My Name is Henry Bibb

by Afua Cooper

  Harriet had told my mother that she and her husband would be moving to Missouri in a week’s time. Missouri was opening up to settlement and had become a slave state. It had become the land of opportunity for Whites, but another place of oppression for their slaves, who chopped down the trees, built the houses and grew the crops that made the White people rich. Three of those slaves would be my brothers. As for my mother, Harriet would leave her behind, in her father’s charge.

  I put my arms around my mother and she laid her head on my chest. Her cries came out in heartrending sobs.

  T

  I obtained permission from Mr. Gatewood to see my brothers off. Walking to the Whites’ estate that Saturday morning, I tried not to think, but a thousand pictures crowded my mind: the slave dealers on the docks in Louisville pulling a baby from its mother’s arms as they sold mother and child separately. I could still hear the blood-curdling screams of the mother, and shivers went up and down my spine. I saw the forlorn face of Suzette, brokenhearted because they had sold her away from her husband and children. Now the same thing was happening to my mother, to my family.

  David White’s yard was crowded with wagons of all descriptions. A number of slave people whom John Sibley had brought to his marriage milled about. I spied my brothers, looking lost, and my mother crying softly, standing away from the crowd. Shadrach was leaning against a tree, watching the scene.

  I was determined not to surrender to the despair that was gnawing at my heart. I called each brother by name, and said, “Take notice of every place you travel. One day you will need the knowledge. Know in your heart that one day you will run from slavery. Do you understand?” Then I told them the story of the Africans who walked on water, and of those who could fly. My mother spoke. “My beautiful sons,” she sobbed, “you will always be in my heart.”

  Shadrach entered our little circle, and embraced my brothers. “If I see you again in this life,” he said, “I expect you to be free men.” To each brother he gave a gift of money.

  “Milly,” he said, “I am so sorry.” He paused as if to say something else, but thought better of it, and walked away.

  We stayed embracing amidst the noise and sadness of other slave people crying and giving encouragement to their loved ones.

  Harriet soon came out of the house with Mr. Sibley, David White behind them. At the foot of the steps, Harriet embraced her father. Her face was wet, and her father had tears spilling from his eyes, too.

  Soon the cavalcade was on its way. Some of their slave people climbed into wagons, others followed on foot. My brothers, because they were young, were to ride. We embraced one last time before they climbed in. I, who had steeled myself to be strong, cried openly as they headed out of David White’s yard.

  T

  I returned to the Gatewood farm and told Malinda of how my brothers were stolen from our mother. Knowing that we would never see each other again in this life made me more determined than ever to escape. I swore to her that I would one day own myself and my family, or die trying.

  That night, after our work was done, my darling wife took my hand. There were tears in her eyes. “I am now certain,” she said. “Henry, you will soon be a father.”

  I held Malinda to my chest. Waves of joy, sadness and rage passed through me in equal proportion. I was to be a father, but the father of a slave.

  That night while Malinda slept, I went out into the cool, quiet night. Fireflies blinked their way through the darkness. I walked toward the grassy area that fronted the estate and the big rock that the slave people sat on for quiet recreation. The stars twinkled down at me. I heard Shadrach’s voice loud and clear. “When you are ready to run, Henry, come and see me.” Then Pierre’s voice: “There are people ready to help you if you want to escape.”

  A smile played across my lips. Malinda was still mobile enough to make a long journey. Tomorrow I would speak with her, then go see Shadrach.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  More Tragedy

  My vow to pursue freedom met two setbacks. First, my mother fell ill. At the Bedford Inn she had met a free man, a fireman on a ferry, named Robert Jackson. After they married, Jackson went to see David White to buy my mother out of bondage. White said my mother was not for sale, but after several visits from Mr. Jackson he consented to sell her for one thousand dollars. Jackson gave him a down-payment of two hundred dollars and received in exchange a promise that, after he had paid five hundred dollars, White would release my mother. Jackson would pay the rest in installments. My mother’s husband was in a hurry to get my mother released as she was with child, and they desperately wanted the baby to be freeborn.

  The day after my mother’s husband paid David White the last of the five hundred dollars, he died in an explosion. The furnace on the boat blew up, killing three firemen.

  My mother went into early labor, and hovered between life and death. The child, of whom we expected the worst, was robust enough; but my mother remained deathly ill, with a high temperature. Sometimes she rambled and made sounds that no one understood.

  David White learned of my stepfather’s demise and came to visit my mother on her sick bed. But he was not there to console her. He told her that because Robert Jackson had not finished paying for her, she was still his slave; the new baby was also his. My mother argued that he had promised her husband to release her after the payment of five hundred dollars. But White simply said, “Milly, did I sign a contract with your husband?” and walked out of the room.

  I visited David White and told him that, as he was not going to free my mother, he should return the five hundred dollars that her husband had paid. But he laughed in my face and told me that if I did not get off his property in five minutes he would whip me and have me jailed for insolence.

  After hearing David White’s refusal, my mother screamed with all the strength she could muster. The death of her husband and the treachery of David White was too much for my mother, and she took a turn for the worse.

