prompt:
Chapter: ELIZA'S SORROWS--PREPARATION TO EMBARK--DRIVEN THROUGH THE STREETS
  OF WASHINGTON--HAIL, COLUMBIA--THE TOMB OF WASHINGTON--CLEM
  RAY--THE BREAKFAST ON THE STEAMER--THE HAPPY BIRDS--AQUIA
  CREEK--FREDERICKSBURGH--ARRIVAL IN RICHMOND--GOODIN AND HIS
  SLAVE PEN--ROBERT, OF CINCINNATI--DAVID AND HIS WIFE--MARY AND
  LETHE--CLEM'S RETURN--HIS SUBSEQUENT ESCAPE TO CANADA--THE BRIG
  ORLEANS--JAMES H. BURCH.

At intervals during the first night of Eliza's incarceration in the
pen, she complained bitterly of Jacob Brooks, her young mistress'
husband. She declared that had she been aware of the deception he
intended to practice upon her, he never would have brought her there
alive. They had chosen the opportunity of getting her away when
Master Berry was absent from the plantation. He had always been kind
to her. She wished that she could see him; but she knew that even
he was unable now to rescue her. Then would she commence weeping
again--kissing the sleeping children--talking first to one, then to
the other, as they lay in their unconscious slumbers, with their
heads upon her lap. So wore the long night away; and when the morning
dawned, and night had come again, still she kept mourning on, and
would not be consoled.

About midnight following, the cell door opened, and Burch and Radburn
entered, with lanterns in their hands. Burch, with an oath, ordered us
to roll up our blankets without delay, and get ready to go on board
the boat. He swore we would be left unless we hurried fast. He aroused
the children from their slumbers with a rough shake, and said they
were d--d sleepy, it appeared. Going out into the yard, he called Clem
Ray, ordering him to leave the loft and come into the cell, and bring
his blanket with him. When Clem appeared, he placed us side by side,
and fastened us together with hand-cuffs--my left hand to his right.
John Williams had been taken out a day or two before, his master
having redeemed him, greatly to his delight. Clem and I were ordered
to march, Eliza and the children following. We were conducted into
the yard, from thence into the covered passage, and up a flight of
steps through a side door into the upper room, where I had heard the
walking to and fro. Its furniture was a stove, a few old chairs, and a
long table, covered with papers. It was a white-washed room, without
any carpet on the floor, and seemed a sort of office. By one of the
windows, I remember, hung a rusty sword, which attracted my attention.
Burch's trunk was there. In obedience to his orders, I took hold of
one of its handles with my unfettered hand, while he taking hold of
the other, we proceeded out of the front door into the street in the
same order as we had left the cell.

It was a dark night. All was quiet. I could see lights, or the
reflection of them, over towards Pennsylvania Avenue, but there was
no one, not even a straggler, to be seen. I was almost resolved to
attempt to break away. Had I not been hand-cuffed the attempt would
certainly have been made, whatever consequence might have followed.
Radburn was in the rear, carrying a large stick, and hurrying up
the children as fast as the little ones could walk. So we passed,
hand-cuffed and in silence, through the streets of Washington--through
the Capital of a nation, whose theory of government, we are told,
rests on the foundation of man's inalienable right to life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness! Hail! Columbia, happy land, indeed!

Reaching the steamboat, we were quickly hustled into the hold, among
barrels and boxes of freight. A colored servant brought a light, the
bell rung, and soon the vessel started down the Potomac, carrying
us we knew not where. The bell tolled as we passed the tomb of
Washington! Burch, no doubt, with uncovered head, bowed reverently
before the sacred ashes of the man who devoted his illustrious life to
the liberty of his country.

None of us slept that night but Randall and little Emmy. For the first
time Clem Ray was wholly overcome. To him the idea of going south was
terrible in the extreme. He was leaving the friends and associations
of his youth--every thing that was dear and precious to his heart--in
all probability never to return. He and Eliza mingled their tears
together, bemoaning their cruel fate. For my own part, difficult as
it was, I endeavored to keep up my spirits. I resolved in my mind a
hundred plans of escape, and fully determined to make the attempt
the first desperate chance that offered. I had by this time become
satisfied, however, that my true policy was to say nothing further on
the subject of my having been born a freeman. It would but expose me
to mal-treatment, and diminish the chances of liberation.

After sunrise in the morning we were called up on deck to breakfast.
Burch took our hand-cuffs off, and we sat down to table. He asked
Eliza if she would take a dram. She declined, thanking him politely.
During the meal we were all silent--not a word passed between us. A
mulatto woman who served at table seemed to take an interest in our
behalf--told us to cheer up, and not to be so cast down. Breakfast
over, the hand-cuffs were restored, and Burch ordered us out on the
stern deck. We sat down together on some boxes, still saying nothing
in Burch's presence. Occasionally a passenger would walk out to where
we were, look at us for a while, then silently return.

It was a very pleasant morning. The fields along the river were
covered with verdure, far in advance of what I had been accustomed to
see at that season of the year. The sun shone out warmly; the birds
were singing in the trees. The happy birds--I envied them. I wished
for wings like them, that I might cleave the air to where my birdlings
waited vainly for their father's coming, in the cooler region of the
North.

In the forenoon the steamer reached Aquia Creek. There the passengers
took stages--Burch and his five slaves occupying one exclusively. He
laughed with the children, and at one stopping place went so far as to
purchase them a piece of gingerbread. He told me to hold up my head
and look smart. That I might, perhaps, get a good master if I behaved
myself. I made him no reply. His face was hateful to me, and I could
not bear to look upon it. I sat in the corner, cherishing in my heart
the hope, not yet extinct, of some day meeting the tyrant on the soil
of my native State.

At Fredericksburgh we were transferred from the stage coach to a car,
and before dark arrived in Richmond, the chief city of Virginia. At
this city we were taken from the cars, and driven through the street
to a slave pen, between the railroad depot and the river, kept by a
Mr. Goodin. This pen is similar to Williams' in Washington, except it
is somewhat larger; and besides, there were two small houses standing
at opposite corners within the yard. These houses are usually found
within slave yards, being used as rooms for the examination of human
chattels by purchasers before concluding a bargain. Unsoundness in a
slave, as well as in a horse, detracts materially from his value. If
no warranty is given, a close examination is a matter of particular
importance to the negro jockey.

We were met at the door of Goodin's yard by that gentleman himself--a
short, fat man, with a round, plump face, black hair and whiskers,
and a complexion almost as dark as some of his own negroes. He had a
hard, stern look, and was perhaps about fifty years of age. Burch and
he met with great cordiality. They were evidently old friends. Shaking
each other warmly by the hand, Burch remarked he had brought some
company, inquired at what time the brig would leave, and was answered
that it would probably leave the next day at such an hour. Goodin then
turned to me, took hold of my arm, turned me partly round, looked at
me sharply with the air of one who considered himself a good judge of
property, and as if estimating in his own mind about how much I was
worth.

"Well, boy, where did you come from?"

Forgetting myself, for a moment, I answered, "From New-York."

"New-York! H--l! what have you been doing up there?" was his
astonished interrogatory.

Observing Burch at this moment looking at me with an angry expression
that conveyed a meaning it was not difficult to understand, I
immediately said, "O, I have only been up that way a piece," in a
manner intended to imply that although I might have been as far as
New-York, yet I wished it distinctly understood that I did not belong
to that free State, nor to any other.

Goodin then turned to Clem, and then to Eliza and the children,
examining them severally, and asking various questions. He was pleased
with Emily, as was every one who saw the child's sweet countenance.
She was not as tidy as when I first beheld her; her hair was now
somewhat disheveled; but through its unkempt and soft profusion
there still beamed a little face of most surpassing loveliness.
"Altogether we were a fair lot--a devilish good lot," he said,
enforcing that opinion with more than one emphatic adjective not
found in the Christian vocabulary. Thereupon we passed into the yard.
Quite a number of slaves, as many as thirty I should say, were moving
about, or sitting on benches under the shed. They were all cleanly
dressed--the men with hats, the women with handkerchiefs tied about
their heads.

Burch and Goodin, after separating from us, walked up the steps at the
back part of the main building, and sat down upon the door sill. They
entered into conversation, but the subject of it I could not hear.
Presently Burch came down into the yard, unfettered me, and led me
into one of the small houses.

"You told that man you came from New-York," said he.

I replied, "I told him I had been up as far as New-York, to be sure,
but did not tell him I belonged there, nor that I was a freeman. I
meant no harm at all, Master Burch. I would not have said it had I
thought."

He looked at me a moment as if he was ready to devour me, then turning
round went out. In a few minutes he returned. "If ever I hear you say
a word about New-York, or about your freedom, I will be the death of
you--I will kill you; you may rely on that," he ejaculated fiercely.

