“When I was a mourner just like you,Washed in the blood of the Lamb,I fasted and prayed till I got through,Washed in the blood of the Lamb.Chorus.—“Come along, sinner, and go with us;If you don’t you will be cussed.”“Religion’s like a blooming rose,Washed in the blood of the Lamb,As none but those that feel it knows,Washed in the blood of the Lamb.”—Cho.
“When I was a mourner just like you,Washed in the blood of the Lamb,I fasted and prayed till I got through,Washed in the blood of the Lamb.
Chorus.—“Come along, sinner, and go with us;If you don’t you will be cussed.”
“Religion’s like a blooming rose,Washed in the blood of the Lamb,As none but those that feel it knows,Washed in the blood of the Lamb.”—Cho.
The singing, joined in by all present, brought the enthusiasm of the assembly up to white heat, and the shouting, with the loud “Amen,” “God save the sinner,” “Sing it, brother, sing it,” made the welkin ring.
Whilethe “peculiar institution” was a great injury to both master and slaves, yet there was considerable truth in the oft-repeated saying that the slave “was happy.” It was indeed, a low kind of happiness, existing only where masters were disposed to treat their servants kindly, and where the proverbial light-heartedness of the latter prevailed. History shows that of all races, the African was best adapted to be the “hewers of wood, and drawers of water.”
Sympathetic in his nature, thoughtless in his feelings, both alimentativeness and amativeness large, the negro is better adapted to follow than to lead. His wants easily supplied, generous to a fault, large fund of humor, brimful of music, he has ever been found the best and most accommodating of servants. The slave would often get rid of punishment by his wit; and even when being flogged, the master’s heart has been moved to pity, by the humorous appeals of his victim. House servants in the cities and villages, and even on plantations, were considered privileged classes. Nevertheless, the field hands were not without their happy hours.
An old-fashioned corn-shucking took place once a year, on “Poplar Farm,” which afforded pleasant amusement for the out-door negroes for miles around. On these occasions, the servants, on all plantations, were allowed to attend by mere invitation of the blacks where the corn was to be shucked.
As the grain was brought in from the field, it was left in a pile near the corn-cribs. The night appointed, and invitations sent out, slaves from plantations five or six miles away, would assemble and join on the road, and in large bodies march along, singing their melodious plantation songs.
To hear three or four of these gangs coming from different directions, their leaders giving out the words, and the whole company joining in the chorus, would indeed surpass anything ever produced by “Haverly’s Ministrels,” and many of their jokes and witticisms were never equalled by Sam Lucas or Billy Kersands.
A supper was always supplied by the planter on whose farm the shucking was to take place. Often when approaching the place, the singers would speculate on what they were going to have for supper. The following song was frequently sung:—
“All dem puty gals will be dar,Shuck dat corn before you eat.Dey will fix it fer us rare,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I know dat supper will be big,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I think I smell a fine roast pig,Shuck dat corn before you eat.A supper is provided, so dey said,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I hope dey’ll have some nice wheat bread,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I hope dey’ll have some coffee dar,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I hope dey’ll have some whisky dar,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I think I’ll fill my pockets full,Shuck dat corn before you eat.Stuff dat coon an’ bake him down,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I speck some niggers dar from town,Shuck dat corn before you eat.Please cook dat turkey nice an’ brown.Shuck dat corn before you eat.By de side of dat turkey I’ll be foun,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I smell de supper, dat I do,Shuck dat corn before you eat.On de table will be a stew,Shuck dat corn, etc.”
“All dem puty gals will be dar,Shuck dat corn before you eat.Dey will fix it fer us rare,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I know dat supper will be big,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I think I smell a fine roast pig,Shuck dat corn before you eat.A supper is provided, so dey said,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I hope dey’ll have some nice wheat bread,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I hope dey’ll have some coffee dar,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I hope dey’ll have some whisky dar,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I think I’ll fill my pockets full,Shuck dat corn before you eat.Stuff dat coon an’ bake him down,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I speck some niggers dar from town,Shuck dat corn before you eat.Please cook dat turkey nice an’ brown.Shuck dat corn before you eat.By de side of dat turkey I’ll be foun,Shuck dat corn before you eat.I smell de supper, dat I do,Shuck dat corn before you eat.On de table will be a stew,Shuck dat corn, etc.”
Burning pine knots, held by some of the boys, usually furnished light for the occasion. Two hours is generally sufficient time to finish up a large shucking; where five hundred bushels of corn is thrown into the cribs as the shuck is taken off. The work is made comparatively light by the singing, which never ceases till they go to the supper table. Something like the following is sung during the evening:
“De possum meat am good to eat,Carve him to de heart;You’ll always find him good and sweet,Carve him to de heart;My dog did bark, and I went to see,Carve him to de heart;And dar was a possum up dat tree,Carve him to de heart.Chorus.—“Carve dat possum, carve dat possum children,Carve dat possum, carve him to de heart;Oh, carve dat possum, carve dat possum children,Carve dat possum, carve him to de heart.“I reached up for to pull him in,Carve him to de heart;De possum he began to grin,Carve him to de heart;I carried him home and dressed him off,Carve him to de heart;I hung him dat night in de frost,Carve him to de heart.Chorus.—“Carve dat possum, etc.“De way to cook de possum sound,Carve him to de heart;Fust par-bile him, den bake him brown,Carve him to de heart;Lay sweet potatoes in de pan,Carve him to de heart;De sweetest eatin’ in de lan,’Carve him to de heart.Chorus.—“Carve dat possum, etc.”
“De possum meat am good to eat,Carve him to de heart;You’ll always find him good and sweet,Carve him to de heart;My dog did bark, and I went to see,Carve him to de heart;And dar was a possum up dat tree,Carve him to de heart.
Chorus.—“Carve dat possum, carve dat possum children,Carve dat possum, carve him to de heart;Oh, carve dat possum, carve dat possum children,Carve dat possum, carve him to de heart.
“I reached up for to pull him in,Carve him to de heart;De possum he began to grin,Carve him to de heart;I carried him home and dressed him off,Carve him to de heart;I hung him dat night in de frost,Carve him to de heart.
Chorus.—“Carve dat possum, etc.
“De way to cook de possum sound,Carve him to de heart;Fust par-bile him, den bake him brown,Carve him to de heart;Lay sweet potatoes in de pan,Carve him to de heart;De sweetest eatin’ in de lan,’Carve him to de heart.
Chorus.—“Carve dat possum, etc.”
Should a poor supper be furnished, on such an occasion, you would hear remarks from all parts of the table,—
“Take dat rose pig ’way from dis table.”
“What rose pig? you see any rose pig here?”
“Ha, ha, ha! Dis ain’t de place to see rose pig.”
“Pass up some dat turkey wid clam sauce.”
“Don’t talk about dat turkey; he was gone afore we come.”
“Dis is de las’ time I shucks corn at dis farm.”
