I was born in Tuckahoe, near Hillsborough, and about twelve miles from Easton, in Talbot county, Maryland. I have no accurate knowledge of my age, never having seen any authentic record containing it. By far the larger part of the slaves know as little of their ages as horses know of theirs, and it is the wish of most masters within my knowledge to keep their slaves thus ignorant. I do not remember to have ever met a slave who could tell of his birthday. They seldom come nearer to it than planting-time, harvest-time, cherry-time, spring-time, or fall-time. A want of information concerning my own was a source of unhappiness to me even during childhood. The white children could tell their ages. I could not tell why I ought to be deprived of the same privilege. I was not allowed to make any inquiries of my master concerning it. He deemed all such inquiries on the part of a slave improper and impertinent, and evidence of a restless spirit. The nearest estimate I can give makes me now between twenty-seven and twenty-eight years of age. I come to this, from hearing my master say, some time during 1835, I was about seventeen years old.
I was born in Tuckahoe, near Hillsborough, about twelve miles from Easton, in Talbot County, Maryland. I do not know my exact age, since I have never seen a reliable record of it. The great majority of slaves know as little about their ages as horses know about theirs. Most masters I have known want to keep their slaves ignorant of this. I cannot remember ever meeting a slave who could tell me his birthday. They can seldom place it more precisely than planting season, harvest season, cherry season, spring, or fall. Not knowing my own age made me unhappy even as a child. The white children could tell their ages. I could not understand why I should be denied the same privilege. I was not allowed to ask my master about it. He considered any such questions from a slave improper and disrespectful, and a sign of a restless spirit. My best estimate puts me now between twenty-seven and twenty-eight years old. I base this on hearing my master say, sometime in 1835, that I was about seventeen years old.
My mother was named Harriet Bailey. She was the daughter of Isaac and Betsey Bailey, both colored, and quite dark. My mother was of a darker complexion than either my grandmother or grandfather.
My mother’s name was Harriet Bailey. She was the daughter of Isaac and Betsey Bailey, both Black and quite dark-skinned. My mother had darker skin than either my grandmother or grandfather.
My father was a white man. He was admitted to be such by all I ever heard speak of my parentage. The opinion was also whispered that my master was my father; but of the correctness of this opinion, I know nothing; the means of knowing was withheld from me. My mother and I were separated when I was but an infant—before I knew her as my mother. It is a common custom, in the part of Maryland from which I ran away, to part children from their mothers at a very early age. Frequently, before the child has reached its twelfth month, its mother is taken from it, and hired out on some farm a considerable distance off, and the child is placed under the care of an old woman, too old for field labor. For what this separation is done, I do not know, unless it be to hinder the development of the child’s affection toward its mother, and to blunt and destroy the natural affection of the mother for the child. This is the inevitable result.
My father was a white man. Everyone I ever heard speak about my parentage acknowledged this. There were also whispers that my master was my father. But I do not know whether this was true. The means of finding out were kept from me. My mother and I were separated when I was still an infant, before I knew her as my mother. In the part of Maryland I escaped from, it is common to separate children from their mothers very early. Often, before a child is a year old, its mother is taken away. She is hired out to work on a farm a considerable distance away. The child is left in the care of an old woman who can no longer work in the fields. I do not know why this separation is practiced, unless it is to keep children from growing attached to their mothers. It may also be intended to weaken and destroy a mother’s natural affection for her child. This is the inevitable result.
I never saw my mother, to know her as such, more than four or five times in my life; and each of these times was very short in duration, and at night. She was hired by a Mr. Stewart, who lived about twelve miles from my home. She made her journeys to see me in the night, travelling the whole distance on foot, after the performance of her day’s work. She was a field hand, and a whipping is the penalty of not being in the field at sunrise, unless a slave has special permission from his or her master to the contrary—a permission which they seldom get, and one that gives to him that gives it the proud name of being a kind master. I do not recollect of ever seeing my mother by the light of day. She was with me in the night. She would lie down with me, and get me to sleep, but long before I waked she was gone. Very little communication ever took place between us. Death soon ended what little we could have while she lived, and with it her hardships and suffering. She died when I was about seven years old, on one of my master’s farms, near Lee’s Mill. I was not allowed to be present during her illness, at her death, or burial. She was gone long before I knew any thing about it. Never having enjoyed, to any considerable extent, her soothing presence, her tender and watchful care, I received the tidings of her death with much the same emotions I should have probably felt at the death of a stranger.
