In a very short time after I went to live at Baltimore, my old master’s youngest son Richard died; and in about three years and six months after his death, my old master, Captain Anthony, died, leaving only his son, Andrew, and daughter, Lucretia, to share his estate. He died while on a visit to see his daughter at Hillsborough. Cut off thus unexpectedly, he left no will as to the disposal of his property. It was therefore necessary to have a valuation of the property, that it might be equally divided between Mrs. Lucretia and Master Andrew. I was immediately sent for, to be valued with the other property. Here again my feelings rose up in detestation of slavery. I had now a new conception of my degraded condition. Prior to this, I had become, if not insensible to my lot, at least partly so. I left Baltimore with a young heart overborne with sadness, and a soul full of apprehension. I took passage with Captain Rowe, in the schooner Wild Cat, and, after a sail of about twenty-four hours, I found myself near the place of my birth. I had now been absent from it almost, if not quite, five years. I, however, remembered the place very well. I was only about five years old when I left it, to go and live with my old master on Colonel Lloyd’s plantation; so that I was now between ten and eleven years old.
Soon after I went to live in Baltimore, my old master’s youngest son, Richard, died. About three years and six months later, my old master, Captain Anthony, died. Only his son, Andrew, and daughter, Lucretia, remained to share his estate. He died while visiting his daughter in Hillsborough. His death was so unexpected that he left no will saying how his property should be distributed. His property therefore had to be valued so it could be divided equally between Mrs. Lucretia and Master Andrew. I was immediately sent for to be valued along with the other property. Once again, I was filled with hatred for slavery. I now understood in a new way how degraded my condition was. Before this, I had become at least partly numb to my situation, if not entirely so. I left Baltimore with my young heart weighed down by sadness and my soul full of dread. I sailed with Captain Rowe aboard the schooner Wild Cat. After about twenty-four hours, I found myself near my birthplace. I had been away for almost five years, if not quite five. Still, I remembered the place very well. I was only about five when I left to live with my old master on Colonel Lloyd’s plantation. So I was now between ten and eleven years old.
We were all ranked together at the valuation. Men and women, old and young, married and single, were ranked with horses, sheep, and swine. There were horses and men, cattle and women, pigs and children, all holding the same rank in the scale of being, and were all subjected to the same narrow examination. Silvery-headed age and sprightly youth, maids and matrons, had to undergo the same indelicate inspection. At this moment, I saw more clearly than ever the brutalizing effects of slavery upon both slave and slaveholder.
We were all lined up together to have our value assessed. Men and women, old and young, married and single, were grouped with horses, sheep, and pigs. There were horses and men, cattle and women, pigs and children, all treated as beings of equal worth. All were subjected to the same close examination. White-haired elders and lively young people, unmarried and married women, had to endure the same humiliating inspection. At that moment, I saw more clearly than ever how slavery brutalized both the enslaved person and the slaveholder.
After the valuation, then came the division. I have no language to express the high excitement and deep anxiety which were felt among us poor slaves during this time. Our fate for life was now to be decided. We had no more voice in that decision than the brutes among whom we were ranked. A single word from the white men was enough—against all our wishes, prayers, and entreaties—to sunder forever the dearest friends, dearest kindred, and strongest ties known to human beings. In addition to the pain of separation, there was the horrid dread of falling into the hands of Master Andrew. He was known to us all as being a most cruel wretch,—a common drunkard, who had, by his reckless mismanagement and profligate dissipation, already wasted a large portion of his father’s property. We all felt that we might as well be sold at once to the Georgia traders, as to pass into his hands; for we knew that that would be our inevitable condition,—a condition held by us all in the utmost horror and dread.
After we were valued, we were divided up. I have no words to express the intense agitation and deep anxiety we poor slaves felt during this time. Our fate for life was about to be decided. We had no more say in that decision than the animals we were ranked alongside. A single word from the white men was enough to separate us forever, despite all our wishes, prayers, and pleas. It could tear apart the dearest friends, the closest relatives, and the strongest human bonds. Beyond the pain of separation, we faced the terrible fear of falling into Master Andrew’s hands. We all knew him as an extremely cruel man and a habitual drunkard. His reckless mismanagement and wasteful living had already squandered a large part of his father’s property. We all felt we might as well be sold immediately to the Georgia slave traders as fall into his hands. We knew he would inevitably sell us to them, a fate we all regarded with the greatest horror and dread.
I suffered more anxiety than most of my fellow-slaves. I had known what it was to be kindly treated; they had known nothing of the kind. They had seen little or nothing of the world. They were in very deed men and women of sorrow, and acquainted with grief. Their backs had been made familiar with the bloody lash, so that they had become callous; mine was yet tender; for while at Baltimore I got few whippings, and few slaves could boast of a kinder master and mistress than myself; and the thought of passing out of their hands into those of Master Andrew—a man who, but a few days before, to give me a sample of his bloody disposition, took my little brother by the throat, threw him on the ground, and with the heel of his boot stamped upon his head till the blood gushed from his nose and ears—was well calculated to make me anxious as to my fate. After he had committed this savage outrage upon my brother, he turned to me, and said that was the way he meant to serve me one of these days,—meaning, I suppose, when I came into his possession.
