Chapter 10

I had left Master Thomas's house, and went to live

with Mr. Covey, on the 1st of January, 1833. I was

now, for the first time in my life, a field hand. In

my new employment, I found myself even more

awkward than a country boy appeared to be in a

large city. I had been at my new home but one

week before Mr. Covey gave me a very severe whip-

ping, cutting my back, causing the blood to run,

and raising ridges on my flesh as large as my little finger.

The details of this affair are as follows: Mr. Covey

sent me, very early in the morning of one of our

coldest days in the month of January, to the woods,

to get a load of wood. He gave me a team of un-

broken oxen. He told me which was the in-hand ox,

and which the off-hand one. He then tied the end

of a large rope around the horns of the in-hand ox,

and gave me the other end of it, and told me, if

the oxen started to run, that I must hold on upon

the rope. I had never driven oxen before, and of

course I was very awkward. I, however, succeeded in

getting to the edge of the woods with little diffi-

culty; but I had got a very few rods into the woods,

when the oxen took fright, and started full tilt, carry-

ing the cart against trees, and over stumps, in the

most frightful manner. I expected every moment

that my brains would be dashed out against the

trees. After running thus for a considerable dis-

tance, they finally upset the cart, dashing it with

great force against a tree, and threw themselves into

a dense thicket. How I escaped death, I do not

know. There I was, entirely alone, in a thick wood,

in a place new to me. My cart was upset and shat-

tered, my oxen were entangled among the young

trees, and there was none to help me. After a long

spell of effort, I succeeded in getting my cart righted,

my oxen disentangled, and again yoked to the cart.

I now proceeded with my team to the place where

I had, the day before, been chopping wood, and

loaded my cart pretty heavily, thinking in this way

to tame my oxen. I then proceeded on my way

home. I had now consumed one half of the day. I

got out of the woods safely, and now felt out of

danger. I stopped my oxen to open the woods gate;

and just as I did so, before I could get hold of my

ox-rope, the oxen again started, rushed through the

gate, catching it between the wheel and the body of

the cart, tearing it to pieces, and coming within a

few inches of crushing me against the gate-post. Thus

twice, in one short day, I escaped death by the

merest chance. On my return, I told Mr. Covey

what had happened, and how it happened. He or-

dered me to return to the woods again immediately.

I did so, and he followed on after me. Just as I got

into the woods, he came up and told me to stop my

cart, and that he would teach me how to trifle away

my time, and break gates. He then went to a large

gum-tree, and with his axe cut three large switches,

and, after trimming them up neatly with his pocket-

knife, he ordered me to take off my clothes. I made

him no answer, but stood with my clothes on. He

repeated his order. I still made him no answer, nor

did I move to strip myself. Upon this he rushed

at me with the fierceness of a tiger, tore off my

clothes, and lashed me till he had worn out his

switches, cutting me so savagely as to leave the marks

visible for a long time after. This whipping was the

first of a number just like it, and for similar of-

fences.

I lived with Mr. Covey one year. During the first

six months, of that year, scarce a week passed with-

out his whipping me. I was seldom free from a sore

back. My awkwardness was almost always his ex-

cuse for whipping me. We were worked fully up

to the point of endurance. Long before day we were

up, our horses fed, and by the first approach of day

we were off to the field with our hoes and plough-

ing teams. Mr. Covey gave us enough to eat, but

scarce time to eat it. We were often less than five

minutes taking our meals. We were often in the field

from the first approach of day till its last lingering

ray had left us; and at saving-fodder time, midnight

often caught us in the field binding blades.

Covey would be out with us. The way he used to

stand it, was this. He would spend the most of his

afternoons in bed. He would then come out fresh

in the evening, ready to urge us on with his words,

example, and frequently with the whip. Mr. Covey

was one of the few slaveholders who could and did

work with his hands. He was a hard-working man.

He knew by himself just what a man or a boy could

do. There was no deceiving him. His work went on

in his absence almost as well as in his presence; and

he had the faculty of making us feel that he was

ever present with us. This he did by surprising us.

He seldom approached the spot where we were at

work openly, if he could do it secretly. He always

aimed at taking us by surprise. Such was his cunning,

that we used to call him, among ourselves, "the

snake." When we were at work in the cornfield, he

would sometimes crawl on his hands and knees to

avoid detection, and all at once he would rise

nearly in our midst, and scream out, "Ha, ha!

Come, come! Dash on, dash on!" This being his

mode of attack, it was never safe to stop a single

minute. His comings were like a thief in the night.

