Twelve Years a Slave (Updated Translation)

Book Summary

Solomon Northup's "Twelve Years a Slave" (1853) stands as one of the most detailed and compelling firsthand accounts of American slavery ever written. The narrative recounts how Northup, a free black man from New York, was kidnapped in 1841 and sold into slavery in Louisiana, where he endured twelve years of bondage before finally regaining his freedom.

The memoir begins with Northup's life as a free man in Saratoga Springs, New York, where he worked as a skilled carpenter and violinist, supporting his wife and three children. He describes being lured to Washington, D.C. with the promise of lucrative work, only to be drugged, kidnapped, and sold into slavery under the false identity of "Platt," a runaway slave from Georgia.

Northup provides extraordinarily detailed descriptions of slave life in Louisiana, including the brutal labor of cotton and sugar cane cultivation, the daily routines of slaves, and the complex social hierarchies within the plantation system. His account is particularly valuable for its precise observations of agricultural practices, slave markets, and the economic aspects of slavery.

The narrative unflinchingly depicts the physical and psychological brutality of slavery. Northup describes numerous instances of violence, including his own beatings and the horrific treatment of fellow slaves, particularly women. His account of the separation of a slave mother from her children at a New Orleans slave market remains one of the most haunting passages in slave narrative literature.

Throughout the work, Northup demonstrates remarkable powers of observation and memory, providing detailed portraits of both cruel and occasionally benevolent masters, fellow slaves, and the varying conditions on different plantations. His account is particularly notable for its careful attention to names, dates, and locations, which later helped verify his story's authenticity.

The narrative builds to Northup's eventual rescue, orchestrated through the efforts of a sympathetic Canadian carpenter who risks his life to send letters to Northup's friends in New York. The legal and logistical challenges of proving his free status and securing his release provide a revealing look at the precarious position of free blacks in antebellum America.

Twelve Years a Slave (Modern, Updated Translation)

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Chapter 1

Having been born a freeman, and for more than thirty years enjoyed the blessings of liberty in a free state—and having at the end of that time been kidnapped and sold into slavery, where I remained until happily rescued in the month of January, 1853, after a bondage of twelve years—it has been suggested that an account of my life and fortunes would not be uninteresting to the public.

Since my return to freedom, I have noticed the growing interest throughout the Northern States regarding the subject of slavery. Works of fiction, claiming to depict its features in both their more pleasing and more repugnant aspects, have been circulated to an unprecedented extent, and, as I understand, have sparked a fruitful topic of comment and discussion.

I can speak of slavery only so far as it came under my own observation—only so far as I have known and experienced it in my own person. My objective is to provide a candid and truthful statement of facts: to recount the story of my life, without exaggeration, leaving it for others to determine whether even the pages of fiction present a picture of more cruel wrong or a harsher bondage.

As far back as I have been able to determine, my ancestors on my father's side were slaves in Rhode Island. They belonged to a family named Northup, one of whom moved to the state of New York and settled in Hoosic, Rensselaer County. He brought with him Mintus Northup, my father. Upon the death of this gentleman, which must have occurred about fifty years ago, my father became free, having been emancipated by a provision in his will.

Henry B. Northup, Esq., of Sandy Hill, a distinguished lawyer, and the man to whom, under Providence, I owe my current freedom and my return to the company of my wife and children, is a relative of the family in which my ancestors were thus held in service, and from which they took the name I carry. This fact may explain the persistent interest he has shown in my case.

Sometime after my father's liberation, he moved to the town of Minerva, Essex County, N.Y., where I was born, in July 1808. I don't have the means to determine exactly how long he stayed there. From there, he moved to Granville, Washington County, near a place known as Slyborough, where he worked for several years on the farm of Clark Northup, who was also a relative of his former master. Then he moved to the Alden farm, at Moss Street, a short distance north of the village of Sandy Hill, and from there to the farm now owned by Russel Pratt, located on the road from Fort Edward to Argyle, where he lived until his death on November 22, 1829. He left behind a widow and two children—myself and Joseph, my older brother. Joseph is still living in Oswego County, near the city of the same name; my mother passed away during the time of my captivity.

Though born a slave, and facing the disadvantages that my unfortunate race is subjected to, my father was a man respected for his industry and integrity, as many now living, who well remember him, are ready to testify. His whole life was spent in the peaceful pursuits of agriculture, never seeking employment in those more menial positions, which seem to be especially allotted to the children of Africa. Besides giving us an education surpassing that ordinarily given to children in our condition, he acquired, through his diligence and economy, a sufficient property qualification to entitle him to the right to vote. He often spoke to us about his early life; and although he always cherished the warmest emotions of kindness, and even affection towards the family, in whose house he had been a bondsman, he nevertheless understood the system of slavery, and dwelt with sorrow on the degradation of his race. He endeavored to instill in us sentiments of morality, and to teach us to place our trust and confidence in Him who regards the humblest as well as the highest of his creatures. How often since that time has the recollection of his paternal counsels come to me, while lying in a slave hut in the distant and sickly regions of Louisiana, suffering from the undeserved wounds which an inhuman master had inflicted, and longing only for the grave which had covered him, to shield me also from the lash of the oppressor. In the churchyard at Sandy Hill, a humble stone marks the spot where he rests, after having worthily performed the duties belonging to the lowly sphere where God had appointed him to walk.

