Twelve Years a Slave: Narrative of Solomon Northup, a Citizen of New-York, Kidnapped in Washington City in 1841, and Rescued in 1853, from a Cotton Plantation near the Red River in LouisianaNorthup, Solomon
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Twelve Years a Slave: Narrative of Solomon Northup, a Citizen of New-York, Kidnapped in Washington City in 1841, and Rescued in 1853, from a Cotton Plantation near the Red River in Louisiana
Northup, Solomon
African Americans -- Biography; Enslaved persons -- United States -- Biography; Enslaved persons' writings, American; Northup, Solomon, 1808-1863?; Plantation life -- Louisiana -- History -- 19th century; Slavery -- Louisiana -- History -- 19th century
fettered hands, and wept most bitterly.
CHAPTER III.
PAINFUL MEDITATIONS--JAMES H. BURCH--WILLIAMS' SLAVE PEN IN
WASHINGTON--THE LACKEY, RADBURN--ASSERT MY FREEDOM--THE ANGER OF
THE TRADER--THE PADDLE AND CAT-O'-NINETAILS--THE WHIPPING--NEW
ACQUAINTANCES--RAY, WILLIAMS, AND RANDALL--ARRIVAL OF LITTLE EMILY
AND HER MOTHER IN THE PEN--MATERNAL SORROWS--THE STORY OF ELIZA.
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 cock, 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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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