He appeared to us as being ever at hand. He was

under every tree, behind every stump, in every bush,

and at every window, on the plantation. He would

sometimes mount his horse, as if bound to St. Mi-

chael's, a distance of seven miles, and in half an

hour afterwards you would see him coiled up in

the corner of the wood-fence, watching every motion

of the slaves. He would, for this purpose, leave his

horse tied up in the woods. Again, he would some-

times walk up to us, and give us orders as though

he was upon the point of starting on a long journey,

turn his back upon us, and make as though he was

going to the house to get ready; and, before he would

get half way thither, he would turn short and crawl

into a fence-corner, or behind some tree, and there

watch us till the going down of the sun.

Mr. Covey's FORTE consisted in his power to de-

ceive. His life was devoted to planning and perpe-

trating the grossest deceptions. Every thing he pos-

sessed in the shape of learning or religion, he made

conform to his disposition to deceive. He seemed

to think himself equal to deceiving the Almighty.

He would make a short prayer in the morning, and

a long prayer at night; and, strange as it may seem,

few men would at times appear more devotional

than he. The exercises of his family devotions were

always commenced with singing; and, as he was a

very poor singer himself, the duty of raising the

hymn generally came upon me. He would read his

hymn, and nod at me to commence. I would at

times do so; at others, I would not. My non-com-

pliance would almost always produce much confu-

sion. To show himself independent of me, he would

start and stagger through with his hymn in the most

discordant manner. In this state of mind, he prayed

with more than ordinary spirit. Poor man! such was

his disposition, and success at deceiving, I do verily

believe that he sometimes deceived himself into the

solemn belief, that he was a sincere worshipper of

the most high God; and this, too, at a time when

he may be said to have been guilty of compelling

his woman slave to commit the sin of adultery. The

facts in the case are these: Mr. Covey was a poor

man; he was just commencing in life; he was only

able to buy one slave; and, shocking as is the fact,

he bought her, as he said, for A BREEDER. This woman

was named Caroline. Mr. Covey bought her from

Mr. Thomas Lowe, about six miles from St. Mi-

chael's. She was a large, able-bodied woman, about

twenty years old. She had already given birth to one

child, which proved her to be just what he wanted.

After buying her, he hired a married man of Mr.

Samuel Harrison, to live with him one year; and him

he used to fasten up with her every night! The re-

sult was, that, at the end of the year, the miserable

woman gave birth to twins. At this result Mr. Covey

seemed to be highly pleased, both with the man and

the wretched woman. Such was his joy, and that of

his wife, that nothing they could do for Caroline

during her confinement was too good, or too hard,

to be done. The children were regarded as being

quite an addition to his wealth.

If at any one time of my life more than another,

I was made to drink the bitterest dregs of slavery,

that time was during the first six months of my stay

with Mr. Covey. We were worked in all weathers.

It was never too hot or too cold; it could never rain,

blow, hail, or snow, too hard for us to work in the

field. Work, work, work, was scarcely more the order

of the day than of the night. The longest days were

too short for him, and the shortest nights too long

for him. I was somewhat unmanageable when I first

went there, but a few months of this discipline

tamed me. Mr. Covey succeeded in breaking me. I

was broken in body, soul, and spirit. My natural

elasticity was crushed, my intellect languished, the

disposition to read departed, the cheerful spark that

lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery

closed in upon me; and behold a man transformed

into a brute!

Sunday was my only leisure time. I spent this in

a sort of beast-like stupor, between sleep and wake,

under some large tree. At times I would rise up, a

flash of energetic freedom would dart through my

soul, accompanied with a faint beam of hope, that

flickered for a moment, and then vanished. I sank

down again, mourning over my wretched condition.

I was sometimes prompted to take my life, and that

of Covey, but was prevented by a combination of

hope and fear. My sufferings on this plantation seem

now like a dream rather than a stern reality.

Our house stood within a few rods of the Chesa-

peake Bay, whose broad bosom was ever white with

sails from every quarter of the habitable globe.

Those beautiful vessels, robed in purest white, so

delightful to the eye of freemen, were to me so

many shrouded ghosts, to terrify and torment me

with thoughts of my wretched condition. I have of-

ten, in the deep stillness of a summer's Sabbath,

stood all alone upon the lofty banks of that noble

bay, and traced, with saddened heart and tearful

eye, the countless number of sails moving off to

the mighty ocean. The sight of these always affected

me powerfully. My thoughts would compel utter-

ance; and there, with no audience but the Almighty,

I would pour out my soul's complaint, in my rude

way, with an apostrophe to the moving multitude of

ships:—

"You are loosed from your moorings, and are free;

I am fast in my chains, and am a slave! You move

merrily before the gentle gale, and I sadly before

the bloody whip! You are freedom's swift-winged

angels, that fly round the world; I am confined in

bands of iron! O that I were free! O, that I were

on one of your gallant decks, and under your pro-

tecting wing! Alas! betwixt me and you, the turbid

waters roll. Go on, go on. O that I could also go!