Up to this period, I had been mainly working with my father on the farm. The free time I had was usually spent either reading my books or playing the violin—an activity that was the dominant passion of my youth. It has also been a source of comfort since then, providing pleasure to the simple folks with whom my life was intertwined, and distracting my own thoughts for many hours from the painful reflection on my fate.

On Christmas day, 1829, I married Anne Hampton, a woman of color who was living near our home at the time. The ceremony was conducted at Fort Edward by Timothy Eddy, Esq., a magistrate of that town, who remains a prominent citizen there. She had lived for a long time in Sandy Hill with Mr. Baird, the owner of the Eagle Tavern, and also with the family of Rev. Alexander Proudfit, of Salem. This gentleman had led the Presbyterian society there for many years and was well-known for his learning and piety. Anne still fondly remembers the great kindness and wise advice of that good man. She is unable to trace her exact ancestry, but her blood is a mix of three races. It is hard to say whether the Native American, Caucasian, or African heritage is more dominant. However, the combination of all three in her background has given her a unique and pleasing appearance that is rarely seen. Although she somewhat resembles them, she cannot accurately be described as a quadroon, a category to which, I forgot to mention, my mother belonged.

I had just recently passed the period of my minority, having reached the age of twenty-one years in the month of July before. Deprived of the advice and assistance of my father, with a wife dependent upon me for support, I resolved to embark on a life of industry; and despite the obstacle of color, and the awareness of my lowly state, I indulged in pleasant dreams of a good time coming, when owning some humble home, with a few surrounding acres, would reward my labors, and bring me the means of happiness and comfort.

From the time of my marriage to this day, the love I have had for my wife has been sincere and unwavering; and only those who have felt the deep tenderness a father cherishes for his children can appreciate my affection for the beloved children who have since been born to us. I find it appropriate and necessary to say this so that those who read these pages may understand the intensity of the sufferings I have been doomed to bear.

Immediately after our marriage, we started housekeeping in the old yellow building that was then located at the southern end of Fort Edward village. This building has since been transformed into a modern mansion and was recently occupied by Captain Lathrop. It is known as the Fort House. In this building, the courts were sometimes held after the county was organized. It was also occupied by Burgoyne in 1777, as it was situated near the old fort on the left bank of the Hudson.

During the winter, I was employed with others repairing the Champlain Canal, on the section over which William Van Nortwick was superintendent. David McEachron had the immediate charge of the men with whom I worked. By the time the canal opened in the spring, I was able, from the savings of my wages, to purchase a pair of horses and other things necessarily required in the business of navigation.

Having hired several efficient workers to assist me, I entered into contracts for the transportation of large rafts of timber from Lake Champlain to Troy. Dyer Beckwith and a Mr. Bartemy, of Whitehall, accompanied me on several trips. During the season I became perfectly familiar with the art and mysteries of rafting—a knowledge which later enabled me to render profitable service to a worthy master, and to astonish the simple-minded lumbermen on the banks of the Bayou Bœuf.

During one of my trips down Lake Champlain, I was encouraged to visit Canada. Traveling to Montreal, I visited the cathedral and other places of interest in that city, from where I continued my journey to Kingston and other towns, gaining knowledge of the areas, which was also helpful to me later on, as will be evident towards the end of this narrative.

Having completed my contracts on the canal satisfactorily to both myself and my employer, and not wanting to remain idle now that the navigation of the canal was once again suspended, I entered into another contract with Medad Gunn to cut a large quantity of wood. I was engaged in this business during the winter of 1831-32.

With the return of spring, Anne and I came up with the idea of taking a farm in the neighborhood. I had been accustomed from my earliest youth to agricultural work, and it was an occupation that suited my tastes. I accordingly made arrangements for a part of the old Alden farm, where my father used to live. With one cow, one swine, a yoke of fine oxen I had recently purchased from Lewis Brown in Hartford, and other personal property and effects, we moved to our new home in Kingsbury. That year I planted twenty-five acres of corn, sowed large fields of oats, and started farming on as large a scale as my resources would allow. Anne was diligent with the housework, while I worked hard in the field.

