Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass (Modern, Updated Translation)

Book Summary

Frederick Douglass's "Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave" (1845) stands as one of the most powerful and influential autobiographies in American literature, providing a searing firsthand account of slavery's brutality while simultaneously serving as a compelling argument for abolition. Written after Douglass had secured his freedom and established himself as a prominent abolitionist speaker, the narrative combines unflinching personal testimony with sophisticated political and social analysis.

The work begins with Douglass's early life in Maryland, born into slavery to a white father he never knew and a mother, Harriet Bailey, from whom he was separated in infancy - a common practice meant to break familial bonds. He describes growing up without knowing his true age, a deliberate tactic used by slaveholders to keep enslaved people ignorant of their own histories and identities.

Douglass provides detailed accounts of the violence and psychological warfare inherent in the slave system. He witnesses the brutal whipping of his Aunt Hester, an early exposure to slavery's cruelty that haunts the narrative. Through his experiences with different masters, Douglass systematically exposes how slavery corrupts both the enslaved and the enslavers, with particular attention to how power and ownership degrade the moral character of white slave-owners.

A turning point occurs when Douglass is sent to Baltimore to live with Hugh and Sophia Auld. Initially, Sophia begins teaching him to read until her husband forbids it, declaring that education ruins slaves for their purpose. This moment provides Douglass with a crucial insight: literacy is a path to freedom. He details his determined efforts to learn to read and write in secret, trading bread with poor white children for lessons and practicing writing in discarded copy-books.

The narrative gives special attention to the role of Christianity in slave society. Douglass draws a sharp distinction between authentic Christianity and the hypocritical religion of slaveholders, who used biblical justifications for their cruelty. His critique of religious hypocrisy remains one of the most powerful aspects of the work, as he systematically dismantles the theological arguments used to support slavery.

Perhaps the most pivotal moment in the narrative is Douglass's physical resistance against the slave-breaker Edward Covey. After months of brutal treatment, Douglass fights back in a two-hour physical confrontation. Though still legally enslaved afterward, this act of resistance marks a psychological transformation - Douglass resolves that while they might chain his body, his spirit would remain unbroken.

Narrative of Frederick Douglass (Modern, Updated Translation)

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Chapter 1

I was born in Tuckahoe, near Hillsborough, about twelve miles from Easton, in Talbot County, Maryland. I don't really know how old I am because I've never seen any official record of my birth. Most slaves don't know their ages any more than horses do, and most of the slave owners I know prefer to keep it that way. I've never met a slave who could tell me their exact birthday. They usually only know it by seasons or events, like planting time, harvest time, cherry time, spring, or fall. Not knowing my own age made me unhappy even as a kid. The white kids could tell their ages, but I couldn't understand why I wasn't allowed to know mine. I wasn't allowed to ask my master about it either. He thought it was inappropriate and disrespectful for a slave to ask such questions, and that it showed a rebellious attitude. The best guess I have is that I'm between twenty-seven and twenty-eight years old now. I figured this out because I heard my master say that I was about seventeen years old sometime in 1835.

My mom's name was Harriet Bailey. She was the daughter of Isaac and Betsey Bailey, who were both black and had pretty dark skin. My mom's skin was even darker than my grandma's or grandpa's.

My dad was a white man. Everyone who talked about my family agreed on that. There was also a rumor that my master was my dad, but I have no idea if that's true because I wasn't given the chance to find out. My mom and I were separated when I was just a baby—before I even knew her as my mom. In the part of Maryland where I escaped from, it was common to separate kids from their moms really early. Often, before a kid even turns one, their mom is taken away and sent to work on a farm far away, and the kid is left with an older woman who's too old to work in the fields. I don't know why they do this, unless it's to stop the child from bonding with their mom and to kill the natural love a mom has for her child. That's what always ends up happening.

I only saw my mom four or five times in my life, and those times were really short and always at night. She worked for a guy named Mr. Stewart, who lived about twelve miles away from where I was. She would walk all that way at night just to see me after finishing her day's work. She worked in the fields, and if she wasn't there by sunrise, she'd get whipped unless her master gave her special permission, which almost never happened. If a master did give permission, they were considered a "kind" master. I don't remember ever seeing my mom during the day. She'd come at night, lie down with me, and help me fall asleep, but she'd be gone before I woke up. We hardly ever talked. She passed away when I was about seven, on one of my master's farms near Lee’s Mill. I wasn't allowed to be there when she was sick, when she died, or even at her funeral. She was gone before I even knew what happened. Since I never really got to experience her comforting presence or her care, I felt about the same when I heard she died as I would have if a stranger had passed away.

