December 28, 2024 • 29 mins
🌅🚂 Frederick Douglass - "My Escape from Slavery" (1881) ✊✨
A gripping and profound journey of courage, identity, and the relentless pursuit of freedom, set against the tense backdrop of antebellum America. 🌌🔗 In this compelling narrative, Frederick Douglass recounts his daring flight from the chains of bondage, navigating a perilous path where each step carries the weight of life or death.
🚂🌟 Amid the bustling train stations, whispered plans, and clandestine encounters, Douglass takes on the guise of a sailor, blending cunning with bravery as he challenges a system designed to strip him of his humanity. The journey becomes a vivid metaphor for the resilience of the human spirit and the unyielding quest for self-determination, even in the face of overwhelming odds.✨💔
"My Escape from Slavery" masterfully captures the interplay of hope and fear, the fleeting moments of triumph amid constant danger, and the bittersweet taste of liberation won at great personal risk. Douglass’s story is a timeless testament to the power of determination and the enduring fight for justice and equality, framed by the stark realities of slavery and the fragile, luminous promise of freedom. 🌅✊🚂
A gripping and profound journey of courage, identity, and the relentless pursuit of freedom, set against the tense backdrop of antebellum America. 🌌🔗 In this compelling narrative, Frederick Douglass recounts his daring flight from the chains of bondage, navigating a perilous path where each step carries the weight of life or death.
🚂🌟 Amid the bustling train stations, whispered plans, and clandestine encounters, Douglass takes on the guise of a sailor, blending cunning with bravery as he challenges a system designed to strip him of his humanity. The journey becomes a vivid metaphor for the resilience of the human spirit and the unyielding quest for self-determination, even in the face of overwhelming odds.✨💔
"My Escape from Slavery" masterfully captures the interplay of hope and fear, the fleeting moments of triumph amid constant danger, and the bittersweet taste of liberation won at great personal risk. Douglass’s story is a timeless testament to the power of determination and the enduring fight for justice and equality, framed by the stark realities of slavery and the fragile, luminous promise of freedom. 🌅✊🚂
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Frederick Douglas My Escape from Slavery, in the first Narrative
of My experience in slavery, written nearly forty years ago,
and in various writings since, I have given the public
what I considered very good reasons for withholding the manner
of my escape in substance. These reasons were first, that
such publication, at any time during the existence of slavery,
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might be used by the master against the slave and
prevent the future escape of any who might adopt the
same means that I did. The second reason was, if possible,
still more binding to silence. The publication of details would
certainly have put in peril the persons and property of
those who assisted. Murder itself was not more sternly and
certainly punished in the state of Maryland than that of
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aiding and abetting the escape of a slave. Many colored men,
for no other crime than that of giving aid to
a fugitive slave, have, like Charles T. Tory, perished in prison.
The abolition of slavery in my native state and throughout
the coin and the lapse of time render the caution
hitherto observed no longer necessary. But even since the abolition
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of slavery. I have sometimes thought it well enough to
baffle curiosity by saying that while slavery existed, there were
good reasons for not telling the manner of my escape,
and since slavery had ceased to exist, there was no
reason for telling it. I shall, now, however, cease to
avail myself of this formula. And as far as I
can endeavor to satisfy this very natural curiosity, I should
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perhaps have yielded to that feeling sooner had there been
anything very heroic or thrilling in the incidents connected with
my escape. For I am sorry to say I have
nothing of that sort to tell. And yet the courage
that could risk betrayal, and the bravery which was ready
to encounter death if need be, in pursuit of freedom,
were essential features in the undertaking. My success was due
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to address rather than courage, to good luck rather than bravery.
