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Some three hours elapsed, during which time I remained seated on the low bench, absorbed
in painful meditations. At length I heard the crowing of a ***, and soon a distant
rumbling sound, as of carriages hurrying through the streets, came to my ears, and I knew that
it was day. No ray of light, however, penetrated my prison. :Finally, I heard footsteps immediately
overhead, as of some one walking to and fro. It occurred to me then that I must be in an
underground apartment, and the damp, mouldy odors of the place confirmed the supposition.
The noise above continued for at least an hour, when, at last, I heard footsteps approaching
from without. A key rattled in the lock—a strong door swung back upon its hinges, admitting
a flood of light, and two men entered and stood before me. One of them was a large,
powerful man, forty years of age, perhaps, with dark, chestnut-colored hair, slightly
interspersed with gray. His face was full, his complexion flush, his features grossly
coarse, expressive of nothing but cruelty and cunning. He was about five feet ten inches
high, of full habit, and, without prejudice, I must be allowed to say, was a man whose
whole appearance was sinister and repugnant. His name was James H. Burch, as I learned
afterwards—a well-known slave-dealer in Washington; and then, or lately connected
in business, as a partner, with Theophilus Freeman, of New-Orleans. The person who accompanied
him was a simple lackey, named Ebenezer Radburn, who acted merely in the capacity of turnkey.
Both of these men still live in Washington, or did, at the time of my return through that
city from slavery in January last. The light admitted through the open door enabled
me to observe the room in which I was confined. It was about twelve feet square—the walls
of solid masonry. The floor was of heavy plank. There was one small window, crossed with great
iron bars, with an outside shutter, securely fastened.
An iron-bound door led into an adjoining cell, or vault, wholly destitute of windows, or
any means of admitting light. The furniture of the room in which I was, consisted of the
wooden bench on which I sat, an old-fashioned, dirty box stove, and besides these, in either
cell, there was neither bed, nor blanket, nor any other thing whatever. The door, through
which Burch and Radburn entered, led through a small passage, up a flight of steps into
a yard, surrounded by a brick wall ten or twelve feet high, immediately in rear of a
building of the same width as itself. The yard extended rearward from the house about
thirty feet. In one part of the wall there was a strongly ironed door, opening into a
narrow, covered passage, leading along one side of the house into the street. The doom
of the colored man, upon whom the door leading out of that narrow passage closed, was sealed.
The top of the wall supported one end of a roof, which ascended inwards, forming a kind
of open shed. Underneath the roof there was a crazy loft all round, where slaves, if so
disposed, might sleep at night, or in inclement weather seek shelter from the storm. It was
like a farmer's barnyard in most respects, save it was so constructed that the outside
world could never see the human cattle that were herded there.
The building to which the yard was attached, was two stories high, fronting on one of the
public streets of Washington. Its outside presented only the appearance of a quiet private
residence. A stranger looking at it, would never have dreamed of its execrable uses.
Strange as it may seem, within plain sight of this same house, looking down from its
commanding height upon it, was the Capitol. The voices of patriotic representatives boasting
of freedom and equality, and the rattling of the poor slave's chains, almost commingled.
A slave pen within the very shadow of the Capitol!
Such is a correct description as it was in 1841, of Williams' slave pen in Washington,
in one of the cellars of which I found myself so unaccountably confined.
"Well, my boy, how do you feel now?" said Burch, as he entered through the open door.
I replied that I was sick, and inquired the cause of my imprisonment. He answered that
I was his slave— that he had bought me, and that he was about to send me to New-Orleans.