She was taken away so suddenly that she didn't leave me any clue about who my father was. There's a rumor that my master might be my father, but whether that's true or not doesn't really matter for what I'm talking about. The real issue is that slaveholders have set it up, and even made it a law, that the children of enslaved women are always slaves like their mothers. This is clearly done to satisfy their own desires and make their awful actions both enjoyable and profitable. Because of this sneaky setup, it's not uncommon for a slaveholder to be both the master and the father of his slaves.

I know about these situations, and it's worth mentioning that these slaves always have it tougher and face more challenges than others. First off, they're a constant annoyance to their mistress. She's always ready to criticize them; they can hardly ever do anything to make her happy. She's never more satisfied than when she sees them getting whipped, especially if she thinks her husband is giving his mixed-race kids special treatment that he doesn't give to his black slaves. The master often has to sell these slaves to keep his white wife happy. As cruel as it sounds for a man to sell his own kids to slave traders, sometimes it's actually the more humane thing to do. If he doesn't, he not only has to whip them himself but also watch one white son tie up his brother, who's only a little darker, and whip him. If he even whispers a word of disapproval, it's seen as favoritism, which only makes things worse for both him and the slave he's trying to protect.

Every year, tons of slaves are born into this situation. Probably because of this, a well-known southern politician predicted that slavery would eventually collapse due to population changes. Whether that prediction comes true or not, it's clear that a very different-looking group of people is emerging in the South compared to those originally brought from Africa. Even if their growth doesn't achieve anything else, it challenges the argument that God cursed Ham, so American slavery is justified. If only the direct descendants of Ham are meant to be enslaved according to scripture, then southern slavery is going to become unscriptural pretty soon. Thousands of people are born every year, like me, who have white fathers, and those fathers are often their own masters.

I've had two masters. My first master's last name was Anthony, but I can't remember his first name. People usually called him Captain Anthony, probably because he used to sail a boat on the Chesapeake Bay. He wasn't considered a wealthy slave owner. He had two or three farms and about thirty slaves. An overseer managed his farms and slaves. The overseer's name was Plummer. Mr. Plummer was a miserable drunk, cursed a lot, and was a brutal monster. He always carried a cowskin whip and a heavy stick. I've seen him cut and slash the women's heads so badly that even the master would get angry at his cruelty and threaten to whip him if he didn't control himself. But the master wasn't a kind slave owner either. It took extreme cruelty from an overseer to get a reaction from him. He was a cruel man, hardened by years of owning slaves. Sometimes, he seemed to enjoy whipping a slave. I've often been woken up at dawn by the most heart-wrenching screams from my own aunt, whom he would tie up and whip on her bare back until she was literally covered in blood. No words, no tears, no prayers from his bloody victim seemed to soften his heart. The louder she screamed, the harder he whipped; and where the blood flowed the fastest, that's where he whipped the longest. He'd whip her to make her scream and whip her to make her quiet, and he wouldn't stop until he was too tired to keep swinging the blood-soaked whip. I remember the first time I saw this horrible scene. I was just a child, but I remember it well. I'll never forget it as long as I remember anything. It was the first of many such horrors that I would witness and experience. It hit me with terrible force. It was like a blood-stained gate, the entrance to the hell of slavery, that I was about to pass through. It was a truly terrible sight. I wish I could put into words the feelings I had when I saw it.

This happened not long after I started living with my old master, and here's how it went down. Aunt Hester went out one night—I have no idea where or why—and she wasn't around when my master wanted her to be. He had told her not to go out in the evenings and warned her to never let him catch her with a young man who was interested in her. This guy was part of Colonel Lloyd's group, and his name was Ned Roberts, but most people called him Lloyd's Ned. Why my master was so concerned about her, well, that's anyone's guess. She was a woman with a striking figure and graceful features, and there were very few who could match her looks, whether they were black or white, in our neighborhood.