My means of escape were provided for me by the
very men who were making law to hold and bind
me more securely in slavery. It was the custom in
the state of Maryland to require the free colored people
to have what were called free papers. These instruments they
were required to renew very often and by charging a
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fee for this writing. Considerable sums from time to time
were collected by the state. In these papers, the name, age, color, height,
and form of the freemen were described, together with any
scars or other marks upon his person which could assist
in his identification. This device, in some measure defeated itself,
since more than one man could be found to answer
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the same general description. Hence, many slaves could escape by
personating the owner of one set of papers, and this
was often done as follows. A slave nearly or sufficiently
answering the description set forth in the papers would borrow
or hire them till by means of them he could
escape to a free state, and then, by mail or
otherwise would return them to the owner. The operation was
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a hazardous one for the lender as well as for
the borrower. A failure on the part of the fugitive
to send back the papers would imperil his benefactor, and
the discovery of the papers in possession of the wrong
man would imperil both the fugitive and his friend. It
was therefore an act of supreme trust on the part
of a freeman of color. Thus, to put in jeopardy
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his own liberty that another might be free. It was, however,
not unfrequently bravely done, and was seldom discovered. I was
not so fortunate as to resemble any of my free
acquaintances sufficiently to answer the description of their papers. But
I had a friend, a sailor, who owned a sailor's protection,
which answered somewhat the purpose of free papers, describing his
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person and certifying to the fact that he was a
free American sailor. The instrument had at its head the
American Eagle, which gave it the appearance at once of
an authorized document. This protection, when in my hands, did
not describe its bearer very accurately. Indeed, it called for
a man much darker than myself, and close examination of
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it would have caused my arrest at the start. In
order to avoid this fatal scrutiny on the part of
railroad officials, I arranged with Isaac Rolls, a Baltimore hackman,
to bring my baggage to the Philadelphia train just on
the moment of starting, and jumped upon the car myself
when the train was in motion. Had I gone into
the station and offered to purchase a ticket, I should
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have been instantly and carefully examined and undoubtedly arrested. In
choosing this plan, I considered the jostle of the train
and the natural haste of the conductor in a train
crowded with passengers, and relied upon my skill and address
in playing the sailor as described in my protection, to
do the rest. One element in my favor was the
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kind feeling which prevailed in Baltimore and other seaports at
the time toward those who go down to the sea
in ships, Free trade and sailors' rights. Just then expressed
the sentiment of the country. In my clothing I was rigged,
doubt in sailor style. I had on a red shirt
and a tarpaulin hat and a black cravat tied in
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sailor fashion carelessly and loosely about my neck. My knowledge
of ships and sailor's talk came much to my assistance,
for I knew a ship from stem to stern, and
from keelson to cross trees, and could talk sailor like
an old salt. I was well on the way to
have her to grace before the conductor came into the
Negro car to collect tickets and examine the papers of
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his black passengers. This was a critical moment in the drama.
My whole future depended upon the decision of this conductor.
Agitated though I was while this ceremony was proceeding, still externally,
at least I was apparently calm and self possessed. He
went on with his duty, examining several colored passengers before
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reaching me. He was somewhat harsh in tome and peremptory
in manner until he reached me, when strange enough, and
to my surprise and relief, his whole manner changed, being
that I did not readily produce my free papers, as
the other colored persons in the car had done. He
said to me, in friendly contrast with his bearing toward
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the others, I suppose you have your free papers, to
which I answered, no, sir, I never carry my free
papers to see with me. But you have something to
show that you are a freeman, haven't you, Yes, sir,
I answered, I have a paper with the American Eagle
on it, and that will carry me around the world.
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With this I drew from my deep sailor's pocket my
seamen's protection. As before described. The merest glance at the
paper satisfied him, and he took my fare and went
on about his business. This moment of time was one
of the most anxious I ever experienced. Had the conductor
looked closely at the paper, he could not have failed
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to discover that it called for a very different looking
person from myself, and in that case it would have
been his duty to arrest me on the instant and
send me back to Baltimore from the first station. When
he left me with the assurance that I was all right,
though much relieved, I realized that I was still in
great danger. I was still in Maryland and subject to
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arrest at any moment. I saw on the train several
persons who would have known me in any other clothes,
and I feared they might recognize me, even in my
sailor rig and report me to the conductor, who would
then subject me to a closer examination, which I knew
well would be fatal to me. Though I was not
a murderer fleeing from justice, I felt perhaps quite as
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miserable as such a criminal. The train was moving at
a very high rate of speed for that epoch of
railroad travel, but to my anxious mind, it was moving
far too slowly. Minutes were hours, and hours were days.
During this part of my flight after Maryland, I was
to pass through Delaware, another slave state where slave catchers
generally awaited their prey, for it was not in the
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interior of the state, but on its borders that these
human hounds were most vigilant and active. The border lines
between slavery and freedom were the dangerous ones for the fugitives.
The heart of no fox or deer, with hungry hounds
on his trail in full chase, could have beaten more
anxiously or noisily than did mine. From the time I
left Baltimore till I reached Philadelphia, the passage of the
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Susquehanna River at Havrda Grace was at that time made
by ferryboat, on board of which I met a young
colored man by the name of Nichols, who came very
near betraying me. He was a hand on the boat,
but instead of minding his business, he insisted upon knowing
me and asking me dangerous questions as to where I
was going, when I was coming back, et cetera. I
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got away from my old and inconvenient acquaintance as soon
as I could decently do so, and went to another
part of the boat once across the river, I encountered
a new danger. Only a few days before, I had
been at work on a revenue cutter in mister Price's
shipyard in Baltimore, under the care of Captain McGowan. On
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the meeting at this point of the two trains, the
one going south stopped on the track just opposite to
the one going north. And it so happened that this
Captain McGowan sat at a window where he could see
me very distinctly, and would certainly have recognized me had
he looked at me but for a second. Fortunately, in
the hurry of the moment, he did not see me,
and the trains soon passed each other on their respective ways.
