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 — John Shaqi
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
Burch and Goodin, after separating from us, walked up the steps at the
back part of the main building, and sat down upon the door sill. They
entered into conversation, but the subject of it I could not hear.
Presently Burch came down into the yard, unfettered me, and led me
into one of the small houses.
"You told that man you came from New-York," said he.
I replied, "I told him I had been up as far as New-York, to be sure,
but did not tell him I belonged there, nor that I was a freeman. I
meant no harm at all, Master Burch. I would not have said it had I
thought."
He looked at me a moment as if he was ready to devour me, then turning
round went out. In a few minutes he returned. "If ever I hear you say
a word about New-York, or about your freedom, I will be the death of
you--I will kill you; you may rely on that," he ejaculated fiercely.
I doubt not he understood then better than I did, the danger and the
penalty of selling a free man into slavery. He felt the necessity
of closing my mouth against the crime he knew he was committing. Of
course, my life would not have weighed a feather, in any emergency
requiring such a sacrifice. Undoubtedly, he meant precisely what he
said.
Under the shed on one side of the yard, there was constructed a rough
table, while overhead were sleeping lofts--the same as in the pen
at Washington. After partaking at this table of our supper of pork
and bread, I was hand-cuffed to a large yellow man, quite stout and
fleshy, with a countenance expressive of the utmost melancholy. He was
a man of intelligence and information. Chained together, it was not
long before we became acquainted with each other's history. His name
was Robert. Like myself, he had been born free, and had a wife and
two children in Cincinnati. He said he had come south with two men,
who had hired him in the city of his residence. Without free papers,
he had been seized at Fredericksburgh, placed in confinement, and
beaten until he had learned, as I had, the necessity and the policy
of silence. He had been in Goodin's pen about three weeks. To this
man I became much attached. We could sympathize with, and understand
each other. It was with tears and a heavy heart, not many days
subsequently, that I saw him die, and looked for the last time upon
his lifeless form!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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