Mrs. Nancy Howard

I was born in Anne Arundel county, Maryland,—was brought up in Baltimore. After my escape, I lived in Lynn, Mass., seven years, but I left there through fear of being carried back, owing to the fugitive slave law. I have lived in St. Catharines less than a year.

The way I got away was,—my mistress was sick, and went into the country for her health. I went to stay with her cousin. After a month, my mistress was sent back to the city to her cousin’s, and I waited on her. My daughter had been off three years. A friend said to me,—”Now is your chance to get off.” At last I concluded to go,—the friend supplying me with money. I was asked no questions on the way north.

My idea of slavery is, that it is one of the blackest, the wickedest things that ever were in the world. When you tell them the truth, they whip you to make you lie. I have taken more lashes for this, than for any other thing, because I would not lie.

One day I set the table, and forgot to put on the carving-fork—the knife was there. I went to the table to put on a plate. My master said,—”Where is the fork?” I told him “I forgot it.” He says,—”You d—d black b—, I ‘ll forget you!”—at the same time hitting me on the head with the carving-knife. The blood spurted out,—you can see. [Here the woman removed her turban and showed a circular cicatrice denuded of hair, about an inch in diameter, on the top of her head.] My mistress took me into the kitchen and put on camphor, but she could not stop the bleeding. A doctor was sent for. He came, but asked no questions. I was frequently punished with raw hides,—was hit with tongs and poker and any thing. I used when I went out, to look up at the sky, and say, “Blessed Lord, oh, do take me out of this!” It seemed to me I could not bear another lick. I can’t forget it. I sometimes dream that I am pursued, and when I wake, I am scared almost to death.

Slaveholders ought to be prayed for. I find it harder to get work here, than I did in Massachusetts. It is a sin on the slaveholders that I had to leave and come here. It has brought me lower to the ground. I think the slaveholders do n’t read the Scriptures the right way,—they do n’t know their danger.

My master bragged one day to his friend, that I would not lie. He said, “I came nigh laying that d—d b—’s side open, and she stuck to it she was telling the truth, and it turned out she was.” We ain’t no more than the brutes, at the South. I used to think they would speak better to a dog or cow. Then they would say, “Get out of the way,”—they would n’t put the other to it.

One Sunday, my master promised me and my boy, that he hoped God would damn him, if he did not tie us up and whip us the next morning. I went into a corner and prayed to God, to allow me to take all the whipping, but to spare my boy. By and by, my mistress ran for me; she said “your master is dying!” I blew the horn to call people to us. My master lay on the floor—he never spoke afterwards, but he lived a week. He seemed to have his senses—he would make signs with his head. He would allow no one to pray with him. I prayed for him all the time he was sick. To the last, when they asked him to have prayers, he would shake his head.