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But this was not my only hair breadth escape. A
German blacksmith whom I knew well was on the train
with me, and looked at me very intently, as if
he thought he had seen me somewhere before in his travels.
I really believe he knew me, but had no heart
to betray me at any rate. He saw me escaping
and held his peace. The last point of imminent danger,
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and the one I dreaded most was Wilmington. Here we
left the train and took the steamboat for Philadelphia. In
making the change. Here I again apprehended arrest, but no
one disturbed me, and I was soon on the broad
and beautiful Delaware, speeding away to the Quaker city. On
reaching Philadelphia in the afternoon, I inquired of a colored
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man how I could get on to New York. He
directed me to the William Street depot, and thither I went,
taking the train that night. I reached New York Tuesday morning,
having completed the journey in less than twenty four hours.
My free life began on the third of September eighteen
thirty eight. On the morning of the fourth of that month,
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after an anxious and most perilous, but safe journey, I
found myself in the big city of New York, a
free m n one more added to the mighty throng, which,
like the confused waves of the troubled sea, surged to
and fro between the lofty walls of Broadway. Though dazzled
with the wonders which met me on every hand, my
thoughts could not be much withdrawn from my strange situation.
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For the moment, the dreams of my youth and the
hopes of my manhood were completely fulfilled. The bonds that
had held me to old master were broken. No man
now had a right to call me his slave or
assert mastery over me. I was in the rough and
tumble of an outdoor world to take my chance with
the rest of its busy number. I have often been
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asked how I felt when first I found myself on
free soil. There is scarcely anything in my experience about
which I could not give a more satisfactory answer. A
new world had opened upon me. If life is more
than breath and the quick round of blood, I lived
more in that one day than in a year of
my slave life. It was a time of joyous excitement
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which words can but tamely describe. In a letter written
to a friend soon after reaching New York, I said,
I felt as one might feel upon escape from a
den of hungry lions. Anguish and grief like darkness and
rain may be depicted, but gladness and joy like the
rainbow defy the skill of pen or pencil. During ten
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or fifteen years I had been, as it were, dragging
a heavy chain which no strength of mind could break.
I was not only a slave, but a slave for life.
I might become a husband, a father, an aged man,
but threw all from birth to death, from the cradle
to the grave. I had felt myself doomed. All efforts
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I had previously made to secure my freedom had not
only failed, but had seemed only to rivet my fetters
the more firmly, and to render my escape more difficult. Baffled, entangled,
and discouraged, I had at times asked myself the question,
may not my condition, after all, be God's work and
ordered for a wise purpose, And if so, is not
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submission my duty? A contest had in fact been going
on in my mind for a long time, between the
clear consciousness of right and the plausible makeshifts of theology
and superstition. The one held me an abject slave, a
prisoner for life, punished for some transgression in which I
had no lot nor part, and the other counseled me
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to manly endeavor to secure my freedom. This contest was
now ended. My chains were broken, and the victory brought
me unspeakable joy. But my gladness was short lived, for
I was not yet out of the reach and power
of the slaveholders. I soon found that New York was
not quite so free or so safe a refuge, as
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I had supposed, and a sense of loneliness and insecurity
again oppressed me. Most sadly, I chanced to meet on
the street a few hours after my landing a fugitive
slave whom I had once known well in slavery. The
information received from him alarmed me. The fugitive in question
was known in Baltimore as Allander's Jake, but in New
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York he wore the more respectable name of William Dixon.
Jake in law was the property of doctor Allender and
Tolly Allender, the son of the doctor, had once made
an effort to recapture m R. Dixon, but had failed
for want of evidence to support his claim. Jake told
me the circumstances of this attempt and how narrowly he
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escaped being sent back to slavery and torture. He told
me that New York was then full of Southerners returning
from the northern watering places. That the colored people of
New York were not to be trusted, That there were
hired men of my own color who would betray me
for a few dollars, That there were hired men ever
on the lookout for fugitives. That I must trust no
man with my secret, that I must not think of
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going either upon the wharves or into any colored boarding house,
for all such places were closely watched. That he was
himself unable to help me, and in fact, he seemed,
while speaking to me, to fear lest I myself might
be a spy and a betrayer under this apprehension, as
I suppose, he showed signs of wishing to be rid
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of me, and with whitewash brush in hand, in search
of work, he soon disappeared. This picture given by poor
Jake of New York was a damper to my enthusiasm.