I asserted, aloud and boldly, that I was a freeman—a resident of Saratoga, where I
had a wife and children, who were also free, and that my name was Northup. I complained
bitterly of the strange treatment I had received, and threatened, upon my liberation, to have
satisfaction for the wrong. He denied that I was free, and with an emphatic oath, declared
that I came from Georgia. Again and again I asserted I was no man's slave, and insisted
upon his taking off my chains at once. He endeavored to hush me, as if he feared my
voice would be overheard. But I would not be silent, and denounced the authors of my
imprisonment, whoever they might be, as unmitigated villains. Finding he could not quiet me, he
flew into a towering passion. With blasphemous oaths, he called me a black liar, a runaway
from Georgia, and every other profane and vulgar epithet that the most indecent fancy
could conceive. During this time Radburn was standing silently
by. His business was, to oversee this human, or rather inhuman stable, receiving slaves,
feeding, and whipping them, at the rate of two shillings a head per day. Turning to him,
Burch ordered the paddle and cat-o'-ninetails to be brought in. He disappeared, and in a
few moments returned with these instruments of torture. The paddle, as it is termed in
slave-beating parlance, or at least the one with which I first became acquainted, and
of which I now speak, was a piece of hard-wood board, eighteen or twenty inches long, moulded
to the shape of an old-fashioned pudding stick, or ordinary oar The flattened portion, which
was about the size in circumference of two open hands, was bored with a small auger in
numerous places. The cat was a large rope of many strands— the strands unraveled,
and a knot tied at the extremity of each. As soon as these formidable whips appeared,
I was seized by both of them, and roughly divested of my clothing. My feet, as has been
stated, were fastened to the floor. Drawing me over the bench, face downwards, Radburn
placed his heavy foot upon the fetters, between my wrists, holding them painfully to the floor.
With the paddle, Burch commenced beating me. Blow after blow was inflicted upon my naked
body. When his unrelenting arm grew tired, he stopped and asked if I still insisted I
was a free man. I did insist upon it, and then the blows were renewed, faster and more
energetically, if possible, than before. When again tired, he would repeat the same question,
and receiving the same answer, continue his cruel labor. All this time, the incarnate
devil was uttering most fiendish oaths. At length the paddle broke, leaving the useless
handle in his hand. Still I would not yield. All his brutal blows could not force from
my lips the foul lie that I was a slave. Casting madly on the floor the handle of the broken
paddle, he seized the rope. This was far more painful than the other. I struggled with all
my power, but it was in vain. I prayed for mercy, but my prayer was only answered with
imprecations and with stripes. I thought I must die beneath the lashes of the accursed
brute. Even now the flesh crawls upon my bones, as I recall the scene. I was all on fire.
My sufferings I can compare to nothing else than the burning agonies of hell!
At last I became silent to his repeated questions. I would make no reply. In fact, I was becoming
almost unable to speak. Still he plied the lash without stint upon my poor body, until
it seemed that the lacerated flesh was stripped from my bones at every stroke. A man with
a particle of mercy in his soul would not have beaten even a dog so cruelly. At length
Radburn said that it was useless to whip me any more—that I would be sore enough. Thereupon
Burch desisted, saying, with an admonitory shake of his fist in my face, and hissing
the words through his firm-set teeth, that if ever I dared to utter again that I was
entitled to my freedom, that I had been kidnapped, or any thing whatever of the kind, the castigation
I had just received was nothing in comparison with what would follow. He swore that he would
either conquer or kill me. With these consolatory words, the fetters were taken from my wrists,
my feet still remaining fastened to the ring; the shutter of the little barred window, which
had been opened, was again closed, and going out, locking the great door behind them, I
was left in darkness as before. In an hour, perhaps two, my heart leaped to
my throat, as the key rattled in the door again. I, who had been so lonely, and who
had longed so ardently to see some one, I cared not who, now shuddered at the thought
of man's approach. A human face was fearful to me, especially a white one. Radburn entered,
bringing with him, on a tin plate, a piece of shriveled fried pork, a slice of bread
and a cup of water. He asked me how I felt, and remarked that I had received a pretty
severe flogging. He remonstrated with me against the propriety of asserting my freedom. In
rather a patronizing and confidential manner, he gave it to me as his advice, that the less
I said on that subject the better it would be for me. The man evidently endeavored to
appear kind—whether touched at the sight of my sad condition, or with the view of silencing,
on my part, any further expression of my rights, it is not necessary now to conjecture. He
unlocked the festers from my ankles, opened the shutters of the little window, and departed,
leaving me again alone. By this time I had become stiff and sore;
my body was covered with blisters, and it was with great pain and difficulty that I
could move. From the window I could observe nothing but the roof resting on the adjacent
wall. At night I laid down upon the damp, hard floor, without any pillow or covering
whatever. Punctually, twice a day, Radburn came in, with his pork, and bread, and water.