I doubt not he understood then better than I did, the danger and the
penalty of selling a free man into slavery. He felt the necessity
of closing my mouth against the crime he knew he was committing. Of
course, my life would not have weighed a feather, in any emergency
requiring such a sacrifice. Undoubtedly, he meant precisely what he
said.

Under the shed on one side of the yard, there was constructed a rough
table, while overhead were sleeping lofts--the same as in the pen
at Washington. After partaking at this table of our supper of pork
and bread, I was hand-cuffed to a large yellow man, quite stout and
fleshy, with a countenance expressive of the utmost melancholy. He was
a man of intelligence and information. Chained together, it was not
long before we became acquainted with each other's history. His name
was Robert. Like myself, he had been born free, and had a wife and
two children in Cincinnati. He said he had come south with two men,
who had hired him in the city of his residence. Without free papers,
he had been seized at Fredericksburgh, placed in confinement, and
beaten until he had learned, as I had, the necessity and the policy
of silence. He had been in Goodin's pen about three weeks. To this
man I became much attached. We could sympathize with, and understand
each other. It was with tears and a heavy heart, not many days
subsequently, that I saw him die, and looked for the last time upon
his lifeless form!

Robert and myself, with Clem, Eliza and her children, slept that night
upon our blankets, in one of the small houses in the yard. There were
four others, all from the same plantation, who had been sold, and
were now on their way south, who also occupied it with us. David and
his wife, Caroline, both mulattoes, were exceedingly affected. They
dreaded the thought of being put into the cane and cotton fields;
but their greatest source of anxiety was the apprehension of being
separated. Mary, a tall, lithe girl, of a most jetty black, was
listless and apparently indifferent. Like many of the class, she
scarcely knew there was such a word as freedom. Brought up in the
ignorance of a brute, she possessed but little more than a brute's
intelligence. She was one of those, and there are very many, who fear
nothing but their master's lash, and know no further duty than to
obey his voice. The other was Lethe. She was of an entirely different
character. She had long, straight hair, and bore more the appearance
of an Indian than a negro woman. She had sharp and spiteful eyes, and
continually gave utterance to the language of hatred and revenge.
Her husband had been sold. She knew not where she was. An exchange
of masters, she was sure, could not be for the worse. She cared not
whither they might carry her. Pointing to the scars upon her face, the
desperate creature wished that she might see the day when she could
wipe them off in some man's blood!

While we were thus learning the history of each other's wretchedness,
Eliza was seated in a corner by herself, singing hymns and praying
for her children. Wearied from the loss of so much sleep, I could
no longer bear up against the advances of that "sweet restorer,"
and laying down by the side of Robert, on the floor, soon forgot my
troubles, and slept until the dawn of day.

In the morning, having swept the yard, and washed ourselves, under
Goodin's superintendence, we were ordered to roll up our blankets, and
make ready for the continuance of our journey. Clem Ray was informed
that he would go no further, Burch, for some cause, having concluded
to carry him back to Washington. He was much rejoiced. Shaking hands,
we parted in the slave pen at Richmond, and I have not seen him
since. But, much to my surprise, since my return, I learned that he
had escaped from bondage, and on his way to the free soil of Canada,
lodged one night at the house of my brother-in-law in Saratoga,
informing my family of the place and the condition in which he left me.

In the afternoon we were drawn up, two abreast, Robert and myself in
advance, and in this order, driven by Burch and Goodin from the yard,
through the streets of Richmond to the brig Orleans. She was a vessel
of respectable size, full rigged, and freighted principally with
tobacco. We were all on board by five o'clock. Burch brought us each
a tin cup and a spoon. There were forty of us in the brig, being all,
except Clem, that were in the pen.

With a small pocket knife that had not been taken from me, I began
cutting the initials of my name upon the tin cup. The others
immediately flocked round me, requesting me to mark theirs in a
similar manner. In time, I gratified them all, of which they did not
appear to be forgetful.

We were all stowed away in the hold at night, and the hatch barred
down. We laid on boxes, or where-ever there was room enough to stretch
our blankets on the floor.

Burch accompanied us no farther than Richmond, returning from that
point to the capital with Clem. Not until the lapse of almost twelve
years, to wit, in January last, in the Washington police office, did I
set my eyes upon his face again.

James H. Burch was a slave-trader--buying men, women and children
at low prices, and selling them at an advance. He was a speculator
in human flesh--a disreputable calling--and so considered at the
South. For the present he disappears from the scenes recorded in
this narrative, but he will appear again before its close, not in
the character of a man-whipping tyrant, but as an arrested, cringing
criminal in a court of law, that failed to do him justice.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It is a long night, and Eliza speaks bitterly of Mr. Brooks and how Elisha would never have done that to her. Around midnight, Burch enters and tells the group to get ready to go on the boat without delay. They are marched through the silent streets of Washington. Little lights flicker, but no one is out of bed. Solomon considers breaking away, but he is handcuffed. They pass through the city of Washington, a city ironically dedicated to liberty and equality. The slaves are hustled onto the steamboat and the vessel starts down the Potomac. Clem Ray is wholly overcome with the idea of going south, and he and Eliza bemoan their cruel fate. Solomon will say nothing more of being a free man, but he resolves that he must escape. The next day, the boat continues along. The fields along the river are lovely and birds are singing. They make it first to Fredericksburg, and then to Richmond. In Richmond, the slaves are taken off the ship to a slave pen. When the man, Goodin, looks at Solomon and asks where he came from, Solomon accidentally responds with New York. He tries to cover his tracks, especially as Burch looks at him. Burch approaches him later and threatens him, but Solomon promises he meant no harm. Solomon is handcuffed to a man named Robert who is also free but captured. The two lament their shared situation. There is a couple, David and Caroline, who are mulatto and distressed to be separated; there is a girl named Mary, who never knew anything but brute treatment; and there is Lethe, who looked more like a Native American woman, full of revenge and anger. In the morning Clem Ray learns he will be taken back to Washington, and he is overjoyed. Solomon later learns Ray escaped to Canada. The others are taken to a ship and stowed away in the hatch. Burch and Ray remain in Richmond. Solomon doesn't see Burch's face again until twelve years later. Burch is a slave trader, a speculator in human flesh, but he will eventually be seen as a criminal, cringing and unassisted by the law


prompt:
Chapter: ARRIVAL AT NORFOLK--FREDERICK AND MARIA--ARTHUR, THE
  FREEMAN--APPOINTED STEWARD--JIM, CUFFEE, AND JENNY--THE STORM--BAHAMA
  BANKS--THE CALM--THE CONSPIRACY--THE LONG BOAT--THE SMALL-POX--DEATH
  OF ROBERT--MANNING, THE SAILOR--THE MEETING IN THE FORECASTLE--THE
  LETTER--ARRIVAL AT NEW-ORLEANS--ARTHUR'S RESCUE--THEOPHILUS FREEMAN,
  THE CONSIGNEE--PLATT--FIRST NIGHT IN THE NEW-ORLEANS SLAVE PEN.

After we were all on board, the brig Orleans proceeded down James
River. Passing into Chesapeake Bay, we arrived next day opposite the
city of Norfolk. While lying at anchor, a lighter approached us from
the town, bringing four more slaves. Frederick, a boy of eighteen,
had been born a slave, as also had Henry, who was some years older.
They had both been house servants in the city. Maria was a rather
genteel looking colored girl, with a faultless form, but ignorant
and extremely vain. The idea of going to New-Orleans was pleasing
to her. She entertained an extravagantly high opinion of her own
attractions. Assuming a haughty mien, she declared to her companions,
that immediately on our arrival in New-Orleans, she had no doubt, some
wealthy single gentleman of good taste would purchase her at once!

But the most prominent of the four, was a man named Arthur. As the
lighter approached, he struggled stoutly with his keepers. It was
with main force that he was dragged aboard the brig. He protested, in
a loud voice, against the treatment he was receiving, and demanded
to be released. His face was swollen, and covered with wounds and
bruises, and, indeed, one side of it was a complete raw sore. He was
forced, with all haste, down the hatchway into the hold. I caught
an outline of his story as he was borne struggling along, of which
he afterwards gave me a more full relation, and it was as follows:
He had long resided in the city of Norfolk, and was a free man. He
had a family living there, and was a mason by trade. Having been
unusually detained, he was returning late one night to his house in
the suburbs of the city, when he was attacked by a gang of persons
in an unfrequented street. He fought until his strength failed him.
Overpowered at last, he was gagged and bound with ropes, and beaten,
until he became insensible. For several days they secreted him in the
slave pen at Norfolk--a very common establishment, it appears, in
the cities of the South. The night before, he had been taken out and
put on board the lighter, which, pushing out from shore, had awaited
our arrival. For some time he continued his protestations, and was
altogether irreconcilable. At length, however, he became silent. He
sank into a gloomy and thoughtful mood, and appeared to be counseling
with himself. There was in the man's determined face, something that
suggested the thought of desperation.

