Chapter 5

ARRIVAL AT NORFOLK—FREDERICK AND MARIA—ARTHUR, THE FREEMAN—APPOINTED STEWARD—JIM, CUFFEE, AND JENNY—THE STORM—BAHAMA BANKS—THE CALM—THE CONSPIRACY—THE LONG BOAT—THE SMALL-POX—DEATH OF ROBERT—MANNING, THE SAILOR—THE MEETING IN THE FORECASTLE—THE LETTER—ARRIVAL AT NEW-ORLEANS—ARTHUR'S RESCUE—THEOPHILUS FREEMAN, THE CONSIGNEE—PLATT—FIRST NIGHT IN THE NEW-ORLEANS SLAVE PEN.

ARRIVAL AT NORFOLK. FREDERICK AND MARIA. ARTHUR, THE FREE MAN. APPOINTED STEWARD. JIM, CUFFEE, AND JENNY. THE STORM. BAHAMA BANKS. THE CALM. THE CONSPIRACY. THE LONGBOAT. SMALLPOX. DEATH OF ROBERT. MANNING, THE SAILOR. THE MEETING IN THE SAILORS' QUARTERS. THE LETTER. ARRIVAL AT NEW ORLEANS. ARTHUR'S RESCUE. THEOPHILUS FREEMAN, THE CONSIGNEE. PLATT. FIRST NIGHT IN THE NEW ORLEANS SLAVE PEN.

After we were all on board, the brig Orleans proceeded down James River. Passing into Chesapeake Bay, we arrived next day opposite the city of Norfolk. While lying at anchor, a lighter approached us from the town, bringing four more slaves. Frederick, a boy of eighteen, had been born a slave, as also had Henry, who was some years older. They had both been house servants in the city. Maria was a rather genteel looking colored girl, with a faultless form, but ignorant and extremely vain. The idea of going to New-Orleans was pleasing to her. She entertained an extravagantly high opinion of her own attractions. Assuming a haughty mien, she declared to her companions, that immediately on our arrival in New-Orleans, she had no doubt, some wealthy single gentleman of good taste would purchase her at once!

After we were all on board, the brig Orleans sailed down the James River. We entered Chesapeake Bay and arrived opposite the city of Norfolk the next day. While we were at anchor, a small boat approached from town, bringing four more slaves. Frederick, an eighteen-year-old boy, had been born a slave, as had Henry, who was several years older. Both had been house servants in the city. Maria was a rather refined-looking colored girl with a flawless figure, but she was ignorant and extremely vain. The thought of going to New-Orleans pleased her. She had an extravagantly high opinion of her own attractiveness. With a haughty manner, she told her companions she had no doubt about what would happen. As soon as we arrived in New-Orleans, some wealthy single gentleman of good taste would buy her at once!

But the most prominent of the four, was a man named Arthur. As the lighter approached, he struggled stoutly with his keepers. It was with main force that he was dragged aboard the brig. He protested, in a loud voice, against the treatment he was receiving, and demanded to be released. His face was swollen, and covered with wounds and bruises, and, indeed, one side of it was a complete raw sore. He was forced, with all haste, down the hatchway into the hold. I caught an outline of his story as he was borne struggling along, of which he afterwards gave me a more full relation, and it was as follows: He had long resided in the city of Norfolk, and was a free man. He had a family living there, and was a mason by trade. Having been unusually detained, he was returning late one night to his house in the suburbs of the city, when he was attacked by a gang of persons in an unfrequented street. He fought until his strength failed him. Overpowered at last, he was gagged and bound with ropes, and beaten, until he became insensible. For several days they secreted him in the slave pen at Norfolk—a very common establishment, it appears, in the cities of the South. The night before, he had been taken out and put on board the lighter, which, pushing out from shore, had awaited our arrival. For some time he continued his protestations, and was altogether irreconcilable. At length, however, he became silent. He sank into a gloomy and thoughtful mood, and appeared to be counseling with himself. There was in the man's determined face, something that suggested the thought of desperation.

