My Name is Henry Bibb

by Afua Cooper

  The judge had inherited the house from his father, who had also been a judge. Even though his children had moved away, he lived in the mansion alone with his slaves. Sarah, the woman who had received me, was the cook; Marietta was the housekeeper. Pierre, the gardener and carriage driver, came from Louisiana, and spoke French and Spanish.

  In addition to dispensing Kentucky justice, my new master was one of the largest planters in the state. He owned a huge plantation in Fayette County, where he held more than seventy slaves. Most of its two thousand acres were in tobacco, but his slaves also grew vegetables, corn and hemp and raised numerous livestock. So large was his estate that he employed two managers and three slave drivers. Judge Marson also owned real estate in Cincinnati and a prestigious hotel there. He was immensely wealthy, and one of the most influential men in the state.

  Much of what was used in his Louisville home came from his plantation: the wood used to make and repair furniture, the vegetables, the various meats; even the smoked fish came from a well-stocked river on the estate. But his needs were few, so he kept a small household.

  I did the work of a body servant: I prepared his bath, combed his hair, cut his toenails and fingernails, served his meals, shined his shoes, brushed his coats, and accompanied him to work. I brought refreshments for him into the courtroom, served him the lunch Pierre brought from the house, and recleaned his boots had they become splattered during the morning.

  I, too, experienced the freedom Louisville offered its slaves. When court was not in session and the judge went to work in his study, I was allowed to traverse the streets of the inner part of the city. Sometimes I played marbles with other slave boys, many of whom, like me, accompanied their masters to work. Oftentimes, there were free Black boys in our group, and occasionally some White boys.

  Walking along the wharf was one of my favorite pastimes. I loved to see the schooners, ferries and smaller boats plying the river; but in all my ramblings I avoided the slave market.

  T

  The judge’s place of work was the stately courthouse, which stood overlooking the Ohio River. His office, with its dark, solid-oak furnishings, looked directly on the water, through huge French windows. The judge hardly spoke to me, yet I was to anticipate his every need. He smoked a pipe and the smell of smoke hung around him. I, too, soon carried the scent of the tobacco on my person.

  I was the judge’s shadow, and sat in his courtroom every day. I came to understand why my new master was called Judge Dread by all who spoke of him. He believed that wrongdoers should be punished to the full extent of the law and have no mercy shown them. Many who came into the judge’s courtroom were slave people: those who had run away and had been caught, those who had injured their owners or other slaves, and those who had spoken impolitely or looked directly at a White person.

  If an offender was a habitual runaway, the judge would sentence him to hard labor in prison and have the state compensate his owner. Sometimes he would order the amputation of a limb of a runaway or the branding of his face or shoulder. First-time runaways were given fifty lashes. Those who had struck their owner, or any White person, were sentenced to death. Incorrigible slaves could be transported out of the state to the deep south.

  Judge Dread’s courtroom was a forlorn place. Some slave people broke down, others fainted when the judge gave his verdict. A few stood defiantly, their heads raised and their eyes steady. After seeing the judge at work, I would return home feeling numb. One evening, as I sat with Sarah in the kitchen, she noticed my downcast look and said, “Cheer up, Henry, it can’t be so bad.”

  I told her what I was seeing in the courtroom, and she shook her head sorrowfully. “Do not think about it,” was her advice. She then told me that her family had been separated, too. “But I dealt with my sorrow by putting all my trust in the Lord. And that is what you must do, too, Henry. Put your trust in the Lord. There is a brighter day coming.”

  T

  Christmas morning I walked into Sarah’s kitchen and found Shadrach in conversation with Pierre. They were sitting on one of the kitchen benches, speaking in low tones, their heads bowed.

  “Shadrach!” I shouted, delighted to see him.

  The men looked up and grinned as if surprised at seeing me.

  “I came to take you home for the holidays,” Shadrach said.

  I realized I had broken up a conversation that they did not want me to hear. Children know never to butt in, so I merely said what was self-evident. “I did not know you knew Pierre.”

  “I have come to know Shadrach because of his smithing. He makes horseshoes for us when he comes to Louisville,” Pierre said.

  “Get your things ready, Henry. Your mama and brothers are waiting to see you,” said Shadrach.

  “George and John are back?”

  “I went to LaGrange to get them for the holidays. All week I have been picking up the children sent out for hire.”

  T

  At the farm, John and George ran from my mother’s cabin toward me as I leapt from the wagon. All three of us bundled into one another’s arms, laughing and squealing. I had missed them so much. The baby was now walking sturdily and talking. My mother, however, looked tired.

  Dismissed from the house by Mrs. White, my mother had been working in the field when Bedford’s only tavern and inn lost its cook. The owner knew my mother’s fame as a cook, and approached David White to ask if he would hire her out. The price must have been good, because my master promptly sent my mother to be the live-in cook at the inn. There she worked around the clock. She was allowed to take the baby, Lewis, although this was probably more for Phoebe White’s peace of mind than any kindness to my mother.