Aunt Hester not only went out against his orders, but she was also caught with Lloyd’s Ned. From what he said while whipping her, that seemed to be the main issue. If he had been a decent guy, you might think he was trying to protect my aunt's innocence, but anyone who knew him wouldn't believe that for a second. Before he started whipping Aunt Hester, he took her into the kitchen and stripped her from neck to waist, leaving her neck, shoulders, and back completely bare. He then told her to cross her hands, calling her a d--- b---h at the same time. After she crossed her hands, he tied them with a strong rope and led her to a stool under a big hook in the ceiling, put there for this exact reason. He made her get on the stool and tied her hands to the hook. She was now in the perfect position for his awful plan. Her arms were stretched up as far as they could go, so she was standing on her tiptoes. He then said to her, “Now, you d--- b---h, I’ll teach you to disobey my orders!” and after rolling up his sleeves, he started whipping her with the heavy cowskin. Soon, warm, red blood (amid her heart-wrenching screams and his horrible cursing) was dripping to the floor. I was so terrified and horrified by what I saw that I hid in a closet and didn’t dare come out until long after the bloody scene was over. I thought I might be next. This was all new to me. I had never seen anything like it before. I had always lived with my grandmother on the edge of the plantation, where she was in charge of raising the younger women's kids. So, until now, I had been away from the bloody scenes that often happened on the plantation.

CHAPTER 2

My master's family included two sons, Andrew and Richard; a daughter, Lucretia, and her husband, Captain Thomas Auld. They all lived together in one house on the main plantation owned by Colonel Edward Lloyd. My master worked as Colonel Lloyd's clerk and manager. You could say he was like the boss of all the overseers. I spent two years of my childhood on this plantation with my old master's family. It was here that I saw the violent event I mentioned in the first chapter, and since this is where I first learned about slavery, I'll describe the plantation and how slavery worked there. The plantation is about twelve miles north of Easton, in Talbot County, and it's right on the edge of Miles River. The main crops they grew were tobacco, corn, and wheat. They grew so much that, along with the crops from his other farms, he could keep a large boat busy almost all the time, taking them to market in Baltimore. This boat was called Sally Lloyd, named after one of the colonel's daughters. My master's son-in-law, Captain Auld, was in charge of the boat, and the rest of the crew were the colonel's own slaves. Their names were Peter, Isaac, Rich, and Jake. The other slaves really looked up to them and thought they were lucky because getting to see Baltimore was a big deal for the slaves.

Colonel Lloyd had about three to four hundred slaves on his main plantation and owned a bunch more on nearby farms. The closest farms were called Wye Town and New Design. A guy named Noah Willis was in charge of Wye Town, and Mr. Townsend ran New Design. The overseers of these farms, and the others—more than twenty in total—got their instructions from the managers at the main plantation. This was the big hub for everything. It was like the headquarters for all twenty farms. Any arguments between the overseers were sorted out here. If a slave got into serious trouble, acted out, or tried to escape, they were brought here right away, given a harsh whipping, then put on a boat to Baltimore and sold to Austin Woolfolk or another slave-trader as a warning to the other slaves.

Here, the slaves from all the other farms got their monthly food rations and yearly clothing. The men and women slaves received eight pounds of pork or the same amount in fish, plus a bushel of cornmeal each month. Their yearly clothing included two rough linen shirts, one pair of linen pants like the shirts, one jacket, one pair of winter pants made from coarse fabric, one pair of socks, and one pair of shoes. All of this probably cost no more than seven bucks. The slave children's rations were given to their mothers or the older women taking care of them. Kids who couldn't work in the fields didn't get shoes, socks, jackets, or pants; they only got two rough linen shirts a year. When those wore out, they went naked until the next time they got new clothes. Kids aged seven to ten, both boys and girls, were often seen almost naked all year round.

The slaves didn't get beds, unless you count a rough blanket as one, and only the men and women got those. But honestly, not having beds wasn't the biggest issue. The real problem was not having enough time to sleep. After working all day in the fields, most of them still had to do their washing, mending, and cooking. They didn't have the usual tools or time to do these things, so they ended up using a lot of their sleeping hours getting ready for the next day. When they finally finished, everyone—young and old, men and women, married and single—would just collapse side by side on the cold, damp floor, using their miserable blankets as covers. They'd sleep there until the driver blew the horn to call them back to the field. When that horn sounded, everyone had to get up and head out. No one could lag behind; everyone had to be in their spot. If anyone didn't hear the morning call, they were in deep trouble; they'd get woken up by a beating instead. Mr. Severe, the overseer, would stand by the door with a big hickory stick and a heavy whip, ready to punish anyone who didn't hear the horn or couldn't get ready in time for any reason. No one, no matter their age or gender, got any special treatment.

