NEW YEAR’S THOUGHTS AND MEDITATIONS—AGAIN BOUGHT BY FREELAND—NO
AMBITION TO BE A SLAVE—KINDNESS NO COMPENSATION FOR SLAVERY—INCIPIENT
STEPS TOWARD ESCAPE—CONSIDERATIONS LEADING THERETO—IRRECONCILABLE
HOSTILITY TO SLAVERY—SOLEMN VOW TAKEN—PLAN DIVULGED TO THE
SLAVES—_Columbian Orator—_SCHEME GAINS FAVOR, DESPITE PRO-SLAVERY
PREACHING—DANGER OF DISCOVERY—SKILL OF SLAVEHOLDERS IN READING THE
MINDS OF THEIR SLAVES—SUSPICION AND COERCION—HYMNS WITH DOUBLE
MEANING—VALUE, IN DOLLARS, OF OUR COMPANY—PRELIMINARY
CONSULTATION—PASS-WORD—CONFLICTS OF HOPE AND FEAR—DIFFICULTIES TO BE
OVERCOME—IGNORANCE OF GEOGRAPHY—SURVEY OF IMAGINARY DIFFICULTIES—EFFECT
ON OUR MINDS—PATRICK HENRY—SANDY BECOMES A DREAMER—ROUTE TO THE NORTH
LAID OUT—OBJECTIONS CONSIDERED—FRAUDS PRACTICED ON FREEMEN—PASSES
WRITTEN—ANXIETIES AS THE TIME DREW NEAR—DREAD OF FAILURE—APPEALS TO
COMRADES—STRANGE PRESENTIMENT—COINCIDENCE—THE BETRAYAL DISCOVERED—THE
MANNER OF ARRESTING US—RESISTANCE MADE BY HENRY HARRIS—ITS EFFECT—THE
UNIQUE SPEECH OF MRS. FREELAND—OUR SAD PROCESSION TO PRISON—BRUTAL
JEERS BY THE MULTITUDE ALONG THE ROAD—PASSES EATEN—THE DENIAL—SANDY TOO
WELL LOVED TO BE SUSPECTED—DRAGGED BEHIND HORSES—THE JAIL A RELIEF—A
NEW SET OF TORMENTORS—SLAVE-TRADERS—JOHN, CHARLES AND HENRY
RELEASED—ALONE IN PRISON—I AM TAKEN OUT, AND SENT TO BALTIMORE.
I am now at the beginning of the year 1836, a time favorable for
serious thoughts. 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 the year, surveying the
errors of the past, and providing against possible errors of the
future. I, too, was thus exercised. I had little pleasure in
retrospect, and the prospect was not very 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 spirit-devouring thralldom. 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 perplexed and chafed; they
rendered me gloomy and disconsolate. The anguish of my mind may not be
written.
At the close of the year 1835, Mr. Freeland, my temporary master, had
bought me of Capt. Thomas Auld, for the year 1836. His promptness in
securing my services, 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 he was as well pleased with me as a slave, as I was with him as
a master. I have already intimated my regard for Mr. Freeland, and I
may say here, in addressing northern readers—where is no selfish motive
for speaking in praise of a slaveholder—that Mr. Freeland was a man of
many excellent qualities, and to me quite preferable to any master I
ever had.
But the kindness of the slavemaster only gilds the chain of slavery,
and detracts nothing from its weight or power. The thought that men are
made for other and better uses than slavery, thrives best under the
gentle treatment of a kind master. But the grim visage of slavery can
assume no smiles which can fascinate the partially enlightened slave,
into a forgetfulness of his bondage, nor of the desirableness of
liberty.
I was not through the first month of this, my second year with the kind
and gentlemanly Mr. Freeland, before I was earnestly considering and
advising 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 1835, at Mr.
Freeland’s. It had, however, never entirely subsided. I hated slavery,
always, and the desire for freedom only needed a favorable breeze, to
fan it into a blaze, at any moment. The thought of only being 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 abhorrent to the human mind; it 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 was
now 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. F., I am not sure that some kind reader will not condemn me
for being over ambitious, and greatly wanting in proper 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 intense desires, now felt, _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 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 my escape individually; but the year spent with Mr. Freeland
had attached me, as with “hooks of steel,” to my brother slaves. The
most affectionate and confiding friendship existed between us; and I
felt it my duty to give them an opportunity to share in my virtuous
determination by frankly disclosing to them my plans and purposes.
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 a suitable degree of 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 scarcely need tell
the reader, 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 (to me) gem of a book, the
_Columbian Orator_, with its eloquent orations and spicy dialogues,
denouncing oppression and slavery—telling of 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. The
fact is, 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, which it every hour violates. 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 is clear.”