  Instead of the joyous family reunion I had anticipated we had a sad and lonely time. My mother was able to visit us only once, on the day of my arrival. We had a hurried meal together before she had to go back to work.

  The owner of the inn, however, allowed my brothers and me to visit our mother there. We stood outside the kitchen door, or beneath the window, and talked to our mother as she worked. When the holiday week was over, our mother pulled us to her in a tight hug before we returned to our places of employment. As my mother’s tears fell on my cheeks, I felt that I was drowning in a pool of sorrow that had no bottom.

  During the Christmas week, I happened to see Harriet. She had come from the girls’ academy and had brought some friends with her. I was helping Shadrach take firewood to the kitchen and saw them standing on the front porch, laughing as we passed by. “Well, if that isn’t Henry,” Harriet said, as if she could not believe her eyes. Shadrach and I slowed our walk. “Come here, Henry.” I placed my bundle of wood on the ground and walked onto the porch. I was a head taller than she was, and she was by no means short. “This here is Henry,” she said to her friends, “and I own him. I also own his mama and the rest of her boys.” She laughed, and her friends laughed, too. This girl with whom I had grown up, with whom I had played, the girl who had stolen my milk from my mother, had grown as cruel as her father and stepmother.

  “Are you done, Miss Harriet?” I asked her.

  “Yes, go on. Go on with your firewood.”

  What would happen when Harriet came of age? When she turned twenty-one she would be able to do what she wished with my mother and her children. It burned my heart that we were mere things to be tossed about at the whim of our owner. Harriet’s power of life and death over us fed my desire to escape.

  Something else came to my attention that Christmas week. When Shadrach picked me up, the judge gave him my earnings to give to my master. The thought of working for wages and not being entitled to them made me angry. The money I earned should have been given to my mother. I had slaved a whole year, and had not the right to a few coins, not even a penny to buy a piece of candy for my brothers. They, too, had been laboring, and Massa David would receive all that they earned.

  In the cart
beside Shadrach, I was sullen and quiet. “What happened, Henry? You always have a lot to say,” he said, trying to cheer me up.

  “You giving my wages to Massa.”

  “Yep.”

  “It ain’t right.”

  “I know.”

  “When you work for other planters, or for the racetrack, Massa take your wages?”

  “I made a deal with ol’ Massa. I get a portion of my wages, but I buy my own food and clothes. I am saving to buy myself.”

  “You get a portion of your wages? And you can buy yourself?”

  “Yep.”

  “That ain’t right!”

  “What exactly?”

  “You buying yourself. You have worked so long and hard for Massa. You made a lot of money for him. He should just set you free.”

  Shadrach laughed. “White folks not gonna do that. They want the money. They want my labor.” Then he turned serious. “You know what Massa do with your wages, Henry?”

  “Buy things?” I said vaguely.

  “Your wages go to take care of Miss Harriet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Harriet is your owner, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, since the day you started working, ol’ Massa uses your earnings to buy her boots, shoes, socks, ribbons, bows, dresses and the like. Whatever money you make belongs to her. Her father dotes on her and buys pretty things from the earnings of her slaves.”

  I was struck dumb by Shadrach’s words. But there was more. “And now Miss Harriet goes to that fancy academy. Your wages and your mama’s and your brothers’ pay her school fees and her board. Help to buy her books and things.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because when I collect your wages, and your mama’s and brothers’ wages, Massa sometimes tell me to buy this or that for Miss Harriet. Sometimes, when he does his cipher, that is what he talks about. “John’s wages will pay for Harriet’s books. Milly’s wages will cover her school and boarding fees. Henry’s wages will buy her winter supplies.”

  I could not believe my ears. The knowledge that my entire life, labor and body were used to provide education and pretty things for another while my own condition remained destitute was too much, yet I had no choice but to bear it.

  T

  I continued working for Judge Marson until I was fifteen. My time in Louisville opened my eyes to a new world. When I lived in the country, I thought that all Black people were slaves; but in Louisville I learned otherwise. Free Blacks lived in homes they rented or bought with their wages. They were bricklayers, carpenters and butchers. Some owned stores or restaurants, and even inns. Town slaves had more freedom of movement than those who lived in the country. They went on errands for their masters, accompanied them on trips and sometimes were in charge of entire households. Slaves who had a trade oftentimes made their own contracts and found their own employment. Like Shadrach, some had agreements with their owners to buy themselves out of slavery. Sometimes, free Black people and slaves lived under the same roof. Some were even married to each other.

  Corinthios, a slave friend of Pierre’s, worked as a stevedore on the Louisville docks. He was married to a free woman who worked as a hotel cook. Because of his wife, Corinthios’s children were also free.

  Whenever Corinthios visited Pierre, they met in the carriage house and spoke in low whispers. Once, Pierre was brushing down the carriage horse when I took his supper to him. As I approached, I saw Corinthios bent over a table, writing on sheets of paper. He was copying something from a book.

  “These passes look like the real thing. If anyone stops them, they will be fine.”

