A SLEEPLESS NIGHT—RETURN TO COVEY’S—PURSUED BY COVEY—THE CHASE
DEFEATED—VENGEANCE POSTPONED—MUSINGS IN THE WOODS—THE
ALTERNATIVE—DEPLORABLE SPECTACLE—NIGHT IN THE WOODS—EXPECTED
ATTACK—ACCOSTED BY SANDY, A FRIEND, NOT A HUNTER—SANDY’S
HOSPITALITY—THE “ASH CAKE” SUPPER—THE INTERVIEW WITH SANDY—HIS
ADVICE—SANDY A CONJURER AS WELL AS A CHRISTIAN—THE MAGIC ROOT—STRANGE
MEETING WITH COVEY—HIS MANNER—COVEY’S SUNDAY FACE—MY DEFENSIVE
RESOLVE—THE FIGHT—THE VICTORY, AND ITS RESULTS.
Sleep itself does not always come to the relief of the weary in body,
and the broken in spirit; especially when past troubles only foreshadow
coming disasters. The last hope had been extinguished. My master, who I
did not venture to hope would protect me as _a man_, had even now
refused to protect me as _his property;_ and had cast me back, covered
with reproaches and bruises, into the hands of a stranger to that mercy
which was the soul of the religion he professed. May the reader never
spend such a night as that allotted to me, previous to the morning
which was to herald my return to the den of horrors from which I had
made a temporary escape.
I remained all night—sleep I did not—at St. Michael’s; and in the
morning (Saturday) I started off, according to the order of Master
Thomas, feeling that I had no friend on earth, and doubting if I had
one in heaven. I reached Covey’s about nine o’clock; and just as I
stepped into the field, before I had reached the house, Covey, true to
his snakish habits, darted out at me from a fence corner, in which he
had secreted himself, for the purpose of securing me. He was amply
provided with a cowskin and a rope; and he evidently intended to _tie
me up_, and to wreak his vengeance on me to the fullest extent. I
should have been an easy prey, had he succeeded in getting his hands
upon me, for I had taken no refreshment since noon on Friday; and this,
together with the pelting, excitement, and the loss of blood, had
reduced my strength. I, however, darted back into the woods, before the
ferocious hound could get hold of me, and buried myself in a thicket,
where he lost sight of me. The corn-field afforded me cover, in getting
to the woods. But for the tall corn, Covey would have overtaken me, and
made me his captive. He seemed very much chagrined that he did not
catch me, and gave up the chase, very reluctantly; for I could see his
angry movements, toward the house from which he had sallied, on his
foray.
Well, now I am clear of Covey, and of his wrathful lash, for present. I
am in the wood, buried in its somber gloom, and hushed in its solemn
silence; hid from all human eyes; shut in with nature and nature’s God,
and absent from all human contrivances. Here was a good place to pray;
to pray for help for deliverance—a prayer I had often made before. But
how could I pray? Covey could pray—Capt. Auld could pray—I would fain
pray; but doubts (arising partly from my own neglect of the means of
grace, and partly from the sham religion which everywhere prevailed,
cast in my mind a doubt upon all religion, and led me to the conviction
that prayers were unavailing and delusive) prevented my embracing the
opportunity, as a religious one. Life, in itself, had almost become
burdensome to me. All my outward relations were against me; I must stay
here and starve (I was already hungry) or go home to Covey’s, and have
my flesh torn to pieces, and my spirit humbled under the cruel lash of
Covey. This was the painful alternative presented to me. The day was
long and irksome. My physical condition was deplorable. I was weak,
from the toils of the previous day, and from the want of food and rest;
and had been so little concerned about my appearance, that I had not
yet washed the blood from my garments. I was an object of horror, even
to myself. Life, in Baltimore, when most oppressive, was a paradise to
this. What had I done, what had my parents done, that such a life as
this should be mine? That day, in the woods, I would have exchanged my
manhood for the brutehood of an ox.
Night came. I was still in the woods, unresolved what to do. Hunger had
not yet pinched me to the point of going home, and I laid myself down
in the leaves to rest; for I had been watching for hunters all day, but
not being molested during the day, I expected no disturbance during the
night. I had come to the conclusion that Covey relied upon hunger to
drive me home; and in this I was quite correct—the facts showed that he
had made no effort to catch me, since morning.
