Chapter: AVERY, OF BAYOU ROUGE--PECULIARITY OF DWELLINGS--EPPS BUILDS
  A NEW HOUSE--BASS, THE CARPENTER--HIS NOBLE QUALITIES--HIS
  PERSONAL APPEARANCE AND ECCENTRICITIES--BASS AND EPPS DISCUSS
  THE QUESTION OF SLAVERY--EPPS' OPINION OF BASS--I MAKE MYSELF
  KNOWN TO HIM--OUR CONVERSATION--HIS SURPRISE--THE MIDNIGHT
  MEETING ON THE BAYOU BANK--BASS' ASSURANCES--DECLARES WAR
  AGAINST SLAVERY--WHY I DID NOT DISCLOSE MY HISTORY--BASS WRITES
  LETTERS--COPY OF HIS LETTER TO MESSRS. PARKER AND PERRY--THE FEVER OF
  SUSPENSE--DISAPPOINTMENTS--BASS ENDEAVORS TO CHEER ME--MY FAITH IN
  HIM.


In the month of June, 1852, in pursuance of a previous contract, Mr.
Avery, a carpenter of Bayou Rouge, commenced the erection of a house
for Master Epps. It has previously been stated that there are no
cellars on Bayou Boeuf; on the other hand, such is the low and swampy
nature of the ground, the great houses are usually built upon spiles.
Another peculiarity is, the rooms are not plastered, but the ceiling
and sides are covered with matched cypress boards, painted such color
as most pleases the owner's taste. Generally the plank and boards are
sawed by slaves with whip-saws, there being no waterpower upon which
mills might be built within many miles. When the planter erects for
himself a dwelling, therefore, there is plenty of extra work for his
slaves. Having had some experience under Tibeats as a carpenter, I was
taken from the field altogether, on the arrival of Avery and his hands.

Among them was one to whom I owe an immeasurable debt of gratitude.
Only for him, in all probability, I should have ended my days in
slavery. He was my deliverer--a man whose true heart overflowed with
noble and generous emotions. To the last moment of my existence I
shall remember him with feelings of thankfulness. His name was Bass,
and at that time he resided in Marksville. It will be difficult to
convey a correct impression of his appearance or character. He was a
large man, between forty and fifty years old, of light complexion and
light hair. He was very cool and self-possessed, fond of argument, but
always speaking with extreme deliberation. He was that kind of person
whose peculiarity of manner was such that nothing he uttered ever gave
offence. What would be intolerable, coming from the lips of another,
could be said by him with impunity. There was not a man on Red River,
perhaps, that agreed with him on the subject of politics or religion,
and not a man, I venture to say, who discussed either of those
subjects half as much. It seemed to be taken for granted that he would
espouse the unpopular side of every local question, and it always
created amusement rather than displeasure among his auditors, to
listen to the ingenious and original manner in which he maintained the
controversy. He was a bachelor--an "old bachelor," according to the
true acceptation of the term--having no kindred living, as he knew of,
in the world. Neither had he any permanent abiding place--wandering
from one State to another, as his fancy dictated. He had lived in
Marksville three or four years, and in the prosecution of his business
as a carpenter; and in consequence, likewise, of his peculiarities,
was quite extensively known throughout the parish of Avoyelles. He
was liberal to a fault; and his many acts of kindness and transparent
goodness of heart rendered him popular in the community, the sentiment
of which he unceasingly combated.

He was a native of Canada, from whence he had wandered in early life,
and after visiting all the principal localities in the northern and
western States, in the course of his peregrinations, arrived in
the unhealthy region of the Red River. His last removal was from
Illinois. Whither he has now gone, I regret to be obliged to say, is
unknown to me. He gathered up his effects and departed quietly from
Marksville the day before I did, the suspicions of his instrumentality
in procuring my liberation rendering such a step necessary. For the
commission of a just and righteous act he would undoubtedly have
suffered death, had he remained within reach of the slave-whipping
tribe on Bayou Boeuf.

One day, while working on the new house, Bass and Epps became engaged
in a controversy, to which, as will be readily supposed, I listened
with absorbing interest. They were discussing the subject of Slavery.