But the most prominent of the four was a man named Arthur. As the lighter approached, he struggled fiercely with his guards. They had to use all their strength to drag him aboard the brig. He protested loudly against his treatment and demanded to be released. His face was swollen and covered with wounds and bruises. One side of it was one large, raw sore. They rushed him down the hatchway into the hold. As they carried him along, still struggling, I caught the outline of his story. He later gave me a fuller account. He had lived for a long time in Norfolk and was a free man. He had a family living there and worked as a mason. One night he had been delayed longer than usual and was returning late to his home in the suburbs. On a deserted street, a gang of people attacked him. He fought until his strength gave out. At last they overpowered him, gagged him, and tied him with ropes. Then they beat him until he lost consciousness. For several days, they hid him in the slave pen at Norfolk. Such places, it seems, were very common in Southern cities. The night before, they had taken him out and put him aboard the lighter. It had pushed away from shore and waited for us to arrive. For some time, Arthur continued to protest and could not be reconciled to his situation. At last, though, he fell silent. He became gloomy and thoughtful, and seemed to be weighing matters in his own mind. There was something in his determined face that suggested desperation.

After leaving Norfolk the hand-cuffs were taken off, and during the day we were allowed to remain on deck. The captain selected Robert as his waiter, and I was appointed to superintend the cooking department, and the distribution of food and water. I had three assistants, Jim, Cuffee and Jenny. Jenny's business was to prepare the coffee, which consisted of corn meal scorched in a kettle, boiled and sweetened with molasses. Jim and Cuffee baked the hoe-cake and boiled the bacon.

After we left Norfolk, our handcuffs were taken off, and we were allowed to stay on deck during the day. The captain chose Robert as his waiter and put me in charge of cooking and distributing food and water. I had three assistants: Jim, Cuffee, and Jenny. Jenny made the coffee from cornmeal scorched in a kettle, then boiled and sweetened with molasses. Jim and Cuffee baked the hoe-cake and boiled the bacon.

Standing by a table, formed of a wide board resting on the heads of the barrels, I cut and handed to each a slice of meat and a "dodger" of the bread, and from Jenny's kettle also dipped out for each a cup of the coffee. The use of plates was dispensed with, and their sable fingers took the place of knives and forks. Jim and Cuffee were very demure and attentive to business, somewhat inflated with their situation as second cooks, and without doubt feeling that there was a great responsibility resting on them. I was called steward—a name given me by the captain.

I stood by a table made from a wide board resting on top of the barrels. I cut and handed each person a slice of meat and a "dodger" of bread. I also dipped a cup of coffee for each person from Jenny's kettle. There were no plates, and their sable fingers took the place of knives and forks. Jim and Cuffee were very solemn and attentive to their work. They were somewhat proud of their positions as second cooks. No doubt they felt they had a great responsibility. The captain gave me the title of steward.

The slaves were fed twice a day, at ten and five o'clock—always receiving the same kind and quantity of fare, and in the same manner as above described. At night we were driven into the hold, and securely fastened down.

The slaves were fed twice a day, at ten and five o’clock. They always received the same kind and amount of food, in the manner described above. At night, we were driven into the hold and securely locked in.

Scarcely were we out of sight of land before we were overtaken by a violent storm. The brig rolled and plunged until we feared she would go down. Some were sea-sick, others on their knees praying, while some were fast holding to each other, paralyzed with fear. The sea-sickness rendered the place of our confinement loathsome and disgusting. It would have been a happy thing for most of us—it would have saved the agony of many hundred lashes, and miserable deaths at last—had the compassionate sea snatched us that day from the clutches of remorseless men. The thought of Randall and little Emmy sinking down among the monsters of the deep, is a more pleasant contemplation than to think of them as they are now, perhaps, dragging out lives of unrequited toil.

We had barely lost sight of land when a violent storm caught up with us. The brig rolled and plunged until we feared it would sink. Some were seasick. Others knelt and prayed, while some clung to each other, paralyzed with fear. The seasickness made the place where we were confined sickening and disgusting. It would have been a blessing for most of us if the merciful sea had snatched us that day from the grip of ruthless men. It would have spared us the agony of hundreds of lashes and miserable deaths in the end. It is more comforting to imagine Randall and little Emmy sinking among the monsters of the deep than to think of them as they are now, perhaps, dragging out lives of unpaid labor.

When in sight of the Bahama Banks, at a place called Old Point Compass, or the Hole in the Wall, we were becalmed three days. There was scarcely a breath of air. The waters of the gulf presented a singularly white appearance, like lime water.