Could I but swim! If I could fly! O, why was I born

a man, of whom to make a brute! The glad ship

is gone; she hides in the dim distance. I am left in

the hottest hell of unending slavery. O God, save

me! God, deliver me! Let me be free! Is there any

God? Why am I a slave? I will run away. I will not

stand it. Get caught, or get clear, I'll try it. I had

as well die with ague as the fever. I have only one

life to lose. I had as well be killed running as die

standing. Only think of it; one hundred miles

straight north, and I am free! Try it? Yes! God

helping me, I will. It cannot be that I shall live

and die a slave. I will take to the water. This very

bay shall yet bear me into freedom. The steam-

boats steered in a north-east course from North

Point. I will do the same; and when I get to the

head of the bay, I will turn my canoe adrift, and

walk straight through Delaware into Pennsylvania.

When I get there, I shall not be required to have a

pass; I can travel without being disturbed. Let but

the first opportunity offer, and, come what will, I

am off. Meanwhile, I will try to bear up under the

yoke. I am not the only slave in the world. Why

should I fret? I can bear as much as any of them.

Besides, I am but a boy, and all boys are bound to

some one. It may be that my misery in slavery will

only increase my happiness when I get free. There

is a better day coming."

Thus I used to think, and thus I used to speak

to myself; goaded almost to madness at one mo-

ment, and at the next reconciling myself to my

wretched lot.

I have already intimated that my condition was

much worse, during the first six months of my stay

at Mr. Covey's, than in the last six. The circum-

stances leading to the change in Mr. Covey's course

toward me form an epoch in my humble history.

You have seen how a man was made a slave; you

shall see how a slave was made a man. On one of

the hottest days of the month of August, 1833, Bill

Smith, William Hughes, a slave named Eli, and

myself, were engaged in fanning wheat. Hughes was

clearing the fanned wheat from before the fan. Eli

was turning, Smith was feeding, and I was carrying

wheat to the fan. The work was simple, requiring

strength rather than intellect; yet, to one entirely

unused to such work, it came very hard. About three

o'clock of that day, I broke down; my strength failed

me; I was seized with a violent aching of the head,

attended with extreme dizziness; I trembled in every

limb. Finding what was coming, I nerved myself

up, feeling it would never do to stop work. I stood

as long as I could stagger to the hopper with grain.

When I could stand no longer, I fell, and felt as

if held down by an immense weight. The fan of

course stopped; every one had his own work to do;

and no one could do the work of the other, and

have his own go on at the same time.

Mr. Covey was at the house, about one hundred

yards from the treading-yard where we were fanning.

On hearing the fan stop, he left immediately, and

came to the spot where we were. He hastily in-

quired what the matter was. Bill answered that I

was sick, and there was no one to bring wheat to the

fan. I had by this time crawled away under the

side of the post and rail-fence by which the yard

was enclosed, hoping to find relief by getting out

of the sun. He then asked where I was. He was

told by one of the hands. He came to the spot, and,

after looking at me awhile, asked me what was

the matter. I told him as well as I could, for I scarce

had strength to speak. He then gave me a savage

kick in the side, and told me to get up. I tried to

do so, but fell back in the attempt. He gave me

another kick, and again told me to rise. I again

tried, and succeeded in gaining my feet; but, stoop-

ing to get the tub with which I was feeding the

fan, I again staggered and fell. While down in this

situation, Mr. Covey took up the hickory slat with

which Hughes had been striking off the half-bushel

measure, and with it gave me a heavy blow upon

the head, making a large wound, and the blood ran

freely; and with this again told me to get up. I made

no effort to comply, having now made up my mind

to let him do his worst. In a short time after re-

ceiving this blow, my head grew better. Mr. Covey

had now left me to my fate. At this moment I re-

solved, for the first time, to go to my master, enter

a complaint, and ask his protection. In order to do

this, I must that afternoon walk seven miles; and

this, under the circumstances, was truly a severe

undertaking. I was exceedingly feeble; made so as

much by the kicks and blows which I received, as

by the severe fit of sickness to which I had been

subjected. I, however, watched my chance, while

Covey was looking in an opposite direction, and

started for St. Michael's. I succeeded in getting a

considerable distance on my way to the woods, when

Covey discovered me, and called after me to come

back, threatening what he would do if I did not

come. I disregarded both his calls and his threats,

and made my way to the woods as fast as my feeble

state would allow; and thinking I might be over-

hauled by him if I kept the road, I walked through

the woods, keeping far enough from the road to

avoid detection, and near enough to prevent losing

my way. I had not gone far before my little strength

again failed me. I could go no farther. I fell down,

and lay for a considerable time. The blood was yet

oozing from the wound on my head. For a time I

thought I should bleed to death; and think now that

I should have done so, but that the blood so matted

my hair as to stop the wound. After lying there

about three quarters of an hour, I nerved myself

up again, and started on my way, through bogs and

briers, barefooted and bareheaded, tearing my feet

sometimes at nearly every step; and after a journey

of about seven miles, occupying some five hours to

perform it, I arrived at master's store. I then pre-

sented an appearance enough to affect any but a

heart of iron. From the crown of my head to my

feet, I was covered with blood. My hair was all

clotted with dust and blood; my shirt was stiff with

blood. I suppose I looked like a man who had es-

caped a den of wild beasts, and barely escaped them.