"I tell you what it is Epps," said Bass, "it's all wrong--all wrong,
sir--there's no justice nor righteousness in it. I wouldn't own a
slave if I was rich as Croesus, which I am not, as is perfectly well
understood, more particularly among my creditors. _There's_ another
humbug--the credit system--humbug, sir; no credit--no debt. Credit
leads a man into temptation. Cash down is the only thing that will
deliver him from evil. But this question of _Slavery_; what _right_
have you to your niggers when you come down to the point?"

"What right!" said Epps, laughing; "why, I bought 'em, and paid for
'em."

"Of _course_ you did; the law says you have the right to hold a
nigger, but begging the law's pardon, it _lies_. Yes, Epps, when the
law says that it's a _liar_, and the truth is not in it. Is every
thing right because the law allows it? Suppose they'd pass a law
taking away your liberty and making you a slave?"

"Oh, that ain't a supposable case," said Epps, still laughing; "hope
you don't compare me to a nigger, Bass."

"Well," Bass answered gravely, "no, not exactly. But I have seen
niggers before now as good as I am, and I have no acquaintance with
any white man in these parts that I consider a whit better than
myself. Now, in the sight of God, what is the difference, Epps,
between a white man and a black one?"

"All the difference in the world," replied Epps. "You might as well
ask what the difference is between a white man and a baboon. Now,
I've seen one of them critters in Orleans that knowed just as much as
any nigger I've got. You'd call them feller citizens, I s'pose?"--and
Epps indulged in a loud laugh at his own wit.

"Look here, Epps," continued his companion; "you can't laugh me down
in that way. Some men are witty, and some ain't so witty as they think
they are. Now let me ask you a question. Are all men created free and
equal as the Declaration of Independence holds they are?"

"Yes," responded Epps, "but all men, niggers, and monkeys _ain't_;"
and hereupon he broke forth into a more boisterous laugh than before.

"There are monkeys among white people as well as black, when you
come to that," coolly remarked Bass. "I know some white men that use
arguments no sensible monkey would. But let that pass. These niggers
are human beings. If they don't know as much as their masters, whose
fault is it? They are not _allowed_ to know anything. You have books
and papers, and can go where you please, and gather intelligence
in a thousand ways. But your slaves have no privileges. You'd whip
one of them if caught reading a book. They are held in bondage,
generation after generation, deprived of mental improvement, and who
can expect them to possess much knowledge? If they are not brought
down to a level with the brute creation, you slaveholders will never
be blamed for it. If they are baboons, or stand no higher in the
scale of intelligence than such animals, you and men like you will
have to answer for it. There's a sin, a fearful sin, resting on this
nation, that will not go unpunished forever. There will be a reckoning
yet--yes, Epps, there's a day coming that will burn as an oven. It may
be sooner or it may be later, but it's a coming as sure as the Lord is
just."

"If you lived up among the Yankees in New-England," said Epps, "I
expect you'd be one of them cursed fanatics that know more than the
constitution, and go about peddling clocks and coaxing niggers to run
away."

"If I was in New-England," returned Bass, "I would be just what I
am here. I would say that Slavery was an iniquity, and ought to be
abolished. I would say there was no reason nor justice in the law, or
the constitution that allows one man to hold another man in bondage.
It would be hard for you to lose your property, to be sure, but it
wouldn't be half as hard as it would be to lose your liberty. You
have no more right to your freedom, in exact justice, than Uncle
Abram yonder. Talk about black skin, and black blood; why, how many
slaves are there on this bayou as white as either of us? And what
difference is there in the color of the soul? Pshaw! the whole system
is as absurd as it is cruel. You may own niggers and behanged, but I
wouldn't own one for the best plantation in Louisiana."

"You like to hear yourself talk, Bass, better than any man I know of.
You would argue that black was white, or white black, if any body
would contradict you. Nothing suits you in this world, and I don't
believe you will be satisfied with the next, if you should have your
choice in them."

Conversations substantially like the foregoing were not unusual
between the two after this; Epps drawing him out more for the purpose
of creating a laugh at his expense, than with a view of fairly
discussing the merits of the question. He looked upon Bass, as a man
ready to say anything merely for the pleasure of hearing his own
voice; as somewhat self-conceited, perhaps, contending against his
faith and judgment, in order, simply, to exhibit his dexterity in
argumentation.

