William Brown

[An old man, apparently eighty years of age, nearly bald: what little hair he had was grey. His countenance wore a pleasant but subdued expression.]

I am not eighty—only sixty-three—but I am worked down, and worn out with hard work. Work all the time in the South—in Fauquier county, Va. When I began work in the morning, I could usually see a little red in the east, and I worked till ten before eating: at two I would eat again, and then work, at some seasons, until ten at night. Then I would have a pint of meal and a roasted herring. Tired and hungry—tired and hungry,–the slaves are obliged to steal; they are so hungry, that they will steal whatever they can find to eat.

I could generally find the tobacco worms by a hole through the leaf. But in the heat of the day, they get under a leaf and do not eat: and the hands passing along, breaking off suckers, do n’t always see them; then the overseer follows along behind looking, and if he finds the worm, the man is called back to kill it, and he gets five or six blows from the hickory or cow-hide.

In hoeing corn, the overseer will perhaps stand in the shade of a tree, where he can see the slaves; if they slacken work, he calls out to hurry them up, but he do n’t like to leave the shade of the tree, it is so hot. But sometimes, if a man drops behind, the overseer comes up, gives him some lashes, and then goes back to his tree.

The slaves work and the planter gets the benefit of it. It is wrong for him to have the money for their labor, and if a man goes to him for ten cents, to be refused. But they can’t prosper: Providence won’t let ’em. My master got all broke up at last, and started with his slaves for Missouri. I have a wife and three children that belonged to another master. When my master was about moving, the man that owned my family came to him and said: “William is old, and his family are here; his work won’t amount to much now. I will give you two hundred and twenty dollars for him, and let him stay with his family.” But my master cared nothing for that. “I can get that out of him in Missouri in three years,” says he. I had to leave my family behind.

When we got to Cincinnati, he put all the slaves but me in a boat and kept them on the Kentucky side. I took care of his five horses on board. He came on board just at night, and said, “Have you fed the horses?” “Yes, Mas’r.” “I want you to stay on board and look out for the horses, for I can put more dependence on you than on the others. Do n’t leave the boat, nor go up into the city to-night, for there are men here that catch all the niggers they can, and take them to New Orleans: so be sure, do n’t go ashore.” I said, “No, mas’r,”—but that no meant yes. In the evening, while he was on the other side, I looked for my bag of clothes which I had left on the top of every thing,—but I could n’t find it: that fellow had hid it. I searched among the things, but I could n’t find it anywhere. I went up into the city and passed a great many folks, but they took no notice of me. I wanted to find some abolitionists or quakers. At last, I saw two white men standing together, and spoke to them. They were friendly, and it was not long after that, I got into Canada.

It is three years ago that I left my family, and I do n’t know whether they are dead or alive. I want to hear from them.