After leaving Norfolk the hand-cuffs were taken off, and during the
day we were allowed to remain on deck. The captain selected Robert as
his waiter, and I was appointed to superintend the cooking department,
and the distribution of food and water. I had three assistants, Jim,
Cuffee and Jenny. Jenny's business was to prepare the coffee, which
consisted of corn meal scorched in a kettle, boiled and sweetened with
molasses. Jim and Cuffee baked the hoe-cake and boiled the bacon.

Standing by a table, formed of a wide board resting on the heads of
the barrels, I cut and handed to each a slice of meat and a "dodger"
of the bread, and from Jenny's kettle also dipped out for each a
cup of the coffee. The use of plates was dispensed with, and their
sable fingers took the place of knives and forks. Jim and Cuffee were
very demure and attentive to business, somewhat inflated with their
situation as second cooks, and without doubt feeling that there was
a great responsibility resting on them. I was called steward--a name
given me by the captain.

The slaves were fed twice a day, at ten and five o'clock--always
receiving the same kind and quantity of fare, and in the same manner
as above described. At night we were driven into the hold, and
securely fastened down.

Scarcely were we out of sight of land before we were overtaken by
a violent storm. The brig rolled and plunged until we feared she
would go down. Some were sea-sick, others on their knees praying,
while some were fast holding to each other, paralyzed with fear. The
sea-sickness rendered the place of our confinement loathsome and
disgusting. It would have been a happy thing for most of us--it would
have saved the agony of many hundred lashes, and miserable deaths at
last--had the compassionate sea snatched us that day from the clutches
of remorseless men. The thought of Randall and little Emmy sinking
down among the monsters of the deep, is a more pleasant contemplation
than to think of them as they are now, perhaps, dragging out lives of
unrequited toil.

When in sight of the Bahama Banks, at a place called Old Point
Compass, or the Hole in the Wall, we were becalmed three days. There
was scarcely a breath of air. The waters of the gulf presented a
singularly white appearance, like lime water.

In the order of events, I come now to the relation of an occurrence,
which I never call to mind but with sensations of regret. I thank God,
who has since permitted me to escape from the thralldom of slavery,
that through his merciful interposition I was prevented from imbruing
my hands in the blood of his creatures. Let not those who have never
been placed in like circumstances, judge me harshly. Until they have
been chained and beaten--until they find themselves in the situation I
was, borne away from home and family towards a land of bondage--let
them refrain from saying what they would not do for liberty. How
far I should have been justified in the sight of God and man, it is
unnecessary now to speculate upon. It is enough to say that I am able
to congratulate myself upon the harmless termination of an affair
which threatened, for a time, to be attended with serious results.

Towards evening, on the first day of the calm, Arthur and myself were
in the bow of the vessel, seated on the windlass. We were conversing
together of the probable destiny that awaited us, and mourning
together over our misfortunes. Arthur said, and I agreed with him,
that death was far less terrible than the living prospect that was
before us. For a long time we talked of our children, our past lives,
and of the probabilities of escape. Obtaining possession of the brig
was suggested by one of us. We discussed the possibility of our being
able, in such an event, to make our way to the harbor of New-York. I
knew little of the compass; but the idea of risking the experiment was
eagerly entertained. The chances, for and against us, in an encounter
with the crew, was canvassed. Who could be relied upon, and who could
not, the proper time and manner of the attack, were all talked over
and over again. From the moment the plot suggested itself I began
to hope. I revolved it constantly in my mind. As difficulty after
difficulty arose, some ready conceit was at hand, demonstrating how
it could be overcome. While others slept, Arthur and I were maturing
our plans. At length, with much caution, Robert was gradually made
acquainted with our intentions. He approved of them at once, and
entered into the conspiracy with a zealous spirit. There was not
another slave we dared to trust. Brought up in fear and ignorance as
they are, it can scarcely be conceived how servilely they will cringe
before a white man's look. It was not safe to deposit so bold a secret
with any of them, and finally we three resolved to take upon ourselves
alone the fearful responsibility of the attempt.

At night, as has been said, we were driven into the hold, and the
hatch barred down. How to reach the deck was the first difficulty that
presented itself. On the bow of the brig, however, I had observed the
small boat lying bottom upwards. It occurred to me that by secreting
ourselves underneath it, we would not be missed from the crowd, as
they were hurried down into the hold at night. I was selected to make
the experiment, in order to satisfy ourselves of its feasibility. The
next evening, accordingly, after supper, watching my opportunity,
I hastily concealed myself beneath it. Lying close upon the deck,
I could see what was going on around me, while wholly unperceived
myself. In the morning, as they came up, I slipped from my hiding
place without being observed. The result was entirely satisfactory.

The captain and mate slept in the cabin of the former. From Robert,
who had frequent occasion, in his capacity of waiter, to make
observations in that quarter, we ascertained the exact position of
their respective berths. He further informed us that there were always
two pistols and a cutlass lying on the table. The crew's cook slept in
the cook galley on deck, a sort of vehicle on wheels, that could be
moved about as convenience required, while the sailors, numbering only
six, either slept in the forecastle, or in hammocks swung among the
rigging.

Finally our arrangements were all completed. Arthur and I were to
steal silently to the captain's cabin, seize the pistols and cutlass,
and as quickly as possible despatch him and the mate. Robert,
with a club, was to stand by the door leading from the deck down
into the cabin, and, in case of necessity, beat back the sailors,
until we could hurry to his assistance. We were to proceed then as
circumstances might require. Should the attack be so sudden and
successful as to prevent resistance, the hatch was to remain barred
down; otherwise the slaves were to be called up, and in the crowd, and
hurry, and confusion of the time, we resolved to regain our liberty or
lose our lives. I was then to assume the unaccustomed place of pilot,
and, steering northward, we trusted that some lucky wind might bear us
to the soil of freedom.

The mate's name was Biddee, the captain's I cannot now recall, though
I rarely ever forget a name once heard. The captain was a small,
genteel man, erect and prompt, with a proud bearing, and looked the
personification of courage. If he is still living, and these pages
should chance to meet his eye, he will learn a fact connected with
the voyage of the brig, from Richmond to New-Orleans, in 1841, not
entered on his log-book.

We were all prepared, and impatiently waiting an opportunity of
putting our designs into execution, when they were frustrated by a
sad and unforeseen event. Robert was taken ill. It was soon announced
that he had the small-pox. He continued to grow worse, and four days
previous to our arrival in New-Orleans he died. One of the sailors
sewed him in his blanket, with a large stone from the ballast at his
feet, and then laying him on a hatchway, and elevating it with tackles
above the railing, the inanimate body of poor Robert was consigned to
the white waters of the gulf.

We were all panic-stricken by the appearance of the small-pox. The
captain ordered lime to be scattered through the hold, and other
prudent precautions to be taken. The death of Robert, however, and the
presence of the malady, oppressed me sadly, and I gazed out over the
great waste of waters with a spirit that was indeed disconsolate.

An evening or two after Robert's burial, I was leaning on the hatchway
near the forecastle, full of desponding thoughts, when a sailor in a
kind voice asked me why I was so down-hearted. The tone and manner
of the man assured me, and I answered, because I was a freeman, and
had been kidnapped. He remarked that it was enough to make any one
down-hearted, and continued to interrogate me until he learned the
particulars of my whole history. He was evidently much interested
in my behalf, and, in the blunt speech of a sailor, swore he would
aid me all he could, if it "split his timbers." I requested him to
furnish me pen, ink and paper, in order that I might write to some
of my friends. He promised to obtain them--but how I could use them
undiscovered was a difficulty. If I could only get into the forecastle
while his watch was off, and the other sailors asleep, the thing could
be accomplished. The small boat instantly occurred to me. He thought
we were not far from the Balize, at the mouth of the Mississippi, and
it was necessary that the letter be written soon, or the opportunity
would be lost. Accordingly, by arrangement, I managed the next night
to secret myself again under the long-boat. His watch was off at
twelve. I saw him pass into the forecastle, and in about an hour
followed him. He was nodding over a table, half asleep, on which a
sickly light was flickering, and on which also was a pen and sheet
of paper. As I entered he aroused, beckoned me to a seat beside him,
and pointed to the paper. I directed the letter to Henry B. Northup,
of Sandy Hill--stating that I had been kidnapped, was then on board
the brig Orleans, bound for New-Orleans; that it was then impossible
for me to conjecture my ultimate destination, and requesting he would
take measures to rescue me. The letter was sealed and directed, and
Manning, having read it, promised to deposit it in the New-Orleans
post-office. I hastened back to my place under the long-boat, and in
the morning, as the slaves came up and were walking round, crept out
unnoticed and mingled with them.