In this state I appeared before my master, humbly

entreating him to interpose his authority for my

protection. I told him all the circumstances as well

as I could, and it seemed, as I spoke, at times to

affect him. He would then walk the floor, and seek

to justify Covey by saying he expected I deserved

it. He asked me what I wanted. I told him, to let

me get a new home; that as sure as I lived with Mr.

Covey again, I should live with but to die with

him; that Covey would surely kill me; he was in a

fair way for it. Master Thomas ridiculed the idea

that there was any danger of Mr. Covey's killing

me, and said that he knew Mr. Covey; that he was

a good man, and that he could not think of taking

me from him; that, should he do so, he would lose

the whole year's wages; that I belonged to Mr. Covey

for one year, and that I must go back to him, come

what might; and that I must not trouble him with

any more stories, or that he would himself GET HOLD

OF ME. After threatening me thus, he gave me a very

large dose of salts, telling me that I might remain

in St. Michael's that night, (it being quite late,)

but that I must be off back to Mr. Covey's early

in the morning; and that if I did not, he would

~get hold of me,~ which meant that he would whip

me. I remained all night, and, according to his or-

ders, I started off to Covey's in the morning, (Sat-

urday morning,) wearied in body and broken in

spirit. I got no supper that night, or breakfast that

morning. I reached Covey's about nine o'clock; and

just as I was getting over the fence that divided

Mrs. Kemp's fields from ours, out ran Covey with

his cowskin, to give me another whipping. Before

he could reach me, I succeeded in getting to the

cornfield; and as the corn was very high, it afforded

me the means of hiding. He seemed very angry, and

searched for me a long time. My behavior was al-

together unaccountable. He finally gave up the

chase, thinking, I suppose, that I must come home

for something to eat; he would give himself no fur-

ther trouble in looking for me. I spent that day

mostly in the woods, having the alternative before

me,—to go home and be whipped to death, or stay

in the woods and be starved to death. That night,

I fell in with Sandy Jenkins, a slave with whom

I was somewhat acquainted. Sandy had a free wife

who lived about four miles from Mr. Covey's; and

it being Saturday, he was on his way to see her. I

told him my circumstances, and he very kindly in-

vited me to go home with him. I went home with

him, and talked this whole matter over, and got his

advice as to what course it was best for me to pursue.

I found Sandy an old adviser. He told me, with

great solemnity, I must go back to Covey; but that

before I went, I must go with him into another

part of the woods, where there was a certain ~root,~

which, if I would take some of it with me, carrying

it ~always on my right side,~ would render it impos-

sible for Mr. Covey, or any other white man, to

whip me. He said he had carried it for years; and

since he had done so, he had never received a blow,

and never expected to while he carried it. I at first

rejected the idea, that the simple carrying of a root

in my pocket would have any such effect as he had

said, and was not disposed to take it; but Sandy

impressed the necessity with much earnestness, tell-

ing me it could do no harm, if it did no good. To

please him, I at length took the root, and, ac-

cording to his direction, carried it upon my right

side. This was Sunday morning. I immediately

started for home; and upon entering the yard gate,

out came Mr. Covey on his way to meeting. He

spoke to me very kindly, bade me drive the pigs

from a lot near by, and passed on towards the

church. Now, this singular conduct of Mr. Covey

really made me begin to think that there was some-

thing in the ROOT which Sandy had given me; and

had it been on any other day than Sunday, I could

have attributed the conduct to no other cause than

the influence of that root; and as it was, I was half

inclined to think the ~root~ to be something more

than I at first had taken it to be. All went well till

Monday morning. On this morning, the virtue of

the ROOT was fully tested. Long before daylight, I

was called to go and rub, curry, and feed, the horses.

I obeyed, and was glad to obey. But whilst thus

engaged, whilst in the act of throwing down some

blades from the loft, Mr. Covey entered the stable

with a long rope; and just as I was half out of the

loft, he caught hold of my legs, and was about tying

me. As soon as I found what he was up to, I gave

a sudden spring, and as I did so, he holding to my

legs, I was brought sprawling on the stable floor.

Mr. Covey seemed now to think he had me, and

could do what he pleased; but at this moment—

from whence came the spirit I don't know—I re-

solved to fight; and, suiting my action to the reso-

lution, I seized Covey hard by the throat; and as I

did so, I rose. He held on to me, and I to him. My

resistance was so entirely unexpected that Covey

seemed taken all aback. He trembled like a leaf.