Within sight of the Bahama Banks, we were stranded without wind for three days. We were at a place called Old Point Compass, or the Hole in the Wall. There was hardly a breath of air. The gulf waters looked unusually white, like lime water.

In the order of events, I come now to the relation of an occurrence, which I never call to mind but with sensations of regret. I thank God, who has since permitted me to escape from the thralldom of slavery, that through his merciful interposition I was prevented from imbruing my hands in the blood of his creatures. Let not those who have never been placed in like circumstances, judge me harshly. Until they have been chained and beaten—until they find themselves in the situation I was, borne away from home and family towards a land of bondage—let them refrain from saying what they would not do for liberty. How far I should have been justified in the sight of God and man, it is unnecessary now to speculate upon. It is enough to say that I am able to congratulate myself upon the harmless termination of an affair which threatened, for a time, to be attended with serious results.

I come now to an event that I can never remember without regret. I thank God, who has since allowed me to escape the bondage of slavery. Through his merciful intervention, I was prevented from staining my hands with the blood of his creatures. Let those who have never been in such circumstances not judge me harshly. Until they have been chained and beaten, let them refrain from saying what they would not do for liberty. Let them first find themselves in my situation, carried away from home and family toward a land of bondage. There is no need now to speculate about how far I would have been justified before God and man. It is enough to say that I am glad the affair ended without harm. For a time, it threatened to have serious consequences.

Towards evening, on the first day of the calm, Arthur and myself were in the bow of the vessel, seated on the windlass. We were conversing together of the probable destiny that awaited us, and mourning together over our misfortunes. Arthur said, and I agreed with him, that death was far less terrible than the living prospect that was before us. For a long time we talked of our children, our past lives, and of the probabilities of escape. Obtaining possession of the brig was suggested by one of us. We discussed the possibility of our being able, in such an event, to make our way to the harbor of New-York. I knew little of the compass; but the idea of risking the experiment was eagerly entertained. The chances, for and against us, in an encounter with the crew, was canvassed. Who could be relied upon, and who could not, the proper time and manner of the attack, were all talked over and over again. From the moment the plot suggested itself I began to hope. I revolved it constantly in my mind. As difficulty after difficulty arose, some ready conceit was at hand, demonstrating how it could be overcome. While others slept, Arthur and I were maturing our plans. At length, with much caution, Robert was gradually made acquainted with our intentions. He approved of them at once, and entered into the conspiracy with a zealous spirit. There was not another slave we dared to trust. Brought up in fear and ignorance as they are, it can scarcely be conceived how servilely they will cringe before a white man's look. It was not safe to deposit so bold a secret with any of them, and finally we three resolved to take upon ourselves alone the fearful responsibility of the attempt.

Toward evening, on the first day of the calm, Arthur and I sat on the windlass at the bow of the vessel. We talked about the fate that probably awaited us and mourned our misfortunes together. Arthur said death was far less terrible than the life that lay ahead of us, and I agreed. For a long time, we talked about our children, our past lives, and our chances of escape. One of us suggested taking control of the brig. We discussed whether, if we succeeded, we could make our way to the harbor of New-York. I knew little about the compass, but we eagerly considered taking the risk. We weighed our chances in a fight with the crew. We talked over and over about who could be trusted and who could not. We also discussed the right time and way to attack. From the moment the plot occurred to us, I began to hope. I turned it over constantly in my mind. As each difficulty arose, I had an idea ready to show how we could overcome it. While the others slept, Arthur and I refined our plans. At last, we cautiously and gradually let Robert in on our intentions. He approved at once and eagerly joined the conspiracy. There was not another slave we dared to trust. They are brought up in fear and ignorance, and it is hard to imagine how obediently they cringe under a white man's gaze. It was not safe to entrust any of them with so bold a secret. In the end, the three of us resolved to take on the fearful responsibility of the attempt alone.

