Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl

by Harriet Jacobs

  “Sir—I have left you, not to return; when I have got settled, I will give you further satisfaction. No longer yours, JOHN S. JACOB.”

  This note was to be put into the post-office in time for him to get it the next morning. I waited on him and his wife at dinner. As the town clock struck four, I left the room. I then went through to New Bedford, where I stopped for a few months.

  Thank God! I am now out of their reach; the old doctor is dead; I can forgive him for what he did do, and would have done if he could. The lawyer I have quite a friendly feeling for, and would be pleased to meet him as a countryman and a brother; but not as a master.

  CHAPTER VI

  Sensations of Freedom—Self-Education—A Whaling voyage—I Meet My Sister, and Hear from Her About My Friends at Edenton—The Fugitive Slave Bill

  ON ARRIVING AT New Bedford, I was introduced to Mr. William P——, a very fatherly old man, who had been a slave in Alexandria. For the first week or so I could not realize the great transformation from a chattel slave to a man; it seemed to me like a dream; but I soon began to feel my responsibility, and the necessity of mental improvement. The first thing, therefore, that I strove to do was to raise myself above the level of the beast, where slavery had left me, and fit myself for the society of man. I first tried this in New Bedford by working in the day and going to school at night. Sometimes my business would be such that I could not attend evening schools; so I thought the better plan would be to get such books as I should want, and go a voyage to sea. I accordingly shipped on board the “Frances Henrietta,” of New Bedford. This was a whaling voyage; but I will not trouble you with any fishing stories. I will make it short. After being absent three years and a half, we returned home with a full ship, 1700 barrels of sperm oil and 1400 of whale oil.

  I had made the best possible use of my leisure hours on board, and kept the object that drove me from my friends and my home before me when on shore. I had promised myself, if what money I had coming to me would be an inducement to any one to bring my sister off from the south, that I would have her; but there was better news than that, in the bosom of an old friend, waiting to be delivered. The ship dropped her anchor, and the shore boats came off with friends of different persons on board, among whom was R. P——. He had scarcely spoken to me before he began to tell me about my sister; her coming to New Bedford in search of me, and her going back to New York, where, he told me, I should find her. This news was to me quite unexpected. I said, if my sister was free from her oppressor, I was a happy man. I hurried on shore, drew some money of the owners, and made my way to New York. I found my sister living with a family as nurse at the Astor House. At first she did not look natural to me; but how should she look natural, after having been shut out from the light of heaven for six years and eleven months! I did not wish to know what her sufferings were, while living in her place of concealment. The change that it had made in her was enough to make one’s soul cry out against this curse of curses, that has so long trampled humanity in the dust.

  After she had recovered a little from the surprise of seeing me, I began to speak of home. “Oh, brother,” she said, “grandmother was so disappointed in your stopping behind. Mr. S——had written for them to make ready his house for his reception on such a day; grandmother got the news of it, and invited some of your old friends to come and spend the evening with you. Supper was all ready, and our ears were all intent to catch the first blast of the stage horn, when Uncle Mark left the room to go and meet you. The coach drove up to the tavern door, and the passengers had all got out, when Dr. W——asked Mr. S——what had become of you. He said the abolitionists had got you away from him in New York. When Uncle Mark returned, grandmother looked for awhile, and then asked, ‘Where is my child?’ ‘He is gone, mother; he left Mr. S———in New York.’

  “When she heard that you were gone, she wept like a child. Aunt Sue Bent was there, and on seeing grandmother’s tears, said to her: ‘Molly, my child, this is no time for crying. Dry up those tears, fall upon your knees, and thank God that one more has made his escape from the house of bondage. I came here to see him, but I am glad he is not here. God bless the boy, and keep him from all harm.’

  “This (continued my sister) increased my anxiety, and caused me to adopt new plans for my escape. I wrote a letter to the doctor, asking him if he would sell me to my grandmother. It was sent to New York, and there mailed for Edenton. The letter was received by the doctor, and answered by his son Caspar. He could now no longer doubt that I was gone, and resorted to a cunningly-devised artifice to bring me back. Part of his son’s letter ran as follows:—‘Harriet, we are all glad to hear from you; and let me assure you, if our family ever did entertain anything different from the most friendly feelings for you, they exist no longer. We want to see you once more, with your old friends around you, made happy in your own home. We cannot sell you to your grandmother; the community would object to your returning to live in a state of freedom. Harriet, doubtless before this you have heard of the death of your aunt Betty. In her life she taught us how to live, and in her death she taught us how to die.’

  “From that letter, my uncle saw that escape was my only hope, and that there was no time like the present for action. While everybody believed that I was in New York was the best time to get there. He accordingly made arrangements with the captain of a vessel running between New York and Edenton, for my passage to the former port.