This gave me assurance, and I held him uneasy,

causing the blood to run where I touched him with

the ends of my fingers. Mr. Covey soon called out

to Hughes for help. Hughes came, and, while Covey

held me, attempted to tie my right hand. While he

was in the act of doing so, I watched my chance,

and gave him a heavy kick close under the ribs.

This kick fairly sickened Hughes, so that he left

me in the hands of Mr. Covey. This kick had the

effect of not only weakening Hughes, but Covey also.

When he saw Hughes bending over with pain, his

courage quailed. He asked me if I meant to persist

in my resistance. I told him I did, come what

might; that he had used me like a brute for six

months, and that I was determined to be used so

no longer. With that, he strove to drag me to a

stick that was lying just out of the stable door. He

meant to knock me down. But just as he was leaning

over to get the stick, I seized him with both hands

by his collar, and brought him by a sudden snatch

to the ground. By this time, Bill came. Covey called

upon him for assistance. Bill wanted to know what

he could do. Covey said, "Take hold of him, take

hold of him!" Bill said his master hired him out to

work, and not to help to whip me; so he left Covey

and myself to fight our own battle out. We were

at it for nearly two hours. Covey at length let me

go, puffing and blowing at a great rate, saying that

if I had not resisted, he would not have whipped

me half so much. The truth was, that he had not

whipped me at all. I considered him as getting en-

tirely the worst end of the bargain; for he had drawn

no blood from me, but I had from him. The whole

six months afterwards, that I spent with Mr. Covey,

he never laid the weight of his finger upon me in

anger. He would occasionally say, he didn't want

to get hold of me again. "No," thought I, "you

need not; for you will come off worse than you did

before."

This battle with Mr. Covey was the turning-

point in my career as a slave. It rekindled the few

expiring embers of freedom, and revived within me

a sense of my own manhood. It recalled the de-

parted self-confidence, and inspired me again with

a determination to be free. The gratification af-

forded by the triumph was a full compensation for

whatever else might follow, even death itself. He

only can understand the deep satisfaction which I

experienced, who has himself repelled by force the

bloody arm of slavery. I felt as I never felt before.

It was a glorious resurrection, from the tomb of

slavery, to the heaven of freedom. My long-crushed

spirit rose, cowardice departed, bold defiance took

its place; and I now resolved that, however long I

might remain a slave in form, the day had passed

forever when I could be a slave in fact. I did not

hesitate to let it be known of me, that the white

man who expected to succeed in whipping, must

also succeed in killing me.

From this time I was never again what might be

called fairly whipped, though I remained a slave

four years afterwards. I had several fights, but was

never whipped.

It was for a long time a matter of surprise to me

why Mr. Covey did not immediately have me taken

by the constable to the whipping-post, and there

regularly whipped for the crime of raising my hand

against a white man in defence of myself. And the

only explanation I can now think of does not entirely

satisfy me; but such as it is, I will give it. Mr. Covey

enjoyed the most unbounded reputation for being

a first-rate overseer and negro-breaker. It was of con-

siderable importance to him. That reputation was at

stake; and had he sent me—a boy about sixteen years

old—to the public whipping-post, his reputation

would have been lost; so, to save his reputation, he

suffered me to go unpunished.

My term of actual service to Mr. Edward Covey

ended on Christmas day, 1833. The days between

Christmas and New Year's day are allowed as holi-

days; and, accordingly, we were not required to per-

form any labor, more than to feed and take care of

the stock. This time we regarded as our own, by the

grace of our masters; and we therefore used or

abused it nearly as we pleased. Those of us who had

families at a distance, were generally allowed to

spend the whole six days in their society. This time,

however, was spent in various ways. The staid, sober,

thinking and industrious ones of our number would

employ themselves in making corn-brooms, mats,

horse-collars, and baskets; and another class of us

would spend the time in hunting opossums, hares,

and coons. But by far the larger part engaged in

such sports and merriments as playing ball, wres-

tling, running foot-races, fiddling, dancing, and

drinking whisky; and this latter mode of spending

the time was by far the most agreeable to the feel-

ings of our masters. A slave who would work during

the holidays was considered by our masters as

scarcely deserving them. He was regarded as one

who rejected the favor of his master. It was deemed

a disgrace not to get drunk at Christmas; and he

was regarded as lazy indeed, who had not provided

himself with the necessary means, during the year,

to get whisky enough to last him through Christmas.

From what I know of the effect of these holidays

upon the slave, I believe them to be among the

most effective means in the hands of the slaveholder

in keeping down the spirit of insurrection. Were

the slaveholders at once to abandon this practice,

I have not the slightest doubt it would lead to an

immediate insurrection among the slaves. These

holidays serve as conductors, or safety-valves, to carry

off the rebellious spirit of enslaved humanity. But

for these, the slave would be forced up to the wild-

est desperation; and woe betide the slaveholder, the

day he ventures to remove or hinder the operation

of those conductors! I warn him that, in such an

event, a spirit will go forth in their midst, more to

be dreaded than the most appalling earthquake.