“Dis is a cheap farm, cheap owner, an’ a cheap supper.”
“He’s talkin’ it, ain’t he?”
“Dis is de tuffest meat dat I is been called upon to eat fer many a day; you’s got to have teeth sharp as a saw to eat dis meat.”
“Spose you ain’t got no teef, den what you gwine to do?”
“Why, ef you ain’t got no teef you mussgum it!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” from the whole company, was heard.
On leaving the corn-shucking farm, each gang of men, headed by their leader, would sing during the entire journey home. Some few, however, having their dogs with them, would start on the trail of a coon, possum, or some other game, which might keep them out till nearly morning.
To the Christmas holidays, the slaves were greatly indebted for winter recreation; for long custom had given to them the whole week from Christmas day to the coming in of the New Year.
On “Poplar Farm,” the hands drew their share of clothing on Christmas day for the year. The clothing for both men and women was made up by women kept for general sewing and housework. One pair of pants, and two shirts, made the entire stock for a male field hand.
The women’s garments were manufactured from the same goods that the men received. Many of the men worked at night for themselves, making splint and corn brooms, baskets, shuck mats, and axe-handles, which they would sell in the city during Christmas week. Each slave was furnished with a pass, something like the following:—
“Please let my boy, Jim, pass anywhere in this county, until Jan. 1, 1834, and oblige
Respectfully,“John Gaines, M.D.“‘Poplar Farm,’St. Louis County, Mo.”
With the above precious document in his pocket, a load of baskets, brooms, mats, and axe-handles on his back, a bag hanging across his shoulders, with a jug in each end,—one for the whiskey, and the other for the molasses,—the slaves trudged off to town at night, singing,—
“Hurra, for good ole massa,He give me de pass to go to de city.Hurra, for good ole missis,She bile de pot, and giv me de licker.Hurra, I’m goin to de city.”“When de sun rise in de mornin’,Jes’ above de yaller corn,You’ll fin’ dis nigger has take warnin’,An’s gone when de driver blows his horn.“Hurra, for good ole massa,He giv me de pass to go to de city.Hurra for good ole missis,She bile de pot, and give me de licker.Hurra, I’m goin to de city.”
“Hurra, for good ole massa,He give me de pass to go to de city.Hurra, for good ole missis,She bile de pot, and giv me de licker.Hurra, I’m goin to de city.”
“When de sun rise in de mornin’,Jes’ above de yaller corn,You’ll fin’ dis nigger has take warnin’,An’s gone when de driver blows his horn.
“Hurra, for good ole massa,He giv me de pass to go to de city.Hurra for good ole missis,She bile de pot, and give me de licker.Hurra, I’m goin to de city.”
Both the Methodists and Baptists,—the religious denominations to which the blacks generally belong,—never fail to be in the midst of a revival meeting during the holidays, and most of the slaves from the country hasten to these gatherings. Some, however, spend their time at the dances, raffles, cockfights, foot-races, and other amusements that present themselves.
A youngand beautiful lady, closely veiled and attired in black, arrived one morning at “Poplar Farm,” and was shown immediately into a room in the eastern wing, where she remained, attended only by old Nancy. That the lady belonged to the better class was evident from her dress, refined manners, and the inviolable secrecy of her stay at the residence of Dr. Gaines. At last the lady gave birth to a child, which was placed under the care of Isabella, a quadroon servant, who had recently lost a baby of her own.
The lady left the premises as mysteriously as she had come, and nothing more was ever seen or heard of her, certainly not by the negroes. The child, which was evidently of pure Anglo-Saxon blood, was called Lola, and grew up amongst the negro children of the place, to be a bright, pretty girl, to whom her adopted mother seemed very much attached.At the time of which I write, Lola was eight years old, and her presence on the plantation began to annoy the white members of Dr. Gaines’ family, especially when strangers visited the place.
The appearance of Mr. Walker, the noted slave speculator, on the plantation, and whom it was said, had been sent for, created no little excitement amongst the slaves; and great was the surprise to the blacks, when they saw the trader taking Isabella and Lola with him at his departure. Unable to sell the little white girl at any price, Mr. Walker gave her to Mr. George Savage, who having no children of his own adopted the child.
Isabella was sold to a gentleman, who took her to Washington. The grief of the quadroon at being separated from her adopted child was intense, and greatly annoyed her new master, who determined to sell her on his arrival home. Isabella was sold to the slave-trader, Jennings, who placed the woman in one of the private slave-pens, or prisons, a number of which then disgraced the national capital.
Jennings intended to send Isabella to the New Orleans market, as soon as he purchased a sufficient number. At the dusk of the evening, previous to the day she was to be sent off, as the old prison was being closed for the night, Isabella suddenly darted past the keeper, and ran for her life. It was not a great distance from the prison to the long bridge which passes from the lower part of the city, across the Potomac to the extensive forests and woodlands of the celebrated Arlington Heights, then occupiedby that distinguished relative and descendant of the immortal Washington, Mr. Geo. W. Custis. Thither the poor fugitive directed her flight. So unexpected was her escape, that she had gained several rods the start before the keeper had secured the other prisoners, and rallied his assistants to aid in the pursuit. It was at an hour, and in a part of the city where horses could not easily be obtained for the chase; no bloodhounds were at hand to run down the flying woman, and for once it seemed as if there was to be a fair trial of speed and endurance between the slave and the slave-catchers.
The keeper and his force raised the hue-and-cry on her path as they followed close behind; but so rapid was the flight along the wide avenue, that the astonished citizens, as they poured forth from their dwellings to learn the cause of alarm, were only able to comprehend the nature of the case in time to fall in with the motley throng in pursuit, or raise an anxious prayer to heaven, as they refused to join in the chase (as many a one did that night), that the panting fugitive might escape, and the merciless soul-dealer for once be disappointed of his prey. And now, with the speed of an arrow, having passed the avenue, with the distance between her and her pursuers constantly increasing, this poor, hunted female gained the “Long Bridge,” as it is called, where interruption seemed improbable. Already her heart began to beat high with the hope of success. She had only to pass three-quarters of a mile across the bridge, when she could bury herself in avast forest, just at the time when the curtain of night would close around her, and protect her from the pursuit of her enemies.
But God, by His providence, had otherwise determined. He had ordained that an appalling tragedy should be enacted that night within plain sight of the President’s house, and the Capitol of the Union, which would be an evidence, wherever it should be known, of the unconquerable love of liberty which the human heart may inherit, as well as a fresh admonition to the slave-dealer of the cruelty and enormity of his crimes.
Just as the pursuers passed the high draw, soon after entering upon the bridge, they beheld three men slowly approaching from the Virginia side. They immediately called to them to arrest the fugitive, proclaiming her a runaway slave. True to their Virginia instincts, as she came near, they formed a line across the narrow bridge to intercept her. Seeing that escape was impossible in that quarter, she stopped suddenly, and turned upon her pursuers.