We continued to live in this place until 1834. During the winter season, I frequently received requests to play the violin. Whenever the young people gathered to dance, I was almost always there. My fiddle was well-known throughout the surrounding villages. Anne, too, during her long time at the Eagle Tavern, had become quite famous as a cook. During court weeks and on public occasions, she was hired at high wages to work in the kitchen at Sherrill's Coffee House.

We always returned home from performing these services with money in our pockets; so that, with fiddling, cooking, and farming, we soon found ourselves in possession of abundance, and, in fact, leading a happy and prosperous life. Indeed, it would have been well for us had we remained on the farm at Kingsbury; but the time came when the next step was to be taken towards the cruel destiny that awaited me.

In March 1834, we moved to Saratoga Springs. We lived in a house owned by Daniel O'Brien, on the north side of Washington Street. At that time, Isaac Taylor ran a large boarding house known as Washington Hall, at the north end of Broadway. He hired me to drive a hack, and I worked for him in that role for two years. After that, I was generally employed during the visiting season, as was Anne, at the United States Hotel and other public houses in the area. In the winter seasons, I relied on my violin, although during the construction of the Troy and Saratoga Railroad, I did many hard days' labor on it.

I used to buy items necessary for my family at the stores of Mr. Cephas Parker and Mr. William Perry in Saratoga. These gentlemen had shown me many acts of kindness, and I held them in high regard. This is why, twelve years later, I addressed a letter to them, which is included below, and which played a crucial role, through Mr. Northup, in my fortunate rescue.

While living at the United States Hotel, I frequently met with enslaved people who had accompanied their masters from the South. They were always well dressed and well provided for, leading apparently an easy life, with but few of its ordinary troubles to perplex them. Many times they entered into conversation with me on the subject of slavery. Almost uniformly, I found they cherished a secret desire for liberty. Some of them expressed the most ardent anxiety to escape and consulted me on the best method of achieving it. The fear of punishment, however, which they knew was certain to attend their recapture and return, in all cases proved sufficient to deter them from the experiment. Having all my life breathed the free air of the North, and conscious that I possessed the same feelings and affections that find a place in the white man's heart; conscious, moreover, of an intelligence equal to that of some men, at least, with a fairer skin, I was too ignorant, perhaps too independent, to conceive how anyone could be content to live in the abject condition of a slave. I could not comprehend the justice of that law, or that religion, which upholds or recognizes the principle of slavery; and never once, I am proud to say, did I fail to counsel anyone who came to me, to watch their opportunity, and strike for freedom.

I continued to live in Saratoga until the spring of 1841. The promising expectations that, seven years earlier, had lured us away from the quiet farmhouse on the east side of the Hudson, had not been fulfilled. Although we were always in comfortable circumstances, we had not thrived. The society and associations at that world-famous resort were not suited to maintain the simple habits of industry and economy I was used to, but instead encouraged habits of carelessness and extravagance.

At this time, we were the parents of three children—Elizabeth, Margaret, and Alonzo. Elizabeth, the eldest, was in her tenth year; Margaret was two years younger, and little Alonzo had just celebrated his fifth birthday. They filled our house with joy. Their young voices were music to our ears. Many a dream did their mother and I build for the little innocents. When not at work, I was always walking with them, dressed in their best clothes, through the streets and groves of Saratoga. Their presence was my delight; and I held them close to my heart with as warm and tender love as if their clouded skins had been as white as snow.

So far, the history of my life presents nothing unusual—nothing but the common hopes, loves, and labors of an obscure colored man, making his humble progress in the world. But now I had reached a turning point in my existence—reached the threshold of unspeakable wrong, sorrow, and despair. Now I had approached within the shadow of the cloud, into the thick darkness where I was soon to disappear, from then on to be hidden from the eyes of all my family, and shut out from the sweet light of liberty, for many a weary year.

Chapter 2

One morning, towards the latter part of March 1841, having no particular business to occupy my attention at that time, I was walking around the village of Saratoga Springs, pondering where I might find some temporary employment until the busy season arrived. Anne, as was her usual custom, had gone over to Sandy Hill, about twenty miles away, to manage the kitchen at Sherrill's Coffee House during the court session. Elizabeth, I believe, had gone with her. Margaret and Alonzo were with their aunt in Saratoga.

On the corner of Congress Street and Broadway, near the tavern, which was then, and for all I know still is, run by Mr. Moon, I was approached by two gentlemen who appeared quite respectable, but whom I did not recognize at all. I have the impression that they were introduced to me by one of my acquaintances, though I have tried in vain to remember who, with the comment that I was an expert violin player.

