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.

 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