On came the profane and ribald gang, faster than ever, already exulting in her capture, and threatening punishment for her flight. For a moment, she looked wildly and anxiously around to see if there was no hope of escape, on either hand; far down below, rolled the deep, foaming waters of the Potomac, and before and behind were the rapidly approaching steps and noisy voices of her pursuers.
Seeing how vain would be any further effort toescape, her resolution was instantly taken. She clasped her hands convulsively together, raised her tearful and imploring eyes towards heaven, and begged for the mercy and compassion there, which was unjustly denied her on earth; then, with a single bound, vaulted over the railing of the bridge, and sank forever beneath the angry and foaming waters of the river.
In the meantime Mr. and Mrs. Savage were becoming more and more interested in the child, Lola, whom they had adopted, and who was fast developing into an intellectual and beautiful girl, whose bright, sparkling hazel eyes, snow-white teeth and alabaster complexion caused her to be admired by all. In time, Lola become highly educated, and was duly introduced into the best society.
The cholera of 1832, in its ravages, swept off many of St. Louis’ most valued citizens, and among them, Mr. George Savage. Mrs. Savage, who was then in ill-health, regarded Lola with even greater solicitude, than during the lifetime of her late husband. Lola had been amply provided for by Mr. Savage, in his will. She was being courted by Mr. Martin Phelps, previous to the death of her adopted father, and the failing health of Mrs. Savage hastened the nuptials.
The marriage of Mr. Phelps and Miss Savage partook more of a private than of a public affair, owing to the recent death of Mr. Savage. Mr. Phelps’ residence was at the outskirts of the city, in the vicinity of what was known as the “Mound,” andwas a lovely spot. The lady had brought considerable property to her husband.
One morning in the month of December, and only about three months after the marriage of the Phelps’s, two men alighted from a carriage, at Mr. Phelps’ door, rang the bell, and were admitted by the servant. Mr. Phelps hastened from the breakfast-table, as the servant informed him of the presence of the strangers.
On entering the sitting-room, the host recognized one of the men as Officer Mull, while the other announced himself as James Walker, and said,—
“I have come, Mr. Phelps, on rather an unpleasant errand. You’ve got a slave in your house that belongs to me.”
“I think you are mistaken, sir,” replied Mr. Phelps; “my servants are all hired from Major Ben. O’Fallon.”
Walker put on a sinister smile, and blandly continued, “I see, sir, that you don’t understand me. Ten years ago I bought a slave child from Dr. Gaines, and lent her to Mr. George Savage, and I understand she’s in your employ, and I’ve come to get her,” and here the slave speculator took from his side pocket a large sheepskin pocket book, and drew forth the identical bill of sale of Lola, given to him by Dr. Gaines at the time of the selling of Isabella and the child.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mr. Phelps, “that paper, if it means anything, it means my wife.”
“I can’t help what it means,” remarked Walker;“here’s the bill of sale, and here’s the officer to get me my nigger.”
“There must be a mistake here. It is true that my wife was the adopted daughter of the late Mr. George Savage, but there is not a drop of negro blood in her veins; and I doubt, sir, if you have ever seen her.”
“Well, sir,” said Walker, “jest bring her in the room, and I guess she’ll know me.”
Feeling confident that the bill of sale had no reference to his wife, Mr. Phelps rang the bell, and told the boy that answered it to ask his mistress to come in. A moment or two later, and the lady entered the room.
“My dear,” said Mr. Phelps, “are you acquainted with either of these gentlemen?”
The lady looked, hesitated, and replied, “I think not.”
Then Walker arose, stepped towards the window, where he could be seen to better advantage, and said, “Why, Lola, have you forgotten me, it’s only about ten years since I brought you from ‘Poplar Farm,’ and lent you to Mr. Savage. Ha, ha, ha!”
This coarse laugh of the rough, uneducated negro-trader had not ceased, when Lola gave a heart-rending shriek, and fell fainting upon the floor.
“I thought she’d know me when I jogged her memory,” said Walker, as he re-seated himself.
Mr. Phelps sprang to his wife, and lifted her from the floor, and placed her upon the sofa.
“Throw a little of Adam’s ale in her face, andthat’ll bring her to. I’ve seen ’em faint afore; but they allers come to,” said the trader.
LEAP OF THE FUGITIVE SLAVE.
LEAP OF THE FUGITIVE SLAVE.
“I thank you, sir, but I will attend to my own affairs,” said Mr. Phelps, in a rather petulant tone.
“Yes,” replied Walker; “but she’s mine, and I want to see that she comes to.”
As soon as she revived, Mr. Phelps led his wife from the room. A conference of an hour took place on the return of Mr. Phelps to the parlor, which closed with the understanding that a legal examination of the papers should settle the whole question the next day.
At the appointed time, on the following morning, one of the ablest lawyers in the city, Col. Strawther, pronounced the bill of sale genuine, for it had been drawn up by Justice McGuyer, and witnessed by George Kennelly and Wilson P. Hunt.
For this claim, Walker expressed a willingness to sell the woman for two thousand dollars. The payment of the money would have been a small matter, if it had not carried with it the proof that Lola was a slave, which was undeniable evidence that she had negro blood in her veins.
Yet such was the result, for Dr. Gaines had been dead these three years, and whoever Lola’s mother was, even if living, she would not come forth to vindicate the free birth of her child.
Mr. Phelps was a man of fine sensibility and was affectionately attached to his wife. However, it was a grave question to be settled in his mind, whether his honor as a Southern gentleman, and his standing in society would allow him to acknowledge a woman as his wife, in whose veins coursed the accursed blood of the negro slave.
Long was the struggle between love and duty,but the shame of public gaze and the ostracism of society decided the matter in favor of duty, and the young and lovely wife was informed by the husband that they must separate, never to meet again. Indescribable were the feelings of Lola, as she begged him, upon her knees, not to leave her. The room was horrible in its darkness,—her mind lost its reasoning powers for a time. At last consciousness returned, but only to awaken in her the loneliness of her condition, and the unfriendliness of that law and society that dooms one to everlasting disgrace for a blood taint, which the victim did not have.
Ten days after the proving of the bill of sale, the innocent Lola died of a broken heart, and was interred in the negro burial ground, with not a white face to follow the corpse to its last resting-place. Such is American race prejudice.
Theinvention of the Whitney cotton gin, nearly fifty years ago, created a wonderful rise in the price of slaves in the cotton States. The value of able-bodied men, fit for field-hands, advanced from five hundred to twelve hundred dollars, in the short space of five years. In 1850, a prime field-hand was worth two thousand dollars. The price of women rose in proportion; they being valued atabout three hundred dollars less each than the men. This change in the price of slaves caused a lucrative business to spring up, both in the breeding of slaves and the sending of them to the States needing their services. Virginia, Kentucky, Missouri, Tennessee, and North Carolina became the slave-raising sections; Virginia, however, was always considered the banner State. To the traffic in human beings, more than to any other of its evils, is the institution indebted for its overthrow.