My little store of money would soon be exhausted. And
since it would be unsafe for me to go on
the wharves for work, and I had no introductions elsewhere,
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the prospect for me was far from cheerful. I saw
the wisdom of keeping away from the shipyards, for if pursued,
as I felt certain I should be, mister Auld, my
master would naturally seek me there among the calkers. Every
door seemed closed against me. I was in the midst
of an ocean of my fellow men, and yet a
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perfect stranger to everyone. I was without home, without acquaintance,
without money, without credit, without work, and without any definite
knowledge as to what course to take or where to
look for succor. In such an extremity, a man had
something besides his new born freedom to think of. While
wandering about the streets of New York and lodging at
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least one night among the barrels on one of the wharves,
I was indeed free from slavery, but free from food
and shelter as well. I kept my secret to me
myself as long as I could, But I was compelled
at last to seek someone who would befriend me without
taking advantage of my destitution to betray me. Such a
person I found in a sailor named Stuart, a warm
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hearted and generous fellow, who, from his humble home on
Center Street, saw me standing on the opposite sidewalk near
the tomb's prison. As he approached me, I ventured a
remark to him which at once enlisted his interest in me.
He took me to his home to spend the night,
and in the morning went with me to mister David Ruggles,
the secretary of the New York Vigilance Committee, a co
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worker with Isaac T. Hopper Lewis and Arthur Tappan, Theodore S. Wright,
Samuel Cornish, Thomas Downing, Philip A. Bell, and other true
men of their time. All these, save mister Bell, who
still lives, and his editor and publisher of a paper
called The Elevator in San Francisco, have finished their work
on earth. Once in the hands of these brave and
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wise men, I felt comparatively safe with mister Ruggles on
the corner of Lisbonid and Church Streets. I was hidden
several days, during which time my intended wife came on
from Baltimore at my call to share the burdens of
life with me. She was a free woman and came
at once on getting the good news of my safety.
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We were married by Reverend J. W. C. Pennington, then
a well known and respected Presbyterian minister. I had no
money with which to pay the marriage fee, but he
seemed well pleased with our thanks. Mister Ruggles was the
first officer on the underground railroad whom I met after
coming north, and was indeed the only one with whom
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I had anything to do till I became such an
officer myself, learning that my trade was that of a Calker.
He promptly decided that the best place for me was
in New Bedford, Massachusetts. He told me that many ships
for whaling voyages were fitted out there, and that I
might there find work at my trade and make a
good living. So on the day of the marriage ceremony,
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we took our little luggage to the steamer John W. Richmond,
which at that time was one of the line running
between New York and Newport. Forty three years ago. Colored
travelers were not permitted in the cabin, nor allowed to
baft the paddle wheels of a steam vessel. They were compelled,
whatever the weather might be, whether cold or hot, wet
or dry, to spend the night on deck. Unjust as
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this regulation was, it did not trouble us much. We
had fared much harder before. We arrived at Newport the
next morning, and soon after an old fashioned stagecoach with
New Bedford in large yellow letters on its sides came
down to the wharf. I had not money enough to
pay our fare, and stood hesitating what to do. Fortunately
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for us, there were two Quaker gentlemen who were about
to take passage on the stage, friends William C. Taber
and Joseph Rickinson, who at once discerned our true situation, and,
in a peculiarly quiet way, addressing me, mister Taber said
the get in. I never obeyed order with more alacrity,
and we were soon on our way to our new home.
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When we reached stone Bridge, the passengers alighted for breakfast
and paid their fares to the driver. We took no breakfast,
and when asked for our fairs, I told the driver
I would make it right with him when we reached
New Bedford. I expected some objection to this on his part,
but he made none. When, however, we reached New Bedford,
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he took our baggage, including three music books, two of
them collections by Dyer and one by Shaw, and held
them until I was able to redeem them by paying
to him the amount due for our rides. This was
soon done for. Mister Nathan Johnson not only received me
kindly and hospitably, but on being informed about our baggage,
at once loaned me the two dollars with which to
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square accounts with the stage driver. Mister and missus Nathan
Johnson reached a good old age, and now rest from
their labors. I am under many grateful obligations to them.
They not only took me in when a stranger and
fed me when hungry, but taught me how to make
an honest living. Thus, in a fortnight after my flight
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from Maryland, I was safe in New Bedford, a citizen
of the grand old Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Once initiated into
my new life of freedom, and assured by mister Johnson
that I need not fear recapture in that city, a
comparatively unimportant question arose as to the name by which
I should be known thereafter in my new relation as
a freeman. The name given me by my dear mother
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was no less pretentious and long than Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey.