The holidays are part and parcel of the gross

fraud, wrong, and inhumanity of slavery. They are

professedly a custom established by the benevolence

of the slaveholders; but I undertake to say, it is the

result of selfishness, and one of the grossest frauds

committed upon the down-trodden slave. They do

not give the slaves this time because they would

not like to have their work during its continuance,

but because they know it would be unsafe to deprive

them of it. This will be seen by the fact, that the

slaveholders like to have their slaves spend those

days just in such a manner as to make them as glad

of their ending as of their beginning. Their object

seems to be, to disgust their slaves with freedom,

by plunging them into the lowest depths of dissipa-

tion. For instance, the slaveholders not only like to

see the slave drink of his own accord, but will adopt

various plans to make him drunk. One plan is, to

make bets on their slaves, as to who can drink the

most whisky without getting drunk; and in this way

they succeed in getting whole multitudes to drink

to excess. Thus, when the slave asks for virtuous

freedom, the cunning slaveholder, knowing his ig-

norance, cheats him with a dose of vicious dissi-

pation, artfully labelled with the name of liberty.

The most of us used to drink it down, and the result

was just what might be supposed; many of us

were led to think that there was little to choose

between liberty and slavery. We felt, and very prop-

erly too, that we had almost as well be slaves to

man as to rum. So, when the holidays ended, we

staggered up from the filth of our wallowing, took

a long breath, and marched to the field,—feeling,

upon the whole, rather glad to go, from what our

master had deceived us into a belief was freedom,

back to the arms of slavery.

I have said that this mode of treatment is a part

of the whole system of fraud and inhumanity of

slavery. It is so. The mode here adopted to disgust

the slave with freedom, by allowing him to see only

the abuse of it, is carried out in other things. For

instance, a slave loves molasses; he steals some.

His master, in many cases, goes off to town, and

buys a large quantity; he returns, takes his whip,

and commands the slave to eat the molasses, until

the poor fellow is made sick at the very mention

of it. The same mode is sometimes adopted to make

the slaves refrain from asking for more food than

their regular allowance. A slave runs through his

allowance, and applies for more. His master is en-

raged at him; but, not willing to send him off with-

out food, gives him more than is necessary, and com-

pels him to eat it within a given time. Then, if he

complains that he cannot eat it, he is said to be

satisfied neither full nor fasting, and is whipped

for being hard to please! I have an abundance of

such illustrations of the same principle, drawn from

my own observation, but think the cases I have cited

sufficient. The practice is a very common one.

On the first of January, 1834, I left Mr. Covey,

and went to live with Mr. William Freeland, who

lived about three miles from St. Michael's. I soon

found Mr. Freeland a very different man from Mr.

Covey. Though not rich, he was what would be

called an educated southern gentleman. Mr. Covey,

as I have shown, was a well-trained negro-breaker

and slave-driver. The former (slaveholder though he

was) seemed to possess some regard for honor,

some reverence for justice, and some respect for

humanity. The latter seemed totally insensible to

all such sentiments. Mr. Freeland had many of the

faults peculiar to slaveholders, such as being very

passionate and fretful; but I must do him the

justice to say, that he was exceedingly free from

those degrading vices to which Mr. Covey was con-

stantly addicted. The one was open and frank, and

we always knew where to find him. The other was a

most artful deceiver, and could be understood only

by such as were skilful enough to detect his cun-

ningly-devised frauds. Another advantage I gained

in my new master was, he made no pretensions to,

or profession of, religion; and this, in my opinion,

was truly a great advantage. I assert most unhesi-

tatingly, that the religion of the south is a mere

covering for the most horrid crimes,—a justifier of

the most appalling barbarity,—a sanctifier of the

most hateful frauds,—and a dark shelter under,

which the darkest, foulest, grossest, and most infer-

nal deeds of slaveholders find the strongest protec-

tion. Were I to be again reduced to the chains of

slavery, next to that enslavement, I should regard

being the slave of a religious master the greatest

calamity that could befall me. For of all slaveholders

with whom I have ever met, religious slaveholders

are the worst. I have ever found them the meanest

and basest, the most cruel and cowardly, of all oth-

ers. It was my unhappy lot not only to belong to a

religious slaveholder, but to live in a community of

such religionists. Very near Mr. Freeland lived the

Rev. Daniel Weeden, and in the same neighborhood

lived the Rev. Rigby Hopkins. These were members

and ministers in the Reformed Methodist Church.