From the picture on the heading ofThe Liberator, down to the smallest tract printed against slavery, the separation of families was the chief object of those exposing the great American sin. The tearing asunder of husbands and wives, of parents and children, and the gangs of men and women chained together,en routefor the New-Orleans’ market, furnished newspaper correspondents with items that never wanted readers. These newspaper paragraphs were not unfrequently made stronger by the fact that many of the slaves were as white as those who offered them for sale, and the close resemblance of the victim to the trader, often reminded the purchaser that the same blood coursed through the veins of both.
The removal of Dr. Gaines from “Poplar Farm” to St. Louis, gave me an opportunity of seeing the worst features of the internal slave-trade. For many years Missouri drove a brisk business in the selling of her sons and daughters, the greater number of whom passed through the city of St. Louis.For a long time, James Walker was the principal speculator in this species of property. The early life of this man had been spent as a drayman, first working for others, then for himself, and eventually purchasing men who worked with him. At last, disposing of his horses and drays, he took his faithful men to the Louisiana market and sold them. This was the commencement of a career of cruelty, that, in all probability, had no equal in the annals of the American slave trade.
A more repulsive-looking person could scarcely be found in any community of bad-looking men than Walker. Tall, lean, and lank, with high cheek-bones, face much pitted with the small-pox, gray eyes, with red eyebrows, and sandy whiskers, he indeed stood alone without mate or fellow in looks. He prided himself upon what he called his goodness of heart, and was always speaking of his humanity.
Walker often boasted that he never separated families if he could “persuade the purchaser to take the whole lot.” He would always advertise in the New Orleans’ papers that he would be there with a prime lot of able-bodied slaves, men and women, fit for field-service, with a few extra ones calculated for house servants,—all between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five years; but like most men who make a business of speculating in human beings, he often bought many who were far advanced in years, and would try to pass them off for five or six years younger than they were. Few persons can arriveat anything approaching the real age of the negro, by mere observation, unless they are well acquainted with the race. Therefore, the slave-trader frequently carried out the deception with perfect impunity.
As soon as the steamer would leave the wharf, and was fairly on the bosom of the broad Mississippi, the speculator would call his servant Pompey to him, and instruct him as to getting the slaves ready for the market. If any of the blacks looked as if they were older than they were advertised to be, it was Pompey’s business to fit them for the day of sale.
Pomp, as he was usually called by the trader, was of real negro blood, and would often say, when alluding to himself, “Dis nigger am no counterfeit, he is de ginuine artikle. Dis chile is none of your haf-and-haf, dere is no bogus about him.”
Pompey was of low stature, round face, and, like most of his race, had a set of teeth, which, for whiteness and beauty, could not be surpassed; his eyes were large, lips thick, and hair short and woolly. Pomp had been with Walker so long, and seen so much of buying and selling of his fellow-creatures, that he appeared perfectly indifferent to the heart-rending scenes which daily occurred in his presence. Such is the force of habit:—
“Vice is a monster of such frightful mien,That to be hated, needs but to be seen;But seen too oft, familiar with its face,We first endure, then pity, then embrace.”
“Vice is a monster of such frightful mien,That to be hated, needs but to be seen;But seen too oft, familiar with its face,We first endure, then pity, then embrace.”
Before reaching the place of destination, Pompey would pick out the older portion and say, “I is de chap dat is to get you ready for de Orleans market, so dat you will bring marser a good price. How old is you?” addressing himself to a man that showed some age.
“Ef I live to see next corn-plantin’ time, I’ll be forty.”
“Dat may be,” replied Pompey, “but now you is only thirty years old; dat’s what marser says you is to be.”
“I know I is mo’ dan dat,” responded the man.
“I can’t help nuffin’ ’bout dat,” returned Pompey; “but when you get in de market, an’ any one ax you how old you is, an’ you tell um you is forty, massa will tie you up, an’ when he is done whippin’ you, you’ll be glad to say you’s only thirty.”
“Well den, I reckon I is only thirty,” said the slave.
“What is your name?” asked Pompey of another man in the group.
“Jeems,” was the response.
“Oh! Uncle Jim, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Den you muss’ hab all dem gray whiskers shaved off, and dem gray hairs plucked out of your head. De fack is, you’s got ole too quick.” This was all said by Pompey in a manner which showed that he knew his business.
“How ole is you?” asked Pompey of a tall, strong-looking man.
“I am twenty-nine, nex’ Christmas Eve,” said the man.
“What’s your name?”
“My name is Tobias,” replied the slave.
“Tobias!” ejaculated Pompey, with a sneer, that told that he was ready to show his brief authority. “Now you’s puttin’ on airs. Your name is Toby, an’ why can’t you tell the truf? Remember, now, dat you is twenty-three years ole; an’ afore you goes in de market your face muss’ be greased; fer I see you’s one of dem kind o’ ashy niggers, an’ a little grease will make your face look black an’ slick, an’ make you look younger.”
Pompey reported to his master the condition of affairs, when the latter said, “Be sure that the niggers don’t forget what you have taught them, for our luck depends a great deal upon the appearance of our stock.”
With this lot of slaves was a beautiful quadroon, a girl of twenty years, fair as most white women, with hair a little wavy, large black eyes, and a countenance that betokened intelligence beyond the common house servant. Her name was Marion, and the jealousy of the mistress, so common in those days, was the cause of her being sold.
Not far from Canal Street, in the city of New Orleans, in the old days of slavery, stood a two-story, flat building, surrounded by a stone wall, some twelve feet high, the top of which was covered with bits of glass, and so constructed as to prevent even the possibility of any one’s passingover it without sustaining great injury. Many of the rooms in this building resembled the cells of a prison, and in a small apartment, near the “office,” were to be seen any number of iron collars, hobbles, hand-cuffs, thumb-screws, cowhides, chains, gags, and yokes.
A back-yard, enclosed by a high wall, looked like the play-ground attached to one of our large New England schools, in which were rows of benches and swings. Attached to the back premises was a good-sized kitchen, where, at the time of which we write, two old negresses were at work, stewing, boiling, and baking, and occasionally wiping the perspiration from their furrowed and swarthy brows.
The slave-trader, Walker, on his arrival at New Orleans, took up his quarters here, with his gang of human cattle, and the morning after, at ten o’clock, they were exhibited for sale. First of all, came the beautiful Marion, whose pale countenance and dejected look, told how many sad hours she had passed since parting with her mother. There, too, was a poor woman, who had been separated from her husband, and another woman, whose looks and manners were expressive of deep anguish, sat by her side. There was “Uncle Jeems,” with his whiskers off, his face shaven clean, and the gray hairs plucked out, ready to be sold for ten years younger than he was. Toby was also there, with his face shaven and greased, ready for inspection.
The examination commenced, and was carried on insuch a manner as to shock the feelings of any one not entirely devoid of the milk of human kindness.