During the night, I heard the step of a man in the woods. He was coming
toward the place where I lay. A person lying still has the advantage
over one walking in the woods, in the day time, and this advantage is
much greater at night. I was not able to engage in a physical struggle,
and I had recourse to the common resort of the weak. I hid myself in
the leaves to prevent discovery. But, as the night rambler in the woods
drew nearer, I found him to be a _friend_, not an enemy; it was a slave
of Mr. William Groomes, of Easton, a kind hearted fellow, named
“Sandy.” Sandy lived with Mr. Kemp that year, about four miles from St.
Michael’s. He, like myself had been hired out by the year; but, unlike
myself, had not been hired out to be broken. Sandy was the husband of a
free woman, who lived in the lower part of _“Potpie Neck,”_ and he was
now on his way through the woods, to see her, and to spend the Sabbath
with her.
As soon as I had ascertained that the disturber of my solitude was not
an enemy, but the good-hearted Sandy—a man as famous among the slaves
of the neighborhood for his good nature, as for his good sense I came
out from my hiding place, and made myself known to him. I explained the
circumstances of the past two days, which had driven me to the woods,
and he deeply compassionated my distress. It was a bold thing for him
to shelter me, and I could not ask him to do so; for, had I been found
in his hut, he would have suffered the penalty of thirty-nine lashes on
his bare back, if not something worse. But Sandy was too generous to
permit the fear of punishment to prevent his relieving a brother
bondman from hunger and exposure; and, therefore, on his own motion, I
accompanied him to his home, or rather to the home of his wife—for the
house and lot were hers. His wife was called up—for it was now about
midnight—a fire was made, some Indian meal was soon mixed with salt and
water, and an ash cake was baked in a hurry to relieve my hunger.
Sandy’s wife was not behind him in kindness—both seemed to esteem it a
privilege to succor me; for, although I was hated by Covey and by my
master, I was loved by the colored people, because _they_ thought I was
hated for my knowledge, and persecuted because I was feared. I was the
_only_ slave _now_ in that region who could read and write. There had
been one other man, belonging to Mr. Hugh Hamilton, who could read (his
name was “Jim”), but he, poor fellow, had, shortly after my coming into
the neighborhood, been sold off to the far south. I saw Jim ironed, in
the cart, to be carried to Easton for sale—pinioned like a yearling for
the slaughter. My knowledge was now the pride of my brother slaves;
and, no doubt, Sandy felt something of the general interest in me on
that account. The supper was soon ready, and though I have feasted
since, with honorables, lord mayors and aldermen, over the sea, my
supper on ash cake and cold water, with Sandy, was the meal, of all my
life, most sweet to my taste, and now most vivid in my memory.
Supper over, Sandy and I went into a discussion of what was _possible_
for me, under the perils and hardships which now overshadowed my path.
The question was, must I go back to Covey, or must I now tempt to run
away? Upon a careful survey, the latter was found to be impossible; for
I was on a narrow neck of land, every avenue from which would bring me
in sight of pursuers. There was the Chesapeake bay to the right, and
“Pot-pie” river to the left, and St. Michael’s and its neighborhood
occupying the only space through which there was any retreat.
I found Sandy an old advisor. He was not only a religious man, but he
professed to believe in a system for which I have no name. He was a
genuine African, and had inherited some of the so-called magical
powers, said to be possessed by African and eastern nations. He told me
that he could help me; that, in those very woods, there was an herb,
which in the morning might be found, possessing all the powers required
for my protection (I put his thoughts in my own language); and that, if
I would take his advice, he would procure me the root of the herb of
which he spoke. He told me further, that if I would take that root and
wear it on my right side, it would be impossible for Covey to strike me
a blow; that with this root about my person, no white man could whip
me. He said he had carried it for years, and that he had fully tested
its virtues. He had never received a blow from a slaveholder since he
carried it; and he never expected to receive one, for he always meant
to carry that root as a protection. He knew Covey well, for Mrs. Covey
was the daughter of Mr. Kemp; and he (Sandy) had heard of the barbarous
treatment to which I was subjected, and he wanted to do something for
me.
Now all this talk about the root, was to me, very absurd and
ridiculous, if not positively sinful. I at first rejected the idea that
the simple carrying a root on my right side (a root, by the way, over
which I walked every time I went into the woods) could possess any such
magic power as he ascribed to it, and I was, therefore, not disposed to
cumber my pocket with it. I had a positive aversion to all pretenders
to _“divination.”_ It was beneath one of my intelligence to countenance
such dealings with the devil, as this power implied. But, with all my
learning—it was really precious little—Sandy was more than a match for
me. “My book learning,” he said, “had not kept Covey off me” (a
powerful argument just then) and he entreated me, with flashing eyes,
to try this. If it did me no good, it could do me no harm, and it would
cost me nothing, any way. Sandy was so earnest, and so confident of the
good qualities of this weed, that, to please him, rather than from any
conviction of its excellence, I was induced to take it. He had been to
me the good Samaritan, and had, almost providentially, found me, and
helped me when I could not help myself; how did I know but that the
hand of the Lord was in it? With thoughts of this sort, I took the
roots from Sandy, and put them in my right hand pocket.