My good friend, whose name was John Manning, was an Englishman by
birth, and a noble-hearted, generous sailor as ever walked a deck. He
had lived in Boston--was a tall, well-built man, about twenty-four
years old, with a face somewhat pock-marked, but full of benevolent
expression.

Nothing to vary the monotony of our daily life occurred, until we
reached New-Orleans. On coming to the levee, and before the vessel was
made fast, I saw Manning leap on shore and hurry away into the city.
As he started off he looked back over his shoulder significantly,
giving me to understand the object of his errand. Presently he
returned, and passing close by me, hunched me with his elbow, with a
peculiar wink, as much as to say, "it is all right."

The letter, as I have since learned, reached Sandy Hill. Mr. Northup
visited Albany and laid it before Governor Seward, but inasmuch as
it gave no definite information as to my probable locality, it was
not, at that time, deemed advisable to institute measures for my
liberation. It was concluded to delay, trusting that a knowledge of
where I was might eventually be obtained.

A happy and touching scene was witnessed immediately upon our
reaching the levee. Just as Manning left the brig, on his way to the
post-office, two men came up and called aloud for Arthur. The latter,
as he recognized them, was almost crazy with delight. He could hardly
be restrained from leaping over the brig's side; and when they met
soon after, he grasped them by the hand, and clung to them a long,
long time. They were men from Norfolk, who had come on to New-Orleans
to rescue him. His kidnappers, they informed him, had been arrested,
and were then confined in the Norfolk prison. They conversed a few
moments with the captain, and then departed with the rejoicing Arthur.

But in all the crowd that thronged the wharf, there was no one who
knew or cared for me. Not one. No familiar voice greeted my ears, nor
was there a single face that I had ever seen. Soon Arthur would rejoin
his family, and have the satisfaction of seeing his wrongs avenged:
my family, alas, should I ever see them more? There was a feeling
of utter desolation in my heart, filling it with a despairing and
regretful sense, that I had not gone down with Robert to the bottom of
the sea.

Very soon traders and consignees came on board. One, a tall,
thin-faced man, with light complexion and a little bent, made his
appearance, with a paper in his hand. Burch's gang, consisting of
myself, Eliza and her children, Harry, Lethe, and some others, who had
joined us at Richmond, were consigned to him. This gentleman was Mr.
Theophilus Freeman. Reading from his paper, he called, "Platt." No one
answered. The name was called again and again, but still there was no
reply. Then Lethe was called, then Eliza, then Harry, until the list
was finished, each one stepping forward as his or her name was called.

"Captain, where's Platt?" demanded Theophilus Freeman.

The captain was unable to inform him, no one being on board answering
to that name.

"Who shipped _that_ nigger?" he again inquired of the captain,
pointing to me.

"Burch," replied the captain.

"Your name is Platt--you answer my description. Why don't you come
forward?" he demanded of me, in an angry tone.

I informed him that was not my name; that I had never been called by
it, but that I had no objection to it as I knew of.

"Well, I will learn you your name," said he; "and so you won't forget
it either, by ----," he added.

Mr. Theophilus Freeman, by the way, was not a whit behind his partner,
Burch, in the matter of blasphemy. On the vessel I had gone by the
name of "Steward," and this was the first time I had ever been
designated as Platt--the name forwarded by Burch to his consignee.
From the vessel I observed the chain-gang at work on the levee. We
passed near them as we were driven to Freeman's slave pen. This pen is
very similar to Goodin's in Richmond, except the yard was enclosed by
plank, standing upright, with ends sharpened, instead of brick walls.

Including us, there were now at least fifty in this pen. Depositing
our blankets in one of the small buildings in the yard, and having
been called up and fed, we were allowed to saunter about the enclosure
until night, when we wrapped our blankets round us and laid down
under the shed, or in the loft, or in the open yard, just as each one
preferred.

It was but a short time I closed my eyes that night. Thought was
busy in my brain. Could it be possible that I was thousands of miles
from home--that I had been driven through the streets like a dumb
beast--that I had been chained and beaten without mercy--that I was
even then herded with a drove of slaves, a slave myself? Were the
events of the last few weeks realities indeed?--or was I passing only
through the dismal phases of a long, protracted dream? It was no
illusion. My cup of sorrow was full to overflowing. Then I lifted up
my hands to God, and in the still watches of the night, surrounded by
the sleeping forms of my companions, begged for mercy on the poor,
forsaken captive. To the Almighty Father of us all--the freeman and
the slave--I poured forth the supplications of a broken spirit,
imploring strength from on high to bear up against the burden of my
troubles, until the morning light aroused the slumberers, ushering in
another day of bondage.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The brig Orleans heads downriver and arrives at Norfolk, where it takes on four more slaves. One, Arthur, had also been a free man, and he struggles mightily before he is subdued. During the day, the slaves are allowed to remain on deck. Solomon is in charge of cooking. In the evening, they are locked in the hold. Solomon asks the reader not to judge him too harshly for what he is about to relate: he and the other slaves planned a mutiny, and they were going to have to kill the first mate and the captain. Unfortunately, though, Robert contracts smallpox and he dies when the brig reaches New Orleans. Everyone on board is panic-stricken by smallpox, which compounds Solomon's frustration that the mutiny could not occur. One sailor kindly asks Solomon why he is so down, and, trusting the man's warm mien, Solomon tells him the truth. The man promises to take a letter from Solomon and mail it to Henry B. Northup. Solomon later learns it did reach Sandy Hill and that Northup took it to Governor Seward, but there was no info about Solomon's location at the time so there was nothing to do but wait. On the crowded wharf in New Orleans, Solomon realizes that he knows no one. His wrongs will not be avenged and he feels desolate. Traders and consignees come aboard the ship. Burch's gang is consigned to Burch's partner, Theophilus Freeman. Freeman calls out for "Platt" and no one answers. He consults his list, looks at Solomon, and tells him he answers the description so therefore must be Platt. From now on, this will be his name. The group is taken to Freeman's slave pen, where about fifty people are staying. That night, Solomon is still overcome by the absurdity and horror of his situation. Is this real. His sorrow seems to be overflowing, and he cries out to God


prompt:
Chapter: FREEMAN'S INDUSTRY--CLEANLINESS AND CLOTHES--EXERCISING IN THE SHOW
  ROOM--THE DANCE--BOB, THE FIDDLER--ARRIVAL OF CUSTOMERS--SLAVES
  EXAMINED--THE OLD GENTLEMAN OF NEW-ORLEANS--SALE OF DAVID,
  CAROLINE AND LETHE--PARTING OF RANDALL AND ELIZA--SMALL POX--THE
  HOSPITAL--RECOVERY AND RETURN TO FREEMAN'S SLAVE PEN--THE PURCHASER
  OF ELIZA, HARRY AND PLATT--ELIZA'S AGONY ON PARTING FROM LITTLE EMILY.

The very amiable, pious-hearted Mr. Theophilus Freeman, partner
or consignee of James H. Burch, and keeper of the slave pen in
New-Orleans, was out among his animals early in the morning. With an
occasional kick of the older men and women, and many a sharp crack of
the whip about the ears of the younger slaves, it was not long before
they were all astir, and wide awake. Mr. Theophilus Freeman bustled
about in a very industrious manner, getting his property ready for the
sales-room, intending, no doubt, to do that day a rousing business.

In the first place we were required to wash thoroughly, and those with
beards, to shave. We were then furnished with a new suit each, cheap,
but clean. The men had hat, coat, shirt, pants and shoes; the women
frocks of calico, and handkerchiefs to bind about their heads. We were
now conducted into a large room in the front part of the building
to which the yard was attached, in order to be properly trained,
before the admission of customers. The men were arranged on one side
of the room, the women on the other. The tallest was placed at the
head of the row, then the next tallest, and so on in the order of
their respective heights. Emily was at the foot of the line of women.
Freeman charged us to remember our places; exhorted us to appear smart
and lively,--sometimes threatening, and again, holding out various
inducements. During the day he exercised us in the art of "looking
smart," and of moving to our places with exact precision.

After being fed, in the afternoon, we were again paraded and made to
dance. Bob, a colored boy, who had some time belonged to Freeman,
played on the violin. Standing near him, I made bold to inquire if he
could play the "Virginia Reel." He answered he could not, and asked me
if I could play. Replying in the affirmative, he handed me the violin.
I struck up a tune, and finished it. Freeman ordered me to continue
playing, and seemed well pleased, telling Bob that I far excelled
him--a remark that seemed to grieve my musical companion very much.