“What are you wiping your eyes for?” inquired a fat, red-faced man, with a white hat set on one side of his head and a cigar in his mouth, of a woman who sat on one of the benches.
“Because I left my man behind.”
“Oh, if I buy you, I will furnish you with a better man than you left. I’ve got lots of young bucks on my farm,” responded the man.
“I don’t want and never will have another man,” replied the woman.
“What’s your name?” asked a man, in a straw hat, of a tall negro, who stood with his arms folded across his breast, leaning against the wall.
“My name is Aaron, sar.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Where were you raised?”
“In ole Virginny, sar.”
“How many men have owned you?”
“Four.”
“Do you enjoy good health?”
“Yes, sar.”
“How long did you live with your first owner?”
“Twenty years.”
“Did you ever run away?”
“No, sar.”
“Did you ever strike your master?”
“No sar.”
“Were you ever whipped much?”
“No, sar; I spose I didn’t desarve it, sar.”
“How long did you live with your second master?”
“Ten years, sar.”
“Have you a good appetite?”
“Yes, sar.”
“Can you eat your allowance?”
“Yes, sar,—when I can get it.”
“Where were you employed in Virginia?”
“I worked in de tobacker fiel’.”
“In the tobacco field, eh?”
“Yes, sar.”
“How old did you say you was?”
“Twenty-five, sar, nex’ sweet-’tater-diggin’ time.”
“I am a cotton-planter, and if I buy you, you will have to work in the cotton field. My men pick one hundred and fifty pounds a day, and the women one hundred and forty pounds; and those who fail to perform their task receive five stripes for each pound that is wanting. Now do you think you could keep up with the rest of the hands?”
“I don’t know, sar, but I reckon I’d have to.”
“How long did you live with your third master?”
“Three years, sar,” replied the slave.
“Why, that makes you thirty-three; I thought you told me you were only twenty-five.”
Aaron now looked first at the planter, then at the trader, and seemed perfectly bewildered. He had forgotten the lesson given him by Pompey, relative to his age; and the planter’s circuitous questions—doubtless to find out the slave’s real age—had thrown the negro off his guard.
“I must see your back, so as to know how much you have been whipped, before I think of buying.”
Pompey, who had been standing by during the examination, thought that his services were now required, and, stepping forth with a degree of officiousness, said to Aaron:—“Don’t you hear de gemman tell you he wants to zamin you? Cum, unharness yo-seff, ole boy, an’ don’t be standin’ dar.”
Aaron was examined, and pronounced “sound”; yet the conflicting statement about his age was not satisfactory.
On the following trip down the river, Walker halted at Vicksburg, with a “prime lot of slaves,” and a circumstance occurred which shows what the slaves in those days would resort to, to save themselves from flogging, while, at the same time, it exhibits the quick wit of the race.
While entertaining some of his purchasers at the hotel, Walker ordered Pompey to hand the wine around to his guests. In doing this, the servant upset a glass of wine upon a gentleman’s lap. For this mishap, the trader determined to have his servant punished. He, therefore, gave Pompey a sealed note, and ordered him to take it to the slave prison. The servant, suspecting that all was not right, hastened to open the note before the wafer had dried; and passing the steamboat landing, he got a sailor to read the note, which proved to be, as Pompey had suspected, an order to have him receive “thirty-nine stripes upon the bare back.”
Walker had given the man a silver dollar, with orders to deliver it, with the note, to the jailor, for it was common in those days for persons who wanted their servants punished and did not wish to do it themselves, to send them to the “slave pen,” and have it done; the price for which was one dollar.
WALKER, THE SLAVE TRADER.
WALKER, THE SLAVE TRADER.
How to escape the flogging, and yet bring back to his master the evidence of having been punished, perplexed the fertile brain of Pompey. However, the servant was equal to the occasion. Standing in front of the “slave pen,” the negro saw another well dressed colored man coming up the street, and he determined to inquire in regard to how they did the whipping there.
“How de do, sar,” said Pompey, addressing the colored brother. “Do you live here?”
“Oh! no,” replied the stranger, “I am a free man, and belong in Pittsburgh, Pa.”
“Ah! ha, den you don’t live here,” said Pompey.
“No, I left my boat here last week, and I have been trying every day to get something to do. I’m pretty well out of money, and I’d do almost anything just now.”
A thought flashed upon Pompey’s mind—this was his occasion.
“Well,” said the slave, “ef you want a job, whar you can make some money quick, I specks I can help you.”
“If you will,” replied the free man, “you’ll do me a great favor.”
“Here, then,” said Pompey, “take dis note, an’ go in to dat prison, dar, an’ dey will give you a trunk, bring it out, an’ I’ll tell you where to carry it to, an’ here’s a dollar; dat will pay you, won’t it?”
“Yes,” replied the man, with many thanks; and taking the note and the shining coin, with smiles, he went to the “Bell Gate,” and gave the bell a loud ring. The gate flew open, and in he went.
The man had scarcely disappeared, ere Pompey had crossed the street, and was standing at the gate, listening to the conversation then going on between the jailor and the free colored man.
“Where is the dollar that you got with this note?” asked the “whipper,” as he finished reading the epistle.
“Here it is, sir; he gave it to me,” said the man, with no little surprise.
“Hand it here,” responded the jailor, in a rough voice. “There, now; take this nigger, Pete, and strap him down upon the stretcher, and get him ready for business.”
“What are you going to do to me!” cried the horrified man, at the jailor’s announcement.
“You’ll know, damn quick!” was the response.
The resistance of the innocent man caused the “whipper” to call in three other sturdy blacks, and, in a few minutes, the victim was fastened upon the stretcher, face downwards, his clothing removed, and the strong-armed white negro-whipper standing over him with uplifted whip.
The cries and groans of the poor man, as the heavy instrument of torture fell upon his bare back, aroused Pompey, who retreated across the street, stood awaiting the result, and wondering if he could obtain, from the injured man, the receipt which the jailor always gives the slave to take back to his master as evidence of his having been punished.
As the gate opened, and the colored brother made his appearance, looking wildly about for Pompey, the latter called out, “Here I is, sar!”
Maddened by the pain from the excoriation of his bleeding back, and the surprise and astonishment at the quickness with which the whole thing had been accomplished, the man ran across the street, upbraiding in the most furious manner his deceiver,who also appeared amazed at the epithets bestowed upon him.
“What have I done to you?” asked Pompey, with a seriousness that was indeed amusing.
“What hain’t you done!” said the man, the tears streaming down his face. “You’ve got my back cut all to pieces,” continued the victim.
“What did you let ’em whip you for?” said Pompey, with a concealed smile.
“You knew that note was to get somebody whipped, and you put it on me. And here is a piece of paper that he gave me, and told me to give it to my master. Just as if I had a master.”
“Well,” responded Pompey, “I have a half a dollar, an’ I’ll give that to you, ef you’ll give me the paper.”