Mr. Weeden owned, among others, a woman slave,

whose name I have forgotten. This woman's back,

for weeks, was kept literally raw, made so by the

lash of this merciless, ~religious~ wretch. He used to

hire hands. His maxim was, Behave well or behave

ill, it is the duty of a master occasionally to whip

a slave, to remind him of his master's authority.

Such was his theory, and such his practice.

Mr. Hopkins was even worse than Mr. Weeden.

His chief boast was his ability to manage slaves.

The peculiar feature of his government was that

of whipping slaves in advance of deserving it. He

always managed to have one or more of his slaves

to whip every Monday morning. He did this to alarm

their fears, and strike terror into those who escaped.

His plan was to whip for the smallest offences, to

prevent the commission of large ones. Mr. Hopkins

could always find some excuse for whipping a slave.

It would astonish one, unaccustomed to a slave-

holding life, to see with what wonderful ease a slave-

holder can find things, of which to make occasion

to whip a slave. A mere look, word, or motion,—a

mistake, accident, or want of power,—are all matters

for which a slave may be whipped at any time. Does

a slave look dissatisfied? It is said, he has the devil

in him, and it must be whipped out. Does he speak

loudly when spoken to by his master? Then he is

getting high-minded, and should be taken down a

button-hole lower. Does he forget to pull off his

hat at the approach of a white person? Then he is

wanting in reverence, and should be whipped for

it. Does he ever venture to vindicate his conduct,

when censured for it? Then he is guilty of impu-

dence,—one of the greatest crimes of which a slave

can be guilty. Does he ever venture to suggest a

different mode of doing things from that pointed

out by his master? He is indeed presumptuous, and

getting above himself; and nothing less than a flog-

ging will do for him. Does he, while ploughing,

break a plough,—or, while hoeing, break a hoe? It

is owing to his carelessness, and for it a slave must

always be whipped. Mr. Hopkins could always find

something of this sort to justify the use of the lash,

and he seldom failed to embrace such opportunities.

There was not a man in the whole county, with

whom the slaves who had the getting their own

home, would not prefer to live, rather than with

this Rev. Mr. Hopkins. And yet there was not a

man any where round, who made higher professions

of religion, or was more active in revivals,—more

attentive to the class, love-feast, prayer and preach-

ing meetings, or more devotional in his family,—

that prayed earlier, later, louder, and longer,—than

this same reverend slave-driver, Rigby Hopkins.

But to return to Mr. Freeland, and to my experi-

ence while in his employment. He, like Mr. Covey,

gave us enough to eat; but, unlike Mr. Covey, he

also gave us sufficient time to take our meals. He

worked us hard, but always between sunrise and

sunset. He required a good deal of work to be done,

but gave us good tools with which to work. His

farm was large, but he employed hands enough to

work it, and with ease, compared with many of

his neighbors. My treatment, while in his employ-

ment, was heavenly, compared with what I experi-

enced at the hands of Mr. Edward Covey.

Mr. Freeland was himself the owner of but two

slaves. Their names were Henry Harris and John

Harris. The rest of his hands he hired. These con-

sisted of myself, Sandy Jenkins,* and Handy Cald-

well. Henry and John were quite intelligent, and in

a very little while after I went there, I succeeded in

creating in them a strong desire to learn how to

read. This desire soon sprang up in the others also.

They very soon mustered up some old spelling-books,

and nothing would do but that I must keep a Sab-

bath school. I agreed to do so, and accordingly

devoted my Sundays to teaching these my loved fel-

low-slaves how to read. Neither of them knew his

letters when I went there. Some of the slaves of the

neighboring farms found what was going on, and

also availed themselves of this little opportunity to

learn to read. It was understood, among all who

came, that there must be as little display about it

as possible. It was necessary to keep our religious

masters at St. Michael's unacquainted with the fact,

that, instead of spending the Sabbath in wrestling,

boxing, and drinking whisky, we were trying to learn

how to read the will of God; for they had much

*This is the same man who gave me the roots to prevent

my being whipped by Mr. Covey. He was "a clever soul."

We used frequently to talk about the fight with Covey, and

as often as we did so, he would claim my success as the

result of the roots which he gave me. This superstition

is very common among the more ignorant slaves. A slave

seldom dies but that his death is attributed to trickery.

rather see us engaged in those degrading sports, than

to see us behaving like intellectual, moral, and ac-

countable beings. My blood boils as I think of the

bloody manner in which Messrs. Wright Fairbanks

and Garrison West, both class-leaders, in connection

with many others, rushed in upon us with sticks

and stones, and broke up our virtuous little Sab-

bath school, at St. Michael's—all calling themselves

Christians! humble followers of the Lord Jesus

Christ! But I am again digressing.

