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
None of us slept that night but Randall and little Emmy. For the first
time Clem Ray was wholly overcome. To him the idea of going south was
terrible in the extreme. He was leaving the friends and associations
of his youth--every thing that was dear and precious to his heart--in
all probability never to return. He and Eliza mingled their tears
together, bemoaning their cruel fate. For my own part, difficult as
it was, I endeavored to keep up my spirits. I resolved in my mind a
hundred plans of escape, and fully determined to make the attempt
the first desperate chance that offered. I had by this time become
satisfied, however, that my true policy was to say nothing further on
the subject of my having been born a freeman. It would but expose me
to mal-treatment, and diminish the chances of liberation.
After sunrise in the morning we were called up on deck to breakfast.
Burch took our hand-cuffs off, and we sat down to table. He asked
Eliza if she would take a dram. She declined, thanking him politely.
During the meal we were all silent--not a word passed between us. A
mulatto woman who served at table seemed to take an interest in our
behalf--told us to cheer up, and not to be so cast down. Breakfast
over, the hand-cuffs were restored, and Burch ordered us out on the
stern deck. We sat down together on some boxes, still saying nothing
in Burch's presence. Occasionally a passenger would walk out to where
we were, look at us for a while, then silently return.
It was a very pleasant morning. The fields along the river were
covered with verdure, far in advance of what I had been accustomed to
see at that season of the year. The sun shone out warmly; the birds
were singing in the trees. The happy birds--I envied them. I wished
for wings like them, that I might cleave the air to where my birdlings
waited vainly for their father's coming, in the cooler region of the
North.
In the forenoon the steamer reached Aquia Creek. There the passengers
took stages--Burch and his five slaves occupying one exclusively. He
laughed with the children, and at one stopping place went so far as to
purchase them a piece of gingerbread. He told me to hold up my head
and look smart. That I might, perhaps, get a good master if I behaved
myself. I made him no reply. His face was hateful to me, and I could
not bear to look upon it. I sat in the corner, cherishing in my heart
the hope, not yet extinct, of some day meeting the tyrant on the soil
of my native State.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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