The Portable Nineteenth-Century African American Women Writers

by Various

  58,161

  Virginia

  472,528

  Carried up

  1,321,767

  Total

  3,200,304

  Free Colored Population, South 228,138

  Free Colored Population, North 196,116

  424,254

  These human chattels, the property of three hundred and forty-seven thousand slave-owners, constitute the basis of the working class of the entire south; in fact, they are the bone and sinew of all that makes the south prosperous, the producers of a large proportion of the material wealth, and of some of the most important articles of consumption produced by any working class in the world. The New Orleans Delta gives the following:—“The cotton plantations in the south are about eighty thousand, and the aggregate value of their annual product, at the present prices of cotton (before the civil war), is fully one hundred and twenty-five millions of dollars. There are over fifteen thousand tobacco plantations, and their annual products may be valued at fourteen millions of dollars. There are two thousand six hundred sugar plantations, the products of which average annually more than twelve millions of dollars.” Add to this the domestic labor of the slaves as household servants, &c., and you have some conception of the material wealth produced by the men and women termed chattels. The bulk of this money goes to the support of the slaveholders and their families; therefore the dependence of slaveholders upon their chattels is complete. Slave labor was first applied to the cultivation of tobacco, and afterward to that of rice; but rice is produced only in a very limited locality; cotton is the great staple and source of prosperity and wealth, the nucleus around which gathers immense interests. Thousands among the commercial, manufacturing, and working classes, on both sides of the Atlantic, are dependent upon cotton for all material prosperity; but the slaves who have produced two-thirds of the cotton do not own themselves; their nominal wives and their children may at any moment be sold. I call them nominal wives, because there is no such thing as legal marriage permitted either by custom or law. The free operatives of Britain are, in reality, brought into almost personal relations with slaves during their daily toil. They manufacture the material which the slaves have produced, and although three thousand miles of ocean roll between the producer and the manufacturer and the operatives, they should call to mind the fact, that the cause of all the present internal struggle, now going on between the northern states and the south, the civil war and its attendant evils, have resulted from the attempt to perpetuate negro slavery. In a country like England, where the manufacturer pays in wages alone £11,000,000, and the return from the cotton trade is about £80,000,000 annually—where four millions of the population are almost directly interested—where starvation threatens thousands—it is well that the only remedy which can produce desirable and lasting prosperity should receive the moral support of every class—emancipation.

  Let no diplomacy of statesmen, no intimidation of slaveholders, no scarcity of cotton, no fear of slave insurrections, prevent the people of Great Britain from maintaining their position as the friend of the oppressed negro, which they deservedly occupied previous to the disastrous civil war. The negro, and the nominally free colored men and women, north and south, of the States, in every hour of their adversity, have ever relied upon the hope that the moral support of Britain would always be with the oppressed. The friends of the negro should recognize the fact, that the process of degradation upon this deeply injured race has been slow and constant, but effective. The real capacities of the negro race have never been thoroughly tested; and until they are placed in a position to be influenced by the civilizing influences which surround freemen, it is really unjust to apply to them the same test, or to expect them to attain the same standard of excellence, as if a fair opportunity had been given to develop their faculties. With all the demoralizing influences by which they are surrounded, they still retain far more of that which is humanizing than their masters. No such acts of cruelty have ever emanated from the victims of slavery in the Southern states as have been again and again practiced by their masters.

  13

  LOUISA PICQUET

  (ca. 1829–1896)

  Like Sojourner Truth and Mary Prince, Louisa Picquet did not write her narrative herself but dictated it to an abolitionist friend. Piquet was born into slavery near Columbia, South Carolina, to Elizabeth Ramsey, a fifteen-year-old mother with one black grandparent, and Ramsey’s white master, John Randolph. She and her mother were sold when Randolph’s wife saw Louisa’s resemblance to her own infant. At the home of their new masters, the Cook family of Georgia, Elizabeth Ramsey had three more children, to Mr. Cook. At the age of thirteen, Picquet was sold away from her mother to John Williams of New Orleans. She subsequently gave birth to four children, all fathered by Williams; two survived to be emancipated, along with Picquet, after Williams died. After saving enough money to leave the south, she lived the majority of her life in Ohio. Picquet was interviewed by Hiram Mattison, a pastor, for the book Louisa Picquet, the Octoroon: or, Inside Views of Southern Domestic Life. The narrative is particularly remarkable for its direct discussions of the sexual exploitation female slaves experienced under slavery.

