My Name is Henry Bibb

by Afua Cooper

  On that Christmas day every slave was dressed in white from head to toe. Pearl and her sister wrapped turbans as high as a tower around their heads. My mother wore a white dress with a wide collar and wide sleeves. I wore a loose pajama suit.

  When Massa David came for his Christmas stroll we were all seated under the big oak tree having breakfast. We all intoned: “Morning, Massa. Merry Christmas.”

  “What happened to my linen?” was met with silence. Finally, Dinah, the midwife, being the oldest, spoke up.

  “It was the young people, Massa David. Young people nowadays! They got it fixed in their heads that white was the color this Christmas. They said that all the White folks would be wearing white. We old folks could not change their minds. They would not listen to us.” And Dinah shrugged as if she and the other old folks were defeated by the young people. Our master gave a loud “umpf!” and stormed away. When he was safely out of hearing we burst out laughing.

  T

  David White had strict rules about Christmas celebrations. He would have his on the day before Christmas and we, the slaves, would have ours on Christmas Day. That idea had come from Captain Barker, who convinced our master that it was not good for everyone on the plantation to be celebrating at the same time. The Blacks could be planning an insurrection in the guise of celebration, and the Whites, being intoxicated and full of food, would not be able to mount a ready response.

  In preparation for the Whites’ party, Suzette, my mother and the other house servants worked nonstop around the kitchen fire to provide all kinds of fare for our master and his guests. The work was endless. They also scrubbed and polished the floors, aired and dusted the guest rooms, beat the rugs, hung new draperies, polished and repolished the furniture, and cleaned and aired the armoires. The field slaves cut wood, made and repaired furniture, slaughtered animals and cleaned the grounds.

  Guests accompanied my master from Frankfort, but even more visitors arrived from neighboring counties for the Christmas party. We thought our master would bring his fiancée, but Lord Byron told us she had gone to visit relatives in Philadelphia. I must confess that I was excited because of the party, and for the first time was glad that I was a serving boy.

  The house was lit by a hundred candles. The light danced on the walls of the house and on the faces of the guests. The women’s dresses were a combination of styles from New York, Boston and France, and each woman tried to outdo the others in her choice of dress and style. There were gowns of red taffeta, bright yellow silk, cream-colored embroidered muslin and blue satin. There were dome-shaped, whale-boned and billowing skirts, and many dresses displayed “gigot” sleeves that were supposedly worn by all French women. Their clothing was complemented by pearls, ribbons and laces. But their hairstyles lacked the variety of their dress, being either piled high or done in finger curls.

  The men, not to be outdone, were dressed in silk and woolen suits, breeches, vests and top hats. Though it was December and the leaves had already fallen, and the land was bereft of flowers, the brilliant colors and laughter created an impression of a summer garden with many-colored flowers and peacocks flitting about. In contrast, we the serving slaves moved carefully about in our white attire, silent and barely noticed.

  I carried platter after platter of food to the huge table made for the occasion. Suzette and my mother shouted orders to the two young mulatto slave women hired to serve at the party. The servers were dressed in crisp white uniforms and white hats.

  As some of the men drank sherry, they became drunk and their tongues loosened. As I served one man a piece of cherry pie, he asked, “Who’s your mother?”

  “Milly,” I said. She was walking across the room holding a large tureen.

  The man roared with laughter. “Ah yes, Milly, the one James Bibb was sweet on a long time ago.”

  I hurried away, the familiar warmth flushing my cheeks.

  Luckily, someone yelled, “Bring on the music!”

  Out of nowhere Hannibal, a free Black fiddler, appeared with his troupe. Hannibal always traveled with an entourage of singers and players, some slaves, some free. The slaves had permission from their owners to perform with him all over the region. Hannibal struck up a spirited anthem. The White people formed a line, their hands holding the waist of the person in front, and danced around the room, laughing and shouting. Then couples were formed, and they danced the the jig and other popular dances.