Seeing that he could make no better bargain, the man gave up the receipt, taking in exchange the silver coin.
“Now,” said Pompey, “I’m mighty sorry for ye, an’ ef ye’ll go down to de house, I’ll pray for ye. I’m powerful in prayer, dat I is.” However the free man declined Pompey’s offer.
“I reckon you’ll behave yourself and not spill the wine over gentlemen again,” said Walker, as Pompey handed him the note from the jailor. “The next time you commit such a blunder, you’ll not get off so easy,” continued the speculator.
Pompey often spoke of the appearance of “my fren’,” as he called the colored brother, and would enjoy a hearty laugh, saying, “He was a free man,an’ could afford to go to bed, an’ lay dar till he got well.”
Strangers to the institution of slavery, and its effects upon its victims, would frequently speak with astonishment of the pride that slaves would show in regard to their own value in the market. This was especially so, at auction sales where town or city servants were sold.
“What did your marser pay for you?” would often be asked by one slave of another.
“Eight hundred dollars.”
“Eight hundred dollars! Ha, ha! Well, ef I didn’t sell for mo’ dan eight hundred dollars, I’d neber show my head agin ’mong ’spectable people.”
“You got so much to say ’bout me sellin’ cheap, now I want to know how much your boss paid fer you?”
“My boss paid fifteen hundred dollars cash, for me; an’ it was a rainy day, an’ not many out to de auction, or he’d had to pay a heap mo’, let me tell you. I’m none of your cheap niggers, I ain’t.”
“Hy, uncle! Did dey sell you, ’isterday? I see you down dar to de market.”
“Yes, dey sole me.”
“How much did you fetch?”
“Eighteen hundred dollars.”
“Dat was putty smart fer man like you, ain’t it?”
“Well, I dunno; it’s no mo’ dan I is wuf; fer you muss’ ’member, I was raised by de Christy’s. I’m none of yer common niggers, sellin’ fer a picayune. I tink my new boss got me mighty cheap.”
“An’ so you sole, las’ Sataday, fer nine hundred dollars; so I herd.”
“Well, what on it?”
“All I got to say is, ef I was sole, to-morrow, an’ did’nt bring more dan nine hundred dollars, I’d never look a decent man in de face agin.”
These, and other sayings of the kind, were often heard in any company of colored men, in our Southern towns.
Throughoutthe Southern States, there are still to be found remnants of the old time Africans, who were stolen from their native land and sold in the Savannah, Mobile, and New Orleans markets, in defiance of all law. The last-named city, however, and its vicinity, had a larger portion of these people than any other section. New Orleans was their centre, and where their meetings were not uninteresting.
Congo Square takes its name, as is well known, from the Congo negroes who used to perform their dance on its sward every Sunday. They were a curious people, and brought over with them this remnant of their African jungles. In Louisiana there were six different tribes of negroes, named after the section of the country from which they came, and their representatives could be seen on thesquare, their teeth filed, and their cheeks still bearing tattoo marks. The majority of our city negroes came from the Kraels, a numerous tribe who dwell in stockades. We had here the Minahs, a proud, dignified, warlike race; the Congos, a treacherous, shrewd, relentless people; the Mandringas, a branch of the Congos; the Gangas, named after the river of that name, from which they had been taken; the Hiboas, called by the missionaries the “Owls,” a sullen, intractable tribe, and the Foulas, the highest type of the African, with but few representatives here.
These were the people that one would meet on the square many years ago. It was a gala occasion, these Sundays in those years, and not less than two or three thousand people would congregate there to see the dusky dancers. A low fence enclosed the square, and on each street there was a little gate and turnstile. There were no trees then, and the ground was worn bare by the feet of the people. About three o’clock the negroes began to gather, each nation taking their places in different parts of the square. The Minahs would not dance near the Congos, nor the Mandringas near the Gangas. Presently the music would strike up, and the parties would prepare for the sport. Each set had its own orchestra. The instruments were a peculiar kind of banjo, made of a Louisiana gourd, several drums made of a gum stump dug out, with a sheepskin head, and beaten with the fingers, and two jaw-bones of a horse, which when shaken would rattle the loose teeth,keeping time with the drums. About eight negroes, four male and four female, would make a set, and generally they were but scantily clad.
It took some little time before the tapping of the drums would arouse the dull and sluggish dancers, but when the point of excitement came, nothing can faithfully portray the wild and frenzied motions they go through. Backward and forward, this way and that, now together and now apart, every motion intended to convey the most sensual ideas. As the dance progressed, the drums were thrummed faster, the contortions became more grotesque, until sometimes, in frenzy, the women and men would fall fainting to the ground. All this was going on with a dense crowd looking on, and with a hot sun pouring its torrid rays on the infatuated actors of this curious ballet. After one set had become fatigued, they would drop out to be replaced by others, and then stroll off to the groups of some other tribe in a different portion of the square. Then it was that trouble would commence, and a regular set-to with short sticks followed, between the men, and broken heads ended the day’s entertainment.
On the sidewalks, around the square, the old negresses, with their spruce-beer and peanuts, cocoanuts and pop-corn, did a thriving trade, and now and then, beneath petticoats, bottles of tafia, a kind of Louisiana rum, peeped out, of which thegendarmeswere oblivious. When the sun went down, a stream of people poured out of the turn-stiles, and thegendarmes, walking through the square, wouldorder the dispersion of the negroes, and by gun-fire, at nine o’clock, the place was well-nigh deserted. These dances were kept up until within the memory of men still living, and many who believe in them, and who would gladly revive them, may be found in every State in the Union.
The early traditions, brought down through the imported Africans, have done much to keep alive the belief that the devil is a personal being, with hoofs, horns, and having powers equal with God. These ideas give influence to the conjurer, goopher doctor, and fortune-teller.
While visiting one of the upper parishes, not long since, I was stopping with a gentleman who was accustomed to make weekly visits to a neighboring cemetery, sitting for hours amongst the graves, at which occurrence the wife felt very sad.
I inquired of her the object of her husband’s strange freak.
“Oh!” said she, “he’s influenced out there by angels.”
“Has he gone to the cemetery now?” I asked.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“I think I can cure him of it, if you will promise to keep the whole thing a secret.”
“I will,” was the reply.
“Let me have a sheet, and unloose your dog, and I will put the cure in motion,” I said. Rolla, the big Newfoundland dog, was unfastened, the sheet was well fitted around his neck, tightly sewed, and the pet told to go hunt his master.
Taking the trail, the dog at once made for the cemetery. Screams of “Help, help! God save me!” coming from the direction of the tombs, aroused the neighborhood. The cries of the man frightened the dog, and he returned home in haste; the sheet, half torn, was removed, and Rolla again fastened in his house.
Very soon Mr. Martin was led in by two friends, who picked him up from the sidewalk, with his face considerably bruised. His story was, that “The devil had chased him out of the cemetery, tripped him up on the sidewalk, and hence the flow of blood from the wound on his face.”