  The following selection is a series of questions and answers as Louisa describes being brought to auction, separated from her mother, and sold to Mr. Williams. Picquet’s matter-of-fact tone in the interview reminds readers that the abhorrent treatment she received was commonplace at the time.

  “The Family Sold at Auction—Louisa Bought by a ‘New Orleans Gentleman,’ and What Came of It,” from The Octoroon (1861)

  SOURCE: Hiram Mattison, Louisa Piquet, the Octoroon: or, Inside Views of Southern Domestic Life (New York: Published by the Author, 1861).

  Q.—“How did you say you come to be sold?”

  A.—“Well, you see, Mr. Cook made great parties, and go off to watering-places, and get in debt, and had to break up [fail], and then he took us to Mobile, and hired the most of us out, so the men he owe should not find us, and sell us for the debt. Then, after a while, the sheriff came from Georgia after Mr. Cook’s debts, and found us all, and took us to auction, and sold us. My mother and brother was sold to Texas, and I was sold to New Orleans.”

  Q.—“How old were you, then?”

  A.—“Well, I don’t know exactly, but the auctioneer said I wasn’t quite fourteen. I didn’t know myself.”

  Q.—“How old was your brother?”

  A.—“I suppose he was about two months old. He was little bit of baby.”

  Q.—“Where were you sold?”

  A.—“In the city of Mobile.”

  Q.—“In a yard? In the city?”

  A.—“No. They put all the men in one room, and all the women in another; and then whoever want to buy come and examine, and ask you whole lot of questions. They began to take the clothes off of me, and a gentleman said they needn’t do that, and told them to take me out. He said he knew I was a virtuous girl, and he’d buy me, anyhow. He didn’t strip me only just under my shoulders.”

  Q.—“Were there any others there white like you?”

  A.—“Oh yes, plenty of them. There was only Lucy of our lot, but others!”

  Q.—“Were others stripped and examined?”

  A.—“Well, not quite naked, but just same.”

  Q.—“You say the gentleman told them to ‘take you out.’ What did he mean by that?”

  A.—“Why, take me out of the room where the women and girls were kept; where they examine them—out where the auctioneer sold us.”

  Q.—“Where was that? In the street, or in a yard?”

  A.—“At the market, where the block is?”

  Q.—“What block?”

  A.—“My! don’t
you know? The stand, where we have to get up?”

  Q.—“Did you get up on the stand?”

  A.—“Why, of course; we all have to get up to be seen.”

  Q.—“What else do you remember about it?”

  A.—“Well, they first begin at upward of six hundred for me, and then some bid fifty more, and some twenty-five more, and that way.”

  Q.—“Do you remember any thing the auctioneer said about you when he sold you?”

  A.—“Well, he said he could not recommend me for any thing else only that I was a good-lookin’ girl, and a good nurse, and kind and affectionate to children; but I was never used to any hard work. He told them they could see that. My hair was quite short, and the auctioneer spoke about it, but said, ‘You see it good quality, and give it a little time, it will grew out again.’ You see Mr. Cook had my hair cut off. My hair grew fast, and look so much better than Mr. Cook’s daughter, and he fancy I had better hair than his daughter, and so he had it cut off to make a difference.”

  Q.—“Well, how did they sell you and your mother? that is, which was sold first?”