Next day many customers called to examine Freeman's "new lot." The
latter gentleman was very loquacious, dwelling at much length upon our
several good points and qualities. He would make us hold up our heads,
walk briskly back and forth, while customers would feel of our hands
and arms and bodies, turn us about, ask us what we could do, make us
open our mouths and show our teeth, precisely as a jockey examines
a horse which he is about to barter for or purchase. Sometimes a man
or woman was taken back to the small house in the yard, stripped, and
inspected more minutely. Scars upon a slave's back were considered
evidence of a rebellious or unruly spirit, and hurt his sale.

One old gentleman, who said he wanted a coachman, appeared to take
a fancy to me. From his conversation with Burch, I learned he was
a resident in the city. I very much desired that he would buy me,
because I conceived it would not be difficult to make my escape from
New-Orleans on some northern vessel. Freeman asked him fifteen hundred
dollars for me. The old gentleman insisted it was too much, as times
were very hard. Freeman, however, declared that I was sound and
healthy, of a good constitution, and intelligent. He made it a point
to enlarge upon my musical attainments. The old gentleman argued quite
adroitly that there was nothing extraordinary about the nigger, and
finally, to my regret, went out, saying he would call again. During
the day, however, a number of sales were made. David and Caroline
were purchased together by a Natchez planter. They left us, grinning
broadly, and in the most happy state of mind, caused by the fact of
their not being separated. Lethe was sold to a planter of Baton Rouge,
her eyes flashing with anger as she was led away.

The same man also purchased Randall. The little fellow was made
to jump, and run across the floor, and perform many other feats,
exhibiting his activity and condition. All the time the trade was
going on, Eliza was crying aloud, and wringing her hands. She besought
the man not to buy him, unless he also bought herself and Emily.
She promised, in that case, to be the most faithful slave that ever
lived. The man answered that he could not afford it, and then Eliza
burst into a paroxysm of grief, weeping plaintively. Freeman turned
round to her, savagely, with his whip in his uplifted hand, ordering
her to stop her noise, or he would flog her. He would not have such
work--such snivelling; and unless she ceased that minute, he would
take her to the yard and give her a hundred lashes. Yes, he would
take the nonsense out of her pretty quick--if he didn't, might he be
d--d. Eliza shrunk before him, and tried to wipe away her tears, but
it was all in vain. She wanted to be with her children, she said, the
little time she had to live. All the frowns and threats of Freeman,
could not wholly silence the afflicted mother. She kept on begging and
beseeching them, most piteously, not to separate the three. Over and
over again she told them how she loved her boy. A great many times she
repeated her former promises--how very faithful and obedient she would
be; how hard she would labor day and night, to the last moment of her
life, if he would only buy them all together. But it was of no avail;
the man could not afford it. The bargain was agreed upon, and Randall
must go alone. Then Eliza ran to him; embraced him passionately;
kissed him again and again; told him to remember her--all the while
her tears falling in the boy's face like rain.

Freeman damned her, calling her a blubbering, bawling wench, and
ordered her to go to her place, and behave herself, and be somebody.
He swore he wouldn't stand such stuff but a little longer. He would
soon give her something to cry about, if she was not mighty careful,
and _that_ she might depend upon.

The planter from Baton Rouge, with his new purchases, was ready to
depart.

"Don't cry, mama. I will be a good boy. Don't cry," said Randall,
looking back, as they passed out of the door.

What has become of the lad, God knows. It was a mournful scene indeed.
I would have cried myself if I had dared.

That night, nearly all who came in on the brig Orleans, were taken
ill. They complained of violent pain in the head and back. Little
Emily--a thing unusual with her--cried constantly. In the morning
a physician was called in, but was unable to determine the nature
of our complaint. While examining me, and asking questions touching
my symptoms, I gave it as my opinion that it was an attack of
small-pox--mentioning the fact of Robert's death as the reason of my
belief. It might be so indeed, he thought, and he would send for the
head physician of the hospital. Shortly, the head physician came--a
small, light-haired man, whom they called Dr. Carr. He pronounced
it small-pox, whereupon there was much alarm throughout the yard.
Soon after Dr. Carr left, Eliza, Emmy, Harry and myself were put into
a hack and driven to the hospital--a large white marble building,
standing on the outskirts of the city. Harry and I were placed in a
room in one of the upper stories. I became very sick. For three days
I was entirely blind. While lying in this state one day, Bob came in,
saying to Dr. Carr that Freeman had sent him over to inquire how we
were getting on. Tell him, said the doctor, that Platt is very bad,
but that if he survives until nine o'clock, he may recover.

I expected to die. Though there was little in the prospect before
me worth living for, the near approach of death appalled me. I
thought I could have been resigned to yield up my life in the bosom
of my family, but to expire in the midst of strangers, under such
circumstances, was a bitter reflection.

There were a great number in the hospital, of both sexes, and of all
ages. In the rear of the building coffins were manufactured. When one
died, the bell tolled--a signal to the undertaker to come and bear
away the body to the potter's field. Many times, each day and night,
the tolling bell sent forth its melancholy voice, announcing another
death. But my time had not yet come. The crisis having passed, I began
to revive, and at the end of two weeks and two days, returned with
Harry to the pen, bearing upon my face the effects of the malady,
which to this day continues to disfigure it. Eliza and Emily were
also brought back next day in a hack, and again were we paraded in
the sales-room, for the inspection and examination of purchasers. I
still indulged the hope that the old gentleman in search of a coachman
would call again, as he had promised, and purchase me. In that event
I felt an abiding confidence that I would soon regain my liberty.
Customer after customer entered, but the old gentleman never made his
appearance.

At length, one day, while we were in the yard, Freeman came out and
ordered us to our places, in the great room. A gentleman was waiting
for us as we entered, and inasmuch as he will be often mentioned
in the progress of this narrative, a description of his personal
appearance, and my estimation of his character, at first sight, may
not be out of place.

He was a man above the ordinary height, somewhat bent and stooping
forward. He was a good-looking man, and appeared to have reached about
the middle age of life. There was nothing repulsive in his presence;
but on the other hand, there was something cheerful and attractive in
his face, and in his tone of voice. The finer elements were all kindly
mingled in his breast, as any one could see. He moved about among us,
asking many questions, as to what we could do, and what labor we had
been accustomed to; if we thought we would like to live with him, and
would be good boys if he would buy us, and other interrogatories of
like character.

After some further inspection, and conversation touching prices, he
finally offered Freeman one thousand dollars for me, nine hundred
for Harry, and seven hundred for Eliza. Whether the small-pox had
depreciated our value, or from what cause Freeman had concluded
to fall five hundred dollars from the price I was before held at,
I cannot say. At any rate, after a little shrewd reflection, he
announced his acceptance of the offer.

As soon as Eliza heard it, she was in an agony again. By this time
she had become haggard and hollow-eyed with sickness and with sorrow.
It would be a relief if I could consistently pass over in silence
the scene that now ensued. It recalls memories more mournful and
affecting than any language can portray. I have seen mothers kissing
for the last time the faces of their dead offspring; I have seen them
looking down into the grave, as the earth fell with a dull sound upon
their coffins, hiding them from their eyes forever; but never have I
seen such an exhibition of intense, unmeasured, and unbounded grief,
as when Eliza was parted from her child. She broke from her place
in the line of women, and rushing down where Emily was standing,
caught her in her arms. The child, sensible of some impending danger,
instinctively fastened her hands around her mother's neck, and nestled
her little head upon her bosom. Freeman sternly ordered her to be
quiet, but she did not heed him. He caught her by the arm and pulled
her rudely, but she only clung the closer to the child. Then, with
a volley of great oaths, he struck her such a heartless blow, that
she staggered backward, and was like to fall. Oh! how piteously then
did she beseech and beg and pray that they might not be separated.
Why could they not be purchased together? Why not let her have one
of her dear children? "Mercy, mercy, master!" she cried, falling on
her knees. "Please, master, buy Emily. I can never work any if she is
taken from me: I will die."

Freeman interfered again, but, disregarding him, she still plead most
earnestly, telling how Randall had been taken from her--how she never
would see him again, and now it was too bad--oh, God! it was too bad,
too cruel, to take her away from Emily--her pride--her only darling,
that could not live, it was so young, without its mother!

Finally, after much more of supplication, the purchaser of Eliza
stepped forward, evidently affected, and said to Freeman he would buy
Emily, and asked him what her price was.

"What is her _price_? _Buy_ her?" was the responsive interrogatory of
Theophilus Freeman. And instantly answering his own inquiry, he added,
"I won't sell her. She's not for sale."