We were all, except Sandy, quite free from slaveholding priestcraft. It
was in vain that we had been taught from the pulpit at St. Michael’s,
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 mark of 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 serviceable to us. I say,
it was in vain that the pulpit of St. Michael’s had constantly
inculcated these plausible doctrine. Nature laughed them to scorn. For
my own part, I had now become altogether too big for my chains. Father
Lawson’s solemn words, of what I ought to be, and might be, in the
providence of God, had not fallen dead on my soul. I was fast verging
toward manhood, and the prophecies of my childhood were still
unfulfilled. The thought, that year after year had passed away, and my
resolutions to run away had failed and faded—that I was _still a
slave_, and a slave, too, with chances for gaining my freedom
diminished and still diminishing—was not a matter to be slept over
easily; nor did I easily sleep over it.
But here came a new trouble. Thoughts and purposes so incendiary as
those I now cherished, could not agitate the mind long, without danger
of making themselves manifest to scrutinizing and unfriendly beholders.
I had reason to fear that my sable face might prove altogether too
transparent for the safe concealment of my hazardous enterprise. Plans
of greater 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 immoveable countenance of an
Indian, for it was far from being proof against the daily, searching
glances of those with whom I met.
It is the interest and business of slaveholders to study human nature,
with a view to practical results, and many of them attain astonishing
proficiency in discerning the thoughts and emotions of slaves. They
have to deal not with earth, wood, or stone, but with _men;_ and, by
every regard they have for their safety and prosperity, they must study
to know the material on which they are at work. So much intellect as
the slaveholder has around him, requires watching. Their safety depends
upon their vigilance. Conscious of the injustice and wrong they are
every hour perpetrating, and knowing what they themselves would do if
made the victims of such wrongs, they are looking out for the first
signs of the dread retribution of justice. They watch, therefore, with
skilled and practiced eyes, and have learned to read, with great
accuracy, the state of mind and heart of the slaves, through his sable
face. These uneasy sinners are quick to inquire into the matter, where
the slave is concerned. Unusual sobriety, apparent abstraction,
sullenness and indifference—indeed, any mood out of the common
way—afford ground for suspicion and inquiry. Often relying on their
superior position and wisdom, they hector and torture the slave into a
confession, by affecting to know the truth of their accusations. “You
have got the devil in you,” say they, “and we will whip him out of
you.” I have often been put thus to the torture, on bare suspicion.
This system has its disadvantages as well as their opposite. The slave
is sometimes whipped into the confession of offenses which he never
committed. The reader will see that the good old rule—“a man is to be
held innocent until proved to be guilty”—does not hold good on the
slave plantation. Suspicion and torture are the approved methods of
getting at the truth, here. It was necessary for me, therefore, 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 have, with the
peculiar prescience of a slaveholder, mastered the huge thought which
was disturbing our peace in slavery.
I am the more inclined to think that he suspected us, because, prudent
as we were, as I now look back, 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 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 Star
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
toward a free state, and deliverance from all the evils and dangers of
slavery.
I had succeeded in winning to my (what slaveholders would call wicked)
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 a piece, and, perhaps, more. The names of our
party were as follows: Henry Harris; John Harris, brother to Henry;
Sandy Jenkins, of root memory; 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
great influence over them. Perhaps not one of them, left to himself,
would have dreamed of escape as a possible thing. Not one of them was
self-moved in the matter. 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. Michael’s, _I am the man_. I
claim to be the instigator of the high crime (as the slaveholders
regard it) and I kept life in it, until 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
revolutionary conspirators, in their primary condition. We were
plotting against our (so called) lawful rulers; with this difference
that 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 have gladly remained with him,
_as freeman_. LIBERTY was our aim; and we had now come to think that we
had a right to liberty, 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
convey no certain meaning. I have reasons for suppressing these
_pass-words_, which the reader will easily divine. I hated the secrecy;
but where slavery is powerful, and liberty is weak, the latter is
driven to concealment or to destruction.
The prospect was not always a bright one. At times, we were almost
tempted to abandon the enterprise, and 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. Quiet bondage was felt to be better than
the doubts, fears and uncertainties, which now so sadly perplexed and
disturbed us.
The infirmities of humanity, generally, were represented in our little
band. We were confident, bold and determined, at times; and, again,
doubting, timid and wavering; whistling, like the boy in the graveyard,
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, even greater. Every slaveholder seeks to impress his slave
with a belief in the boundlessness of slave territory, and of his own
almost illimitable power. We all had vague and indistinct notions of
the geography of the country.