At any rate, they immediately started a conversation on that subject, asking numerous questions about my skills in that area. My responses seemed satisfactory to them, and they proposed to hire me for a short period, stating that I was exactly the kind of person their business needed. They later gave me their names as Merrill Brown and Abram Hamilton, though I have strong reasons to doubt whether these were their real names. The former appeared to be a man around forty years old, somewhat short and thick-set, with a face indicating shrewdness and intelligence. He wore a black frock coat and black hat and said he lived either in Rochester or Syracuse. The latter was a young man with a fair complexion and light eyes, and I would guess he was not older than twenty-five. He was tall and slender, dressed in a snuff-colored coat, with a glossy hat, and a vest of elegant pattern. His entire outfit was extremely fashionable. His appearance was somewhat effeminate but attractive, and he had an easy air about him that showed he had mingled with the world. They informed me that they were connected with a circus company currently in the city of Washington; they were on their way back there to rejoin it, having left it for a short time to make a trip northward to see the country, and were covering their expenses with occasional performances. They also mentioned that they had found it difficult to find music for their shows, and if I would accompany them as far as New York, they would pay me one dollar for each day's work and three dollars extra for every night I played at their performances, plus enough to cover the expenses of my return from New York to Saratoga.

I immediately accepted the tempting offer, both for the reward it promised and from a desire to visit the city. They were eager to leave right away. Thinking my absence would be brief, I didn't think it necessary to write to Anne about where I had gone; in fact, I assumed that my return might be as soon as hers. So, taking a change of clothes and my violin, I was ready to leave. The carriage was brought around—a covered one, drawn by a pair of noble bays, altogether forming an elegant setup. Their baggage, consisting of three large trunks, was fastened on the rack, and I climbed to the driver's seat while they took their places in the back. I drove away from Saratoga on the road to Albany, thrilled with my new position and as happy as I had ever been on any day in my life.

We passed through Ballston, and taking the ridge road, as it is called, if my memory serves me correctly, followed it directly to Albany. We reached the city before dark and stopped at a hotel south of the museum.

Last night, I had the chance to witness one of their performances—the only one during the entire time I was with them. Hamilton was stationed at the door; I formed the orchestra, while Brown provided the entertainment. It included throwing balls, dancing on the rope, frying pancakes in a hat, making invisible pigs squeal, and other similar feats of ventriloquism and sleight of hand. The audience was extraordinarily sparse, and not of the most select character at that, and Hamilton's report of the proceeds presented just a "beggarly account of empty boxes."

Early the next morning, we continued our journey. Their conversation now focused on their eagerness to reach the circus without delay. They hurried forward, without stopping again to perform, and in due time, we arrived in New York City, taking lodgings at a house on the west side of the city, on a street running from Broadway to the river. I thought my journey was over and expected to return to my friends and family in Saratoga in a day or two at most. However, Brown and Hamilton began to urge me to continue with them to Washington. They claimed that as soon as they arrived, with the summer season approaching, the circus would head north. They promised me a position and high wages if I would accompany them. They spoke at length about the benefits that would come to me, and their flattering representations convinced me to finally accept the offer.

The next morning they suggested that, since we were about to enter a slave state, it would be wise, before leaving New York, to obtain free papers. The idea struck me as a prudent one, though I think it would scarcely have occurred to me if they hadn't proposed it. We went straight to what I understood to be the Custom House. They swore to certain facts showing I was a free man. A paper was drawn up and handed to us, with the instruction to take it to the clerk's office. We did so, and the clerk added something to it, for which he was paid six shillings. We then returned to the Custom House. Some further formalities were completed before it was finalized, and after paying the officer two dollars, I put the papers in my pocket and started with my two friends to our hotel. I thought at the time, I must confess, that the papers were hardly worth the cost of obtaining them—the fear of danger to my personal safety had never even remotely occurred to me. The clerk we were directed to, I remember, made a note in a large book, which I presume is still in the office. A reference to the entries during the latter part of March or the beginning of April, 1841, I have no doubt will satisfy the skeptical, at least regarding this particular transaction.

With the evidence of freedom in my possession, the day after our arrival in New York, we crossed the ferry to Jersey City and took the road to Philadelphia. We stayed there for one night, continuing our journey towards Baltimore early the next morning. In due time, we arrived in Baltimore and stopped at a hotel near the railroad depot, either run by a Mr. Rathbone or known as the Rathbone House. All the way from New York, their excitement to reach the circus seemed to grow more and more intense. We left the carriage in Baltimore and, entering the train, proceeded to Washington, where we arrived just at nightfall, the evening before General Harrison's funeral, and stopped at Gadsby's Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue.