This was, of course, Sunday morning. Sandy now urged me to go home,
with all speed, and to walk up bravely to the house, as though nothing
had happened. I saw in Sandy too deep an insight into human nature,
with all his superstition, not to have some respect for his advice; and
perhaps, too, a slight gleam or shadow of his superstition had fallen
upon me. At any rate, I started off toward Covey’s, as directed by
Sandy. Having, the previous night, poured my griefs into Sandy’s ears,
and got him enlisted in my behalf, having made his wife a sharer in my
sorrows, and having, also, become well refreshed by sleep and food, I
moved off, quite courageously, toward the much dreaded Covey’s.
Singularly enough, just as I entered his yard gate, I met him and his
wife, dressed in their Sunday best—looking as smiling as angels—on
their way to church. The manner of Covey astonished me. There was
something really benignant in his countenance. He spoke to me as never
before; told me that the pigs had got into the lot, and he wished me to
drive them out; inquired how I was, and seemed an altered man. This
extraordinary conduct of Covey, really made me begin to think that
Sandy’s herb had more virtue in it than I, in my pride, had been
willing to allow; and, had the day been other than Sunday, I should
have attributed Covey’s altered manner solely to the magic power of the
root. I suspected, however, that the _Sabbath_, and not the _root_, was
the real explanation of Covey’s manner. His religion hindered him from
breaking the Sabbath, but not from breaking my skin. He had more
respect for the _day_ than for the _man_, for whom the day was
mercifully given; for while he would cut and slash my body during the
week, he would not hesitate, on Sunday, to teach me the value of my
soul, or the way of life and salvation by Jesus Christ.
All went well with me till Monday morning; and then, whether the root
had lost its virtue, or whether my tormentor had gone deeper into the
black art than myself (as was sometimes said of him), or whether he had
obtained a special indulgence, for his faithful Sabbath day’s worship,
it is not necessary for me to know, or to inform the reader; but, this
I _may_ say—the pious and benignant smile which graced Covey’s face on
_Sunday_, wholly disappeared on _Monday_. Long before daylight, I was
called up to go and feed, rub, and curry the horses. I obeyed the call,
and would have so obeyed it, had it been made at an earilier(sic) hour,
for I had brought my mind to a firm resolve, during that Sunday’s
reflection, viz: to obey every order, however unreasonable, if it were
possible, and, if Mr. Covey should then undertake to beat me, to defend
and protect myself to the best of my ability. My religious views on the
subject of resisting my master, had suffered a serious shock, by the
savage persecution to which I had been subjected, and my hands were no
longer tied by my religion. Master Thomas’s indifference had served the
last link. I had now to this extent “backslidden” from this point in
the slave’s religious creed; and I soon had occasion to make my fallen
state known to my Sunday-pious brother, Covey.
Whilst I was obeying his order to feed and get the horses ready for the
field, and when in the act of going up the stable loft for the purpose
of throwing down some blades, Covey sneaked into the stable, in his
peculiar snake-like way, and seizing me suddenly by the leg, he brought
me to the stable floor, giving my newly mended body a fearful jar. I
now forgot my roots, and remembered my pledge to _stand up in my own
defense_. The brute was endeavoring skillfully to get a slip-knot on my
legs, before I could draw up my feet. As soon as I found what he was up
to, I gave a sudden spring (my two day’s rest had been of much service
to me,) and by that means, no doubt, he was able to bring me to the
floor so heavily. He was defeated in his plan of tying me. While down,
he seemed to think he had me very securely in his power. He little
thought he was—as the rowdies say—“in” for a “rough and tumble” fight;
but such was the fact. Whence came the daring spirit necessary to
grapple with a man who, eight-and-forty hours before, could, with his
slightest word have made me tremble like a leaf in a storm, I do not
know; at any rate, _I was resolved to fight_, and, what was better
still, I was actually hard at it. The fighting madness had come upon
me, and I found my strong fingers firmly attached to the throat of my
cowardly tormentor; as heedless of consequences, at the moment, as
though we stood as equals before the law. The very color of the man was
forgotten. I felt as supple as a cat, and was ready for the snakish
creature at every turn. Every blow of his was parried, though I dealt
no blows in turn. I was strictly on the _defensive_, preventing him
from injuring me, rather than trying to injure him. I flung him on the
ground several times, when he meant to have hurled me there. I held him
so firmly by the throat, that his blood followed my nails. He held me,
and I held him.