  To his credit, Gatewood gave me the two days I asked him for so I could be with my mother and care for her. But when she grew worse I sent a message to him that I had to stay longer. He sent back word that if he did not find me on his plantation within twelve hours he would have me declared a runaway and imprison me. My mother told me to leave. She said she would send word to me if she got any worse. Luckily, Malinda’s mother came to nurse my mother and look after the baby. With a heavy heart, I departed. I knew I could not make a bid for freedom knowing that she was at death’s door.

  As the time passed my mother’s body healed, but I knew that her heart was forever broken.

  Again, I contemplated my escape, but once more fate intervened: Malinda’s brother died. He was thirteen years old. His mother had given birth to him after she had bought her freedom, although her two older children had been born slaves.

  His name was Eric, a sweet boy, whose good nature and kindness endeared him to everyone. He was my wife’s pet, and whenever he came to visit she made him cakes and special treats. Eric was on his way home from an errand when a group of White boys his age taunted him. Frightened, Eric ran away, but the boys came after him. The boys hated Eric, because he was freeborn. So they caught him and beat him until he was dead. We knew how Eric died because one of the boys confessed when questioned by the police. But nothing came of it: it was legal for Whites to kill Negroes.

  Eric’s death threw my wife and her family into despair. They could not be consoled. All the Black people in the area came to the funeral, as well as the few Whites who felt the injustice of it. I do not believe my wife ever recovered fully. After Eric died, did I only imagine that she walked slower than before? One thing was sure: she lost her appetite and did not eat for many days. I feared for her and the child she was carrying.

  Such tragedies had struck our families that we could only mourn. A full year would pass before I would turn my mind again to freedom. />
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Flight

  In the midst of our sorrow a sun burst into our life. Malinda gave birth to our baby, whom we named Mary Frances. She was our angel. From the moment she was born she was all smiles. She giggled and gurgled, and I was filled with a consuming love for her. Both Malinda and I doted on her. As soon as she uttered a sigh or cry of unhappiness we would quickly pick her up, feed her, sing to her or hold her close. As she grew she took on a strong resemblance to my mother.

  Whenever my mother had time, she visited and paid every attention to her granddaughter. Malinda’s mother treated Mary Frances in much the same way.

  Mary Frances’s birth brought a glow to our lives, but it did not prevent ill-ease from gnawing at my heart. Her birth showed me clearly that I would never be happy knowing that at any minute she and her mother could be taken from me, turning our lives upside down and plunging us into unending misery. I was in torment. I had to flee.

  T

  Night covered me like a warm and protective blanket. I knew every rise and curve of the land. Staring ahead into the blackness, I walked down the hill from the Gatewood plantation to a ravine that opened into flat prairie. From there the walk to the Ohio River would be easy. About a mile along the ravine, I came to a rock where I had sat so many times to dream and think and wonder; but now I walked with the hurried steps of a fugitive. As I walked I heard the music from the plantation recede. The slaves were dancing and making merry. It was my second Christmas on the Gatewood plantation.

  I thought of my wife and child and my heart beat like a frightened deer. In my mind’s eye, I saw my wife kissing our daughter, and gently throwing her in the air and hearing her squeal with delight.

  I pushed the fear from my mind and focused on my task: getting to the big river and boarding the ferry to Cincinnati. In the distance I heard the hoot of an owl. My heart lurched and courage failed me. The full gravity of what I was doing crashed down on me. I wanted to run back to the Gatewood farm, run to my family and hold them in my arms. But a rage so strong took hold of my body that I had to gasp for breath. I left the ravine for the grassy savanna and the last hill before I reached the river.

  The holiday had come with the usual festivities, the slave people getting and eating more food than they got or ate during the entire year. Gatewood plied them with liquor and allowed them to sing and dance throughout the night. I was sick of what I saw as my master’s manipulation: a year of hunger followed by a week of feasting. And we, instead of fighting against our debasement, were grateful for the crumbs our master threw our way.

  Even if I had stayed, I would not have been able to enjoy Christmas. In the middle of November, Malinda and I, along with other laborers, were in the fields gathering up the last of the produce. After Mary Frances was born, my wife had been allowed to stay with her for three weeks — a generous time from the point of view of our master. When a woman gives birth, she needs nurture and care to rebuild her strength; but slave masters expected them to be right back scrubbing their clothes, cooking their meals and toiling in the fields.

  Malinda fashioned a sack for Mary Frances, tied it around her back, and carried the baby as she worked; but as the child grew and started to crawl it was no longer practical. Mary Frances begged to be placed on the ground, where she would eat dirt and leaves and often get stung by insects. Our greatest fear was that she would be bitten by one of the rattlesnakes that inhabited our part of Kentucky.

  It was customary that the babies and infants were left under the care of a slave nanny while their parents labored in the fields; but the Gatewoods wanted even the old women, who usually cared for infants, to labor. Mrs. Gatewood herself supervised the little ones.

  Mary Frances was seven months old when we left her with Mrs. Gatewood. When we fetched her after work that first evening, her face was stained with tears and she had dirt around her mouth. We took her home, bathed her and fed her. The poor child ate like a ravenous lion. We suspected that Mrs. Gatewood had not fed Mary Frances all day. Then, a few days before Christmas, there were purple bruises all over her face. Mrs. Gatewood’s fingers were clearly imprinted on my daughter’s cheeks.