  “I had been here but a short time, when some of my friends sent for me to acquaint me of my danger. Mrs. T——gave me a letter that Mr. T——had received from Dr. N——. In that letter he said he wanted to catch me, to make an example of, for the good of the institution of slavery. But, brother, I have now fallen into new hands. Mary Matilda N——is married to a northern man.1 He, too, is trying to find out where I am stopping in New York. I know not where to go, nor what to do.”

  I could see my sister’s danger, and well imagine her feelings. We selected Boston, Massachusetts, for our home, and remained there quietly for a few years. Massachusetts had so far precluded the slaveholders from her borders, as to make the hunted fugitive feel himself somewhat secure under the shadow of her laws. Her great men had not sold themselves to the slave power, and her little men had not learnt that they were slaves until after the passing of the Fugitive Slave Bill. From that hour I resolved to seek a home in some foreign clime.

  Mrs.————, on hearing my intention to leave the north, sent for me. I called on her and was shown to her room by my sister, when the following conversation took place.

  “John, I understand you intend to leave for some years.”

  “I do, madam.”

  “Then my business with you is with respect to your sister. She has spent many years in our family, and we are still desirous to have her remain with us. John, I know that the law is an absolute one, and that the prosecutors are deaf to the claims of justice and humanity; but I have resolved that Harriet shall not be taken out of my house. This I will promise you as a lady.”

  A few months after the passing of the Fugitive Slave Bill, my sister was looking over the list of arrivals in one of the daily papers, when she saw the names of Mr. and Mrs. M——of Edenton. She immediately made it known to Mrs.————, who sent her out of the house without a moment’s delay. As the little girl that she had charge of at the time would not be separated from her, they were both sent off together. In due time Mr. M——came rapping at the door, not as an honest man, but as a slave-catcher. The door being opened, he said to the woman, “Go and tell Harriet that I have got a letter for her; it is from her grandmother, and I have promised to deliver it to her myself.” The message was taken to Mrs.————, who informed him that my sister had left town, and that he could not see her. M——saw that all of his plans were frustrated, and sold my sister for 300 dollars. She was paid for by her mistress and her friends, and is now living in safety.

  CHAPTER VII

  Cruel Treatment of Slaves—The Fugitive Sl
ave Law—Slavery Opposed to Natural Rights and to Christianity

  IN CONCLUDING THIS SHORT statement of my experience of slavery, I beg the reader to remember that I am not writing of what I have heard, but of what I have seen, and of what I defy the world to prove false. There lived about two miles up a river emptying itself into the Albemarle Sound, a planter, whose name was Carabas. His plantation was called Pembroke. At his death his slaves were sold. I mention this because slaves seldom or ever have more than one name; their surname is most generally that of their first master. The person I am now about to allude to was known by the name of George Carabas. After the death of his own master, he was owned by Mr. Popelston: after that by young John Horton, who sold him to a negro trader.

  George was chained in the gang with other slaves, and dragged from his wife and his friends. After a few days’ travel on the road, by some means or other he made his escape, and returned back to that spot where he knew he could find one heart to feel for him, and in whom he could confide; but he had not been there long before the bloodthirsty negro-hunters got on his trail, one beautiful Sunday morning, about midsummer, while the church-bells were ringing. Four of the pursuers overtook poor George, and shot him dead.

  “If he is outlawed,” they doubtless argued, “we only need show his head, and the reward is ours; but if he is not outlawed, what then? Why, they may try to make us pay for him; but we will not be fools enough to say that we shot him, unless we are to be paid for shooting him.” His body is put into a canoe, his head thrown in, which lies on his breast. These four southern gentlemen now return to the town, leaving the canoe to inquire how the advertisement reads. On finding that the reward was to be given to any one who would apprehend and confine him in any jail in the State, they saw that they could not publicly boast of their fiendish work.

  Now, the question is, what had this man done that he should be so inhumanly butchered and beheaded? The crime that he had committed, and the only crime, was to leave the unnatural trader in slaves, and the souls of men, to return to his natural and affectionate wife. Nothing is done to the murderers. They only made a blunder. Slaves are outlawed and shot with impurity, and the tyrant who shoots them is paid for it; but in this case George was not outlawed, so their trouble was all for nothing, and the glory only known to themselves.

  Tom Hoskins was a slave belonging to James N——, the son of Dr. N——.1 This slave was found just out of the town, in the scrub. He was shot in the back, and must have been killed instantly. There was no pay for this—only a feast of blood. Tom’s crime was running away from one whom I know to be an unmerciful tyrant. Another was shot, but not killed. There were three brothers, William, James, and Josiah N——. I know not which of the three this slave belonged to. They had been out that day with their bloodhounds hunting slaves. They shot Sirus a little before dark. By some means or other he made his escape from them, and reached Dr. S——’s shop soon after dark. He was taken in, and as many of the shots taken out of him as they could get at, and his wounds dressed. This being done, Dr. S——sent a despatch to Mr. C——, to let him know that the slave that they had shot had come into him, and got his wounds dressed. As soon as they received this intelligence, they mounted their horses, and rode off in fiendish glee for town. They came up to the shop, hooting and yelling as if all Bedlam was coming. When they had reached the door, the first cry from them was, “Bring him out—finish him.” The doctor came out and said to them, “Gentlemen, the negro has given himself up to me, and I will be responsible for his safe delivery to you as soon as he is able to be moved from hence; but at present he is not.” Seeing that the doctor would not let them have him, they returned home.