Mr. Severe really lived up to his name: he was a cruel man. I've seen him whip a woman so badly that she bled for half an hour, all while her crying kids begged him to stop and let her go. He seemed to enjoy showing off his evil cruelty. On top of that, he swore like crazy. Just hearing him talk was enough to make anyone's blood run cold and hair stand on end. Almost every sentence he spoke started or ended with some awful curse. The field was where you could really see his cruelty and hear his swearing. His presence turned it into a place of blood and blasphemy. From sunrise to sunset, he was cursing, yelling, cutting, and slashing at the field slaves in the most terrifying way. Luckily, his time was short. He died not long after I arrived at Colonel Lloyd’s, and he died just like he lived, with his last breaths filled with bitter curses and awful oaths. The slaves saw his death as a merciful act of fate.

Mr. Severe was replaced by a guy named Mr. Hopkins. He was a totally different person. He was less cruel, didn't swear as much, and wasn't as loud as Mr. Severe. He did his job without any extreme acts of cruelty. Sure, he whipped people, but he didn't seem to enjoy it. The slaves actually called him a good overseer.

Colonel Lloyd's main plantation looked like a small country village. All the mechanical work for all the farms was done there. The shoemaking and fixing, blacksmithing, cart building, barrel making, weaving, and grinding grain were all done by the slaves on the main plantation. The whole place had a business-like vibe, very different from the nearby farms. The number of buildings also made it stand out compared to the neighboring farms. The slaves called it the Great House Farm. For the slaves on the outlying farms, being chosen to run errands at the Great House Farm was a big deal. It was linked in their minds with greatness. A representative couldn't be prouder of getting elected to the American Congress than a slave from one of the out-farms would be of being picked to do errands at the Great House Farm. They saw it as a sign that their overseers really trusted them, and because of this, along with wanting to get out of the field and away from the driver's whip, they saw it as a huge privilege, something worth behaving well for. The slave who got this honor the most was considered the smartest and most trustworthy. The ones competing for this job tried just as hard to impress their overseers as political candidates do to win over and sometimes fool the people. The same traits could be seen in Colonel Lloyd’s slaves as in the political party members.

The slaves chosen to go to the Great House Farm for their monthly supplies for themselves and the other slaves were super excited. On their way there, they'd fill the old woods with their wild songs, echoing for miles, showing both their highest joy and deepest sadness. They'd make up and sing songs as they went, not caring about timing or melody. Whatever thought popped into their heads came out—sometimes as words, sometimes just as sounds. They'd often sing the saddest thoughts in the happiest tones, and the happiest thoughts in the saddest tones. They'd always find a way to include something about the Great House Farm in their songs. They especially did this when they were leaving home, singing these words with the most excitement:

"I'm heading over to the Great House Farm!"

"Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! Oh!"

They would sing this as a chorus, using words that might sound like nonsense to many, but were full of meaning to them. I've often thought that just hearing those songs could make some people understand the awful nature of slavery better than reading tons of books on the topic ever could.

When I was a slave, I didn't really get the deep meaning behind those rough and seemingly random songs. I was right in the middle of it all, so I couldn't see or hear them the way someone on the outside might. They told a story of suffering that was way beyond what I could understand back then; they were loud, long, and deep. They were like prayers and complaints from souls overwhelmed with the worst kind of pain. Every note was a protest against slavery and a prayer to God for freedom from chains. Hearing those wild songs always brought me down and filled me with a sadness I can't even describe. I often found myself crying when I heard them. Even just thinking about those songs now still hurts me, and as I'm writing this, tears are already rolling down my face. Those songs were the first hint I got of how dehumanizing slavery really is. I can never shake that feeling. Those songs still stick with me, making me hate slavery even more and feel for my brothers and sisters who are still trapped. If anyone wants to really understand the soul-crushing effects of slavery, they should go to Colonel Lloyd’s plantation. On allowance day, stand in the deep pine woods and quietly listen to the sounds that will echo through their soul—and if they aren't moved, it's only because their heart is as hard as stone.