The distance, however, is not the chief trouble. The nearer are the
lines of a slave state and the borders of a free one, the greater the
peril. Hired kidnappers infest these 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 could see no spot on this side the
ocean, where we could be free. We had heard of Canada, the real Canaan
of the American bondmen, 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, at that time, 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 ignorant of the free states, generally. New York city was our
northern limit, and to go there, and be forever harassed with the
liability of being hunted down and returned to slavery—with the
certainty of being treated ten times worse than we had ever been
treated before was a prospect far from delightful, and it might well
cause some hesitation about engaging in the enterprise. 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, there stood slavery; a stern reality, glaring
frightfully upon us, with the blood of millions in his polluted
skirts—terrible to behold—greedily devouring our hard earnings and
feeding himself upon our flesh. Here 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-covered 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 of trouble which 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 (for our
journey was in part by water) 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—we supposed ourselves to be overtaken by hired kidnappers,
who, in the name of the law, and for their thrice accursed 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 those ills we had
Than fly 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. No man can
tell the intense agony which is 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, 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, alike 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 dreams, and some of them were very
distressing. 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 voices of a
swarm of angry birds, that caused a roar as they passed, which fell
upon my ear like a coming gale over the tops of the trees. Looking up
to see what it could mean,” said Sandy, “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 picking at you, while you, with your
arms, seemed to be trying to protect your eyes. Passing over me, the
birds flew in a south-westerly 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 confess I did not like this dream; but I threw off concern about it,
by attributing it to the general excitement and perturbation consequent
upon our contemplated plan of escape. I could not, however, shake off
its effect at once. I felt that it boded me no good. Sandy was
unusually emphatic and oracular, and his manner had much to do with the
impression made upon me.
The plan of escape which I recommended, and to which my comrades
assented, 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. Our course, on reaching this point, was, 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. One was, the danger from
gales on the bay. In rough weather, the waters of the Chesapeake are
much agitated, and there is danger, in a canoe, of being swamped by the
waves. Another objection was, that the canoe would soon be missed; the
absent persons would, at once, be suspected of having taken it; and we
should be pursued by some of the fast sailing bay craft out of St.
Michael’s. 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
land 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 very disagreeable questions, which
might give us serious trouble. Any white man is authorized to stop a
man of color, on any road, and examine him, and arrest him, if he so
desires.
By this arrangement, many abuses (considered such even by slaveholders)
occur. Cases have been known, where freemen have been 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 their 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. Michael’s, Talbot county, Maryland
Although we were not going to Baltimore, and were intending to land
east of North Point, in the direction where I had seen the Philadelphia
steamers go, these passes might be made useful to us in the lower part
of the bay, while steering toward 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
times than one rehearsed to each other how we should behave in the hour
of trial.
These 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 up; we were all ready to go, and
impatient for Saturday morning—considering that the last morning of our
bondage.
I cannot describe the tempest and tumult of my brain, that morning. The
reader will please to bear in mind, that, in a slave state, an
unsuccessful runaway is not only subjected to cruel torture, and sold
away to the far south, but he is frequently execrated by the other
slaves. He is 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 is difficult, too, for a slavemaster to believe that slaves escaping
have not been aided in their flight by some one of their fellow slaves.
When, therefore, a slave is missing, every slave on the place is
closely examined as to his knowledge of the undertaking; and they are
sometimes even tortured, to make them disclose what they are suspected
of knowing of such escape.
Our anxiety grew more and more intense, as the time of our intended
departure for the north 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
was not yet to 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
that there should be; therefore, during the intervening time, I lost no
opportunity to explain away difficulties, to remove doubts, to dispel
fears, and to inspire all with firmness. It was too late to look back;
and _now_ was the time to go forward. Like most other men, we had done
the talking part of our work, long and well; and the time had come to
_act_ as if we were in earnest, and meant to be as true in action as in
words. I did not forget to appeal 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 as well sit down, fold their arms,
and acknowledge themselves as 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 that 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 to him, _“Sandy, we are betrayed;_ something has
just told me so.” I felt as sure of it, as if the officers were there
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 trouble, whatever. My
anxiety arose from a sense of the consequences of failure.
In thirty minutes after that vivid presentiment came the apprehended
crash. On reaching the house, for breakfast, and glancing my eye toward
the lane gate, the worst was at once made known. The lane gate off Mr.
Freeland’s house, is nearly a half mile from the door, and 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 all over with us,”_ thought I, _“we are surely
betrayed_.” I now became composed, or at least comparatively so, and
calmly awaited the result. I watched the ill-omened company, till I saw
them enter 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
without a slight hope that things might turn differently from what I at
first expected. 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. Mary, the cook, was at a loss to know what
was the matter, and I did not profess any skill in making her
understand. I knew she would have united, as readily as any one, in
cursing me for bringing trouble into the family; so I held my peace,
leaving matters to develop themselves, without my assistance. 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 at 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 was
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 were going to carry me to St.
Michael’s, to have me brought before my master. They further said,
that, in case the evidence against me was not 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
very teeth. When they had secured me, they next turned to John Harris,
and, in a few moments, succeeded in tying him as firmly as they had
already tied me. They next turned toward Henry Harris, who had now
returned from the barn. “Cross your hands,” said the constables, 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, at the same time, if he did not cross his hands, they
would “blow his d—d heart out of him.”