I had, however, while living in Maryland, dispensed with the
Augustus Washington and retained only Frederick Bailey. Between Baltimore and
New Bedford, the better to conceal myself from the slave hunters.
I had parted with Bailey and called myself Johnson. But
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in New Bedford I found that the Johnson family was
already so numerous as to cause some confusion in distinguishing them.
Hence a change in this name seemed desirable. Nathan Johnson
mine host placed great emphasis upon this necessity, and wished
me to allow him to select a name for me.
I consented, and he called me by my present name,
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the one by which I have been known for three
and forty years, Frederick Douglas. Mister Johnson had just been
reading The Lady of the Lake, and so pleased was
he with its great character that he wished me to
bear his name. Since reading that charming poem myself, I
have often thought that, considering the noble hospitality and manly
character of Nathan Johnson, black Man, though he was, he
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far more than I illustrated the virtues of the Douglas
of Scotland. Sure am I that if any slave catcher
had entered his domicile with a view to my recapture,
Johnson would have shown himself like him of the stalwart hand.
The reader may be surprised at the impressions I had
in some way conceived of the social and material condition
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of the people at the North. I had no proper
idea of the wealth, refinement, enterprise, and high civilization of
this section of the country. My Columbian orator, almost my
only book, had done nothing to enlighten me concerning northern society.
I had been taught that slavery was the bottom fact
of all wealth. With this foundation idea, I came naturally
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to the conclusion that poverty must be the general condition
of the people of the Free States. In the country
from which I came, a white man holding no slaves
was usually an ignorant and poverty stricken man, and men
of this class were contemptuously called poor white trash. Hence,
I supposed that, since the non slaveholders at the South
were ignorant, poor, and degraded as a class, the non
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slaveholders at the North must be in a similar condition.
I could have landed in no part of the United
States where I should have found a more striking and
gratifying contrast, not only to life generally in the South,
but in the condition of the colored people there than
in New Bedford. I was amazed when mister Johnson told
me that there was nothing in the laws or constitution
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of Massachusetts that would prevent a colored man from being
governor of the state if the people should see fit
to elect him. There too, the black man's children attended
the public schools with the white man's children, and, apparently
without objection from any quarter, to impress me with my
security from recapture and return to slavery. Mister Johnson assured
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me that no slaveholder could take a slave out of
New Bedford, that there were men there who would lay
down their lives to save me from such a fate.
The fifth day after my arrival, I put on the
clothes of a common laborer and went upon the wharves
in search of work. On my way down Union Street,
I saw a large pile of coal in front of
the house of Reverend Ephrium Peabody, the Unitarian minister. I
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went to the kitchen door and asked the privilege of
bringing in and putting away this coal? What will you charge?
Said the lady. I will leave that to you. Madam,
you may put it away, she said. I was not
long in accomplishing the job when the dear lady put
into my hand two silver half dollars. To understand the
emotion which swelled my heart as I clasped this money,
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realizing that I had no master who could take it
from me, that it was amenity, my hands were my own,
and could earn more of the precious coin, one must
have been, in some sense himself a slave. My next
job was stowing a sloop at Uncle Gid Howland's wharf
with a cargo of oil for New York. I was
not only a freeman, but a free workingman, and no
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master stood ready at the end of the week to
seize my hard earnings. The season was growing late and
work was plenty. Ships were being fitted out for whaling,
and much wood was used in storing them. The sawing
this wood was considered a good job. With the help
of old friend Johnson blessings on his memory, I got
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a saw and buck and went at it. When I
went into a store to buy a cord with which
to brace up my saw in the frame, I asked
for a phipsworth of the man behind the counter looked
rather sharply at me and said, with equal sharpness, you
don't belong about here. I was alarmed and thought I
had betrayed myself. A fip in Maryland was six and
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a quarter cents, called fourpence in Massachusetts. But no harm
came from the fivepenny bit blunder, and I confidently and
cheerfully went to work with my saw and buck. It
was new business to me, but I never did better work,
or more of it. In the same space of time
on the plantation for Covey, the Negro breaker, than I
did for myself in these earliest years of my freedom.
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Notwithstanding the just and humane sentiment of New Bedford three
and forty years ago, the place was not entirely free
from race and color prejudice. The good influence of the Roaches, Rodman's, Arnold's,
Grenelle's and Robesin's did not pervade all classes of its people.