  A.—“Mother was put up the first of our folks. She was sold for splendid cook, and Mr. Horton, from Texas, bought her and the baby, my brother. Then Henry, the carriage-driver, was put up, and Mr. Horton bought him, and then two field-hands, Jim and Mary. The women there tend mills and drive ox wagons, and plow, just like men. Then I was sold next. Mr. Horton run me up to fourteen hundred dollars. He wanted I should go with my mother. Then some one said ‘fifty.’ Then Mr. Williams allowed that he did not care what they bid, he was going to have me anyhow. Then he bid fifteen hundred. Mr. Horton said ’twas no use to bid any more, and I was sold to Mr. Williams. I went right to New Orleans then.”

  Q.—“Who was Mr. Williams?”

  A.—“I didn’t know then, only he lived in New Orleans. Him and his wife had parted, some way—he had three children boys. When I was going away I heard some one cryin’, and prayin’ the Lord to go with her only daughter, and protect me. I felt pretty bad then, but hadn’t no time only to say good-bye. I wanted to go back and get the dress I bought with the half-dollars, I thought a good deal of that; but Mr. Williams would not let me go back and get it. He said he’d get me plenty of nice dresses. Then I thought mother could cut it up and make dresses for my brother, the baby. I knew she could not wear it; and I had a thought, too, that she’d have it to remember me.”

  Q.—“It seems like a dream, don’t it?”

  A.—“No; it seems fresh in my memory when I think of it—no longer than yesterday. Mother was right on her knees, with her hands up, prayin’ to the Lord for me. She didn’t care who saw her: the people all lookin’ at her. I often thought her prayers followed me, for I never could forget her. Whenever I wanted any thing real bad after that, my mother was always sure to appear to me in a dream that night, and have plenty to give me, always.”

  Q.—“Have you never seen her since?”

  A.—“No, never since that time. I went to New Orleans, and she went to Texas. So I understood.”

  Q.—“Well, how was it with you after Mr. Williams bought you?”

  A.—“Well, he took me right away to New Orleans.”

  Q.—“How did you go?”

  A.—“In a boat, down the river. Mr. Williams told me what he bought me for, soon as we started for New Orleans. He said he was getting old, and when he saw me he thought he’d buy me, and end his days with me. He said if I behave myself he’d treat me well: but, if not, he’d whip me almost to death.”

  Q.—“How old was he?”

  A.—“He was over forty; I guess pretty near fifty. He was gray headed. That’s the reason he was always so jealous. He never let me go out anywhere.”

  Q.—“Did you never go to church?”

  A.—“No, sir; I never darken a church door from the time he bought me till after he died. I used to ask him to let me go to church. He would accuse me of some object, and said there was more rascality done there than anywhere else. He’d sometimes say, ‘Go on, I guess you’ve made your arrangements; go on, I’ll catch up with you.’ But I never dare go once.”

  Q.—“Had you any children while in New Orleans?”

  A.—“Yes; I had four.”

  Q.—“Who was their father?”

  A.—“Mr. Williams.”

  Q.—“Was it known that he was living with you?”

  A.—“Every body knew I was housekeeper, but he never let on that he was the father of my children. I did all the work in his house—nobody there but me and the children.”

  Q.—“What children?”

  A.—“My children and his. You see he had three sons.”

  Q.—“How old were his children when you went there?”

  A.—“I guess the youngest was nine years old. When he had company, gentlemen folks, he took them to the hotel. He never have no gentlemen company home. Sometimes he would come and knock, if he stay out later than usual time; and if I did not let him in in a minute, when I would be asleep, he’d come in and take the light, and look under the bed, and in the wardrobe, and all over, and then ask me why I did not let him in sooner. I did not know what it meant till I learnt his ways.”

  Q.—“Were your children mulattoes?”

  A.—“No, sir! They were all white. They look just like him. The neighbors all see that. After a while he got so disagreeable that I told him, one day, I wished he would sell me, or ‘put me in his pocket’—that’s the way we say—because I had no peace at all. I rather die than live in that way. Then he got awful mad, and said nothin’ but death should separate us; and, if I run off, he’d blow my brains out. Then I thought, if that be the way, all I could do was just to pray for him to die.”

  Q.—“Where did you learn to pray?”

  A.—“I first begin to pray when I was in Georgia, about whippin’—that the Lord would make them forget it, and not whip me: and it seems if when I pray I did not get so hard whippin’.”