The above is a fair index to most of the ghost stories.
Fortyyears ago, the escapes of slaves from the South, although numerous, were nevertheless difficult, owing to the large rewards offered for their apprehension, and the easy mode of extradition from the Northern States. Little or no difficulty was experienced in capturing and returning a slave from Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, or Pennsylvania, the four States through which the fugitives had to pass in their flight to Canada. The Quaker element in all of the above States showed itself in the furnishing of food to the flying bondman, concealing himfor days, and even weeks, and at last conveying him to a place of safety, or carrying him to the Queen’s dominions.
Instinct seemed to tell the negro that a drab coat and a broad-brimmed hat covered a benevolent heart, and we have no record of his ever having been deceived. It is possible that the few Friends scattered over the slave States, and the fact that they were never known to own a slave, gave the blacks a favorable impression of this sect, before the victim of oppression left his sunny birth-place.
A brave and manly slave resolved to escape from Natchez, Miss. This slave, whose name was Jerome, was of pure African origin, was perfectly black, very fine-looking, tall, slim, and erect as any one could possibly be. His features were not bad, lips thin, nose prominent, hands and feet small. His brilliant black eyes lighted up his whole countenance. His hair, which was nearly straight, hung in curls upon his lofty brow. George Combe or Fowler would have selected his head for a model. He was brave and daring, strong in person, fiery in spirit, yet kind and true in his affections, earnest in whatever he undertook.
To reach the free States or Canada, by travelling by night and lying by during the day, from a State so far south as Mississippi, no one would think for a moment of attempting to escape. To remain in the city would be a suicidal step. The deep sound of the escape of steam from a boat, which was at that moment ascending the river, broke upon theears of the slave. “If that boat is going up the river,” said he, “why not I conceal myself on board, and try to escape?” He went at once to the steamboat landing, where the boat was just coming in. “Bound for Louisville,” said the captain, to one who was making inquiries. As the passengers were rushing on board, Jerome followed them, and proceeding to where some of the hands were stowing away bales of goods, he took hold and aided them.
“Jump down into the hold, there, and help the men,” said the mate to the fugitive, supposing that, like many persons, he was working his way up the river. Once in the hull, among the boxes, the slave concealed himself. Weary hours, and at last days, passed without either water or food with the hidden slave. More than once did he resolve to let his case be known; but the knowledge that he would be sent back to Natchez, kept him from doing so. At last, with his lips parched and fevered to a crisp, the poor man crawled out into the freight-room, and began wandering about. The hatches were on, and the room dark. There happened to be on board, a wedding-party; and a box, containing some of the bridal cake, with several bottles of port wine, was near Jerome. He found the box, opened it, and helped himself. In eight days, the boat tied up at the wharf at the place of her destination. It was late at night; the boat’s crew, with the single exception of the man on watch, were on shore. The hatches were off, and the fugitive quietly made hisway on deck and jumped on shore. The man saw the fugitive, but too late to seize him.
Still in a slave State, Jerome was at a loss to know how he should proceed. He had with him a few dollars, enough to pay his way to Canada, if he could find a conveyance. The fugitive procured such food as he wanted from one of the many eating-houses, and then, following the direction of the North Star, he passed out of the city, and took the road leading to Covington. Keeping near the Ohio River, Jerome soon found an opportunity to pass over into the State of Indiana. But liberty was a mere name in the latter State, and the fugitive learned, from some colored persons that he met, that it was not safe to travel by daylight. While making his way one night, with nothing to cheer him but the prospect of freedom in the future, he was pounced upon by three men who were lying in wait for another fugitive, an advertisement of whom they had received through the mail. In vain did Jerome tell tell them that he was not a slave. True, they had not caught the man they expected; but, if they could make this slave tell from what place he had escaped, they knew that a good price would be paid them for the slave’s arrest.
Tortured by the slave-catchers, to make him reveal the name of his owner and the place from whence he had escaped, Jerome gave them a fictitious name in Virginia, and said that his master would give a large reward, and manifested a willingness to return to his “old boss.”
By this misrepresentation, the fugitive hoped to have another chance of getting away.
Allured with the prospect of a large sum of the needful the slave-catchers started back with their victim. Stopping on the second night at an inn, on the banks of the Ohio River, the kidnappers, in lieu of a suitable place in which to confine their prize during the night, chained him to the bed-post of their sleeping chamber.
The white men were late in retiring to rest, after an evening spent in drinking. At dead of night, when all was still, the slave arose from the floor, upon which he had been lying, looked around and saw that Morpheus had possession of his captors. “For once,” thought he, “the brandy bottle has done a noble work.” With palpitating heart and trembling limbs, he viewed his position. The door was fast, but the warm weather had compelled them to leave the window open. If he could but get the chains off, he might escape through the window to the piazza. The sleepers’ clothes hung upon chairs by the bedside. The slave thought of the padlock key, examined the pockets, and found it. The chains were soon off, and the negro stealthily making his way to the window. He stopped, and said to himself, “These men are villains, they are enemies to all who, like me, are trying to be free. Then why not teach them a lesson?” He then dressed himself in the best suit, hung his own worn-out and tattered garments on the same chair, and silently passed through the window to the piazza, and lethimself down by one of the pillars, and started once more for Canada.
Daylight came upon him before he had selected a hiding-place for the day, and he was walking at a rapid rate, in hopes of soon reaching some woodland or forest. The sun had just begun to show itself, when Jerome was astonished at seeing behind him, in the distance, two men upon horseback. Taking a road to the right he saw before him a farmhouse, and so near was he to it that he observed two men in front of him looking at him. It was too late to turn back. The kidnappers were behind—strange men before. Those in the rear he knew to be enemies, while he had no idea of what principles were the farmers. The latter also saw the white men coming, and called to the fugitive to come that way.
The broad-brimmed hats that the farmers wore told the slave that they were Quakers.
Jerome had seen some of these people passing up and down the river, when employed on a steamer between Natchez and New Orleans, and had heard that they disliked slavery. He, therefore, hastened toward the drab-coated men, who, on his approach, opened the barn-door, and told him to “run in.”
When Jerome entered the barn, the two farmers closed the door, remaining outside themselves, to confront the slave-catchers, who now came up and demanded admission, feeling that they had their prey secure.
“Thee can’t enter my premises,” said one of the Friends, in rather a musical voice.
The negro-catchers urged their claim to the slave, and intimated that, unless they were allowed to secure him, they would force their way in. By this time, several other Quakers had gathered around the barn-door. Unfortunately for the kidnappers, and most fortunately for the fugitive, the Friends had just been holding a quarterly meeting in the neighborhood, and a number of them had not yet returned to their homes.
After some talk, the men in drab promised to admit the hunters, provided they procured an officer and a search-warrant from a justice of the peace. One of the slave-catchers was left to see that the fugitive did not get away, while the other went in pursuit of an officer. In the mean time, the owner of the barn sent for a hammer and nails, and began nailing up the barn-door.