_“Shoot! shoot me!”_ said Henry. “_You can’t kill me but once_.
Shoot!—shoot! and be d—d. _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 opposite directions. Now came
the struggle. All hands was now 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 see much use in
fighting, unless there is a reasonable probability of whipping
somebody. Yet there was something almost providential in the resistance
made by the gallant 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 upon the scuffle, and the apprehension of
further trouble, perhaps, led our captors to forego, for the present,
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 a purpose.
Just as we were all completely tied, and about ready to start toward
St. Michael’s, and thence to jail, Mrs. Betsey Freeland (mother to
William, who was very 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
time to take our breakfast that morning—and divided them between Henry
and John. This done, the lady made the following parting address to me,
looking and pointing her bony finger at me. “You devil! you yellow
devil! It was you that 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 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.
Could the kind reader have been quietly 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 a life of _bondage_, 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 to the teeth, 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 around, and heartlessly
made their failure 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 fulfillment
of Sandy’s dream. I was in the hands of moral vultures, and firmly held
in their sharp talons, and was hurried away toward Easton, in a
south-easterly direction, amid the jeers of new birds of the same
feather, through every neighborhood we passed. It seemed to me (and
this shows the good understanding between the slaveholders and their
allies) that every body we met knew the cause of our arrest, and were
out, awaiting our passing by, to feast their vindictive eyes on our
misery and to gloat over our ruin. Some said, _I ought to be hanged_,
and others, _I ought to be burnt_, others, I ought to have the _“hide”_
taken from 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 a blow.
The cruel injustice, the victorious crime, and the helplessness of
innocence, led me to ask, in my ignorance and weakness “Where now is
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 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. Michael’s. The direction
concerning the passes was passed around, and executed. _“Own nothing!”_
said I. _“Own nothing!”_ was passed around and 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. Michael’s, 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 had 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, some one must have
committed it—the thing is done! In our case, nothing has been done! 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 the
guilty wretch who had betrayed us, that we might have something
tangible upon which to pour the 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 the scene 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 Baily 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, deputy slave-traders, and agents of
slave-traders—that gather in every country town of the state, watching
for chances to buy human flesh (as buzzards to eat 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 myself surrounded as by a pack of
_fiends_, fresh from _perdition_. They laughed, leered, and grinned at
us; saying, “Ah! boys, we’ve got you, havn’t we? So you were about to
make your escape? Where were you going to?” After taunting us, and
peering at us, 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, very much to their annoyance,
quite dumb, disdaining to answer them. For one, I detested the
whisky-bloated gamblers in human flesh; and I believe I was as much
detested by them in turn. One fellow told me, “if he had me, he would
cut the devil out of me pretty quick.”
These Negro buyers are very offensive to the genteel southern Christian
public. They are looked upon, in respectable Maryland society, as
necessary, but detestable characters. As a class, they are hardened
ruffians, made such by nature and by occupation. Their ears are made
quite familiar with the agonizing cry of outraged and woe-smitted
humanity. Their eyes are forever open to human misery. They walk amid
desecrated affections, insulted virtue, and blasted hopes. They have
grown intimate with vice and blood; they gloat over the wildest
illustrations of their soul-damning and earth-polluting business, and
are moral pests. Yes; they are a legitimate fruit of slavery; and it is
a puzzle to make out a case of greater villainy for them, than for the
slaveholders, who make such a class _possible_. They are mere hucksters
of the surplus slave produce of Maryland and Virginia coarse, cruel,
and swaggering bullies, whose very breathing is 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 they would 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 are 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 off 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 is
usual in the case of run-away slaves, but to release Charles, Henry
Harris, Henry Baily and John Harris, from prison, and this, too,
without the infliction of a single blow. I was now left entirely 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 leased 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 seemed almost as
reluctant to leave the prison with me in it, as he was to be tied and
dragged to prison. But he and the rest knew that we should, in all the
likelihoods of the case, be separated, in the event of being sold; and
since we were now completely in the hands of our owners, we all
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 in the world, 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 is 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 to ply
me with questions and with their 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
and mercy, would have been as absurd as to reason with bears and
tigers. Lead and steel are the only arguments that they understand.
After remaining in this life of misery and despair about a week, which,
by the way, 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 this friend of
Capt. Auld would emancipate me, at the end of the time indicated.
Besides, I never had 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 Christian
reputation, however unconcerned he might be about his real Christian
character. In these remarks, however, it is possible that I do Master
Thomas Auld injustice. He certainly did not exhaust his power upon me,
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. Michael’s a few days, and no friend from
Alabama making his appearance, to take me there, 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
that 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.