“Friends, only a few short months ago I was a slave. Now I am free!” He saw them sway toward him. “I cannot tell you how I escaped because if known those who helped me would suffer terribly, _terribly_.” He said the word a second time and saw some realization of what he meant reflected in their faces. “I do not ask anything for myself. I have my hands to work--my strength.... All of the seas could not hold my thanksgiving to Almighty God--and to you.” He was silent a moment and they saw his eyes grow darker; his face contracted as if in pain. When he began again, his voice trembled, they had to lean forward to catch his words. “But I am only one. Where are my brothers? Where are my sisters? Their groans sound in my ears. Their voices cry out to me for help. My mother--my own mother--where is she? I hope she is dead. I hope that she has found the only peace that comes to a slave--that last, last peace in a grave. But even as I stand before you it may be--It may be that--” He stopped and covered his face with his hands. When he lifted his head, his eyes shone with resolution. “Hear me,” he said, “hear me while I tell you about slavery.” And then, in a clear voice, he told them of Caroline, why she dragged her leg, and how she had risked her life to save him; he told them about Henry and John, Nada and Jeb. He told them of little children he had seen clinging to their mother as she was being sold away, of men and women whose “spirits” had to be broken, of degradation. He told them the content of human slavery. “I am free,” his voice went low; but they leaned forward, hanging on every word. “But I am branded with the marks of the lash. See!” And with one movement, he threw back his shirt. He turned, and there across the broad, young back were deep knotty ridges, where the brown flesh had been cut to the bone and healed in pink lumps. They gasped. “I have not forgotten--I do not forget anything. Nor will I forget while, any place upon this earth, there are slaves.” He turned to leave the platform. Then in the silence another voice, a golden voice, was heard. It was as if a trumpet called. “Is this a thing--a chattel--or a man?” William Lloyd Garrison stood there--his eyes flaming--his face alight. He waited for an answer, holding Frederick’s hand in his, facing the audience. And from a thousand voices rose the shout. “He is a man!” “A man! A man!” Garrison let the tumultuous shouts roll and reverberate. Men wept unashamed. Far down the street people heard the applause and shouting and came running. Through it all Garrison stood, holding the strong brown hand in his. At last Garrison pressed the hand gently, and Frederick stumbled to his seat. Then Garrison stepped to the edge of the platform. Those who had heard him oftenest and known him longest were astonished by his speech that afternoon. He was the fabulous orator who could convert a vast audience into a single individuality.