The test of the real civilization of the community came
when I applied for work at my trade, and then
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my repulse was was emphatic and decisive. It so happened
that mister Rodney French, a wealthy and enterprising citizen distinguished
as an anti slavery man, was fitting out a vessel
for a wailing voyage, upon which there was a heavy
job of calking and coppering to be done. I had
some skill in both branches, and applied to mister French
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for work. He generous man that he was, told me
he would employ me and I might go at once
to the vessel. I obeyed him, but upon reaching the
float stage, where others cockers were at work, I was
told that every white man would leave the ship in
her unfinished condition, if I struck a blow at my
trade upon her. This uncivil, inhuman, and selfish treatment was
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not so shocking and scandalous in my eyes at the
time as it now appears to me. Slavery had inured
me to hardships that made ordinary trouble sit lightly upon me.
Could I have worked at my trade, I could have
earned two dollars a day, But as a common laborer
I received but one dollar. The difference was of great
importance to me. But if I could not get two dollars,
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I was glad to get one, and so I went
to work for mister French as a common laborer. The
consciousness that I was free, no longer a slave, kept
me cheerful under this and many similar prescriptions which I
was destined to meet in New Bedford and elsewhere on
the free soil of Massachusetts. For instance, though colored children
attended the schools and were treated kindly by their teachers,
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the New Bedford Lyceum refused till several years after my
residence in that city to allow any colored person to
attend the lectures delivered in its hall. Not until such
men as Charles Sumner, Theodore Parker, Ralph Waldo Emerson and
Horace Mann refused to lecture in their course. While there
was such a restriction, was it abandoned. Becoming satisfied that
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I could not rely on my trade in New Bedford
to give me a living, I prepared myself to do
any kind of work that came to hand. I saw
it would shoveled coal, dug cellars, moved rubbish from backyards,
worked on the wharves, loaded and unloaded vessels, and scoured
their cabins. I afterward got steady work at the brass
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foundry owned by mister Richmond. My duty here was to
blow the bellows, swing the crane, and empty the flasks
in which castings were made, and at times this was
hot and heavy work. The articles produced here were mostly
for shipwork, and in the busy season the foundry was
in operation night and day. I have often worked two
(28:29):
nights and every working day of the week. My foreman,
mister Cobb, was a good man and more than once
protected me from abuse that one or more of the
hands was disposed to throw upon me. While in this
situation I had little time for mental improvement. Hard work
night and day over a furnace hot enough to keep
the metal running like water was more favorable to action
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than thought. Yet here I often nailed a newspaper to
the post near my bellows and read while I was
performing the up and down motion of the heavy beam
by which the bellows was inflated and discharged. It was
the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, and I look back
to it now, after so many years, with some complacency
and a little wonder that I could have been so
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earnest and persevering in any pursuit other than for my
daily bread. I certainly saw nothing in the conduct of
those around to inspire me with such interest. They were
all devoted exclusively to what their hands found to do.
I am glad to be able to say that during
my engagement in this foundry, no complaint was ever made
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against me that I did not do my work and
do it well. The bellows, which I worked by main strength,
was after I left, moved by a steam engine.
Frederick Douglas My Escape from Slavery, in the first Narrative
of My experience in slavery, written nearly forty years ago,
and in various writings since, I have given the public
what I considered very good reasons for withholding the manner
of my escape in substance. These reasons were first, that
such publication, at any time during the existence of slavery,
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might be used by the master against the slave and
prevent the future escape of any who might adopt the
same means that I did. The second reason was, if possible,
still more binding to silence. The publication of details would
certainly have put in peril the persons and property of
those who assisted. Murder itself was not more sternly and
certainly punished in the state of Maryland than that of
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aiding and abetting the escape of a slave. Many colored men,
for no other crime than that of giving aid to
a fugitive slave, have, like Charles T. Tory, perished in prison.
The abolition of slavery in my native state and throughout
the coin and the lapse of time render the caution
hitherto observed no longer necessary. But even since the abolition
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of slavery. I have sometimes thought it well enough to
baffle curiosity by saying that while slavery existed, there were
good reasons for not telling the manner of my escape,
and since slavery had ceased to exist, there was no
reason for telling it. I shall, now, however, cease to
avail myself of this formula. And as far as I
can endeavor to satisfy this very natural curiosity, I should
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perhaps have yielded to that feeling sooner had there been
anything very heroic or thrilling in the incidents connected with
my escape. For I am sorry to say I have
nothing of that sort to tell. And yet the courage
that could risk betrayal, and the bravery which was ready
to encounter death if need be, in pursuit of freedom,
were essential features in the undertaking. My success was due
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to address rather than courage, to good luck rather than bravery.