I held my Sabbath school at the house of a free

colored man, whose name I deem it imprudent to

mention; for should it be known, it might embar-

rass him greatly, though the crime of holding the

school was committed ten years ago. I had at one

time over forty scholars, and those of the right sort,

ardently desiring to learn. They were of all ages,

though mostly men and women. I look back to those

Sundays with an amount of pleasure not to be ex-

pressed. They were great days to my soul. The work

of instructing my dear fellow-slaves was the sweetest

engagement with which I was ever blessed. We loved

each other, and to leave them at the close of the

Sabbath was a severe cross indeed. When I think

that these precious souls are to-day shut up in the

prison-house of slavery, my feelings overcome me,

and I am almost ready to ask, "Does a righteous

God govern the universe? and for what does he hold

the thunders in his right hand, if not to smite the

oppressor, and deliver the spoiled out of the hand

of the spoiler?" These dear souls came not to Sab-

bath school because it was popular to do so, nor did

I teach them because it was reputable to be thus

engaged. Every moment they spent in that school,

they were liable to be taken up, and given thirty-

nine lashes. They came because they wished to

learn. Their minds had been starved by their cruel

masters. They had been shut up in mental darkness.

I taught them, because it was the delight of my

soul to be doing something that looked like better-

ing the condition of my race. I kept up my school

nearly the whole year I lived with Mr. Freeland;

and, beside my Sabbath school, I devoted three eve-

nings in the week, during the winter, to teaching the

slaves at home. And I have the happiness to know,

that several of those who came to Sabbath school

learned how to read; and that one, at least, is now

free through my agency.

The year passed off smoothly. It seemed only

about half as long as the year which preceded it.

I went through it without receiving a single blow.

I will give Mr. Freeland the credit of being the

best master I ever had, ~till I became my own mas-

ter.~ For the ease with which I passed the year, I

was, however, somewhat indebted to the society of

my fellow-slaves. They were noble souls; they not

only possessed loving hearts, but brave ones. We

were linked and interlinked with each other. I loved

them with a love stronger than any thing I have

experienced since. It is sometimes said that we

slaves do not love and confide in each other. In

answer to this assertion, I can say, I never loved

any or confided in any people more than my fellow-

slaves, and especially those with whom I lived at

Mr. Freeland's. I believe we would have died for

each other. We never undertook to do any thing,

of any importance, without a mutual consultation.

We never moved separately. We were one; and as

much so by our tempers and dispositions, as by the

mutual hardships to which we were necessarily sub-

jected by our condition as slaves.

At the close of the year 1834, Mr. Freeland again

hired me of my master, for the year 1835. But, by

this time, I began to want to live ~upon free land~

as well as ~with freeland;~ and I was no longer con-

tent, therefore, to live with him or any other slave-

holder. I began, with the commencement of the

year, to prepare myself for a final struggle, which

should decide my fate one way or the other. My

tendency was upward. I was fast approaching man-

hood, and year after year had passed, and I was

still a slave. These thoughts roused me—I must do

something. I therefore resolved that 1835 should

not pass without witnessing an attempt, on my part,

to secure my liberty. But I was not willing to cherish

this determination alone. My fellow-slaves were dear

to me. I was anxious to have them participate with

me in this, my life-giving determination. I therefore,

though with great prudence, commenced early to

ascertain their views and feelings in regard to their

condition, and to imbue their minds with thoughts

of freedom. I bent myself to devising ways and

means for our escape, and meanwhile strove, on all

fitting occasions, to impress them with the gross

fraud and inhumanity of slavery. I went first to

Henry, next to John, then to the others. I found,

in them all, warm hearts and noble spirits. They

were ready to hear, and ready to act when a feasible

plan should be proposed. This was what I wanted.

I talked to them of our want of manhood, if we

submitted to our enslavement without at least one

noble effort to be free. We met often, and consulted

frequently, and told our hopes and fears, recounted

the difficulties, real and imagined, which we should

be called on to meet. At times we were almost dis-

posed to give up, and try to content ourselves with

our wretched lot; at others, we were firm and un-

bending in our determination to go. Whenever we

suggested any plan, there was shrinking—the odds

were fearful. Our path was beset with the greatest

obstacles; and if we succeeded in gaining the end

of it, our right to be free was yet questionable—we

were yet liable to be returned to bondage. We could

see no spot, this side of the ocean, where we could

be free. We knew nothing about Canada. Our

knowledge of the north did not extend farther than

New York; and to go there, and be forever harassed

with the frightful liability of being returned to

slavery—with the certainty of being treated tenfold

worse than before—the thought was truly a horrible

one, and one which it was not easy to overcome.

The case sometimes stood thus: At every gate

through which we were to pass, we saw a watchman

—at every ferry a guard—on every bridge a sentinel—

and in every wood a patrol. We were hemmed in

upon every side. Here were the difficulties, real or

imagined—the good to be sought, and the evil to be

shunned. On the one hand, there stood slavery, a

<