After dinner, they called me to their rooms and paid me forty-three dollars, a sum greater than my wages, which was an act of generosity because, they said, they hadn't performed as often as they had led me to expect during our trip from Saratoga. They also informed me that it had been the circus company's intention to leave Washington the next morning, but due to the funeral, they decided to stay another day. They were then, as they had been since our first meeting, extremely kind. They never missed an opportunity to speak to me with approval; while, on the other hand, I was certainly very favorably impressed by them. I gave them my trust without reservation and would have freely trusted them to almost any extent. Their constant conversation and manner towards me—their foresight in suggesting the idea of free papers, and a hundred other little acts, unnecessary to repeat—all indicated that they were true friends, sincerely concerned for my well-being. I don't know if they were. I don't know if they were innocent of the great wickedness of which I now believe them guilty. Whether they were involved in my misfortunes—subtle and inhuman monsters in the shape of men—intentionally luring me away from home and family, and liberty, for the sake of gold—those who read these pages will have the same means of determining as myself. If they were innocent, my sudden disappearance must have been truly unexplainable; but thinking over all the circumstances, I have never been able to entertain such a charitable assumption towards them.

After receiving the money from them, of which they seemed to have plenty, they advised me not to go into the streets that night, since I was unfamiliar with the customs of the city. Promising to remember their advice, I left them together, and soon after was shown by a colored servant to a sleeping room in the back part of the hotel, on the ground floor. I lay down to rest, thinking of home and wife, and children, and the long distance that stretched between us, until I fell asleep. But no good angel of pity came to my bedside, bidding me to fly—no voice of mercy forewarned me in my dreams of the trials that were just at hand.

The next day there was a grand parade in Washington. The roar of cannon and the ringing of bells filled the air, while many houses were draped with black cloth, and the streets were packed with people. As the day went on, the procession appeared, moving slowly through the avenue, carriage after carriage, in a long line, while thousands upon thousands followed on foot—all moving to the sound of somber music. They were carrying the dead body of Harrison to the grave.

From early in the morning, I was constantly in the company of Hamilton and Brown. They were the only people I knew in Washington. We stood together as the funeral procession passed by. I remember distinctly how the window glass would break and rattle to the ground after each report of the cannon they were firing in the burial ground. We went to the Capitol and walked around the grounds for a long time. In the afternoon, they strolled towards the President's House, keeping me close to them the whole time, and pointing out various places of interest. So far, I hadn't seen anything of the circus. In fact, I had thought of it but little, if at all, amidst the excitement of the day.

My friends, several times during the afternoon, entered drinking bars and called for liquor. They were by no means in the habit, however, as far as I knew them, of indulging to excess. On these occasions, after serving themselves, they would pour out a glass and hand it to me. I did not become intoxicated, as may be inferred from what subsequently occurred. Towards evening, and soon after partaking of one of these drinks, I began to experience most unpleasant sensations. I felt extremely ill. My head started aching—a dull, heavy pain, inexpressibly disagreeable. At the dinner table, I had no appetite; the sight and flavor of food was nauseating. Around dark, the same servant led me to the room I had occupied the previous night. Brown and Hamilton advised me to rest, sympathizing with me kindly, and expressing hopes that I would feel better in the morning. Removing only my coat and boots, I threw myself upon the bed. It was impossible to sleep. The pain in my head continued to increase until it became almost unbearable. In a short time, I became thirsty. My lips were parched. I could think of nothing but water—of lakes and flowing rivers, of brooks where I had stooped to drink, and of the dripping bucket, rising with its cool and overflowing nectar, from the bottom of the well. Towards midnight, as near as I could judge, I got up, unable to bear such intensity of thirst any longer. I was a stranger in the house and knew nothing of its rooms. There was no one up, as far as I could see. Groping about at random, I knew not where, I found the way at last to a kitchen in the basement. Two or three black servants were moving through it, one of whom, a woman, gave me two glasses of water. It provided momentary relief, but by the time I had reached my room again, the same burning desire for drink, the same tormenting thirst, had returned. It was even more torturing than before, as was also the wild pain in my head, if such a thing could be. I was in sore distress—in most excruciating agony! I seemed to stand on the brink of madness! The memory of that night of horrible suffering will follow me to the grave.

In the course of an hour or more after my return from the kitchen, I was aware of someone entering my room. There seemed to be several people—a mix of various voices—but how many, or who they were, I cannot tell. Whether Brown and Hamilton were among them is purely a matter of guesswork. I only remember, with any degree of clarity, that I was told it was necessary to go to a physician and get medicine, and that pulling on my boots, without coat or hat, I followed them through a long passageway, or alley, into the open street. It ran out at right angles from Pennsylvania Avenue. On the opposite side, there was a light burning in a window. My impression is there were then three people with me, but it is altogether indefinite and vague, like the memory of a painful dream. Going towards the light, which I imagined came from a physician's office, and which seemed to move away as I advanced, is the last faint recollection I can now recall. From that moment I was insensible. How long I remained in that condition—whether only that night, or many days and nights—I do not know; but when consciousness returned, I found myself alone, in utter darkness, and in chains.