I had but little appetite, though I was tormented with continual thirst. My wounds would not
permit me to remain but a few minutes in any one position; so, sitting, or standing, or
moving slowly round, I passed the days and nights. I was heart sick and discouraged.
Thoughts of my family, of my wife and children, continually occupied my mind. When sleep overpowered
me I dreamed of them—dreamed I was again in Saratoga—that I could see their faces,
and hear their voices calling me. Awakening from the pleasant phantasms of sleep to the
bitter realities around me, I could but groan and weep. Still my spirit was not broken.
I indulged the anticipation of escape, and that speedily. It was impossible, I reasoned,
that men could be so unjust as to detain me as a slave, when the truth of my case was
known. Burch, ascertaining I was no runaway from Georgia, would certainly let me go. Though
suspicions of Brown and Hamilton were not unfrequent, I could not reconcile myself to
the idea that they were instrumental to my imprisonment. Surely they would seek me out—they
would deliver me from thraldom. Alas! I had not then learned the measure of "man's inhumanity
to man," nor to what limitless extent of wickedness he will go for the love of gain.
In the course of several days the outer door was thrown open, allowing me the liberty of
the yard. There I found three slaves—one of them a lad of ten years, the others young
men of about twenty and twenty-five. I was not long in forming an acquaintance, and learning
their names and the particulars of their history. The eldest was a colored man named Clemens
Ray. He had lived in Washington; had driven a hack, and worked in a livery stable there
for a long time. He was very intelligent, and fully comprehended his situation. The
thought of going south overwhelmed him with grief. Burch had purchased him a few days
before, and had placed him there until such time as he was ready to send him to the New-Orleans
market. From him I learned for the first time that I was in William's Slave Pen., a place
I had never heard of previously. He described to me the uses for which it was designed.
I repeated to him the particulars of my unhappy story, but he could only give me the consolation
of his sympathy. He also advised me to be silent henceforth on the subject of my freedom
for, knowing, the character of Burch, he assured me that it would only be attended with renewed
whip-ping. The next eldest was named John Williams. He was raised in Virginia, not far
from Washington. Burch had taken him in payment of a debt, and he constantly entertained the
hope that his master would redeem him—a hope that was subsequently realized. The lad
was a sprightly child, that answered to the name of Randall. Most of the time he was playing
about the yard, but occasionally would cry, calling for his mother, and wondering when
she would come. His mother's absence seemed to be the great and only grief in his little
heart. He was too young to realize his condition, and when the memory of his mother was not
in his mind, he amused us with his pleasant pranks.
At night, Ray, Williams, and the boy, slept in the loft of the shed, while I was locked
in the cell. Finally we were each provided with blankets, such as are used upon horses—the
only bedding I was allowed to have for twelve years afterwards. Ray and Williams asked me
many questions about New-York —how colored people were treated there; how they could
have homes and families of their own, with none to disturb and oppress them; and Ray,
especially, sighed continually for freedom. Such conversations, however, were not in the
hearing of Burch, or the keeper Radburn. Aspirations such as these would have brought down the
lash upon our backs. It is necessary in this narrative, in order
to present a full and truthful statement of all the principal events in the history of
my life, and to portray the institution of Slavery as I have seen and known it, to speak
of well-known places, and of many persons who are yet living. I am, and always was,
an entire stranger in Washington and its vicinity—aside from Burch and Radburn, knowing no man there,
except as I have heard of them through my enslaved companions What I am about to say,
if false, can be easily contradicted. I remained in Williams, slave pen about two
weeks. The night previous to my departure a woman was brought in, weeping bitterly,
and leading by the hand a little child. They were Randall's mother and half-sister. On
meeting them he was overjoyed, clinging to her dress, kissing the child, and exhibiting
every demonstration of delight. The mother also clasped him in her arms, embraced him
tenderly, and gazed at him fondly through her tears, calling him by many an endearing
name. Emily, the child, was seven or eight years