All was fair, thus far, and the contest was about equal. My resistance
was entirely unexpected, and Covey was taken all aback by it, for he
trembled in every limb. _“Are you going to resist_, you scoundrel?”
said he. To which, I returned a polite _“Yes sir;”_ steadily gazing my
interrogator in the eye, to meet the first approach or dawning of the
blow, which I expected my answer would call forth. But, the conflict
did not long remain thus equal. Covey soon cried out lustily for help;
not that I was obtaining any marked advantage over him, or was injuring
him, but because he was gaining none over me, and was not able, single
handed, to conquer me. He called for his cousin Hughs, to come to his
assistance, and now the scene was changed. I was compelled to give
blows, as well as to parry them; and, since I was, in any case, to
suffer for resistance, I felt (as the musty proverb goes) that “I might
as well be hanged for an old sheep as a lamb.” I was still _defensive_
toward Covey, but _aggressive_ toward Hughs; and, at the first approach
of the latter, I dealt a blow, in my desperation, which fairly sickened
my youthful assailant. He went off, bending over with pain, and
manifesting no disposition to come within my reach again. The poor
fellow was in the act of trying to catch and tie my right hand, and
while flattering himself with success, I gave him the kick which sent
him staggering away in pain, at the same time that I held Covey with a
firm hand.
Taken completely by surprise, Covey seemed to have lost his usual
strength and coolness. He was frightened, and stood puffing and
blowing, seemingly unable to command words or blows. When he saw that
poor Hughes was standing half bent with pain—his courage quite gone the
cowardly tyrant asked if I “meant to persist in my resistance.” I told
him “_I did mean to resist, come what might_;” that I had been by him
treated like a _brute_, during the last six months; and that I should
stand it _no longer_. With that, he gave me a shake, and attempted to
drag me toward a stick of wood, that was lying just outside the stable
door. He meant to knock me down with it; but, just as he leaned over to
get the stick, I seized him with both hands by the collar, and, with a
vigorous and sudden snatch, I brought my assailant harmlessly, his full
length, on the _not_ overclean ground—for we were now in the cow yard.
He had selected the place for the fight, and it was but right that he
should have all the advantges(sic) of his own selection.
By this time, Bill, the hiredman, came home. He had been to Mr.
Hemsley’s, to spend the Sunday with his nominal wife, and was coming
home on Monday morning, to go to work. Covey and I had been skirmishing
from before daybreak, till now, that the sun was almost shooting his
beams over the eastern woods, and we were still at it. I could not see
where the matter was to terminate. He evidently was afraid to let me
go, lest I should again make off to the woods; otherwise, he would
probably have obtained arms from the house, to frighten me. Holding me,
Covey called upon Bill for assistance. The scene here, had something
comic about it. “Bill,” who knew _precisely_ what Covey wished him to
do, affected ignorance, and pretended he did not know what to do. “What
shall I do, Mr. Covey,” said Bill. “Take hold of him—take hold of him!”
said Covey. With a toss of his head, peculiar to Bill, he said,
“indeed, Mr. Covey I want to go to work.” _“This is_ your work,” said
Covey; “take hold of him.” Bill replied, with spirit, “My master hired
me here, to work, and _not_ to help you whip Frederick.” It was now my
turn to speak. “Bill,” said I, “don’t put your hands on me.” To which
he replied, “My GOD! Frederick, I ain’t goin’ to tech ye,” and Bill
walked off, leaving Covey and myself to settle our matters as best we
might.
But, my present advantage was threatened when I saw Caroline (the
slave-woman of Covey) coming to the cow yard to milk, for she was a
powerful woman, and could have mastered me very easily, exhausted as I
now was. As soon as she came into the yard, Covey attempted to rally
her to his aid. Strangely—and, I may add, fortunately—Caroline was in
no humor to take a hand in any such sport. We were all in open
rebellion, that morning. Caroline answered the command of her master to
_“take hold of me,”_ precisely as Bill had answered, but in _her_, it
was at greater peril so to answer; she was the slave of Covey, and he
could do what he pleased with her. It was _not_ so with Bill, and Bill
knew it. Samuel Harris, to whom Bill belonged, did not allow his slaves
to be beaten, unless they were guilty of some crime which the law would
punish. But, poor Caroline, like myself, was at the mercy of the
merciless Covey; nor did she escape the dire effects of her refusal. He
gave her several sharp blows.