I saw my mother, knowing her as my mother, only four or five times in my life. Each visit was very short and took place at night. She was hired out to a Mr. Stewart, who lived about twelve miles from my home. She walked the whole distance at night to see me, after finishing her day’s work. She was a field hand. Enslaved people were whipped if they were not in the fields at sunrise, unless their master gave special permission. They rarely received that permission. Granting it earned a man the proud title of a kind master. I do not remember ever seeing my mother in daylight. She was with me at night. She would lie down with me and help me fall asleep, but she was gone long before I woke. We had very little chance to talk. Death soon ended what little contact we could have while she lived, along with her hardships and suffering. She died when I was about seven, on one of my master’s farms near Lee’s Mill. I was not allowed to visit during her illness, be there when she died, or attend her burial. She had been gone a long time before I knew anything about it. I had known very little of her comforting presence or her tender, watchful care. The news of her death brought much the same feelings I probably would have felt if a stranger had died.
Called thus suddenly away, she left me without the slightest intimation of who my father was. The whisper that my master was my father, may or may not be true; and, true or false, it is of but little consequence to my purpose whilst the fact remains, in all its glaring odiousness, that slaveholders have ordained, and by law established, that the children of slave women shall in all cases follow the condition of their mothers; and this is done too obviously to administer to their own lusts, and make a gratification of their wicked desires profitable as well as pleasurable; for by this cunning arrangement, the slaveholder, in cases not a few, sustains to his slaves the double relation of master and father.
Taken away so suddenly, she left me without the slightest hint of who my father was. The rumor that my master was my father may or may not be true. Whether true or false, it matters little to my purpose. One fact remains in all its glaring ugliness. Slaveholders have established by law that the children of enslaved women must, in all cases, share their mothers’ enslaved status. Their purpose is all too obvious. They seek to satisfy their own lust and make indulging their wicked desires profitable as well as pleasurable. Through this cunning arrangement, slaveholders are, in many cases, both masters and fathers to the people they enslave.
I know of such cases; and it is worthy of remark that such slaves invariably suffer greater hardships, and have more to contend with, than others. They are, in the first place, a constant offence to their mistress. She is ever disposed to find fault with them; they can seldom do any thing to please her; she is never better pleased than when she sees them under the lash, especially when she suspects her husband of showing to his mulatto children favors which he withholds from his black slaves. The master is frequently compelled to sell this class of his slaves, out of deference to the feelings of his white wife; and, cruel as the deed may strike any one to be, for a man to sell his own children to human flesh-mongers, it is often the dictate of humanity for him to do so; for, unless he does this, he must not only whip them himself, but must stand by and see one white son tie up his brother, of but few shades darker complexion than himself, and ply the gory lash to his naked back; and if he lisp one word of disapproval, it is set down to his parental partiality, and only makes a bad matter worse, both for himself and the slave whom he would protect and defend.
I know of such cases. It is worth noting that these slaves always suffer greater hardships and face more difficulties than others. First, their very presence offends their mistress. She is always ready to find fault with them. They can seldom do anything to please her. Nothing pleases her more than seeing them whipped. This is especially true when she suspects her husband favors his mixed-race children over his black slaves. The master is often forced to sell these slaves out of regard for his white wife’s feelings. For a man to sell his own children to human traffickers may strike anyone as cruel. Yet selling them is often the more humane choice. Otherwise, he must not only whip them himself, but also stand by while one white son ties up his brother. That brother’s skin is only a few shades darker than his own. He must watch his white son strike his brother’s bare back with a bloodstained whip. If he whispers even one word of disapproval, it is blamed on his favoritism as a father. This only makes matters worse, both for himself and for the slave he would protect and defend.