The pain in my head had lessened somewhat, but I was still very faint and weak. I was sitting on a low bench made of rough boards, without a coat or hat. I was handcuffed. Around my ankles were also a pair of heavy shackles. One end of a chain was fastened to a large ring in the floor, the other to the shackles on my ankles. I tried in vain to stand up. Waking from such a painful trance, it took some time before I could gather my thoughts. Where was I? What was the meaning of these chains? Where were Brown and Hamilton? What had I done to deserve imprisonment in such a dungeon? I couldn't understand. There was a blank of some indefinite period before my awakening in that lonely place, the events of which my memory couldn't recall. I listened intently for some sign or sound of life, but nothing broke the oppressive silence, except the clinking of my chains whenever I happened to move. I spoke aloud, but the sound of my voice startled me. I felt my pockets, as far as the shackles would allow—far enough, indeed, to realize that I had not only been robbed of my freedom, but that my money and free papers were also gone! Then the idea began to dawn on my mind, at first dim and confused, that I had been kidnapped. But that, I thought, was incredible. There must have been some misunderstanding—some unfortunate mistake. It couldn't be that a free citizen of New York, who had wronged no one, nor violated any law, should be treated so inhumanely. The more I contemplated my situation, however, the more I became convinced of my suspicions. It was a desolate thought, indeed. I felt there was no trust or mercy in unfeeling man; and commending myself to the God of the oppressed, I bowed my head upon my shackled hands and wept most bitterly.

Chapter 3

Some three hours passed, during which time I remained seated on the low bench, absorbed in painful thoughts. Eventually, I heard the crowing of a rooster, and soon a distant rumbling sound, like carriages hurrying through the streets, reached my ears, and I knew it was day. No ray of light, however, penetrated my prison. Finally, I heard footsteps immediately overhead, as if someone was walking back and forth. It occurred to me then that I must be in an underground room, and the damp, moldy odors of the place confirmed this assumption. The noise above continued for at least an hour, when, at last, I heard footsteps approaching from outside. A key rattled in the lock—a strong door swung back on its hinges, letting in a flood of light, and two men entered and stood before me. One of them was a large, powerful man, about forty years old, perhaps, with dark, chestnut-colored hair, slightly mixed with gray. His face was full, his complexion flushed, his features grossly coarse, expressing nothing but cruelty and cunning. He was about five feet ten inches tall, of full build, and, without prejudice, I must say, was a man whose whole appearance was sinister and repugnant. His name was James H. Burch, as I learned later—a well-known slave-dealer in Washington; and then, or recently, connected in business, as a partner, with Theophilus Freeman, of New Orleans. The person who accompanied him was a simple lackey, named Ebenezer Radburn, who acted merely as a turnkey. Both of these men still lived in Washington, or did, at the time of my return through that city from slavery in January last.

The light coming in through the open door allowed me to see the room where I was held. It was about twelve feet square, with walls made of solid masonry. The floor was made of heavy planks. There was one small window, crossed with large iron bars, with an outside shutter that was securely fastened.

An iron-bound door led into an adjoining cell, or vault, completely lacking windows or any means of letting in light. The furniture of the room I was in consisted of the wooden bench on which I sat, an old-fashioned, dirty box stove, and besides these, in either cell, there was neither bed, nor blanket, nor anything else whatsoever. The door through which Burch and Radburn entered led through a small passage, up a flight of steps into a yard, surrounded by a brick wall ten or twelve feet high, directly behind a building of the same width as itself. The yard extended backward from the house about thirty feet. In one part of the wall, there was a strongly ironed door, opening into a narrow, covered passage, leading along one side of the house into the street. The doom of the colored man, upon whom the door leading out of that narrow passage closed, was sealed. The top of the wall supported one end of a roof, which sloped inwards, forming a kind of open shed. Underneath the roof, there was a rickety loft all around, where slaves, if they wished, might sleep at night or seek shelter from the storm in bad weather. It was like a farmer's barnyard in most respects, except it was constructed so that the outside world could never see the human cattle that were herded there.

The building to which the yard was attached was two stories high, facing one of the public streets of Washington. Its exterior appeared to be nothing more than a quiet private residence. A stranger looking at it would never have imagined its dreadful uses. Strange as it may seem, within plain sight of this very house, looking down from its commanding height upon it, was the Capitol. The voices of patriotic representatives boasting of freedom and equality, and the clinking of the poor slave's chains almost mingled. A slave pen within the very shadow of the Capitol!

This is an accurate description of Williams' slave pen in Washington as it was in 1841, where I found myself inexplicably confined in one of the cellars.