  After the dancing, my master paid Hannibal an amount so large his eyes bulged. He said a quick thank-you and made an even faster exit. Many guests, too, took their leave; but some had fallen into drunken sleep on the couches, and there they would remain until dawn.

  With the party over, we commenced the clearing and washing up. Glasses, utensils and plates were scattered all over the rooms. Spilled brandy and wine and half-eaten food littered the place, which was beginning to smell. The hired serving girls also helped with the tidying, so the burden was eased on my mother and Suzette.

  When we finished putting the house in order, my mother and I went to the kitchen and Suzette gave us a hearty meal of rice, beef, ham and collard greens. We ate ravenously, as we had not been able to eat at all during the party. Then my mother loaded up some food to take to the boys and to share with some of the other slave folks.

  Exhausted, we walked hand in hand to the slave quarters. The air was crisp and fresh and a welcome relief from the heat of the house. Streaks of orange and purple were spreading over the eastern sky. Night was giving way to day, and the party had just begun in the slave quarters. Hannibal was playing the sweetest sound the ear ever did hear.

  T

  Throughout the day, friends from neighboring farms visited us; or, I should say, visited my mother, as I slept away the better part of the morning. When I awoke, the slave quarter was all abustle. Some of our people had visited relatives and friends on other plantations and returned with news. At nightfall, we gathered at the farm and began our celebrations. Hannibal played, his singers sang and we danced and sang along with them. There was such a merrymaking, feasting and good time. We forgot our cares and woes. We forgot that we were separated from family members whom we would never again see. We forgot all the abuse and insults and humiliation. I even forgot the scars that would forever remain on my back, laid on by Widow Beverly.

  During Christmas celebrations, there was less surveillance by Whites, and slave people took this opportunity to escape. Trimble County bordered the Ohio River, a natural boundary between the land of slavery and the land of freedom. On its north bank lay the free states of Indiana and Ohio; on its south bank, the slave states of Kentucky, Missouri and Tennessee. Along the river were numerous docks and wharves, from which flatboats, ferries and barges took Kentucky slaves to the deep south. Determined slaves also used these vessels to cross to liberty. No slave in the Ohio River region of Kentucky failed to dream about crossing to Ohio or Indiana and traveling north to Michigan, and even to Canada.

  When my mother found time to talk with Lord Byron, Dinah and Shadrach, she would ask nonchalantly, “How many walked on water this week?”

  “Soon,” one would respond, “we will know.”

  But Christmas week also had its traditions of debasement. The Whites had their strongest male slaves engage in wrestling and fighting matches, on which they placed bets. They fed the participants whiskey and got them drunk before they stepped into the ring, to increase their rage and postpone their pain. The bout ended only when one was reduced to a bloody pulp. Sometimes, he even died from his injuries. If he survived, his master would ply him with more whiskey, have a doctor look at him and give him a small portion of his winnings.

  David White owned two brothers, Tom and Josiah, whom he entered in a fighting contest on the plantation. A ring was fenced off in a grassy area. Horses and carriages brought slaveholders and their friends. The fighters came in wagons or on foot.

  Tom and Josiah
lived in a run-down cabin, worked in the fields and were known for their uncommon strength.

  Tom stepped into the ring with a slave from Jefferson County. They charged into each other like two bulls. They pounded each other with their fists, stomped on each other, butted and kicked until blood flowed. The Whites cheered. Tom was emerging the winner, and though I was glad for him, I could not watch any longer.

  After Christmas we learned that four slave people from a neighboring plantation had walked on water. When my mother told me, she prayed for their successful escape.

  T

  On the first of January, David White summoned my mother and me. “I am leaving for the capital in two weeks. Harriet will board at Mrs. Madison’s Academy in Louisville. It is not right for a young lady to be in the country by herself.” He said the latter almost to himself. “And you, Henry, are being sent to hire. You are leaving this evening for Shelbyville.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  More Misery

  I hated leaving my mother and brothers, and the familiarity of the plantation, yet a little excitement rose in me at the prospect of a town. Going to a new place, even as a hire, meant that one was exposed to new knowledge about geography and the larger world.