Every year brings with it multitudes of this class of slaves. It was doubtless in consequence of a knowledge of this fact, that one great statesman of the south predicted the downfall of slavery by the inevitable laws of population. Whether this prophecy is ever fulfilled or not, it is nevertheless plain that a very different-looking class of people are springing up at the south, and are now held in slavery, from those originally brought to this country from Africa; and if their increase do no other good, it will do away the force of the argument, that God cursed Ham, and therefore American slavery is right. If the lineal descendants of Ham are alone to be scripturally enslaved, it is certain that slavery at the south must soon become unscriptural; for thousands are ushered into the world, annually, who, like myself, owe their existence to white fathers, and those fathers most frequently their own masters.
Every year, large numbers of enslaved people of this kind are born. One great Southern statesman undoubtedly knew this when he predicted that population growth would inevitably bring slavery down. Whether this prediction ever comes true or not, one thing is clear. A population very different in appearance from those originally brought from Africa is growing in the South and held in slavery. Even if their growing numbers do no other good, they will undermine one argument used to justify American slavery. That argument claims that American slavery is right because God cursed Ham. If only Ham’s direct descendants can be enslaved according to scripture, Southern slavery must soon become contrary to scripture. Every year, thousands are born who, like me, have white fathers. Those fathers are most often their own enslavers.
I have had two masters. My first master’s name was Anthony. I do not remember his first name. He was generally called Captain Anthony—a title which, I presume, he acquired by sailing a craft on the Chesapeake Bay. He was not considered a rich slaveholder. He owned two or three farms, and about thirty slaves. His farms and slaves were under the care of an overseer. The overseer’s name was Plummer. Mr. Plummer was a miserable drunkard, a profane swearer, and a savage monster. He always went armed with a cowskin and a heavy cudgel. I have known him to cut and slash the women’s heads so horribly, that even master would be enraged at his cruelty, and would threaten to whip him if he did not mind himself. Master, however, was not a humane slaveholder. It required extraordinary barbarity on the part of an overseer to affect him. He was a cruel man, hardened by a long life of slaveholding. He would at times seem to take great pleasure in whipping a slave. I have often been awakened at the dawn of day by the most heart-rending shrieks of an own aunt of mine, whom he used to tie up to a joist, and whip upon her naked back till she was literally covered with blood. No words, no tears, no prayers, from his gory victim, seemed to move his iron heart from its bloody purpose. The louder she screamed, the harder he whipped; and where the blood ran fastest, there he whipped longest. He would whip her to make her scream, and whip her to make her hush; and not until overcome by fatigue, would he cease to swing the blood-clotted cowskin. I remember the first time I ever witnessed this horrible exhibition. I was quite a child, but I well remember it. I never shall forget it whilst I remember any thing. It was the first of a long series of such outrages, of which I was doomed to be a witness and a participant. It struck me with awful force. It was the blood-stained gate, the entrance to the hell of slavery, through which I was about to pass. It was a most terrible spectacle. I wish I could commit to paper the feelings with which I beheld it.
I have had two masters. My first master’s last name was Anthony. I do not remember his first name. He was usually called Captain Anthony. I assume he earned that title by sailing a boat on the Chesapeake Bay. He was not considered a rich slaveholder. He owned two or three farms and about thirty slaves. An overseer named Plummer managed his farms and slaves. Mr. Plummer was a miserable drunkard who swore profanely and was a savage monster. He always carried a cowhide whip and a heavy club. I have known him to cut and slash the women’s heads so horribly that even my master became enraged. He would threaten to whip Plummer if he did not control himself. My master, however, was not a humane slaveholder. Only extraordinary brutality by an overseer could move him. He was a cruel man, hardened by a long life of slaveholding. At times, he seemed to take great pleasure in whipping a slave. I was often awakened at dawn by the heartbreaking screams of my own aunt. He would tie her to a ceiling beam and whip her bare back until she was literally covered in blood. No words, tears, or prayers from his bloodied victim seemed to turn his iron heart from its bloody purpose. The louder she screamed, the harder he whipped. Where the blood ran fastest, he whipped longest. He would whip her to make her scream and whip her to make her quiet. Only when exhaustion overcame him would he stop swinging the whip, caked with blood. I remember the first time I ever witnessed this horrible scene. I was only a small child, but I remember it well. I will never forget it as long as I can remember anything. It was the first in a long series of such brutal acts. I was doomed both to witness them and to suffer them myself. It struck me with terrible force. It was the bloodstained gate through which I was about to enter the hell of slavery. It was a terrible sight. I wish I could put into words what I felt as I watched it.