He remained at Epps' through the summer, visiting Marksville generally
once a fortnight. The more I saw of him, the more I became convinced
he was a man in whom I could confide. Nevertheless, my previous
ill-fortune had taught me to be extremely cautious. It was not my
place to speak to a white man except when spoken to, but I omitted no
opportunity of throwing myself in his way, and endeavored constantly
in every possible manner to attract his attention. In the early part
of August he and myself were at work alone in the house, the other
carpenters having left, and Epps being absent in the field. Now was
the time, if ever, to broach the subject, and I resolved to do it, and
submit to whatever consequences might ensue. We were busily at work in
the afternoon, when I stopped suddenly and said--

"Master Bass, I want to ask you what part of the country you came
from?"

"Why, Platt, what put that into your head?" he answered. "You wouldn't
know if I should tell you." After a moment or two he added--"I was
born in Canada; now guess where that is."

"Oh, I know where Canada is," said I, "I have been there myself."

"Yes, I expect you are well acquainted all through that country," he
remarked, laughing incredulously.

"As sure as I live, Master Bass," I replied, "I have been there. I
have been in Montreal and Kingston, and Queenston, and a great many
places in Canada, and I have been in York State, too--in Buffalo, and
Rochester, and Albany, and can tell you the names of the villages on
the Erie canal and the Champlain canal."

Bass turned round and gazed at me a long time without uttering a
syllable.

"How came you here?" he inquired, at length. "Master Bass," I
answered, "if justice had been done, I never would have been here."

"Well, how's this?" said he. "Who are you? You have been in Canada
sure enough; I know all the places you mention. How did you happen to
get here? Come, tell me all about it."

"I have no friends here," was my reply, "that I can put confidence in.
I am afraid to tell you, though I don't believe you would tell Master
Epps if I should."

He assured me earnestly he would keep every word I might speak to
him a profound secret, and his curiosity was evidently strongly
excited. It was a long story, I informed him, and would take some
time to relate it. Master Epps would be back soon, but if he would
see me that night after all were asleep, I would repeat it to him. He
consented readily to the arrangement, and directed me to come into
the building where we were then at work, and I would find him there.
About midnight, when all was still and quiet, I crept cautiously from
my cabin, and silently entering the unfinished building, found him
awaiting me.

After further assurances on his part that I should not be betrayed,
I began a relation of the history of my life and misfortunes. He
was deeply interested, asking numerous questions in reference to
localities and events. Having ended my story I besought him to
write to some of my friends at the North, acquainting them with my
situation, and begging them to forward free papers, or take such steps
as they might consider proper to secure my release. He promised to do
so, but dwelt upon the danger of such an act in case of detection,
and now impressed upon me the great necessity of strict silence and
secresy. Before we parted our plan of operation was arranged.

We agreed to meet the next night at a specified place among the high
weeds on the bank of the bayou, some distance from master's dwelling.
There he was to write down on paper the names and address of several
persons, old friends in the North, to whom he would direct letters
during his next visit to Marksville. It was not deemed prudent to
meet in the new house, inasmuch as the light it would be necessary to
use might possibly be discovered. In the course of the day I managed
to obtain a few matches and a piece of candle, unperceived, from the
kitchen, during a temporary absence of Aunt Phebe. Bass had pencil and
paper in his tool chest.

At the appointed hour we met on the bayou bank, and creeping among
the high weeds, I lighted the candle, while he drew forth pencil and
paper and prepared for business. I gave him the names of William
Perry, Cephas Parker and Judge Marvin, all of Saratoga Springs,
Saratoga county, New-York. I had been employed by the latter in the
United States Hotel, and had transacted business with the former to a
considerable extent, and trusted that at least one of them would be
still living at that place. He carefully wrote the names, and then
remarked, thoughtfully--

"It is so many years since you left Saratoga, all these men may be
dead, or may have removed. You say you obtained papers at the custom
house in New-York. Probably there is a record of them there, and I
think it would be well to write and ascertain."

I agreed with him, and again repeated the circumstances related
heretofore, connected with my visit to the custom house with Brown
and Hamilton. We lingered on the bank of the bayou an hour or more,
conversing upon the subject which now engrossed our thoughts. I
could no longer doubt his fidelity, and freely spoke to him of the
many sorrows I had borne in silence, and so long. I spoke of my wife
and children, mentioning their names and ages, and dwelling upon the
unspeakable happiness it would be to clasp them to my heart once
more before I died. I caught him by the hand, and with tears and
passionate entreaties implored him to befriend me--to restore me to my
kindred and to liberty--promising I would weary Heaven the remainder
of my life with prayers that it would bless and prosper him. In the
enjoyment of freedom--surrounded by the associations of youth, and
restored to the bosom of my family--that promise is not yet forgotten,
nor shall it ever be so long as I have strength to raise my imploring
eyes on high.