  My new master was a merchant named John Brooks. In his store on the main street of Shelbyville he sold all manner of dry goods, peas, corn, flour, dried and smoked meats, teas, coffee, sugar, writing paper, chocolate, roped tobacco, imported fabric, buttons, jewelry, fancy foods and wines. He lived upstairs of the store with his wife and two small children. His three slaves, Frederick, Antonio and Derrick, lived in a shack at the back of the shop. I took up habitation with them.

  My tasks included filling sacks with corn, peas and other grains, lifting and carrying, and helping Frederick, the oldest slave, with the weighing. I also helped Mrs. Brooks with the cleaning and preparation of food, and sometimes she left her two children in my care.

  I did pick up some learning from Frederick as I helped him weigh and pack: counting, adding and subtracting. Our master and mistress did not seem to care because what I was learning made my work better, and that enriched them.

  Though my master dealt in foodstuffs, I was always hungry. I would even be awakened at night by intense hunger. He was the meanest and stingiest person that I ever came across, even stingier than Widow Beverly. He gave Frederick cornmeal to cook for us, and that was what we ate every day, rain or shine, turn-cornmeal, a semi-liquid mush, sometimes with bits of carrots or chicken fat. The injustice became especially cruel when we would be working in the store and smell the delicious foods Mrs. Brooks was preparing for the family.

  My mother had given me two suits of clothing, but as the months went by I grew out of them. They also became ripped and worn, and I did not know how to patch them. So I had nothing but a shredded shirt and a pair of pants too short for me and as shredded as the shirt. Mrs. Brooks seemed not to notice, although her two darling children were always well dressed. When the winter came I shivered in the cold. Frederick gave me an old blanket to cover myself, and that afforded some warmth. But my feet became cracked and bloody from the cold ground. At least at the widow’s I had worn shoes, although she took them from me when I left her employ. At the Brookses’ I came to believe that I would surely lose my life.

  Mrs. Brooks had a habit of carrying around a “woman’s whip,” one that was not too long but stung as hard as any whip Captain Barker used. If I did the slightest thing not to her liking, she would give me several lashes and did not care where on my person the lashes landed. Once, she struck me across my head. I felt a stinging pain, and my left ear began to throb. Then I blacked out. When I came to, I was lying on the ground in the yard and Frederick was shaking me. From that day until this present moment, the hearing in that ear is diminished.

  Mrs. Brooks seemed incensed at my light-skinned complexion. “White nigger, this will show you,” she would yell. “Think you are White, getting uppity, this will show you!” as she applied lash after lash. Sometimes she complained to her husband. He would strip me to the waist and beat me with a switch made from hardened hickory. My skin became red and swollen, and I grew sickly. I had no thought in the world but to die. I came to hate the Brookses with a passion that raged the entire time I spent in that household. I also became nervous and fearful. Every time I was in the presence of Mr. or Mrs. Brooks, I became agitated. I could not concentrate on my task, as I feared that any moment I would commit some offence. My nervousness became so extreme that my stomach could not keep down what little food I was given, and I grew even thinner.

  My only respite was on the occasional Sunday. Enslaved people usually had Sunday as a day of rest; but the Brookses gave us only every second Sunday to ourselves. We spent these precious free days in the woods around Shelbyville, making merry with slave people from the area. They organized foot races, wrestling games and corn-eating competitions. They played music and danced the “Heel and Toe” and “Patting Juba.” Antonio won all the foot races, and Frederick, despite his age, was a superb dancer, who invented new styles of dancing and won great acclaim from the women for his skills.