My means of escape were provided for me by the
very men who were making law to hold and bind
me more securely in slavery. It was the custom in
the state of Maryland to require the free colored people
to have what were called free papers. These instruments they
were required to renew very often and by charging a
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fee for this writing. Considerable sums from time to time
were collected by the state. In these papers, the name, age, color, height,
and form of the freemen were described, together with any
scars or other marks upon his person which could assist
in his identification. This device, in some measure defeated itself,
since more than one man could be found to answer
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the same general description. Hence, many slaves could escape by
personating the owner of one set of papers, and this
was often done as follows. A slave nearly or sufficiently
answering the description set forth in the papers would borrow
or hire them till by means of them he could
escape to a free state, and then, by mail or
otherwise would return them to the owner. The operation was
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a hazardous one for the lender as well as for
the borrower. A failure on the part of the fugitive
to send back the papers would imperil his benefactor, and
the discovery of the papers in possession of the wrong
man would imperil both the fugitive and his friend. It
was therefore an act of supreme trust on the part
of a freeman of color. Thus, to put in jeopardy
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his own liberty that another might be free. It was, however,
not unfrequently bravely done, and was seldom discovered. I was
not so fortunate as to resemble any of my free
acquaintances sufficiently to answer the description of their papers. But
I had a friend, a sailor, who owned a sailor's protection,
which answered somewhat the purpose of free papers, describing his
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person and certifying to the fact that he was a
free American sailor. The instrument had at its head the
American Eagle, which gave it the appearance at once of
an authorized document. This protection, when in my hands, did
not describe its bearer very accurately. Indeed, it called for
a man much darker than myself, and close examination of
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it would have caused my arrest at the start. In
order to avoid this fatal scrutiny on the part of
railroad officials, I arranged with Isaac Rolls, a Baltimore hackman,
to bring my baggage to the Philadelphia train just on
the moment of starting, and jumped upon the car myself
when the train was in motion. Had I gone into
the station and offered to purchase a ticket, I should
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have been instantly and carefully examined and undoubtedly arrested. In
choosing this plan, I considered the jostle of the train
and the natural haste of the conductor in a train
crowded with passengers, and relied upon my skill and address
in playing the sailor as described in my protection, to
do the rest. One element in my favor was the
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kind feeling which prevailed in Baltimore and other seaports at
the time toward those who go down to the sea
in ships, Free trade and sailors' rights. Just then expressed
the sentiment of the country. In my clothing I was rigged,
doubt in sailor style. I had on a red shirt
and a tarpaulin hat and a black cravat tied in
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sailor fashion carelessly and loosely about my neck. My knowledge
of ships and sailor's talk came much to my assistance,
for I knew a ship from stem to stern, and
from keelson to cross trees, and could talk sailor like
an old salt. I was well on the way to
have her to grace before the conductor came into the
Negro car to collect tickets and examine the papers of
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his black passengers. This was a critical moment in the drama.
My whole future depended upon the decision of this conductor.
Agitated though I was while this ceremony was proceeding, still externally,
at least I was apparently calm and self possessed. He
went on with his duty, examining several colored passengers before
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reaching me. He was somewhat harsh in tome and peremptory
in manner until he reached me, when strange enough, and
to my surprise and relief, his whole manner changed, being
that I did not readily produce my free papers, as
the other colored persons in the car had done. He
said to me, in friendly contrast with his bearing toward
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the others, I suppose you have your free papers, to
which I answered, no, sir, I never carry my free
papers to see with me. But you have something to
show that you are a freeman, haven't you, Yes, sir,
I answered, I have a paper with the American Eagle
on it, and that will carry me around the world.
(06:31):
With this I drew from my deep sailor's pocket my
seamen's protection. As before described. The merest glance at the
paper satisfied him, and he took my fare and went
on about his business. This moment of time was one
of the most anxious I ever experienced. Had the conductor
looked closely at the paper, he could not have failed
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to discover that it called for a very different looking
person from myself, and in that case it would have
been his duty to arrest me on the instant and
send me back to Baltimore from the first station. When
he left me with the assurance that I was all right,
though much relieved, I realized that I was still in
great danger. I was still in Maryland and subject to
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arrest at any moment. I saw on the train several
persons who would have known me in any other clothes,
and I feared they might recognize me, even in my
sailor rig and report me to the conductor, who would
then subject me to a closer examination, which I knew
well would be fatal to me. Though I was not
a murderer fleeing from justice, I felt perhaps quite as
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miserable as such a criminal. The train was moving at
a very high rate of speed for that epoch of
railroad travel, but to my anxious mind, it was moving
far too slowly. Minutes were hours, and hours were days.