"Well, my boy, how do you feel now?" said Burch, as he entered through the open door. I replied that I was sick and inquired the cause of my imprisonment. He answered that I was his slave—that he had bought me and that he was about to send me to New Orleans. I asserted, aloud and boldly, that I was a free man—a resident of Saratoga, where I had a wife and children, who were also free, and that my name was Northup. I complained bitterly of the strange treatment I had received and threatened, upon my liberation, to have satisfaction for the wrong. He denied that I was free and, with an emphatic oath, declared that I came from Georgia. Again and again I asserted I was no man's slave and insisted upon his taking off my chains at once. He endeavored to hush me, as if he feared my voice would be overheard. But I would not be silent and denounced the authors of my imprisonment, whoever they might be, as unmitigated villains. Finding he could not quiet me, he flew into a towering passion. With blasphemous oaths, he called me a black liar, a runaway from Georgia, and every other profane and vulgar epithet that the most indecent fancy could conceive.

During this time, Radburn was standing silently by. His job was to oversee this human, or rather inhuman, stable, receiving slaves, feeding and whipping them, at the rate of two shillings a head per day. Turning to him, Burch ordered the paddle and cat-o'-ninetails to be brought in. He disappeared, and in a few moments returned with these instruments of torture. The paddle, as it is termed in slave-beating parlance, or at least the one with which I first became acquainted, and of which I now speak, was a piece of hardwood board, eighteen or twenty inches long.

As soon as these formidable whips appeared, I was seized by both of them and roughly stripped of my clothing. My feet, as has been stated, were fastened to the floor. Drawing me over the bench, face downwards, Radburn placed his heavy foot upon the fetters, between my wrists, holding them painfully to the floor. With the paddle, Burch began beating me. Blow after blow was inflicted upon my naked body. When his unrelenting arm grew tired, he stopped and asked if I still insisted I was a free man. I did insist upon it, and then the blows were renewed, faster and more energetically, if possible, than before. When again tired, he would repeat the same question, and receiving the same answer, continue his cruel labor. All this time, the incarnate devil was uttering the most fiendish oaths. At length, the paddle broke, leaving the useless handle in his hand. Still, I would not yield. All his brutal blows could not force from my lips the foul lie that I was a slave. Casting madly on the floor the handle of the broken paddle, he seized the rope. This was far more painful than the other. I struggled with all my power, but it was in vain. I prayed for mercy, but my prayer was only answered with imprecations and with stripes. I thought I must die beneath the lashes of the accursed brute. Even now the flesh crawls upon my bones as I recall the scene. I was all on fire. My sufferings I can compare to nothing else than the burning agonies of hell!

As soon as these formidable whips appeared, I was seized by both of them, and roughly divested of my clothing. My feet, as has been stated, were fastened to the floor. Drawing me over the bench, face downwards, Radburn placed his heavy foot upon the fetters, between my wrists, holding them painfully to the floor. With the paddle, Burch commenced beating me. Blow after blow was inflicted upon my naked body. When his unrelenting arm grew tired, he stopped and asked if I still insisted I was a free man. I did insist upon it, and then the blows were renewed, faster and more energetically, if possible, than before. When again tired, he would repeat the same question, and receiving the same answer, continue his cruel labor. All this time, the incarnate devil was uttering most fiendish oaths. At length the paddle broke, leaving the useless handle in his hand. Still I would not yield. All his brutal blows could not force from my lips the foul lie that I was a slave. Casting madly on the floor the handle of the broken paddle, he seized the rope. This was far more painful than the other. I struggled with all my power, but it was in vain. I prayed for mercy, but my prayer was only answered with imprecations and with stripes. I thought I must die beneath the lashes of the accursed brute. Even now the flesh crawls upon my bones, as I recall the scene. I was all on fire. My sufferings I can compare to nothing else than the burning agonies of hell!

SCENE IN THE SLAVE PEN AT WASHINGTON.

At last, I became silent to his repeated questions. I would make no reply. In fact, I was becoming almost unable to speak. Still, he plied the lash without restraint upon my poor body, until it seemed that the lacerated flesh was stripped from my bones at every stroke. A man with a particle of mercy in his soul would not have beaten even a dog so cruelly. At length, Radburn said that it was useless to whip me any more—that I would be sore enough. Thereupon, Burch desisted, saying, with an admonitory shake of his fist in my face, and hissing the words through his firm-set teeth, that if I ever dared to utter again that I was entitled to my freedom, that I had been kidnapped, or anything of the kind, the beating I had just received was nothing in comparison with what would follow. He swore that he would either conquer or kill me. With these consolatory words, the fetters were taken from my wrists, my feet still remaining fastened to the ring; the shutter of the little barred window, which had been opened, was again closed, and going out, locking the great door behind them, I was left in darkness as before.