At night, as has been said, we were driven into the hold, and the hatch barred down. How to reach the deck was the first difficulty that presented itself. On the bow of the brig, however, I had observed the small boat lying bottom upwards. It occurred to me that by secreting ourselves underneath it, we would not be missed from the crowd, as they were hurried down into the hold at night. I was selected to make the experiment, in order to satisfy ourselves of its feasibility. The next evening, accordingly, after supper, watching my opportunity, I hastily concealed myself beneath it. Lying close upon the deck, I could see what was going on around me, while wholly unperceived myself. In the morning, as they came up, I slipped from my hiding place without being observed. The result was entirely satisfactory.

At night, as I have said, we were driven into the hold, and the hatch was barred shut. The first difficulty was figuring out how to reach the deck. But I had noticed a small boat lying upside down on the bow of the brig. I thought we could hide under it without being missed in the crowd as they were hurried into the hold at night. I was chosen to test the plan and see whether it would work. So the next evening, after supper, I watched for an opportunity and quickly hid under the boat. Lying close to the deck, I could see what was happening around me without being seen myself. In the morning, as the others came up, I slipped out of my hiding place without being noticed. The result was entirely satisfactory.

The captain and mate slept in the cabin of the former. From Robert, who had frequent occasion, in his capacity of waiter, to make observations in that quarter, we ascertained the exact position of their respective berths. He further informed us that there were always two pistols and a cutlass lying on the table. The crew's cook slept in the cook galley on deck, a sort of vehicle on wheels, that could be moved about as convenience required, while the sailors, numbering only six, either slept in the forecastle, or in hammocks swung among the rigging.

The captain and mate slept in the captain’s cabin. Robert often went there as a waiter, so he learned exactly where their berths were. He also told us that two pistols and a cutlass always lay on the table. The crew’s cook slept in the cook galley on deck. It was a sort of vehicle on wheels that could be moved wherever convenient. The six sailors slept either in the forecastle or in hammocks hung among the rigging.

Finally our arrangements were all completed. Arthur and I were to steal silently to the captain's cabin, seize the pistols and cutlass, and as quickly as possible despatch him and the mate. Robert, with a club, was to stand by the door leading from the deck down into the cabin, and, in case of necessity, beat back the sailors, until we could hurry to his assistance. We were to proceed then as circumstances might require. Should the attack be so sudden and successful as to prevent resistance, the hatch was to remain barred down; otherwise the slaves were to be called up, and in the crowd, and hurry, and confusion of the time, we resolved to regain our liberty or lose our lives. I was then to assume the unaccustomed place of pilot, and, steering northward, we trusted that some lucky wind might bear us to the soil of freedom.

Finally, all our plans were complete. Arthur and I were to slip silently into the captain's cabin and seize the pistols and cutlass. Then we were to kill the captain and the mate as quickly as possible. Robert was to stand with a club by the door leading down from the deck into the cabin. If necessary, he would beat back the sailors until we could hurry to help him. After that, we would act as circumstances required. If the attack was sudden and successful enough to prevent resistance, the hatch would remain barred. Otherwise, the slaves would be called up. In the crowd, hurry, and confusion, we resolved to regain our liberty or lose our lives. I was then to take on the unfamiliar role of pilot and steer north. We trusted that some lucky wind might carry us to the soil of freedom.

The mate's name was Biddee, the captain's I cannot now recall, though I rarely ever forget a name once heard. The captain was a small, genteel man, erect and prompt, with a proud bearing, and looked the personification of courage. If he is still living, and these pages should chance to meet his eye, he will learn a fact connected with the voyage of the brig, from Richmond to New-Orleans, in 1841, not entered on his log-book.

The mate’s name was Biddee. I cannot now remember the captain’s name, though I rarely forget a name once I’ve heard it. The captain was a small, refined man who stood straight and acted quickly. He carried himself proudly and looked like courage itself. If he is still alive and happens to read these pages, he will learn a fact missing from his logbook. It concerns the brig’s voyage from Richmond to New-Orleans in 1841.

We were all prepared, and impatiently waiting an opportunity of putting our designs into execution, when they were frustrated by a sad and unforeseen event. Robert was taken ill. It was soon announced that he had the small-pox. He continued to grow worse, and four days previous to our arrival in New-Orleans he died. One of the sailors sewed him in his blanket, with a large stone from the ballast at his feet, and then laying him on a hatchway, and elevating it with tackles above the railing, the inanimate body of poor Robert was consigned to the white waters of the gulf.