old, of light complexion, and with a face of admirable beauty. Her hair fell in curls
around her neck, while the style and richness of her dress, and the neatness of her whole
appearance indicated she had been brought up in the midst of wealth. She was a sweet
child indeed. The woman also was arrayed in silk, with rings upon her fingers, and golden
ornaments suspended from her ears. Her air and manners, the correctness and propriety
of her language—all showed evidently, that she had sometime stood above the common level
of a slave. She seemed to be amazed at finding herself in such a place as that. It was plainly
a sudden and unexpected turn of fortune that had brought her there. Filling the air with
her complaining she was hustled, with the children and myself, into the cell. Language
can convey but an inadequate impression of the lamentations to which she gave incessant
utterance. Throwing herself upon the floor, and encircling the children in her arms, she
poured forth such touching words as only maternal love and kindness can suggest. They nestled
closely to her, as if there only was there any safety or protection. At last they slept,
their heads resting upon her lap. While they slumbered, she smoothed the hair back from
their little foreheads, and talked to them all night long. She called them her darlings
—her sweet babes—poor innocent things, that knew not the misery they were destined
to endure. Soon they would have no mother to comfort them—they would be taken from
her. What would become of them? Oh! she could not live away from her little Emmy and her
dear boy. They had always been good children, and had such loving ways. It would break her
heart, God knew, she said, if they were taken from her; and yet she knew they meant to sell
them, and, may be, they would be separated, and could never see each other any more. It
was enough to melt heart of stone to listen to the pitiful expressions of that desolate
and distracted mother. Her name was Eliza; and this was the story of her life, as she
afterwards related it: She was the slave of a rich man, living in
the neighborhood of Washington. She was born, I think she said, on his plantation. Years
before, he had fallen into dissipated habits, and quarreled with his wife. In fact, soon
after the birth of Randall, they separated. Leaving his wife and daughter in the house
they had always occupied, he erected a new one nearby, on the estate. Into this house
he brought Eliza; and, on condition of her living with him, she and her children were
to be emancipated. She resided with him there nine years, with servants to attend upon her,
and provided with every comfort and luxury of life. Emily was his child! Finally, her
young mistress, who had always remained with her mother at the homestead, married a Mr.
Jacob Brooks. At length, for some cause, (as I gathered from her relation,) beyond Berry's
control, a division of his property was made. She and her children fell to the share of
Mr. Brooks. During the nine years she had lived with Berry, in consequence of the position
she was compelled to occupy, she and Emily had become the object of Mrs. Berry and her
daughter's hatred and dislike. Berry himself she represented as a man of naturally a kind
heart, who always promised her that she should have her freedom, and who, she had no doubt,
would arrant it to her then, if it were only in his power. As soon as they thus came into
the possession and control of the daughter, it became very manifest they would not live
long together. The sight of Eliza seemed to be odious to Mrs. Brooks; neither could she
bear to look upon the child, half-sister, and beautiful as she was!
The day she was led into the pen, Brooks had brought her from the estate into the city,
under pretence that the time had come when her free papers were to be executed, in fulfillment
of her master's promise. Elated at the prospect of immediate liberty, she decked herself and
little Emmy in their best apparel, and accompanied him with a joyful heart. On their arrival
in the city, instead of being baptized into the family of freemen, she was delivered to
the trader Burch. The paper that was executed was a bill of sale. The hope of years was
blasted in a moment. From the hight of most exulting happiness to the utmost depths of
wretchedness, she had that day descended. No wonder that she wept, and filled the pen
with wailings and expressions of heart-rending woe.
Eliza is now dead. Far up the Red River, where it pours its waters sluggishly through the
unhealthy low lands of Louisiana, she rests in the grave at last— the only resting place
of the poor slave! How all her fears were realized—how she mourned day and night,
and never would be comforted—how, as she predicted, her heart did indeed break, with
the burden of maternal sorrow, will be seen as the narrative proceeds.
End of chapter 3