a single family in easy idleness and
sin. This is the great house; it is the home of the LLOYDS! Some idea
of its splendor has already been given—and, it is here that we shall
find that height of luxury which is the opposite of that depth of
poverty and physical wretchedness that we have just now been
contemplating. But, there is this difference in the two extremes; viz:
that in the case of the slave, the miseries and hardships of his lot
are imposed by others, and, in the master’s case, they are imposed by
himself. The slave is a subject, subjected by others; the slaveholder
is a subject, but he is the author of his own subjection. There is more
truth in the saying, that slavery is a greater evil to the master than
to the slave, than many, who utter it, suppose. The self-executing laws
of eternal justice follow close on the heels of the evil-doer here, as
well as elsewhere; making escape from all its penalties impossible.
But, let others philosophize; it is my province here to relate and
describe; only allowing myself a word or two, occasionally, to assist
the reader in the proper understanding of the facts narrated.