After an hour in search of the man of the law, they returned with an officer and a warrant. The Quaker demanded to see the paper, and, after looking at it for some time, called to his son to go into the house for his glasses. It was a long time before Aunt Ruth found the leather case, and when she did, the glasses wanted wiping before they could be used. After comfortably adjusting them on his nose, he read the warrant over leisurely.
“Come, Mr. Dugdale, we can’t wait all day,” said the officer.
“Well, will thee read it for me?” returned the Quaker.
The officer complied, and the man in drab said,—“Yes,thee may go in, now. I am inclined to throw no obstacles in the way of the execution of the law of the land.”
On approaching the door, the men found some forty or fifty nails in it, in the way of their progress.
“Lend me your hammer and a chisel, if you please, Mr. Dugdale,” said the officer.
“Please read that paper over again, will thee?” asked the Quaker.
The officer once more read the warrant.
“I see nothing there which says I must furnish thee with tools to open my door. If thee wants a hammer, thee must go elsewhere for it; I tell thee plainly, thee can’t have mine.”
The implements for opening the door are at length obtained, and, after another half hour, the slave-catchers are in the barn. Three hours is a long time for a slave to be in the hands of Quakers. The hay is turned over, and the barn is visited in every part; but still the runaway is not found. Uncle Joseph has a glow upon his countenance; Ephraim shakes his head knowingly; little Elijah is a perfect know-nothing, and if you look toward the house you will see Aunt Ruth’s smiling face ready to announce that breakfast is ready.
“The nigger is not in this barn,” said the officer.
“I know he is not,” quietly remarked the Quaker.
“What were you nailing up your door for, then, as if you were afraid we would enter?” inquired one of the kidnappers.
“I can do what I please with my own door, can’t I?” said the Friend.
The secret was out; the fugitive had gone in at the front door, and out at the back; and the reading of the warrant, nailing up of the door, and other preliminaries of the Quaker, was to give the fugitive time and opportunity to escape.
It was now late in the morning, and the slave-catchers were a long way from home, and the horses were jaded by the rapid manner in which they had travelled. The Friends, in high glee, returned to the house for breakfast; the officer and the kidnappers made a thorough examination of the barn and premises, and satisfied that Jerome had gone into the barn, but had not come out, and equally satisfied that he was out of their reach, the owner said, “He’s gone down into the earth, and has taken an underground railroad.”
And thus was christened that famous highway over which so many of the oppressed sons and daughters of African descent were destined to travel, and an account of which has been published by one of its most faithful agents, Mr. William Still, of Philadelphia.
At a later period, Cato, servant of Dr. Gaines, was sold to Captain Enoch Price, of St. Louis. The Captain took his slave with him on board the steamerChester, just about sailing for New Orleans. At the latter place, the boat obtained a cargo for Cincinnati, Ohio. The master, aware that the slave might give him the slip, while in a free State,determined to leave the chattel at Louisville, Ky., till his downward return. However, Mrs. Price, anxious to have the servant’s services on the boat, questioned him with regard to the contemplated visit to Cincinnati.
“I don’t want to go to a free State,” said Cato; “fer I knowed a servant dat went up dar, once, an’ dey kept beggin’ him to run away; so I druther not go dar; kase I is satisfied wid my marser, an’ don’t want to go off, whar I’d have to take keer of mysef.”
This was said in such an earnest and off-hand manner, that it removed all of the lady’s suspicions in regard to his attempting to escape; and she urged her husband to take him to Ohio.
Cato wanted his freedom, but he well knew that if he expressed a wish to go to a free State, he would never be permitted to do so. In due season, theChesterarrived at Cincinnati, where she remained four days, discharging her cargo, and reloading for the return trip. During the time, Cato remained at his post, attending faithfully to his duties; no one dreaming that he had the slightest idea of leaving the boat. However, on the day previous to theChester’sleaving Cincinnati, Cato divulged the question to Charley, another slave, whom he wished to accompany him.
Charley heard the proposition with surprise; and although he wanted his freedom, his timid disposition would not allow him to make the trial.
“My master is a pretty good man, and treats mecomparatively well; and should I be caught and taken back, he would no doubt sell me to a cotton or sugar-planter,” said Charley to Cato’s invitation. “But,” continued he, “Captain Price is a mean man; I shall not blame you, Cato, for running away and leaving him. By the by, I am engaged to go to a surprise-party, to-night, and I reckon we’ll have a good time. I’ve got a new pair of pumps to dance in, and I’ve got Jim, the cook, to bake me a pie, and I’ll have some sandwiches, and I’m going with a pretty gal.”
“So you won’t go away with me, to-night?” said Cato to Charley.
“No,” was the reply.
“It is true,” remarked Cato, “your marser is a better man, an’ treats you a heap better den Captain Price does me, but, den, he may get to gambling, an’ get broke, and den he’ll have to sell you.”
“I know that,” replied Charley; “none of us are safe as long as we are slaves.”
It was seven o’clock at night, Cato was in the pantry, washing the supper dishes, and contemplating his flight, the beginning of which was soon to take place. Charley had gone up to the steward’s hall, to get ready for the surprise, and had been away some time, which caused uneasiness to Cato, and he determined to go up into the cabin, and see that everything was right. Entering the cabin from the Social Hall, Cato, in going down and passing the Captain’s room, heard a conversation which attracted his attention, and caused him to halt at his master’s room door.
He was not long, although the conversation was in a low tone, in learning that the parties were his master and his fellow-servant Charley.
“And so he is going to run away, to-night, is he?” said the Captain.
“Yes, sir,” replied Charley; “he’s been trying to get me to go with him, and I thought it my duty to tell you.”
“Very well; I’ll take him over to Covington, Ky., put him in jail, for the night, and when I get back to New Orleans, I will sell the ungrateful nigger. Where is he now?” asked the Captain.
“Cato is in the pantry, sir, washing up the tea-things,” was the reply.
The moving of the chairs in the room, and what he had last heard, satisfied Cato that the talk between his master and the treacherous Charley was at an end, and he at once returned to the pantry undetermined what course to pursue. He had not long been there, ere he heard the well-known squeak of the Captain’s boots coming down the stairs. Just then Dick, the cook’s boy, came out of the kitchen and threw a pan full of cold meat overboard. This incident seemed to furnish Cato with words, and he at once took advantage of the situation.
“What is dat you throw overboard dar?”
“None your business,” replied Dick, as he slammed the door behind him and returned to the kitchen.
“You free niggers will waste everything dar is on dis boat,” continued Cato. “It’s my duty to watchdees niggers an’ see dat dey don’t destroy marser’s property. Now, let me see, I’ll go right off an’ tell marser ’bout Charley, I won’t keep his secrets any longer.” And here Cato threw aside his dish towel and started for the cabin.