The man remarked he was not in need of one so young--that it would be
of no profit to him, but since the mother was so fond of her, rather
than see them separated, he would pay a reasonable price. But to this
humane proposal Freeman was entirely deaf. He would not sell her then
on any account whatever. There were heaps and piles of money to be
made of her, he said, when she was a few years older. There were men
enough in New-Orleans who would give five thousand dollars for such
an extra, handsome, fancy piece as Emily would be, rather than not
get her. No, no, he would not sell her then. She was a beauty--a
picture--a doll--one of the regular bloods--none of your thick-lipped,
bullet-headed, cotton-picking niggers--if she was might he be d--d.

When Eliza heard Freeman's determination not to part with Emily, she
became absolutely frantic.

"I will _not_ go without her. They shall _not_ take her from me," she
fairly shrieked, her shrieks commingling with the loud and angry voice
of Freeman, commanding her to be silent.

Meantime Harry and myself had been to the yard and returned with our
blankets, and were at the front door ready to leave. Our purchaser
stood near us, gazing at Eliza with an expression indicative of regret
at having bought her at the expense of so much sorrow. We waited some
time, when, finally, Freeman, out of patience, tore Emily from her
mother by main force, the two clinging to each other with all their
might.

"Don't leave me, mama--don't leave me," screamed the child, as its
mother was pushed harshly forward; "Don't leave me--come back, mama,"
she still cried, stretching forth her little arms imploringly. But
she cried in vain. Out of the door and into the street we were
quickly hurried. Still we could hear her calling to her mother,
"Come back--don't leave me--come back, mama," until her infant voice
grew faint and still more faint, and gradually died away, as distance
intervened, and finally was wholly lost.

Eliza never after saw or heard of Emily or Randall. Day nor night,
however, were they ever absent from her memory. In the cotton field,
in the cabin, always and everywhere, she was talking of them--often
_to_ them, as if they were actually present. Only when absorbed
in that illusion, or asleep, did she ever have a moment's comfort
afterwards.

She was no common slave, as has been said. To a large share of natural
intelligence which she possessed, was added a general knowledge and
information on most subjects. She had enjoyed opportunities such as
are afforded to very few of her oppressed class. She had been lifted
up into the regions of a higher life. Freedom--freedom for herself
and for her offspring, for many years had been her cloud by day, her
pillar of fire by night. In her pilgrimage through the wilderness of
bondage, with eyes fixed upon that hope-inspiring beacon, she had
at length ascended to "the top of Pisgah," and beheld "the land of
promise." In an unexpected moment she was utterly overwhelmed with
disappointment and despair. The glorious vision of liberty faded from
her sight as they led her away into captivity. Now "she weepeth sore
in the night, and tears are on her cheeks: all her friends have dealt
treacherously with her: they have become her enemies."

[Illustration: SEPERATION OF ELIZA AND HER LAST CHILD.]

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The next day, the slaves wash and get dressed for the sales-room. They are to be smart, lively, and polite, and Solomon plays the violin. Many customers come to inspect the group. One old gentleman almost buys Northup, but Freeman will not take the price he offers. A planter from Baton Rouge purchases Lethe and the boy Randall. Eliza is hysterical and begs him to buy her too, but the man cannot afford it. Freeman threatens her to be quiet; the man, Randall, and Lethe depart. That evening in the pen, little Emily complains of feeling ill. It turns out that all of those who came on the brig Orleans have come down with smallpox. Solomon is blind for three days and almost dies. Though his circumstances are grim, death appalls him. Thankfully, he recovers. One day after the pox has passed, Freeman calls everyone to the room. There is a good-looking and cheerful middle-aged man there, and he moves about the group of slaves. He offers a sum for Solomon, Eliza, and Harry. When Eliza hears she is to be separated from Emily, she becomes hysterical again, weeping and clinging to the child. She begs the man to buy Emily, but Freeman asserts that the girl is not for sale because in a few years her beauty will make her a prime offering. Freeman tears Emily away from Eliza and takes his new slaves away. Eliza never hears of nor sees Emily or Randall after that. Her intelligence, information, and brief time experiencing a higher life make this situation utterly unbearable to her


prompt:
Chapter: THE STEAMBOAT RODOLPH--DEPARTURE FROM NEW-ORLEANS--WILLIAM
  FORD--ARRIVAL AT ALEXANDRIA, ON RED RIVER--RESOLUTIONS--THE GREAT
  PINE WOODS--WILD CATTLE--MARTIN'S SUMMER RESIDENCE--THE TEXAS
  ROAD--ARRIVAL AT MASTER FORD'S--ROSE--MISTRESS FORD--SALLY, AND
  HER CHILDREN--JOHN, THE COOK--WALTER, SAM, AND ANTONY--THE MILLS
  ON INDIAN CREEK--SABBATH DAYS--SAM'S CONVERSION--THE PROFIT OF
  KINDNESS--RAFTING--ADAM TAYDEM, THE LITTLE WHITE MAN--CASCALLA AND
  HIS TRIBE--THE INDIAN BALL--JOHN M. TIBEATS--THE STORM APPROACHING.

On leaving the New-Orleans slave pen, Harry and I followed our new
master through the streets, while Eliza, crying and turning back, was
forced along by Freeman and his minions, until we found ourselves on
board the steamboat Rodolph, then lying at the levee. In the course
of half an hour we were moving briskly up the Mississippi, bound for
some point on Red River. There were quite a number of slaves on board
beside ourselves, just purchased in the New-Orleans market. I remember
a Mr. Kelsow, who was said to be a well known and extensive planter,
had in charge a gang of women.

Our master's name was William Ford. He resided then in the "Great Pine
Woods," in the parish of Avoyelles, situated on the right bank of
Red River, in the heart of Louisiana. He is now a Baptist preacher.
Throughout the whole parish of Avoyelles, and especially along both
shores of Bayou Boeuf, where he is more intimately known, he is
accounted by his fellow-citizens as a worthy minister of God. In many
northern minds, perhaps, the idea of a man holding his brother man
in servitude, and the traffic in human flesh, may seem altogether
incompatible with their conceptions of a moral or religious life. From
descriptions of such men as Burch and Freeman, and others hereinafter
mentioned, they are led to despise and execrate the whole class of
slaveholders, indiscriminately. But I was sometime his slave, and
had an opportunity of learning well his character and disposition,
and it is but simple justice to him when I say, in my opinion, there
never was a more kind, noble, candid, Christian man than William
Ford. The influences and associations that had always surrounded him,
blinded him to the inherent wrong at the bottom of the system of
Slavery. He never doubted the moral right of one man holding another
in subjection. Looking through the same medium with his fathers
before him, he saw things in the same light. Brought up under other
circumstances and other influences, his notions would undoubtedly
have been different. Nevertheless, he was a model master, walking
uprightly, according to the light of his understanding, and fortunate
was the slave who came to his possession. Were all men such as he,
Slavery would be deprived of more than half its bitterness.

We were two days and three nights on board the steamboat Rodolph,
during which time nothing of particular interest occurred. I was
now known as Platt, the name given me by Burch, and by which I was
designated through the whole period of my servitude. Eliza was sold by
the name of "Dradey." She was so distinguished in the conveyance to
Ford, now on record in the recorder's office in New-Orleans.

On our passage I was constantly reflecting on my situation, and
consulting with myself on the best course to pursue in order to
effect my ultimate escape. Sometimes, not only then, but afterwards,
I was almost on the point of disclosing fully to Ford the facts of my
history. I am inclined now to the opinion it would have resulted in
my benefit. This course was often considered, but through fear of its
miscarriage, never put into execution, until eventually my transfer
and his pecuniary embarrassments rendered it evidently unsafe.
Afterwards, under other masters, unlike William Ford, I knew well
enough the slightest knowledge of my real character would consign me
at once to the remoter depths of Slavery. I was too costly a chattel
to be lost, and was well aware that I would be taken farther on,
into some by-place, over the Texan border, perhaps, and sold; that I
would be disposed of as the thief disposes of his stolen horse, if
my right to freedom was even whispered. So I resolved to lock the
secret closely in my heart--never to utter one word or syllable as to
who or what I was--trusting in Providence and my own shrewdness for
deliverance.

At length we left the steamboat Rodolph at a place called Alexandria,
several hundred miles from New-Orleans. It is a small town on the
southern shore of Red River. Having remained there over night, we
entered the morning train of cars, and were soon at Bayou Lamourie, a
still smaller place, distant eighteen miles from Alexandria. At that
time it was the termination of the railroad. Ford's plantation was
situated on the Texas road, twelve miles from Lamourie, in the Great
Pine Woods. This distance, it was announced to us, must be traveled on
foot, there being public conveyances no farther. Accordingly we all
set out in the company of Ford. It was an excessively hot day. Harry,
Eliza, and myself were yet weak, and the bottoms of our feet were
very tender from the effects of the small-pox. We proceeded slowly,
Ford telling us to take our time and sit down and rest whenever we
desired--a privilege that was taken advantage of quite frequently.
After leaving Lamourie and crossing two plantations, one belonging to
Mr. Carnell, the other to a Mr. Flint, we reached the Pine Woods, a
wilderness that stretches to the Sabine River.