In an hour, perhaps two, my heart leaped to my throat as the key rattled in the door again. I, who had been so lonely and who had longed so ardently to see someone, I didn't care who, now shuddered at the thought of a man's approach. A human face was fearful to me, especially a white one. Radburn entered, bringing with him, on a tin plate, a piece of shriveled fried pork, a slice of bread, and a cup of water. He asked me how I felt and remarked that I had received a pretty severe flogging. He remonstrated with me against the propriety of asserting my freedom. In a rather patronizing and confidential manner, he gave it to me as his advice that the less I said on that subject, the better it would be for me. The man evidently endeavored to appear kind—whether touched at the sight of my sad condition or with the view of silencing, on my part, any further expression of my rights, it is not necessary now to conjecture. He unlocked the fetters from my ankles, opened the shutters of the little window, and departed, leaving me again alone.

By this time I had become stiff and sore; my body was covered with blisters, and it was with great pain and difficulty that I could move. From the window, I could observe nothing but the roof resting on the adjacent wall. At night I lay down upon the damp, hard floor, without any pillow or covering whatsoever. Punctually, twice a day, Radburn came in with his pork, bread, and water. I had little appetite, though I was tormented with continual thirst. My wounds would not permit me to remain in any one position for more than a few minutes; so, sitting, standing, or moving slowly around, I passed the days and nights. I was heartsick and discouraged. Thoughts of my family, of my wife and children, continually occupied my mind. When sleep overpowered me, I dreamed of them—dreamed I was again in Saratoga—that I could see their faces and hear their voices calling me. Awakening from the pleasant phantasms of sleep to the bitter realities around me, I could only groan and weep. Still, my spirit was not broken. I indulged the anticipation of escape, and that speedily. It was impossible, I reasoned, that men could be so unjust as to detain me as a slave when the truth of my case was known. Burch, ascertaining I was no runaway from Georgia, would certainly let me go. Though suspicions of Brown and Hamilton were not infrequent, I could not reconcile myself to the idea that they were instrumental in my imprisonment. Surely they would seek me out—they would deliver me from thralldom. Alas! I had not yet learned the measure of "man's inhumanity to man," nor to what limitless extent of wickedness he will go for the love of gain.

Over the course of several days, the outer door was opened, granting me the freedom of the yard. There I found three slaves—one of them a boy of ten years, the others young men of about twenty and twenty-five. It didn't take me long to get acquainted and learn their names and the details of their history.

The eldest was a man of color named Clemens Ray. He had lived in Washington; had driven a hack, and worked in a livery stable there for a long time. He was very intelligent and fully understood his situation. The thought of going south overwhelmed him with grief. Burch had purchased him a few days before and had placed him there until he was ready to send him to the New Orleans market. From him, I learned for the first time that I was in William's Slave Pen, a place I had never heard of before. He described to me the uses for which it was designed. I repeated to him the details of my unhappy story, but he could only offer me the consolation of his sympathy. He also advised me to be silent henceforth on the subject of my freedom; for, knowing the character of Burch, he assured me that it would only result in renewed whipping. The next eldest was named John Williams. He was raised in Virginia, not far from Washington. Burch had taken him in payment of a debt, and he constantly held onto the hope that his master would redeem him—a hope that was eventually realized. The lad was a lively child, who answered to the name of Randall. Most of the time he was playing around the yard, but occasionally would cry, calling for his mother, and wondering when she would come. His mother's absence seemed to be the great and only grief in his little heart. He was too young to realize his condition, and when the memory of his mother was not in his mind, he amused us with his pleasant pranks.

At night, Ray, Williams, and the boy slept in the loft of the shed, while I was locked in the cell. Finally, we were each provided with blankets, like those used on horses—the only bedding I was allowed to have for twelve years afterwards. Ray and Williams asked me many questions about New York—how Black people were treated there; how they could have homes and families of their own, with no one to disturb and oppress them; and Ray, especially, sighed continually for freedom. Such conversations, however, were not in the hearing of Burch, or the keeper Radburn. Aspirations like these would have brought down the lash upon our backs.

It is necessary in this narrative, in order to present a full and truthful statement of all the principal events in the history of my life, and to portray the institution of slavery as I have seen and known it, to speak of well-known places, and of many persons who are yet living. I am, and always was, an entire stranger in Washington and its vicinity—aside from Burch and Radburn, knowing no man there, except as I have heard of them through my enslaved companions. What I am about to say, if false, can be easily contradicted.

I stayed in Williams' slave pen for about two weeks. The night before I left, a woman was brought in, weeping bitterly, and leading a little child by the hand. They were Randall's mother and half-sister. On seeing them, he was overjoyed, clinging to her dress, kissing the child, and showing every sign of delight. The mother also held him in her arms, embraced him tenderly, and gazed at him fondly through her tears, calling him by many endearing names.