  FUGITIVES AND EMIGRANTS: MOVING WEST AND NORTH

  14

  MRS. JOHN LITTLE

  (no date)

  What we know about Mrs. John Little is gleaned from the following account, written in 1855 by Benjamin Drew (a journalist and abolitionist from Boston) during his travels through Canada to interview escaped slaves. Mrs. John Little’s story is unique among fugitive slave narratives in that she and her husband escaped slavery together. Of the interactions that the Littles have with whites during their journey north, their near-capture by the Smith family is particularly interesting due to the calculated nature of the Smiths’ betrayal. Once the Littles cross the border to Canada, their experience within society is remarkably different than it was in America. In Canada, Little states, “The best of the merchants and clerks pay me as much attention as though I were a white woman: I am as politely accosted as any woman would wish to be.”

  This text gives readers a sense of how Canadian attitudes toward fugitive slaves differed from American attitudes. It also illustrates the scope of the networks within America used to track and capture slaves escaped from bondage.

  “Mrs. John Little,” from The Refugee: Narratives of Fugitive Slaves in Canada (1856)

  SOURCE: Benjamin Drew, The Refugee: Narratives of Fugitive Slaves in Canada (Boston: John P. Jewett and Company, 1856).

  I was born in Petersburg, Va. When very young, I was taken to Montgomery county. My old master died there, and I remember that all the people were sold. My father and mother were sold together about one mile from me. After a year, they were sold a great distance, and I saw them no more. My mother came to me before she went away, and said, “Good by, be a good girl; I never expect to see you any more.”

  Then I belonged to Mr. T—N—, the son of my old master. He was pretty good, but his wife, my mistress, beat me like sixty. Here are three scars on my right hand and arm, and one on my
forehead, all from wounds inflicted with a broken china plate. My cousin, a man, broke the plate in two pieces, and she said, “Let me see that plate.” I handed up the pieces to her, and she threw them down on me: they cut four gashes, and I bled like a butcher. One piece cut into the sinew of the thumb, and made a great knot permanently. The wound had to be sewed up. This long scar over my right eye, was from a blow with a stick of wood. One day she knocked me lifeless with a pair of tongs,—when I came to, she was holding me up, through fright. Some of the neighbors said to her, “Why don’t you learn Eliza to sew?” She answered, “I only want to learn her to do my housework, that’s all.” I can tell figures when I see them, but cannot read or write.

  I belonged to them until I got married at the age of sixteen, to Mr. John Little, of Jackson. My master sold me for debt,—he was a man that would drink, and he had to sell me. I was sold to F—T—, a planter and slave-trader, who soon after, at my persuasion, bought Mr. Little.

  I was employed in hoeing cotton, a new employment: my hands were badly blistered. “Oh, you must be a great lady,” said the overseer, “can’t handle the hoe without blistering your hands!” I told him I could not help it. My hands got hard, but I could not stand the sun. The hot sun made me so sick I could not work, and, John says if I had not come away, they would surely have sold me again. There was one weakly woman named Susan, who could not stand the work, and she was sold to Mississippi, away from her husband and son. That’s one way of taking care of the sick and weak. That’s the way the planters do with a weakly, sickly “nigger,”—they say “he’s a dead expense to ’em,” and put him off as soon as they can. After Susan was carried off, her husband went to see her: when he came back he received two hundred blows with the paddle.

  I staid with T— more than a year. A little before I came away, I heard that master was going to give my husband three hundred blows with the paddle. He came home one night with an axe on his shoulder, tired with chopping timber. I had his clothes all packed up, for I knew he would have to go. He came hungry, calculating on his supper,—I told him what was going. I never heard him curse before—he cursed then. Said he, “If any man, white or black, lays his hand on me to-night, I’ll put this axe clear through him—clear through him:” and he would have done it, and I would not have tried to hinder him. But there was a visitor at the house, and no one came: he ran away. Next morning, the overseer came for him. The master asked where he was; I could have told him, but would not. My husband came back no more.