We were all ready and impatiently waiting for a chance to carry out our plans. But a sad and unexpected event thwarted them. Robert fell ill. Soon, we learned that he had smallpox. He grew worse and died four days before we arrived in New-Orleans. A sailor sewed him into his blanket, placing a large stone from the ship’s ballast at his feet. The sailor then laid poor Robert’s body on a hatch cover and used ropes to lift it above the railing. The body was lowered into the white waters of the gulf.

We were all panic-stricken by the appearance of the small-pox. The captain ordered lime to be scattered through the hold, and other prudent precautions to be taken. The death of Robert, however, and the presence of the malady, oppressed me sadly, and I gazed out over the great waste of waters with a spirit that was indeed disconsolate.

We were all terrified when smallpox appeared. The captain ordered lime to be scattered through the hold and other sensible precautions to be taken. But Robert’s death and the presence of the disease weighed heavily on me. I gazed out over the vast expanse of water, feeling utterly hopeless.

An evening or two after Robert's burial, I was leaning on the hatchway near the forecastle, full of desponding thoughts, when a sailor in a kind voice asked me why I was so down-hearted. The tone and manner of the man assured me, and I answered, because I was a freeman, and had been kidnapped. He remarked that it was enough to make any one down-hearted, and continued to interrogate me until he learned the particulars of my whole history. He was evidently much interested in my behalf, and, in the blunt speech of a sailor, swore he would aid me all he could, if it "split his timbers." I requested him to furnish me pen, ink and paper, in order that I might write to some of my friends. He promised to obtain them—but how I could use them undiscovered was a difficulty. If I could only get into the forecastle while his watch was off, and the other sailors asleep, the thing could be accomplished. The small boat instantly occurred to me. He thought we were not far from the Balize, at the mouth of the Mississippi, and it was necessary that the letter be written soon, or the opportunity would be lost. Accordingly, by arrangement, I managed the next night to secret myself again under the long-boat. His watch was off at twelve. I saw him pass into the forecastle, and in about an hour followed him. He was nodding over a table, half asleep, on which a sickly light was flickering, and on which also was a pen and sheet of paper. As I entered he aroused, beckoned me to a seat beside him, and pointed to the paper. I directed the letter to Henry B. Northup, of Sandy Hill—stating that I had been kidnapped, was then on board the brig Orleans, bound for New-Orleans; that it was then impossible for me to conjecture my ultimate destination, and requesting he would take measures to rescue me. The letter was sealed and directed, and Manning, having read it, promised to deposit it in the New-Orleans post-office. I hastened back to my place under the long-boat, and in the morning, as the slaves came up and were walking round, crept out unnoticed and mingled with them.

An evening or two after Robert's burial, I was leaning against the hatchway near the forecastle, full of despair. A sailor kindly asked me why I was so downhearted. His tone and manner reassured me, and I told him I was a freeman who had been kidnapped. He said that was enough to make anyone downhearted. He kept asking questions until he knew my whole story. He was clearly concerned for me. In a sailor's blunt language, he swore he would help me all he could, even if it "split his timbers." I asked him for pen, ink, and paper so I could write to some of my friends. He promised to get them, but using them without being discovered would be difficult. I could write the letter if I got into the forecastle while he was off watch and the other sailors slept. The small boat came to mind at once. The sailor thought we were not far from the Balize, at the mouth of the Mississippi. I had to write the letter soon, or the opportunity would be lost. So, as we had arranged, I hid myself again under the long-boat the next night. His watch ended at twelve. I saw him go into the forecastle and followed him about an hour later. He was half asleep, nodding over a table. A dim light flickered on the table, where a pen and sheet of paper also lay. When I entered, he woke up, motioned for me to sit beside him, and pointed to the paper. I addressed the letter to Henry B. Northup, of Sandy Hill. I wrote that I had been kidnapped and was aboard the brig Orleans, bound for New-Orleans. I said I could not guess where I would eventually be taken and asked him to take steps to rescue me. The letter was sealed and addressed, and Manning read it. He promised to put it in the New-Orleans post-office. I hurried back to my place under the long-boat. In the morning, as the slaves came up and walked around, I crept out unnoticed and joined them.