I felt more anxiety than most of the other enslaved people. I had known kind treatment. They had never known anything like it. They had seen little or nothing of the world. They were truly men and women of sorrow, familiar with grief. Their backs had felt the bloody lash so often that they had grown hardened to it. Mine was still tender. In Baltimore, I had received few whippings. Few enslaved people could claim to have a kinder master and mistress than I did. The thought of leaving their control and falling under Master Andrew’s made me fear for my fate. Just a few days earlier, he had given me an example of his brutal nature. He grabbed my little brother by the throat and threw him to the ground. Then he stamped on his head with his boot heel until blood poured from his nose and ears. After this savage attack on my brother, he turned to me. He said that was how he meant to treat me one day. I suppose he meant when I became his property.
Thanks to a kind Providence, I fell to the portion of Mrs. Lucretia, and was sent immediately back to Baltimore, to live again in the family of Master Hugh. Their joy at my return equalled their sorrow at my departure. It was a glad day to me. I had escaped a worse than lion’s jaws. I was absent from Baltimore, for the purpose of valuation and division, just about one month, and it seemed to have been six.
Thanks to a kind Providence, I was assigned to Mrs. Lucretia as her property. I was immediately sent back to Baltimore to live again with Master Hugh’s family. Their joy at my return equaled their sorrow when I left. It was a happy day for me. I had escaped something worse than a lion’s jaws. I had been away from Baltimore for about a month while we were valued and divided as property. It had seemed like six months.
Very soon after my return to Baltimore, my mistress, Lucretia, died, leaving her husband and one child, Amanda; and in a very short time after her death, Master Andrew died. Now all the property of my old master, slaves included, was in the hands of strangers,—strangers who had had nothing to do with accumulating it. Not a slave was left free. All remained slaves, from the youngest to the oldest. If any one thing in my experience, more than another, served to deepen my conviction of the infernal character of slavery, and to fill me with unutterable loathing of slaveholders, it was their base ingratitude to my poor old grandmother. She had served my old master faithfully from youth to old age. She had been the source of all his wealth; she had peopled his plantation with slaves; she had become a great grandmother in his service. She had rocked him in infancy, attended him in childhood, served him through life, and at his death wiped from his icy brow the cold death-sweat, and closed his eyes forever. She was nevertheless left a slave—a slave for life—a slave in the hands of strangers; and in their hands she saw her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren, divided, like so many sheep, without being gratified with the small privilege of a single word, as to their or her own destiny. And, to cap the climax of their base ingratitude and fiendish barbarity, my grandmother, who was now very old, having outlived my old master and all his children, having seen the beginning and end of all of them, and her present owners finding she was of but little value, her frame already racked with the pains of old age, and complete helplessness fast stealing over her once active limbs, they took her to the woods, built her a little hut, put up a little mud-chimney, and then made her welcome to the privilege of supporting herself there in perfect loneliness; thus virtually turning her out to die! If my poor old grandmother now lives, she lives to suffer in utter loneliness; she lives to remember and mourn over the loss of children, the loss of grandchildren, and the loss of great-grandchildren. They are, in the language of the slave’s poet, Whittier,—
Soon after I returned to Baltimore, my mistress, Lucretia, died, leaving her husband and one child, Amanda. Very shortly after her death, Master Andrew died. Now all my old master’s property, including the enslaved people, was in strangers’ hands. These strangers had done nothing to acquire it. Not one enslaved person was freed. All remained enslaved, from the youngest to the oldest. Nothing in my experience deepened my conviction of slavery’s hellish nature more than their shameful ingratitude toward my poor old grandmother. Nothing filled me with greater, unspeakable disgust for slaveholders. She had served my old master faithfully from youth to old age. She had been the source of all his wealth. Her descendants had filled his plantation with enslaved people. She had become a great-grandmother in his service. She had rocked him as a baby, cared for him as a child, and served him throughout his life. At his death, she wiped the cold death-sweat from his icy forehead and closed his eyes forever. Yet she was left enslaved, enslaved for life, in the hands of strangers. In their hands, she saw her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren divided up like so many sheep. She was not allowed even a single word about their fate or her own. Their shameful ingratitude and devilish cruelty reached their height in what they did next. My grandmother was now very old. She had outlived my old master and all his children, having witnessed the beginning and end of all their lives. Her present owners decided she was worth little. Her body was already tormented by the pains of old age. Her once-active limbs were rapidly becoming completely helpless. They took her into the woods, built her a little hut, and put up a small mud chimney. Then they granted her the supposed privilege of supporting herself there, entirely alone. In effect, they turned her out to die! If my poor old grandmother is still alive, she lives to suffer in utter loneliness. She lives to remember and mourn the loss of her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren. In the words of Whittier, the poet of the enslaved, they are:
“Gone, gone, sold and gone To the rice swamp dank and lone, Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, Where the noisome insect stings, Where the fever-demon strews Poison with the falling dews, Where the sickly sunbeams glare Through the hot and misty air:— Gone, gone, sold and gone To the rice swamp dank and lone, From Virginia hills and waters— Woe is me, my stolen daughters!”