  But even those Sundays failed to make me happy. I would stand by myself immersed in gloom. None of the merrymaking could stop me thinking of the suffering that awaited me at John Brooks’s home.

  One evening, Frederick looked at me and shook his head. “Massa and mistress have no right to beat you like that. They don’t own you.”

  “But what can the boy do?” Antonio asked.

  “Henry is a hire. He belongs to his master. The beatings that the Brookses are giving him are damaging his master’s property. If his master found out, he would be angry. No one wants damaged property.”

  Frederick seemed to know a great deal. He often travelled with John Brooks to Louisville to ship or receive goods. He was also much older than the other two slaves and had seen more of the world, having come from Virginia with a previous owner. A thought began to form in my mind. What if I could get word to my mother, who could talk to our master about the harsh treatment I was receiving from the Brookses?

  But how would I get such information to her?

  As if God was answering my prayer, one morning I was helping Derrick load dried peas into a wagon bound for the docks when Dr. Martin walked into the store. He was not a planter. He lived in nearby Newcastle and occasionally came to David White’s plantation to attend sick slaves.

  “Why, Henry, is that you?” Dr. Martin asked, as he came upon me. “My word, you have grown tall; but, boy, you look ill.” Dr. Martin touched my face and I winced. “You have been lashed.”

  At that moment, Mrs. Brooks arrived and asked, “May I help you, doctor?” and he went to the counter to do his business. When he was finished he left the store without even looking in my direction.

  A month later, Captain Barker strode into John Brooks’s store. I was at the back peeling vegetables when I heard the demon Mrs. Brooks calling my name. Seeing the captain, I was seized by an overwhelming terror.

  “Take your clothes off, boy,” the captain commanded. “All of them.”

  I wanted to laugh because I was wearing rags, not clothes. Embarrassed, I undressed and faced the captain.

  “Turn around.”

  I did as I was told. The place fell so quiet one could hear a pin fall.

  “Mrs. Brooks, my employer, David White, has told me to inform you that the contract for Henry’s hire has come to an end. When Mr. White returns from Frankfort, he will work out the details with your husband.”

  I could not believe my good fortune. How did this happen? Did Dr. Martin have anything to do with it? Captain Barker, who every day whipped some unfortunate slave on David White’s estate, had appeared as my rescuer.

  T

  My mother was standing on the porch of our master’s house when I arrived. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she sobbed, as she covered me in her embrace. A
fter a moment she stepped back and looked at me, and the words tumbled out of her mouth. “Henry, how thin you are. Look at the welts on your skin.” And she started to cry anew.

  Some of the slave people nearby stopped their chores and surrounded us. Pearl cried. Two of her children had been put out to hire, and she feared for them, wondering out loud whether they were also being badly used. Lucy, the West Indian slave, disappeared and returned with some stalks of a grass in her hand. “Bathe him in water soaked with this,” she said to my mother.

  That night, after much welcoming and me making much of my brothers, who had grown so tall, my mother told me how I came to be released. Dr. Martin had told Captain Barker of my ill use. “It is not right that another man’s property be so abused,” was what the doctor said.

  All the White men of Kentucky knew property was king. And slaves were the finest property. A man could maim or even kill his own slave, as it was his property. But for another to do so was cause enough to sue him. The captain wrote to David White in Frankfort and told him of my situation. My master instructed him to make the proper inquiry and, if the doctor’s words were true, he should return me to the farm.

  “I don’t want you sent away again, Henry,” my mother said. “But for you to remain here, Massa must be convinced that there is enough work for you to do.”

  “I could work in the field,” I said. Some people thought that field work was the worst of the worst because slaves worked for long hours in all kinds of weather. But I had been a house slave all my life and could honestly say that house work was as arduous. Moreover, the house slave is under the constant watch of the mistress or master, who can abuse the slave at the slightest whim, as I learned from Widow Beverly and the Brookses.

  My mother did not reply. So I pressed on, saying that I was tall and strong for my age.