My good friend, whose name was John Manning, was an Englishman by birth, and a noble-hearted, generous sailor as ever walked a deck. He had lived in Boston—was a tall, well-built man, about twenty-four years old, with a face somewhat pock-marked, but full of benevolent expression.

My good friend John Manning was born in England. He was as noble-hearted and generous a sailor as ever walked a deck. He had lived in Boston. He was tall and well-built, about twenty-four years old. His face was somewhat pockmarked, but it had a kind expression.

Nothing to vary the monotony of our daily life occurred, until we reached New-Orleans. On coming to the levee, and before the vessel was made fast, I saw Manning leap on shore and hurry away into the city. As he started off he looked back over his shoulder significantly, giving me to understand the object of his errand. Presently he returned, and passing close by me, hunched me with his elbow, with a peculiar wink, as much as to say, "it is all right."

Nothing happened to break the monotony of our daily life until we reached New-Orleans. When we came to the levee, I saw Manning jump ashore before the vessel was tied up. He hurried away into the city. As he left, he looked back over his shoulder meaningfully, letting me know the purpose of his errand. Soon he returned and passed close by me. He nudged me with his elbow and gave me a knowing wink, as if to say, "it is all right."

The letter, as I have since learned, reached Sandy Hill. Mr. Northup visited Albany and laid it before Governor Seward, but inasmuch as it gave no definite information as to my probable locality, it was not, at that time, deemed advisable to institute measures for my liberation. It was concluded to delay, trusting that a knowledge of where I was might eventually be obtained.

I later learned that the letter reached Sandy Hill. Mr. Northup visited Albany and showed it to Governor Seward. But the letter gave no definite information about where I might be. So, at the time, they did not think it wise to take steps to free me. They decided to wait, hoping they would eventually learn where I was.

A happy and touching scene was witnessed immediately upon our reaching the levee. Just as Manning left the brig, on his way to the post-office, two men came up and called aloud for Arthur. The latter, as he recognized them, was almost crazy with delight. He could hardly be restrained from leaping over the brig's side; and when they met soon after, he grasped them by the hand, and clung to them a long, long time. They were men from Norfolk, who had come on to New-Orleans to rescue him. His kidnappers, they informed him, had been arrested, and were then confined in the Norfolk prison. They conversed a few moments with the captain, and then departed with the rejoicing Arthur.

We witnessed a happy and touching scene as soon as we reached the levee. Just as Manning left the brig for the post office, two men came up and called out for Arthur. When he recognized them, Arthur was almost crazy with delight. He could hardly be stopped from leaping over the side of the brig. When they met shortly afterward, he shook their hands and clung to them for a long, long time. They were men from Norfolk who had come to New-Orleans to rescue him. They told him his kidnappers had been arrested and were being held in the Norfolk prison. They spoke briefly with the captain, then left with the overjoyed Arthur.

But in all the crowd that thronged the wharf, there was no one who knew or cared for me. Not one. No familiar voice greeted my ears, nor was there a single face that I had ever seen. Soon Arthur would rejoin his family, and have the satisfaction of seeing his wrongs avenged: my family, alas, should I ever see them more? There was a feeling of utter desolation in my heart, filling it with a despairing and regretful sense, that I had not gone down with Robert to the bottom of the sea.

But in all the crowd packed onto the wharf, there was no one who knew or cared for me. Not one. No familiar voice greeted me, and I did not recognize a single face. Soon Arthur would be back with his family and have the satisfaction of seeing his wrongs avenged. But my family, would I ever see them again? My heart felt utterly empty. In my despair and sorrow, I regretted not going down to the bottom of the sea with Robert.

Very soon traders and consignees came on board. One, a tall, thin-faced man, with light complexion and a little bent, made his appearance, with a paper in his hand. Burch's gang, consisting of myself, Eliza and her children, Harry, Lethe, and some others, who had joined us at Richmond, were consigned to him. This gentleman was Mr. Theophilus Freeman. Reading from his paper, he called, "Platt." No one answered. The name was called again and again, but still there was no reply. Then Lethe was called, then Eliza, then Harry, until the list was finished, each one stepping forward as his or her name was called.

