James Smith

I was raised on the head waters of the south branch of the Potomac, in Pendleton Co., Va. The treatment there is mild, if there can be any mildness in it. I remained there until my escape in 1847. My father was a white man, and was my master too. My mother’s father was also a white man. My master was an Englishman, born in the city of London. When I was five years old, he gave me to his son, who was my half-brother, and he raised me. This son had then children about my age. These children were sent to school, but I was not. These children talked about learning me, but they said, “we mus n’t—father says he ‘ll write a pass and run off.” I have learned to read since I came away. I was ordered about like the other slaves. I ate in the kitchen while they, (my brother’s family,) ate at a table by themselves. I was stuck off one side. Other people mentioned my relation to my master, but I never mentioned it to him, nor he to me. His sons had it thrown at them that we favored one another: it was looked on as a stigma. My mother often told me how it was, but told me not to mention it as it would make it worse for her. She died before her master.

My old master was a very wicked man and died a miserable death. My brother was present. My master always had a custom of cursing and swearing, and he died in the same state. Nothing was said about giving me my freedom.

I used to drive to Richmond, and stop at a tavern with white wagoners. I would notice the landlord’s countenance, viewing me very much to see if I had colored blood: the wagoners would look at me and wink. They got me in on purpose to joke and bother him. I ate with the other wagoners, excepting a single time. He followed me out into the kitchen where I was eating, and asked me if I was a slave or not. I told him I was. He said I was too white to be a slave. It is often the case that these rascals feel for their own blood—they will say to a man of my color, “It’s a pity you ‘re a slave—you ‘re too white to be a slave.”

My half-brother got involved and sold me for four hundred dollars to a person in the same neighborhood. I lived with him about two years and six months, clearing up farm six months, balance of the time at gristmill. His treatment I count well for being a slave. His name was N—E—.

After my father’s death, my brothers and sisters, (also my father’s children,) four in number, were hired out at auction to the highest bidder. E—came home and told me all about it. I then thought, “I’m doing well enough now, but I do n’t know how long it will last,—I’ll try next fall to get my liberty.”

The next fall, I made arrangements and walked away. This was in the fall of ’47. After travelling fifty miles, I came right along in the road, and nobody asked me any questions, except one man who knew me, and who proved to be my friend. I stayed upwards of three years in the free States, married there a few days before I left in 1850, and came to Canada. I left the United States, in consequence of the Fugitive Slave Bill—it’s only a Bill. It vexed me as I was leaving in the boat, to hear the Germans, whom I could understand, laughing about the “niggers” having to leave, and come to Canada. One man was taken away from his wife and three children and carried back before I left.

I am doing tolerably well In Canada, and am getting a very comfortable living. I own a lot of land worth about two hundred dollars, and have other property. I keep a grocery, and sell to all who will buy, without distinction of color.