The whole country about Red River is low and marshy. The Pine Woods,
as they are called, is comparatively upland, with frequent small
intervals, however, running through them. This upland is covered with
numerous trees--the white oak, the chincopin, resembling chestnut,
but principally the yellow pine. They are of great size, running up
sixty feet, and perfectly straight. The woods were full of cattle,
very shy and wild, dashing away in herds, with a loud snuff, at our
approach. Some of them were marked or branded, the rest appeared
to be in their wild and untamed state. They are much smaller than
northern breeds, and the peculiarity about them that most attracted my
attention was their horns. They stand out from the sides of the head
precisely straight, like two iron spikes.

At noon we reached a cleared piece of ground containing three or four
acres. Upon it was a small, unpainted, wooden house, a corn crib, or,
as we would say, a barn, and a log kitchen, standing about a rod from
the house. It was the summer residence of Mr. Martin. Rich planters,
having large establishments on Bayou Boeuf, are accustomed to spend
the warmer season in these woods. Here they find clear water and
delightful shades. In fact, these retreats are to the planters of that
section of the country what Newport and Saratoga are to the wealthier
inhabitants of northern cities.

We were sent around into the kitchen, and supplied with sweet
potatoes, corn-bread, and bacon, while Master Ford dined with Martin
in the house. There were several slaves about the premises. Martin
came out and took a look at us, asking Ford the price of each, if we
were green hands, and so forth, and making inquiries in relation to
the slave market generally.

After a long rest we set forth again, following the Texas road, which
had the appearance of being very rarely traveled. For five miles we
passed through continuous woods without observing a single habitation.
At length, just as the sun was sinking in the west, we entered another
opening, containing some twelve or fifteen acres.

In this opening stood a house much larger than Mr. Martin's. It was
two stories high, with a piazza in front. In the rear of it was also a
log kitchen, poultry house, corncribs, and several negro cabins. Near
the house was a peach orchard, and gardens of orange and pomegranate
trees. The space was entirely surrounded by woods, and covered with
a carpet of rich, rank verdure. It was a quiet, lonely, pleasant
place--literally a green spot in the wilderness. It was the residence
of my master, William Ford.

As we approached, a yellow girl--her name was Rose--was standing on
the piazza. Going to the door, she called her mistress, who presently
came running out to meet her lord. She kissed him, and laughingly
demanded if he had bought "those niggers." Ford said he had, and told
us to go round to Sally's cabin and rest ourselves. Turning the corner
of the house, we discovered Sally washing--her two baby children near
her, rolling on the grass. They jumped up and toddled towards us,
looked at us a moment like a brace of rabbits, then ran back to their
mother as if afraid of us.

Sally conducted us into the cabin, told us to lay down our bundles
and be seated, for she was sure that we were tired. Just then John,
the cook, a boy some sixteen years of age, and blacker than any crow,
came running in, looked steadily in our faces, then turning round,
without saying as much as "how d'ye do," ran back to the kitchen,
laughing loudly, as if our coming was a great joke indeed.

Much wearied with our walk, as soon as it was dark, Harry and I
wrapped our blankets round us, and laid down upon the cabin floor.
My thoughts, as usual, wandered back to my wife and children. The
consciousness of my real situation; the hopelessness of any effort to
escape through the wide forests of Avoyelles, pressed heavily upon me,
yet my heart was at home in Saratoga.

I was awakened early in the morning by the voice of Master Ford,
calling Rose. She hastened into the house to dress the children, Sally
to the field to milk the cows, while John was busy in the kitchen
preparing breakfast. In the meantime Harry and I were strolling about
the yard, looking at our new quarters. Just after breakfast a colored
man, driving three yoke of oxen, attached to a wagon load of lumber,
drove into the opening. He was a slave of Ford's, named Walton, the
husband of Rose. By the way, Rose was a native of Washington, and had
been brought from thence five years before. She had never seen Eliza,
but she had heard of Berry, and they knew the same streets, and the
same people, either personally, or by reputation. They became fast
friends immediately, and talked a great deal together of old times,
and of friends they had left behind.

Ford was at that time a wealthy man. Besides his seat in the Pine
Woods, he owned a large lumbering establishment on Indian Creek, four
miles distant, and also, in his wife's right, an extensive plantation
and many slaves on Bayou Boeuf.

Walton had come with his load of lumber from the mills on Indian
Creek. Ford directed us to return with him, saying he would follow
us as soon as possible. Before leaving, Mistress Ford called me into
the store-room, and handed me, as it is there termed, a tin bucket of
molasses for Harry and myself.

Eliza was still ringing her hands and deploring the loss of her
children. Ford tried as much as possible to console her--told her she
need not work very hard; that she might remain with Rose, and assist
the madam in the house affairs.

Riding with Walton in the wagon, Harry and I became quite well
acquainted with him long before reaching Indian Creek. He was a "born
thrall" of Ford's, and spoke kindly and affectionately of him, as
a child would speak of his own father. In answer to his inquiries
from whence I came, I told him from Washington. Of that city, he had
heard much from his wife, Rose, and all the way plied me with many
extravagant and absurd questions.

On reaching the mills at Indian Creek, we found two more of Ford's
slaves, Sam and Antony. Sam, also, was a Washingtonian, having been
brought out in the same gang with Rose. He had worked on a farm near
Georgetown. Antony was a blacksmith, from Kentucky, who had been in
his present master's service about ten years. Sam knew Burch, and when
informed that he was the trader who had sent me on from Washington, it
was remarkable how well we agreed upon the subject of his superlative
rascality. He had forwarded Sam, also.

On Ford's arrival at the mill, we were employed in piling lumber, and
chopping logs, which occupation we continued during the remainder of
the summer.

We usually spent our Sabbaths at the opening, on which days our master
would gather all his slaves about him, and read and expound the
Scriptures. He sought to inculcate in our minds feelings of kindness
towards each other, of dependence upon God--setting forth the rewards
promised unto those who lead an upright and prayerful life. Seated
in the doorway of his house, surrounded by his man-servants and his
maid-servants, who looked earnestly into the good man's face, he spoke
of the loving kindness of the Creator, and of the life that is to
come. Often did the voice of prayer ascend from his lips to heaven,
the only sound that broke the solitude of the place.

In the course of the summer Sam became deeply convicted, his mind
dwelling intensely on the subject of religion. His mistress gave him
a Bible, which he carried with him to his work. Whatever leisure time
was allowed him, he spent in perusing it, though it was only with
great difficulty that he could master any part of it. I often read to
him, a favor which he well repaid me by many expressions of gratitude.
Sam's piety was frequently observed by white men who came to the mill,
and the remark it most generally provoked was, that a man like Ford,
who allowed his slaves to have Bibles, was "not fit to own a nigger."

He, however, lost nothing by his kindness. It is a fact I have
more than once observed, that those who treated their slaves most
leniently, were rewarded by the greatest amount of labor. I know
it from my own experience. It was a source of pleasure to surprise
Master Ford with a greater day's work than was required, while, under
subsequent masters, there was no prompter to extra effort but the
overseer's lash.

It was the desire of Ford's approving voice that suggested to me an
idea that resulted to his profit. The lumber we were manufacturing
was contracted to be delivered at Lamourie. It had hitherto been
transported by land, and was an important item of expense. Indian
Creek, upon which the mills were situated, was a narrow but deep
stream emptying into Bayou Boeuf. In some places it was not more than
twelve feet wide, and much obstructed with trunks of trees. Bayou
Boeuf was connected with Bayou Lamourie. I ascertained the distance
from the mills to the point on the latter bayou, where our lumber
was to be delivered, was but a few miles less by land than by water.
Provided the creek could be made navigable for rafts, it occurred to
me that the expense of transportation would be materially diminished.

Adam Taydem, a little white man, who had been a soldier in Florida,
and had strolled into that distant region, was foreman and
superintendent of the mills. He scouted the idea; but Ford, when I
laid it before him, received it favorably, and permitted me to try the
experiment.

Having removed the obstructions, I made up a narrow raft, consisting
of twelve cribs. At this business I think I was quite skillful, not
having forgotten my experience years before on the Champlain canal. I
labored hard, being extremely anxious to succeed, both from a desire
to please my master, and to show Adam Taydem that my scheme was not
such a visionary one as he incessantly pronounced it. One hand could
manage three cribs. I took charge of the forward three, and commenced
poling down the creek. In due time we entered the first bayou, and
finally reached our destination in a shorter period of time than I had
anticipated.