I've been completely shocked since I moved to the North to hear people talk about slaves singing as if it shows they're happy and content. That's such a huge misunderstanding. Slaves sing the most when they're really unhappy. Their songs express the deep sadness in their hearts, and singing is a way to let it out, just like crying can ease a heavy heart. At least, that's how it was for me. I often sang to try to drown out my sorrow, but rarely to show happiness. Crying and singing out of joy were pretty much unheard of for me when I was trapped in slavery. Saying a man singing on a deserted island is happy makes as much sense as saying a slave's songs show contentment; both are driven by the same deep emotions.

CHAPTER 3

Colonel Lloyd had a big, beautifully maintained garden that kept four guys busy almost all the time, plus the head gardener, Mr. M'Durmond. This garden was probably the biggest draw of the place. During the summer, people came from all over—from Baltimore, Easton, and Annapolis—to check it out. It was packed with all kinds of fruits, from the sturdy apples of the north to the delicate oranges of the south. But this garden was also a major headache on the plantation. Its amazing fruit was a huge temptation for the hungry kids and older slaves who worked for the colonel, and not many of them could resist it. Almost every day in the summer, some slave would get whipped for stealing fruit. The colonel had to come up with all sorts of tricks to keep his slaves out of the garden. The last and most effective trick was smearing tar all over his fence; after that, if a slave was caught with any tar on them, it was considered solid proof that they had either been in the garden or tried to get in. In either case, they got a harsh whipping from the head gardener. This plan worked well; the slaves became as scared of tar as they were of getting whipped. They seemed to understand that it was impossible to touch tar without getting caught.

The colonel had an amazing collection of riding gear. His stable and carriage house looked like one of those big city livery stables. His horses were top-notch, with the best breeding. In his carriage house, he had three awesome coaches, three or four gigs, plus dearborns and barouches that were super stylish.

This place was taken care of by two slaves—old Barney and young Barney—father and son. Their only job was to look after this place. But it was definitely not an easy job because Colonel Lloyd was super picky about how his horses were taken care of. Even the smallest mistake was unforgivable and would get the person responsible in big trouble. No excuse could save them if the colonel even thought there was a lack of attention to his horses—a thought he often had, making the job for old and young Barney really tough. They never knew when they were safe from getting punished. They often got whipped when they didn’t deserve it and sometimes avoided it when they did. Everything depended on how the horses looked and what kind of mood Colonel Lloyd was in when his horses were brought to him. If a horse didn’t move fast enough or hold its head high enough, it was blamed on the keepers. It was tough to stand near the stable door and hear all the complaints against the keepers when a horse was taken out. “This horse hasn’t been taken care of properly. He hasn’t been rubbed down enough or fed right; his food was too wet or too dry; he got it too early or too late; he was too hot or too cold; he had too much hay and not enough grain, or too much grain and not enough hay; instead of old Barney taking care of the horse, he wrongly left it to his son.” To all these complaints, no matter how unfair, the slave couldn’t say a word. Colonel Lloyd wouldn’t tolerate any backtalk from a slave. When he spoke, a slave had to stand there, listen, and be scared; and that’s exactly how it was. I’ve seen Colonel Lloyd make old Barney, a man between fifty and sixty years old, take off his hat, kneel down on the cold, damp ground, and take more than thirty lashes on his bare, worn-out shoulders at a time. Colonel Lloyd had three sons—Edward, Murray, and Daniel—and three sons-in-law, Mr. Winder, Mr. Nicholson, and Mr. Lowndes. All of them lived at the Great House Farm and enjoyed the luxury of whipping the servants whenever they felt like it, from old Barney down to William Wilkes, the coach-driver. I’ve seen Winder make one of the house servants stand far enough away to be hit with the end of his whip, and with every hit, leave big welts on his back.

Describing how rich Colonel Lloyd was is like trying to describe how wealthy Job was. He had between ten to fifteen house servants. People said he owned a thousand slaves, and I think that's pretty accurate. Colonel Lloyd had so many slaves that he didn't even recognize them when he saw them, and not all the slaves on his farms knew who he was. There's a story about him that goes like this: One day, while riding down the road, he met a Black man and talked to him the way people usually did to Black folks on southern roads back then: "Hey, boy, who do you belong to?" The slave answered, "To Colonel Lloyd." "Well, does the colonel treat you well?" "No, sir," the slave quickly replied. "What, does he work you too hard?" "Yes, sir." "Well, doesn't he give you enough to eat?" "Yes, sir, he gives me enough, for what it's worth."