    "Oh, blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair,
    And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there."

He overwhelmed me with assurances of friendship and faithfulness,
saying he had never before taken so deep an interest in the fate of
any one. He spoke of himself in a somewhat mournful tone, as a lonely
man, a wanderer about the world--that he was growing old, and must
soon reach the end of his earthly journey, and lie down to his final
rest without kith or kin to mourn for him, or to remember him--that
his life was of little value to himself, and henceforth should be
devoted to the accomplishment of my liberty, and to an unceasing
warfare against the accursed shame of Slavery.

After this time we seldom spoke to, or recognized each other. He was,
moreover, less free in his conversation with Epps on the subject
of Slavery. The remotest suspicion that there was any unusual
intimacy--any secret understanding between us--never once entered the
mind of Epps, or any other person, white or black, on the plantation.

I am often asked, with an air of incredulity, how I succeeded so many
years in keeping from my daily and constant companions the knowledge
of my true name and history. The terrible lesson Burch taught me,
impressed indelibly upon my mind the danger and uselessness of
asserting I was a freeman. There was no possibility of any slave being
able to assist me, while, on the other hand, there _was_ a possibility
of his exposing me. When it is recollected the whole current of my
thoughts, for twelve years, turned to the contemplation of escape, it
will not be wondered at, that I was always cautious and on my guard.
It would have been an act of folly to have proclaimed my _right_ to
freedom; it would only have subjected me to severer scrutiny--probably
have consigned me to some more distant and inaccessible region than
even Bayou Boeuf. Edwin Epps was a person utterly regardless of a
black man's rights or wrongs--utterly destitute of any natural sense
of justice, as I well knew. It was important, therefore, not only as
regarded my hope of deliverance, but also as regarded the few personal
privileges I was permitted to enjoy, to keep from him the history of
my life.

The Saturday night subsequent to our interview at the water's edge,
Bass went home to Marksville. The next day, being Sunday, he employed
himself in his own room writing letters. One he directed to the
Collector of Customs at New-York, another to Judge Marvin, and another
to Messrs. Parker and Perry jointly. The latter was the one which led
to my recovery. He subscribed my true name, but in the postscript
intimated I was not the writer. The letter itself shows that he
considered himself engaged in a dangerous undertaking--no less than
running "the risk of his life, if detected." I did not see the letter
before it was mailed, but have since obtained a copy, which is here
inserted:

                                   "Bayou Boeuf, August 15, 1852.

     "Mr. WILLIAM PERRY or Mr. CEPHAS PARKER:

     "Gentlemen--It having been a long time since I have seen or
     heard from you, and not knowing that you are living, it is with
     uncertainty that I write to you, but the necessity of the case
     must be my excuse.

     "Having been born free, just across the river from you, I am
     certain you must know me, and I am here now a slave. I wish you to
     obtain free papers for me, and forward them to me at Marksville,
     Louisiana, Parish of Avoyelles, and oblige

                                   "Yours, SOLOMON NORTHUP.

     "The way I came to be a slave, I was taken sick in Washington
     City, and was insensible for some time. When I recovered my
     reason, I was robbed of my free-papers, and in irons on my way to
     this State, and have never been able to get any one to write for
     me until now; and he that is writing for me runs the risk of his
     life if detected."

The allusion to myself in the work recently issued, entitled "A Key to
Uncle Tom's Cabin," contains the first part of this letter, omitting
the postscript. Neither are the full names of the gentlemen to whom
it is directed correctly stated, there being a slight discrepancy,
probably a typographical error. To the postscript more than to the
body of the communication am I indebted for my liberation, as will
presently be seen.

When Bass returned from Marksville he informed me of what he had done.
We continued our midnight consultations, never speaking to each other
through the day, excepting as it was necessary about the work. As
nearly as he was able to ascertain, it would require two weeks for the
letter to reach Saratoga in due course of mail, and the same length of
time for an answer to return. Within six weeks, at the farthest, we
concluded, an answer would arrive, if it arrived at all. A great many
suggestions were now made, and a great deal of conversation took place
between us, as to the most safe and proper course to pursue on receipt
of the free papers. They would stand between him and harm, in case we
were overtaken and arrested leaving the country altogether. It would
be no infringement of law, however much it might provoke individual
hostility, to assist a freeman to regain his freedom.