Covey at length (two hours had elapsed) gave up the contest. Letting me
go, he said—puffing and blowing at a great rate—“Now, you scoundrel, go
to your work; I would not have whipped you half so much as I have had
you not resisted.” The fact was, _he had not whipped me at all_. He had
not, in all the scuffle, drawn a single drop of blood from me. I had
drawn blood from him; and, even without this satisfaction, I should
have been victorious, because my aim had not been to injure him, but to
prevent his injuring me.
During the whole six months that I lived with Covey, after this
transaction, he never laid on me the weight of his finger in anger. He
would, occasionally, say he did not want to have to get hold of me
again—a declaration which I had no difficulty in believing; and I had a
secret feeling, which answered, “You need not wish to get hold of me
again, for you will be likely to come off worse in a second fight than
you did in the first.”
Well, my dear reader, this battle with Mr. Covey—undignified as it was,
and as I fear my narration of it is—was the turning point in my _“life
as a slave_.” It rekindled in my breast the smouldering embers of
liberty; it brought up my Baltimore dreams, and revived a sense of my
own manhood. I was a changed being after that fight. I was _nothing_
before; I WAS A MAN NOW. It recalled to life my crushed self-respect
and my self-confidence, and inspired me with a renewed determination to
be A FREEMAN. A man, without force, is without the essential dignity of
humanity. Human nature is so constituted, that it cannot _honor_ a
helpless man, although it can _pity_ him; and even this it cannot do
long, if the signs of power do not arise.
He can only understand the effect of this combat on my spirit, who has
himself incurred something, hazarded something, in repelling the unjust
and cruel aggressions of a tyrant. Covey was a tyrant, and a cowardly
one, withal. After resisting him, I felt as I had never felt before. It
was a resurrection from the dark and pestiferous tomb of slavery, to
the heaven of comparative freedom. I was no longer a servile coward,
trembling under the frown of a brother worm of the dust, but, my
long-cowed spirit was roused to an attitude of manly independence. I
had reached the point, at which I was _not afraid to die_. This spirit
made me a freeman in _fact_, while I remained a slave in _form_. When a
slave cannot be flogged he is more than half free. He has a domain as
broad as his own manly heart to defend, and he is really _“a power on
earth_.” While slaves prefer their lives, with flogging, to instant
death, they will always find Christians enough, like unto Covey, to
accommodate that preference. From this time, until that of my escape
from slavery, I was never fairly whipped. Several attempts were made to
whip me, but they were always unsuccessful. Bruises I did get, as I
shall hereafter inform the reader; but the case I have been describing,
was the end of the brutification to which slavery had subjected me.
The reader will be glad to know why, after I had so grievously offended
Mr. Covey, he did not have me taken in hand by the authorities; indeed,
why the law of Maryland, which assigns hanging to the slave who resists
his master, was not put in force against me; at any rate, why I was not
taken up, as is usual in such cases, and publicly whipped, for an
example to other slaves, and as a means of deterring me from committing
the same offense again. I confess, that the easy manner in which I got
off, for a long time, a surprise to me, and I cannot, even now, fully
explain the cause.
The only explanation I can venture to suggest, is the fact, that Covey
was, probably, ashamed to have it known and confessed that he had been
mastered by a boy of sixteen. Mr. Covey enjoyed the unbounded and very
valuable reputation, of being a first rate overseer and _Negro
breaker_. By means of this reputation, he was able to procure his hands
for _very trifling_ compensation, and with very great ease. His
interest and his pride mutually suggested the wisdom of passing the
matter by, in silence. The story that he had undertaken to whip a lad,
and had been resisted, was, of itself, sufficient to damage him; for
his bearing should, in the estimation of slaveholders, be of that
imperial order that should make such an occurrence _impossible_. I
judge from these circumstances, that Covey deemed it best to give me
the go-by. It is, perhaps, not altogether creditable to my natural
temper, that, after this conflict with Mr. Covey, I did, at times,
purposely aim to provoke him to an attack, by refusing to keep with the
other hands in the field, but I could never bully him to another
battle. I had made up my mind to do him serious damage, if he ever
again attempted to lay violent hands on me.
Hereditary bondmen, know ye not
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?