  The C———s were very rich; they owned a great many slaves, and shooting with them was common. They did not feel the loss of a slave or two; it was a common thing for them to offer fifty or a hundred dollars reward for a slave, dead or alive, so that there was satisfactory proof of his being killed.

  Just at the back of the court-house and in front of the jail is a whipping post, where I have seen men and women stripped, and struck from fifteen to one hundred times and more. Some whose backs were cut to pieces were washed down with strong brine or brandy; this is done to increase pain. But the most cruel torture is backing; the hands are crossed and tied, then taken over the knee and pinned by running a stick between the arms and the legs, which tightens the skin and renders the slave as helpless as a child. The backing paddle is made of oak, about an inch and a quarter thick, and five by eight inches in the blade, with about twelve inches of a handle. The blade is full of small holes, which makes the punishment severer. I have seen the flesh like a steak. Slaves flogged in this way are unable to sit down for months.

  I will give you but one case of flogging in detail; that will be of Agnes, the slave of Augustus M——. She was hired to John B——; she was some six months advanced in pregnancy at the time. Being in an unfit state for field labour, she could not do as much as other slaves. For this cause, B——tied her up and commenced whipping her. With my own hands have I dressed her back, and I solemnly declare that she had not a piece of skin left on it as wide as my finger. She was a hired slave. Had B——killed her at a single blow, her master could have punished B——, if he could have got white witnesses to certify to that effect, which is not likely; but she might have died in an hour after being cut down, and there was no law to harm him. It would have been death caused by moderate correction, which North Carolina does not punish a slaveholder for.

  I know that the picture I have drawn of slavery is a black one, and looks most unnatural; but here you have the State, the town, and the names of all the parties. One who has never felt the sting of slavery would naturally suppose that it was to the slaveholder’s advantage to treat his slaves with kindness; but the more indulgent the master the more intelligent the slave; the more intelligent the slave, the nearer he approximates to a man; the nearer he approximates to a man, the more determined he is to be a free man; and to argue that the slaves are happy, or can be happy while in slavery, is to argue that they have been brutalized to that degree that they cannot be considered men. What better proof do you want in favour of universal freedom than can be given? You can find thousands of ignorant men who will lay down their lives for their liberty; can you find one intelligent man who would prefer slavery?

  The last thing that remained to be done to complete this hell on earth was done in 1850, in passing the Fugitive Slave Law. There is not a State, a city, nor a town left as a refuge for the hunted slave; there is not a United States officer but what has sworn to act the part of the bloodhound in hunting me down, if I dare visit the land of Stars and Stripes, the home of the brave, and land of the free. Yet, according to the American declaration of independence, it is a self-evident truth that all men are created by their Maker free and equal, and endowed with certain inalienable rights—life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Where are the coloured man’s rights to-day in America? They once had rights allowed them. Yes, in the days that tried men’s souls they had a right to bleed and die for the country; but their deeds are forgotten, their swords and bayonets have been beaten into chains and fetters to bind the limbs of their children. The first man that was seen to fall in the revolutionary struggle for liberty, was a coloured man; and I have seen one of his brethren, who had fled from his whips and chains, within sight of that monument erected to liberty, dragged from it into slavery, not by the slave-owners of the south, for they knew not of his being there, but by northern men.

  I cannot agree with that statesman who said, “What the law makes property, is property.” What is law, but the will of the people—a mirror to reflect a nation’s character? Robbery is robbery; it matters not whether it is done by one man or a million, whether they were organized or disorganized; the principle is the same. No law, unless there be one that can change my nature, can make property of me. Freedom is as natural for man as the air he breathes, and he who robs him of his freedom is also guil
ty of murder, for he has robbed him of his natural existence. On this subject the Church and the State are alike. One will tell a lie, and the other will swear to it. The State says, “That which the law makes property is property.” The Church says that “organic sin is no sin at all;” both parties having reference to slavery. With a few exceptions, their politics and religion are alike oppressive, and rotten, and false. None but political tyrants would ever establish slavery, and none but religious hypocrites would ever support it. What says Matthew, 15th chapter, 8th and 9th verses: “This people draweth nigh unto me with their mouth, and honoureth me with their lips; but their heart is far from me. But in vain they worship me, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.”