At the end of four weeks he was again at Marksville, but no answer
had arrived. I was sorely disappointed, but still reconciled myself
with the reflection that sufficient length of time had not yet
elapsed--that there might have been delays--and that I could not
reasonably expect one so soon. Six, seven, eight, and ten weeks passed
by, however, and nothing came. I was in a fever of suspense whenever
Bass visited Marksville, and could scarcely close my eyes until his
return. Finally my master's house was finished, and the time came when
Bass must leave me. The night before his departure I was wholly given
up to despair. I had clung to him as a drowning man clings to the
floating spar, knowing if it slips from his grasp he must forever sink
beneath the waves. The all-glorious hope, upon which I had laid such
eager hold, was crumbling to ashes in my hands. I felt as if sinking
down, down, amidst the bitter waters of Slavery, from the unfathomable
depths of which I should never rise again.

The generous heart of my friend and benefactor was touched with pity
at the sight of my distress. He endeavored to cheer me up, promising
to return the day before Christmas, and if no intelligence was
received in the meantime, some further step would be undertaken to
effect our design. He exhorted me to keep up my spirits--to rely upon
his continued efforts in my behalf, assuring me, in most earnest and
impressive language, that my liberation should, from thenceforth, be
the chief object of his thoughts.

In his absence the time passed slowly indeed. I looked forward to
Christmas with intense anxiety and impatience. I had about given up
the expectation of receiving any answer to the letters. They might
have miscarried, or might have been misdirected. Perhaps those at
Saratoga, to whom they had been addressed, were all dead; perhaps,
engaged in their pursuits, they did not consider the fate of an
obscure, unhappy black man of sufficient importance to be noticed. My
whole reliance was in Bass. The faith I had in him was continually
re-assuring me, and enabled me to stand up against the tide of
disappointment that had overwhelmed me.

So wholly was I absorbed in reflecting upon my situation and
prospects, that the hands with whom I labored in the field often
observed it. Patsey would ask me if I was sick, and Uncle Abram, and
Bob, and Wiley frequently expressed a curiosity to know what I could
be thinking about so steadily. But I evaded their inquiries with some
light remark, and kept my thoughts locked closely in my breast.

 In June 1852, the man to whom Solomon owes his freedom arrives in the bayou. Bass is an itinerant carpenter from Canada who travels around the country doing work; he currently lives in Marksville. He is noble, warmhearted, inoffensive, and firmly committed to the end of slavery. People throughout the South find him genial and do not take offense to his strong words. Even Epps, who hires Bass to work on a house, likes Bass and merely laughs when Bass tells him that white men and black men are equal, that slavery is a sin and a stain on the nation's conscience, and that the system is absurd and cruel. Solomon hears Bass tell Epps these things and thinks that this man may be able to help him, but he is still wary. Finally, one day, when the two of them are working alone, Solomon asks Bass what part of Canada he is from. Bass tells him that Solomon wouldn't know the area, but Solomon tells him he's been to many places. He rattles off the names of places in Canada and upstate New York. Bass is shocked into silence. After expressing hesitation, Solomon tells him his whole melancholy tale. Bass immediately volunteers to help Solomon by mailing a letter to his friends in the North. They meet the next evening and Bass takes down names of people Solomon knows, to whom he can send letters. Solomon tells Bass openly of his sufferings, and Bass assures him of his friendship and support. Over the next couple of weeks, Bass and Solomon are very careful never to interact with each other in other people's sight; there is no suspicion of intimacy between them. Bass goes home to Marksville and pens the letters. One is to Judge Marvin; one is to the Collector of Customs in New York; another is to Messrs. Perry and Parker. He includes Solomon's message along with one of his own. When Bass returns to Epps's place, he tells Solomon that a response would arrive in perhaps six weeks at the latest. Sadly, six weeks pass, then ten, with no response. Solomon's hopes begin to crumble. Bass endeavors to lift his spirits and promises to take a further step if necessary. Solomon worries that the letters miscarried, or were misdirected, or that the people to whom they were addressed had died. Perhaps they did not care at all about him