After figuring out where the slave belonged, the colonel rode off. The man went on with his day, not realizing he'd just been talking to his master. He didn't think, say, or hear anything more about it until two or three weeks later. That's when his overseer told him that because he had criticized his master, he was going to be sold to a trader from Georgia. He was immediately chained and handcuffed, and just like that, without any warning, he was ripped away from his family and friends by a force more unforgiving than death. This is the price of telling the truth, just answering a few straightforward questions honestly.

When you ask slaves about their situation and their masters, they almost always say they're happy and that their masters are nice. This is partly because slave owners sometimes send spies to find out what the slaves really think and feel. Because of this, slaves have learned that it's smart to keep quiet. They'd rather not tell the truth and face the consequences, which shows they're just like anyone else. If they do talk about their masters, it's usually something positive, especially if they're talking to someone they don't know well. When I was a slave, people often asked me if I had a kind master, and I don't remember ever saying no. I didn't feel like I was lying because I judged my master's kindness by the standards of other slaveholders around us. Plus, slaves are like everyone else and have their own biases. They often think their situation is better than others'. Many slaves, because of this bias, believe their masters are better than others', even when that's not true. It's not unusual for slaves to argue about whose master is better, each claiming theirs is superior. But when they're alone, they often curse their masters. This happened on our plantation. When Colonel Lloyd’s slaves met Jacob Jepson’s slaves, they often argued about whose master was better. Lloyd’s slaves would say he was the richest, while Jepson’s slaves would say he was the smartest and toughest. Lloyd’s slaves bragged that he could buy and sell Jepson, while Jepson’s slaves bragged he could beat up Lloyd. These arguments usually ended in fights, and whoever won the fight was considered right. They seemed to think their master's greatness rubbed off on them. Being a slave was bad enough, but being a poor man's slave was seen as really shameful!

Chapter 4

Mr. Hopkins didn't last long as the overseer. I'm not sure why his time was so short, but I guess he wasn't harsh enough for Colonel Lloyd's liking. Mr. Austin Gore took over after him, and he had all the qualities you'd expect from a top-notch overseer. Mr. Gore had already worked for Colonel Lloyd as an overseer on one of the smaller farms and proved he was up to the task of overseeing the main farm, known as the Great House Farm.

Mr. Gore was proud, ambitious, and relentless. He was sneaky, cruel, and stubborn. He was the perfect guy for that job, and it was the perfect job for him. It gave him the chance to use all his skills, and he seemed totally comfortable in it. He was the kind of person who could twist even the smallest look, word, or gesture from a slave into disrespect, and he'd act on it. You couldn’t talk back to him; slaves weren’t allowed to explain themselves if they were wrongly accused. Mr. Gore lived by the slaveholders’ rule: “It’s better for a dozen slaves to get whipped than for the overseer to be proven wrong in front of them.” It didn’t matter how innocent a slave was—being accused by Mr. Gore meant you were guilty, and being guilty meant you’d be punished. Accusation and punishment went hand in hand, no exceptions. The only way to avoid punishment was to avoid being accused, and under Mr. Gore, not many slaves were that lucky. He was just proud enough to demand the most degrading respect from the slaves, and just servile enough to bow down to the master. He was ambitious enough to want nothing less than the top overseer spot, and determined enough to get there. He was cruel enough to give the harshest punishments, sneaky enough to use the dirtiest tricks, and stubborn enough to ignore any guilty conscience. Out of all the overseers, he was the most feared by the slaves. His presence was unbearable; his eyes brought confusion; and his sharp, shrill voice rarely sounded without causing horror and trembling among them.

Mr. Gore was a serious guy, and even though he was young, he never joked around, never said anything funny, and hardly ever smiled. His words matched his serious look, and his look matched his serious words. Some overseers might crack a joke with the slaves now and then, but not Mr. Gore. He only spoke to give orders, and he gave orders to be obeyed. He didn't waste words and used his whip generously, choosing it over words whenever he could. When he whipped, it seemed like he did it because he thought it was his duty, and he wasn't scared of any consequences. He never did anything half-heartedly, no matter how unpleasant it was. He was always on the job and never inconsistent. He only made promises he intended to keep. In short, he was a man of unyielding determination and cold, unfeeling composure.