The arrival of the raft at Lamourie created a sensation, while Mr.
Ford loaded me with commendations. On all sides I heard Ford's Platt
pronounced the "smartest nigger in the Pine Woods"--in fact I was the
Fulton of Indian Creek. I was not insensible to the praise bestowed
upon me, and enjoyed, especially, my triumph over Taydem, whose
half-malicious ridicule had stung my pride. From this time the entire
control of bringing the lumber to Lamourie was placed in my hands
until the contract was fulfilled.

Indian Creek, in its whole length, flows through a magnificent
forest. There dwells on its shore a tribe of Indians, a remnant of
the Chickasaws or Chickopees, if I remember rightly. They live in
simple huts, ten or twelve feet square, constructed of pine poles
and covered with bark. They subsist principally on the flesh of the
deer, the coon, and opossum, all of which are plenty in these woods.
Sometimes they exchange venison for a little corn and whisky with
the planters on the bayous. Their usual dress is buckskin breeches
and calico hunting shirts of fantastic colors, buttoned from belt to
chin. They wear brass rings on their wrists, and in their ears and
noses. The dress of the squaws is very similar. They are fond of dogs
and horses--owning many of the latter, of a small, tough breed--and
are skillful riders. Their bridles, girths and saddles were made
of raw skins of animals; their stirrups of a certain kind of wood.
Mounted astride their ponies, men and women, I have seen them dash
out into the woods at the utmost of their speed, following narrow
winding paths, and dodging trees, in a manner that eclipsed the most
miraculous feats of civilized equestrianism. Circling away in various
directions, the forest echoing and re-echoing with their whoops, they
would presently return at the same dashing, headlong speed with which
they started. Their village was on Indian Creek, known as Indian
Castle, but their range extended to the Sabine River. Occasionally
a tribe from Texas would come over on a visit, and then there was
indeed a carnival in the "Great Pine Woods." Chief of the tribe was
Cascalla; second in rank, John Baltese, his son-in-law; with both of
whom, as with many others of the tribe, I became acquainted during
my frequent voyages down the creek with rafts. Sam and myself would
often visit them when the day's task was done. They were obedient to
the chief; the word of Cascalla was their law. They were a rude but
harmless people, and enjoyed their wild mode of life. They had little
fancy for the open country, the cleared lands on the shores of the
bayous, but preferred to hide themselves within the shadows of the
forest. They worshiped the Great Spirit, loved whisky, and were happy.

On one occasion I was present at a dance, when a roving herd from
Texas had encamped in their village. The entire carcass of a deer was
roasting before a large fire, which threw its light a long distance
among the trees under which they were assembled. When they had formed
in a ring, men and squaws alternately, a sort of Indian fiddle set up
an indescribable tune. It was a continuous, melancholy kind of wavy
sound, with the slightest possible variation. At the first note, if
indeed there was more than one note in the whole tune, they circled
around, trotting after each other, and giving utterance to a guttural,
sing-song noise, equally as nondescript as the music of the fiddle.
At the end of the third circuit, they would stop suddenly, whoop as
if their lungs would crack, then break from the ring, forming in
couples, man and squaw, each jumping backwards as far as possible from
the other, then forwards--which graceful feat having been twice or
thrice accomplished, they would form in a ring, and go trotting round
again. The best dancer appeared to be considered the one who could
whoop the loudest, jump the farthest, and utter the most excruciating
noise. At intervals, one or more would leave the dancing circle, and
going to the fire, cut from the roasting carcass a slice of venison.

In a hole, shaped like a mortar, cut in the trunk of a fallen tree,
they pounded corn with a wooden pestle, and of the meal made cake.
Alternately they danced and ate. Thus were the visitors from Texas
entertained by the dusky sons and daughters of the Chicopees, and such
is a description, as I saw it, of an Indian ball in the Pine Woods of
Avoyelles.

In the autumn, I left the mills, and was employed at the opening.
One day the mistress was urging Ford to procure a loom, in order
that Sally might commence weaving cloth for the winter garments of
the slaves. He could not imagine where one was to be found, when
I suggested that the easiest way to get one would be to make it,
informing him at the same time, that I was a sort of "Jack at all
trades," and would attempt it, with his permission. It was granted
very readily, and I was allowed to go to a neighboring planter's
to inspect one before commencing the undertaking. At length it was
finished and pronounced by Sally to be perfect. She could easily
weave her task of fourteen yards, milk the cows, and have leisure time
besides each day. It worked so well, I was continued in the employment
of making looms, which were taken down to the plantation on the bayou.

At this time one John M. Tibeats, a carpenter, came to the opening to
do some work on master's house. I was directed to quit the looms and
assist him. For two weeks I was in his company, planning and matching
boards for ceiling, a plastered room being a rare thing in the parish
of Avoyelles.

John M. Tibeats was the opposite of Ford in all respects. He was
a small, crabbed, quick-tempered, spiteful man. He had no fixed
residence that I ever heard of, but passed from one plantation to
another, wherever he could find employment. He was without standing
in the community, not esteemed by white men, nor even respected by
slaves. He was ignorant, withal, and of a revengeful disposition. He
left the parish long before I did, and I know not whether he is at
present alive or dead. Certain it is, it was a most unlucky day for
me that brought us together. During my residence with Master Ford
I had seen only the bright side of slavery. His was no heavy hand
crushing us to the earth. _He_ pointed upwards, and with benign and
cheering words addressed us as his fellow-mortals, accountable, like
himself, to the Maker of us all. I think of him with affection, and
had my family been with me, could have borne his gentle servitude,
without murmuring, all my days. But clouds were gathering in the
horizon--forerunners of a pitiless storm that was soon to break over
me. I was doomed to endure such bitter trials as the poor slave only
knows, and to lead no more the comparatively happy life which I had
led in the "Great Pine Woods."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The steamboat Rodolph begins its trek up the Mississippi to the Red River. Solomon's new owner is William Ford, who resides in the Great Pine Woods in the parish of Avoyelles in the heart of Louisiana. He is a minister, and Solomon asserts that "there never was a more kind, noble, candid, Christian man than William Ford". All the same, Ford is a product of his time and thus sees things in the same light as those who brought him up. He treats his slaves well, though, and is a model master. The river passage takes a couple of days; Solomon almost tells Ford the truth about himself, but he decides not to. In retrospect, he thinks it may have helped, but it was not worth the risk. His identity would have consigned him to the remote depths of slavery, and he could have been taken into Texas or over the border. When their time on the steamship is over, the only way to reach the plantation is to walk. Ford, Solomon, Eliza, and Harry begin their trek on an extremely hot day. Ford, who rides his horse, is solicitous of their condition, but it is still very arduous. The land is low and marshy. There are numerous trees and wild cattle all around. The four stop at the summer residence of Mr. Martin, a rich planter who stays here during the summer season due to the shade and cooler temperatures. Ford dines with Martin and the slaves eat in the kitchen. They traverse five more miles; as the sun begins to sink, they arrive at Ford's plantation. The house is large and surrounded by woods, and Solomon finds it lonely but pleasant. He meets a slave named Rose, another one named Sally, and a teenager named John. Harry and Solomon sleep, and in the morning they meet Rose's husband, Walton. At this time, Ford is a wealthy man. He has a lumbering establishment on Indian Creek, this seat in Pine Woods, and, in his wife's name, a plantation on Bayou Boeuf. Harry and Solomon work throughout the summer at Indian Creek, piling lumber and chopping logs. Every Sunday they have Sabbath and Master Ford reads to them from the Bible. Another of Ford's slaves, Sam, becomes very spiritual that summer. Some white men see that Ford has given Sam a Bible and criticize him for that, but Solomon writes that those who treat their slaves leniently get more labor out of them. Solomon suggests to Ford that he may be able to reduce the shipping costs of lumber if they use the river and rafts. His own experience is critical to this, and he works hard to build a raft and navigate it to Lamourie. This creates a sensation, and people throughout the Pine Woods laud his intelligence. He is in charge of the project until its culmination. Indian Creek flows through an incredible forest, and a tribe of Native Americans still resides on its shores. They host tribes from elsewhere and once Solomon was present at a great dance where the music was melancholy and mesmerizing. One day, Mistress Ford asks Ford to buy a loom so Sally can weave cloth for the winter garments of slaves; Ford offers that he can build a loom. It is finished and works perfectly, and he continues to make more. A carpenter named John M. Tibeats arrives to do work for Ford, and Solomon is instructed to leave off his looms and assist Tibeats for two weeks. To his dismay, Tibeats is the complete opposite of Ford. He is ignorant, vengeful, quick-tempered, and disliked by slaves and white men. He reveals to Solomon the real, dark side of slavery, as opposed to the benignity of Ford. Clouds are gathering on the horizon for Solomon, and he is "doomed to endure such bitter trials as only the poor slave knows"