Autobiography of a Female SlaveBrowne, Martha Griffith
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Autobiography of a Female Slave
Browne, Martha Griffith
African American women -- Fiction; Didactic fiction; Enslaved women -- Fiction; Kentucky -- Fiction; Slavery -- Fiction
"Come, 'long, come 'long, boys, arter we stores dis gal away I'll gib
you yer dram."
There had stood poor Lindy, never once looking up, crestfallen, broken
in heart, and bruised in body, awaiting a painful punishment, scarce
hoping to escape with life and limb. Striking her a blow with his huge
riding-whip, Mr. Peterkin shouted, "off with you to the lock-up!"
Now, that which was technically termed the "lock-up," was an old, strong
building, which had once been used as a smoke-house, but since the
erection of a new one, was employed for the very noble purpose of
confining negroes. It was a dark, damp place, without a window, and but
one low door, through which to enter. In this wretched place, bound and
manacled, the poor fugitive was thrust.
"There, you may run off if you ken," said Mr. Peterkin, as he drew the
rough door to, and fastened on the padlock with the dignified air of a
regularly-installed jailer. "Now, boys, come 'long and git the liquor."
This pleasing announcement seemed to give an additional impetus to the
spirits of the servants, and, with many a "ha, ha, ha," they followed
their master.
"Well, father," said Miss Jane, whilst she stood beside Mr. Peterkin,
who was accurately measuring out a certain quantity of whiskey to the
three smiling slaves, who stood holding their tin cups to receive it, "I
am glad you succeeded in arresting that audacious runaway. Where did you
find her? Who was with her? How did she behave? Oh, tell me all about
the adventure; it really does seem funny that such a thing should have
occurred in our family; and now that the wretch has been caught, I can
afford to laugh at it."
"Wal," answered Mr. Peterkin, as he replaced the cork in the brown jug,
and proceeded to lock it up in his private closet, "you does ax the most
questions in one breath of any gal I ever seed in all my life. Why, I
haint bin in the house five minutes, and you has put more questions to
me than a Philadelphy lawyer could answer. 'Pon my soul, Jane, you is a
fast 'un."
"Never mind my fastness, father, but tell me what I asked."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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