Mr. Gore was as cruel as he was cold-blooded, doing the most brutal things to the slaves he was in charge of. One time, he decided to whip one of Colonel Lloyd’s slaves named Demby. After just a few lashes, Demby ran off to escape the beating and jumped into a creek, standing in the water up to his shoulders and refusing to come out. Mr. Gore warned him that he’d call him three times, and if Demby didn’t come out by the third call, he’d shoot him. He called out once, but Demby didn’t budge. He called a second and third time with the same result. Without talking to anyone or giving Demby another chance, Mr. Gore just raised his gun, aimed carefully, and shot him. In an instant, poor Demby was gone. His body disappeared under the water, leaving blood and brains marking the spot where he had stood.

Everyone on the plantation was horrified, except for Mr. Gore. He was the only one who seemed calm and collected. Colonel Lloyd and my old master asked him why he took such extreme action. He replied, as best as I can remember, that Demby had become uncontrollable. He was setting a dangerous example for the other slaves—one that, if left unchecked, would eventually lead to chaos and the breakdown of all order on the plantation. Mr. Gore argued that if one slave refused to be disciplined and got away with it, the others would soon follow, which would result in the slaves gaining freedom and the whites losing control. His explanation was accepted, and he kept his job as overseer on the main plantation. His reputation as an overseer spread. His terrible crime wasn't even investigated by the law. It happened in front of slaves, who couldn't start a lawsuit or testify against him, so the person responsible for one of the bloodiest and most awful murders went unpunished and wasn't criticized by the community he lived in. Mr. Gore lived in St. Michael’s, Talbot County, Maryland, when I left, and if he's still alive, he probably still lives there. If that's the case, he's just as well-regarded and respected now as he was back then, as if his guilty conscience wasn't stained with his brother's blood.

I'm being completely serious when I say this: killing a slave, or any Black person, in Talbot County, Maryland, isn't considered a crime by the courts or the community. Mr. Thomas Lanman, from St. Michael’s, killed two slaves. He killed one of them with a hatchet, smashing his head in. He used to brag about committing this horrific and bloody act. I've heard him laugh about it, saying things like he was the only one in the group who was truly helping his country, and that when others did as much as he had, we'd be free of "the d--- n-----s."

Mrs. Giles Hicks, who lived not far from where I used to live, killed my wife's cousin, a young girl about fifteen or sixteen years old. She brutally attacked her, breaking her nose and breastbone with a stick, and the poor girl died a few hours later. She was buried right away, but just a few hours after being laid to rest, her body was dug up and examined by the coroner. He determined that she died from a severe beating. The reason for this horrific act? The girl had been asked to watch Mrs. Hicks's baby that night, and she fell asleep while doing so. The baby cried, but she didn't hear it because she was exhausted from several sleepless nights. They were both in the room with Mrs. Hicks. When Mrs. Hicks saw that the girl was slow to respond, she jumped out of bed, grabbed an oak stick from the fireplace, and used it to break the girl's nose and breastbone, ending her life. I won't say that this horrific murder didn't cause any reaction in the community. It did, but not enough to bring Mrs. Hicks to justice. A warrant was issued for her arrest, but it was never served. So, she got away not only without punishment but without even facing a court for her terrible crime.

While I'm talking about the violent things that happened while I was on Colonel Lloyd's plantation, I'll quickly tell you about another incident that happened around the same time Mr. Gore killed Demby.

Colonel Lloyd's slaves used to spend some of their nights and Sundays fishing for oysters to make up for their meager food rations. One day, an old man who belonged to Colonel Lloyd was out fishing and accidentally crossed over onto Mr. Beal Bondly's property. Mr. Bondly got angry about this trespassing, grabbed his gun, went down to the shore, and shot the poor old man.

Mr. Bondly came over to see Colonel Lloyd the next day. I don't know if he was there to pay for what he did or to explain himself. Either way, the whole terrible incident was quickly swept under the rug. Hardly anyone talked about it, and nothing was done. Even little white boys would say it only cost half a cent to kill a "n—" and another half-cent to bury one.