  “What is this?” I shouted. “What is this?” My voice echoed through the house. Mr. Gatewood, who was lounging in the sitting room, turned and said offhandedly, “Now, Henry, keep your voice down. The child just picked up a few bruises crawling around.”

  Malinda took the baby from my arms and broke into tears.

  “Both of you leave my house and take your child. I cannot stand this racket.” Mrs. Gatewood, the monster, had appeared.

  “This will be the last time you mistreat my child,” I said, and stormed from the house.

  “Is that a threat, Henry?” asked Mr. Gatewood, as I descended the steps of the veranda. “I’m talking to you, boy. Turn around.”

  I faced him.

  “Is that a threat?” he hissed.

  “No, sir.”

  “It better not be.”

  T

  Unlike David White, who hired a slave driver and beater in the form of Captain Barker, Gatewood did the driving and beating himself. He was not as wealthy as David White, and he was so stingy that he would rather torture his slaves than hire anyone to do it. It was also rumored that Gatewood had lecherous feelings for my wife, but she had not encouraged his attention. He was most unhappy at my presence, but took it out on my wife. Sometimes, he would examine our work and, of course, always found fault with it. Once, when he was exclaiming how lazy Malinda was, she, in a fit of temper, exclaimed, “If you don’t like the way I do it, why don’t you do it yourself?” The other field slaves fell silent; only the sound of the bumblebees could be heard. We all knew that our master would not take sassing from a slave, especially in front of the others.

  Realizing what she had done, Malinda walked to my side and took my hand. Gatewood walked menacingly toward us, his outstretched hand holding the whip. He ordered Malinda to take off her blouse and kneel. Right there in the field, in front of me and my fellow slaves, he whipped my half-naked wife, and looked at me fully in the eyes as he did so.

  The instant he applied the first lash, I rushed forward with the intention of choking the life out of him.

  “Attack me, boy,” Gatewood said in a low voice. “Attack me, boy.” But my fellows in bondage held me back.

  Later that evening in our cabin, I washed Malinda’s cuts and bruises with lemongrass water. We held each other and cried. I told her that the time had come for us to leave, that I would gain my freedom, and hers and Mary Frances’s, or die trying. If I stayed much longer and had to endure the abuse of my family I would harm the Gatewoods.

  For days I stayed in a sour mood, and my wife became afraid for me. She told me constantly not to do anything foolish. She knew that my heart raged against the Gatewoods, and that if I gave in to my feelings I would also bring harm to our family, because any Black or slave person who raised a hand to a White person broke the law and would be executed, if he lived long enough to be arrested.

  Our condition degraded us, yet if we strove to end our degradation, we could be whipped, sold or killed. Nevertheless, the time had come for me to become my own master.

  I went to see Shadrach at my old plantation. I knew this was dangerous because my old master had warned me off his plantation when I demanded the return of the five hundred dollars to my mother. So I went in the dead of night.

  It seemed to me that Shadrach would never grow old. He looked the same as when I was a child, his smooth and shiny skin pulled tight across his face, his walk as sprightly as a boy’s. Boxer, that faithful dog, announced my arrival, and jumped all over me.

  To ensure our privacy, Shadrach and I walked down to the creek, with Boxer close behind. I told of my plans and asked for advice. Shadrach said the best escape route was through Cincinnati. He said my escape would be made easier if I told my master
I wanted to go to work in the slaughterhouse there.

  Shadrach had friends in Cincinnati, and he told me how to find them. Before we parted, he reached into his pocket and pulled out four dollars. “Henry, you are going to need this,” he said, as he pressed the money in my palm.

  I thanked the good man, but was afraid to look him in the eye. I was suddenly seized with fear. What if I failed? What if I was captured? The White people had eyes everywhere to track down runaways.

  Shadrach must have sensed my fear. He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you want to go, Henry?” I nodded. “I need to hear you say it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you feel it?”

  “Right here in my heart.”

  “Then it is time for you to walk on water.”

  A day later, I approached my master with a plan.

  The previous Christmas he had sent me to work at a slaughterhouse in Jefferson City, Indiana, just across the Ohio River from Louisville. The holiday season was always busy, and the slaughterhouses hired extra slave hands during that time. These slaves were paid a wage, which was collected by their masters. I had not been averse to going, because it freed me from the monotony of the farm work and the senseless carousing at Christmas time; yet it was also the time I could spend with my wife and visit my mother and brothers.

  Mr. Gatewood had written passes for me and three other male slaves and took us in a skiff to Jefferson City. We worked there for two weeks and returned to the farm a few days after the New Year. I earned forty dollars, which Gatewood collected. Of that sum, he gave me fifty cents. My job in the slaughterhouse had been to drive the cows and pigs into a long narrow corridor, where they would come upon men who shot them in the head. Animals are not stupid; they can smell death. These animals knew they were going to die even before we herded them into the corridor. They bellowed and squealed in terror. It was the most awful job I ever did, and for weeks afterward I could not look at or taste animal flesh without my stomach turning.