Soon, traders and consignees came on board. One was a tall, slightly bent man with a thin face and a light complexion. He carried a paper in his hand. Burch's group had been consigned to him. It consisted of me, Eliza and her children, Harry, Lethe, and some others who had joined us at Richmond. The man was Mr. Theophilus Freeman. Reading from his paper, he called, "Platt." No one answered. He called the name again and again, but still there was no reply. Then he called Lethe, then Eliza, then Harry. He continued until he had finished the list. Each person stepped forward when their name was called.

"Captain, where's Platt?" demanded Theophilus Freeman.

"Captain, where's Platt?" demanded Theophilus Freeman.

The captain was unable to inform him, no one being on board answering to that name.

The captain could not tell him, because no one on board had that name.

"Who shipped that nigger?" he again inquired of the captain, pointing to me.

"Who shipped that nigger?" he asked the captain again, pointing to me.

"Burch," replied the captain.

"Burch," the captain replied.

"Your name is Platt—you answer my description. Why don't you come forward?" he demanded of me, in an angry tone.

"Your name is Platt. You match my description. Why don't you come forward?" he demanded angrily.

I informed him that was not my name; that I had never been called by it, but that I had no objection to it as I knew of.

I told him that was not my name and that no one had ever called me by it. But as far as I knew, I had no objection to the name.

"Well, I will learn you your name," said he; "and so you won't forget it either, by ——," he added.

"Well, I will teach you your name," he said. "And you won't forget it either, by ...," he added.

Mr. Theophilus Freeman, by the way, was not a whit behind his partner, Burch, in the matter of blasphemy. On the vessel I had gone by the name of "Steward," and this was the first time I had ever been designated as Platt—the name forwarded by Burch to his consignee. From the vessel I observed the chain-gang at work on the levee. We passed near them as we were driven to Freeman's slave pen. This pen is very similar to Goodin's in Richmond, except the yard was enclosed by plank, standing upright, with ends sharpened, instead of brick walls.

Mr. Theophilus Freeman, by the way, was no less given to blasphemy than his partner, Burch. On the vessel, I had gone by the name of "Steward." This was the first time I had been called Platt, the name Burch had sent to Freeman, his consignee. From the vessel, I saw the chain-gang working on the levee. We passed near them as we were driven to Freeman's slave pen. The pen was very much like Goodin's in Richmond. But its yard was enclosed by upright planks with sharpened ends, rather than brick walls.

Including us, there were now at least fifty in this pen. Depositing our blankets in one of the small buildings in the yard, and having been called up and fed, we were allowed to saunter about the enclosure until night, when we wrapped our blankets round us and laid down under the shed, or in the loft, or in the open yard, just as each one preferred.

Including us, there were now at least fifty people in the pen. We left our blankets in one of the small buildings in the yard. After we were called up and fed, we were allowed to wander around the enclosure until night. Then we wrapped ourselves in our blankets and lay down wherever we preferred, under the shed, in the loft, or in the open yard.

It was but a short time I closed my eyes that night. Thought was busy in my brain. Could it be possible that I was thousands of miles from home—that I had been driven through the streets like a dumb beast—that I had been chained and beaten without mercy—that I was even then herded with a drove of slaves, a slave myself? Were the events of the last few weeks realities indeed?—or was I passing only through the dismal phases of a long, protracted dream? It was no illusion. My cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. Then I lifted up my hands to God, and in the still watches of the night, surrounded by the sleeping forms of my companions, begged for mercy on the poor, forsaken captive. To the Almighty Father of us all—the freeman and the slave—I poured forth the supplications of a broken spirit, imploring strength from on high to bear up against the burden of my troubles, until the morning light aroused the slumberers, ushering in another day of bondage.

I slept only a short time that night. My mind was racing. Could I really be thousands of miles from home? Had I been driven through the streets like a dumb beast, chained and beaten without mercy? Was I now herded with a group of slaves, a slave myself? Had the events of the past few weeks really happened? Or was I only passing through the bleak stages of a long, drawn-out dream? It was no illusion. My cup of sorrow was overflowing. Then I raised my hands to God. In the quiet hours of the night, surrounded by my sleeping companions, I begged him to have mercy on the poor, forsaken captive. To the Almighty Father of us all, the free man and the slave, I poured out the prayers of a broken spirit. I begged for strength from above to bear the burden of my troubles. I prayed until the morning light woke my companions, bringing another day of bondage.