This occurrence took place very soon after I went to live with my old master, and under the following circumstances. Aunt Hester went out one night,—where or for what I do not know,—and happened to be absent when my master desired her presence. He had ordered her not to go out evenings, and warned her that she must never let him catch her in company with a young man, who was paying attention to her belonging to Colonel Lloyd. The young man’s name was Ned Roberts, generally called Lloyd’s Ned. Why master was so careful of her, may be safely left to conjecture. She was a woman of noble form, and of graceful proportions, having very few equals, and fewer superiors, in personal appearance, among the colored or white women of our neighborhood.
This happened very soon after I went to live with my old master, under the following circumstances. Aunt Hester went out one night, though I do not know where or why. She happened to be away when my master wanted her there. He had ordered her not to go out in the evenings. He had also warned her never to let him catch her with a young man who was courting her. This young man was enslaved by Colonel Lloyd. His name was Ned Roberts, but he was generally called Lloyd’s Ned. Why my master kept such a close watch over her can safely be left to guesswork. She had a noble figure and graceful proportions. Among the black or white women in our neighborhood, very few equaled her beauty, and fewer surpassed it.
Aunt Hester had not only disobeyed his orders in going out, but had been found in company with Lloyd’s Ned; which circumstance, I found, from what he said while whipping her, was the chief offence. Had he been a man of pure morals himself, he might have been thought interested in protecting the innocence of my aunt; but those who knew him will not suspect him of any such virtue. Before he commenced whipping Aunt Hester, he took her into the kitchen, and stripped her from neck to waist, leaving her neck, shoulders, and back, entirely naked. He then told her to cross her hands, calling her at the same time a d——d b—-h. After crossing her hands, he tied them with a strong rope, and led her to a stool under a large hook in the joist, put in for the purpose. He made her get upon the stool, and tied her hands to the hook. She now stood fair for his infernal purpose. Her arms were stretched up at their full length, so that she stood upon the ends of her toes. He then said to her, “Now, you d——d b—-h, I’ll learn you how to disobey my orders!” and after rolling up his sleeves, he commenced to lay on the heavy cowskin, and soon the warm, red blood (amid heart-rending shrieks from her, and horrid oaths from him) came dripping to the floor. I was so terrified and horror-stricken at the sight, that I hid myself in a closet, and dared not venture out till long after the bloody transaction was over. I expected it would be my turn next. It was all new to me. I had never seen any thing like it before. I had always lived with my grandmother on the outskirts of the plantation, where she was put to raise the children of the younger women. I had therefore been, until now, out of the way of the bloody scenes that often occurred on the plantation.
Aunt Hester had not only disobeyed his orders by going out, but had been found with Lloyd’s Ned. From what he said while whipping her, I learned that being with Ned was her chief offense. Had he been a morally upright man, people might have thought he wanted to protect my aunt’s innocence. But those who knew him would never credit him with any such virtue. Before he began whipping Aunt Hester, he took her into the kitchen and stripped her from neck to waist. Her neck, shoulders, and back were completely bare. He then told her to cross her hands, calling her a “damned bitch” as he did so. After she crossed her hands, he tied them with a strong rope. He led her to a stool beneath a large hook installed in the ceiling beam for this purpose. He made her climb onto the stool and tied her hands to the hook. She was now fully exposed to his devilish purpose. Her arms were stretched to their full length above her, forcing her to stand on the tips of her toes. He then said to her, “Now, you damned bitch, I’ll teach you to disobey my orders!” He rolled up his sleeves and began striking her with the heavy cowskin whip. Soon, warm, red blood dripped onto the floor amid her heartbreaking screams and his horrible curses. I was so terrified and horrified by the sight that I hid in a closet. I did not dare come out until long after the bloody ordeal was over. I expected my turn would come next. It was all new to me. I had never seen anything like it before. I had always lived with my grandmother on the outskirts of the plantation. She had been placed there to raise the younger women’s children. Until now, I had therefore been kept away from the bloody scenes that often took place on the plantation.