  “Let us hope so,” Pierre said.

  I stood outside for a minute, my heart racing. Then I cleared my throat and the two men practically jumped. Corinthios gathered up the papers I pretended not to see. Pierre looked at me, his eyes full of questions. But neither of us said anything.

  So Corinthios could read and write. Maybe Pierre could, too. I marvelled at this, because to my knowledge none of the slaves on David White’s plantation could read or write. What was more astonishing was that Pierre and Corinthios seemed to be involved in helping fugitives.

  T

  In Louisville, I learned where the east, west, north and south were. How the river flowed. In what direction the states were. The principal towns and cities of Kentucky and the region. And I learned more about the laws that governed slavery and the slave people. It was in Louisville that I learned of a network of people who helped slaves escape. It was Pierre who told me.

  One day I was helping him clean the carriage when he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. He continued this behavior for a while and I finally threw my hands up in the air and asked him what he was doing.

  Pierre laughed. “You sure is a saucy boy. No need to get mad. I was just thinking that you could escape if you wished.”

  My heart stopped for a moment. “Why did you say that?”

  “During the nighttime, people would take you for White. You could go on one of the ferries and cross into Ohio or Indiana. No one would know you’re a slave.”

  “And how would I do that?” I asked, irritated.

  “You’d be surprised, Henry, boy,” he said and remained quiet.

  I was getting impatient with Pierre. “How would I do that?” I repeated.

  Pierre looked around him, but there was only me and him in the yard. Yet he dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “There are Black folks in Louisville who help slaves escape. In fact, folks all across Kentucky. If you wanna get north, you just have to be willing. Even the captains of some ferries help.”

  I looked at Pierre through squinted eyes. “If that’s true, then what are you doing here?”

  He laughed — a big and rumbling sound.

  “Sometimes, boy, not all of us can go. Some have to remain behind to help. I can go if I wish, but I choose not to go, or at least not yet.” Pierre remained quiet for a long moment, then spoke again. “Promise me that you will never repeat this to anyone, not even to your mother. You understand?” I nodded my head.

  This was new knowledge and it filled me with hope. And yet there was something about it that was vaguely familiar. My mother was always talking about walking on water and of slaves who could fly. Shadrach, too. Did they know of this way to escape? Did Suzette know? Did Sarah know? Did the White people know about it? I felt that I had been initiated into some secret society with this new knowledge. I would walk the streets of Louisville and look in the faces of the Black people I encountered. Did they know this secret?

  Yet sometimes I doubted what Pierre told me. I doubted because I would sit in Judge Marson’s courtroom as he sentenced slave people who had tried to escape. Some had even crossed the river but were brought back by masters or slave hunters. Did these people not know of the secret help, or had it failed them? Though I had promised Pierre that I would not breathe a word to anyone, I told myself that one day I would ask my mother about it.

  T

  Judge Marson insisted that all his slaves have religious instruction. He was a Methodist elder, and his town slaves attended his church, sitting at the back. I could not understand how the Whites expected us to believe what the minister preached, that there was one God before whom all men were equal. They were rank hypocrites. They called themselves Christians yet abused Jesus’ message at every turn.

  I had little time to chafe under their lies, however, as my church attendance was cut short. This is what happened.

  A poor White girl named Christina Drummond came to church services. She felt sympathy for the slave people, especially children put out to hire. Christina had a conviction that all people should be able to read the words of God; therefore, after Sunday school, she gathered the slave children to teach us our letters. Her instruction was like water to a thi
rsty soul. I did have the little learning that I had picked up from Harriet’s lessons, before I was chased from her study, and I always wished to lighten my ignorance with more learning. Because I already knew the alphabet, Christina Drummond gave me more advanced lessons than the other pupils received. For two happy months we learned, until someone happened to pass the church one evening and found Christina teaching us. A gang of men descended on our little academy. Did Christina not know it was against the law to teach slaves to read? She said no, and that her only desire was that we read God’s word.

  Because Christina was White they did not beat her, but informed each of our masters as to our wrongdoing. When I got to Judge Marson’s that evening, Pierre told me he already had heard the news, and the judge wanted to see me in his study.

  He sat there smoking his pipe, the pungent smell of tobacco permeating the room. I coughed as I entered.

  “I heard of your little adventure, Henry. How long has this been going on?”

  “Just a few Sundays, sir,” I said, my eyes lowered.

  “Look at me, Henry.”

  I could not tell if the judge was angry. His voice was calm and steady. I looked up but averted my eyes.

  “Can you read?”

  “No, sir.”

  “God hates a liar.”

  “It is true, sir. All I learned from Miss Christina was the alphabet up to the letter M.”

  The judge sighed, as if he was relieved. “I believe you, Henry; but I am going to return you to Mr. White. I cannot risk having a reading slave in my household. Next you will be writing passes for your fellows.”

  I was not sorry to leave, but I had had a lot of freedom in Louisville and had learned more about the world than I would have at my master’s. Nor was I beaten, and I had enough to eat.