“Gone, gone, sold and gone To the damp and lonely rice swamp, Where the slave-whip swings without end, Where the foul insects sting, Where the fever-demon spreads Poison with the falling dew, Where the sickly sunlight glares Through the hot and misty air. Gone, gone, sold and gone To the damp and lonely rice swamp, From Virginia’s hills and waters. Oh, my grief, my stolen daughters!”
The hearth is desolate. The children, the unconscious children, who once sang and danced in her presence, are gone. She gropes her way, in the darkness of age, for a drink of water. Instead of the voices of her children, she hears by day the moans of the dove, and by night the screams of the hideous owl. All is gloom. The grave is at the door. And now, when weighed down by the pains and aches of old age, when the head inclines to the feet, when the beginning and ending of human existence meet, and helpless infancy and painful old age combine together—at this time, this most needful time, the time for the exercise of that tenderness and affection which children only can exercise towards a declining parent—my poor old grandmother, the devoted mother of twelve children, is left all alone, in yonder little hut, before a few dim embers. She stands—she sits—she staggers—she falls—she groans—she dies—and there are none of her children or grandchildren present, to wipe from her wrinkled brow the cold sweat of death, or to place beneath the sod her fallen remains. Will not a righteous God visit for these things?
The hearth is deserted. The children, the innocent children, who once sang and danced around her, are gone. In the darkness of old age, she feels her way toward a drink of water. Instead of her children’s voices, she hears the dove’s mournful calls by day and the hideous owl’s screams by night. All is gloom. Death is at the door. Now she is weighed down by the aches and pains of old age. Her head bends toward her feet. The beginning and end of human life meet, as helpless infancy and painful old age come together. This is when she most needs tenderness and affection, the kind only children can give an aging parent. Yet my poor old grandmother, the devoted mother of twelve children, is left entirely alone. She is in that little hut, before a few dim embers. She stands. She sits. She staggers. She falls. She groans. She dies. None of her children or grandchildren are there to wipe the cold sweat of death from her wrinkled forehead. None are there to bury her body beneath the earth. Will a just God not punish these wrongs?
In about two years after the death of Mrs. Lucretia, Master Thomas married his second wife. Her name was Rowena Hamilton. She was the eldest daughter of Mr. William Hamilton. Master now lived in St. Michael’s. Not long after his marriage, a misunderstanding took place between himself and Master Hugh; and as a means of punishing his brother, he took me from him to live with himself at St. Michael’s. Here I underwent another most painful separation. It, however, was not so severe as the one I dreaded at the division of property; for, during this interval, a great change had taken place in Master Hugh and his once kind and affectionate wife. The influence of brandy upon him, and of slavery upon her, had effected a disastrous change in the characters of both; so that, as far as they were concerned, I thought I had little to lose by the change. But it was not to them that I was attached. It was to those little Baltimore boys that I felt the strongest attachment. I had received many good lessons from them, and was still receiving them, and the thought of leaving them was painful indeed. I was leaving, too, without the hope of ever being allowed to return. Master Thomas had said he would never let me return again. The barrier betwixt himself and brother he considered impassable.
About two years after Mrs. Lucretia’s death, Master Thomas married his second wife. Her name was Rowena Hamilton. She was the eldest daughter of Mr. William Hamilton. Master Thomas now lived in St. Michael’s. Not long after his marriage, a disagreement arose between him and Master Hugh. To punish his brother, he took me away from him to live at St. Michael’s. Here I suffered another deeply painful separation. Still, it was not as severe as the one I had feared when the property was divided. Since then, Master Hugh and his once kind and affectionate wife had changed greatly. Brandy had disastrously changed his character, and slavery had done the same to hers. As far as they were concerned, I thought I had little to lose by leaving. But they were not the ones I felt attached to. My strongest attachment was to those young boys in Baltimore. They had taught me many valuable lessons and were still teaching me. The thought of leaving them was deeply painful. I was also leaving without any hope of ever being allowed to return. Master Thomas had said he would never let me return. He considered the barrier between himself and his brother impossible to overcome.
I then had to regret that I did not at least make the attempt to carry out my resolution to run away; for the chances of success are tenfold greater from the city than from the country.
I then regretted not at least trying to carry out my decision to run away. The chances of success are ten times greater from the city than from the country.
I sailed from Baltimore for St. Michael’s in the sloop Amanda, Captain Edward Dodson. On my passage, I paid particular attention to the direction which the steamboats took to go to Philadelphia. I found, instead of going down, on reaching North Point they went up the bay, in a north-easterly direction. I deemed this knowledge of the utmost importance. My determination to run away was again revived. I resolved to wait only so long as the offering of a favorable opportunity. When that came, I was determined to be off.
I sailed from Baltimore to St. Michael’s on the sloop Amanda, captained by Edward Dodson. During the trip, I paid close attention to the route steamboats took to Philadelphia. I found that, when they reached North Point, they headed northeast up the bay instead of down it. I considered this knowledge extremely important. My determination to escape returned. I resolved to wait only until a good opportunity arose. When it came, I was determined to leave.