During this part of my flight after Maryland, I was
to pass through Delaware, another slave state where slave catchers
generally awaited their prey, for it was not in the
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interior of the state, but on its borders that these
human hounds were most vigilant and active. The border lines
between slavery and freedom were the dangerous ones for the fugitives.
The heart of no fox or deer, with hungry hounds
on his trail in full chase, could have beaten more
anxiously or noisily than did mine. From the time I
left Baltimore till I reached Philadelphia, the passage of the
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Susquehanna River at Havrda Grace was at that time made
by ferryboat, on board of which I met a young
colored man by the name of Nichols, who came very
near betraying me. He was a hand on the boat,
but instead of minding his business, he insisted upon knowing
me and asking me dangerous questions as to where I
was going, when I was coming back, et cetera. I
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got away from my old and inconvenient acquaintance as soon
as I could decently do so, and went to another
part of the boat once across the river, I encountered
a new danger. Only a few days before, I had
been at work on a revenue cutter in mister Price's
shipyard in Baltimore, under the care of Captain McGowan. On
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the meeting at this point of the two trains, the
one going south stopped on the track just opposite to
the one going north. And it so happened that this
Captain McGowan sat at a window where he could see
me very distinctly, and would certainly have recognized me had
he looked at me but for a second. Fortunately, in
the hurry of the moment, he did not see me,
and the trains soon passed each other on their respective ways.
(09:25):
But this was not my only hair breadth escape. A
German blacksmith whom I knew well was on the train
with me, and looked at me very intently, as if
he thought he had seen me somewhere before in his travels.
I really believe he knew me, but had no heart
to betray me at any rate. He saw me escaping
and held his peace. The last point of imminent danger,
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and the one I dreaded most was Wilmington. Here we
left the train and took the steamboat for Philadelphia. In
making the change. Here I again apprehended arrest, but no
one disturbed me, and I was soon on the broad
and beautiful Delaware, speeding away to the Quaker city. On
reaching Philadelphia in the afternoon, I inquired of a colored
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man how I could get on to New York. He
directed me to the William Street depot, and thither I went,
taking the train that night. I reached New York Tuesday morning,
having completed the journey in less than twenty four hours.
My free life began on the third of September eighteen
thirty eight. On the morning of the fourth of that month,
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after an anxious and most perilous, but safe journey, I
found myself in the big city of New York, a
free m n one more added to the mighty throng, which,
like the confused waves of the troubled sea, surged to
and fro between the lofty walls of Broadway. Though dazzled
with the wonders which met me on every hand, my
thoughts could not be much withdrawn from my strange situation.
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For the moment, the dreams of my youth and the
hopes of my manhood were completely fulfilled. The bonds that
had held me to old master were broken. No man
now had a right to call me his slave or
assert mastery over me. I was in the rough and
tumble of an outdoor world to take my chance with
the rest of its busy number. I have often been
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asked how I felt when first I found myself on
free soil. There is scarcely anything in my experience about
which I could not give a more satisfactory answer. A
new world had opened upon me. If life is more
than breath and the quick round of blood, I lived
more in that one day than in a year of
my slave life. It was a time of joyous excitement
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which words can but tamely describe. In a letter written
to a friend soon after reaching New York, I said,
I felt as one might feel upon escape from a
den of hungry lions. Anguish and grief like darkness and
rain may be depicted, but gladness and joy like the
rainbow defy the skill of pen or pencil. During ten
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or fifteen years I had been, as it were, dragging
a heavy chain which no strength of mind could break.
I was not only a slave, but a slave for life.
I might become a husband, a father, an aged man,
but threw all from birth to death, from the cradle
to the grave. I had felt myself doomed. All efforts
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I had previously made to secure my freedom had not
only failed, but had seemed only to rivet my fetters
the more firmly, and to render my escape more difficult. Baffled, entangled,
and discouraged, I had at times asked myself the question,
may not my condition, after all, be God's work and
ordered for a wise purpose, And if so, is not
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submission my duty? A contest had in fact been going
on in my mind for a long time, between the
clear consciousness of right and the plausible makeshifts of theology
and superstition. The one held me an abject slave, a
prisoner for life, punished for some transgression in which I
had no lot nor part, and the other counseled me
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to manly endeavor to secure my freedom. This contest was
now ended. My chains were broken, and the victory brought
me unspeakable joy. But my gladness was short lived, for
I was not yet out of the reach and power
of the slaveholders. I soon found that New York was
not quite so free or so safe a refuge, as
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I had supposed, and a sense of loneliness and insecurity
again oppressed me. Most sadly, I chanced to meet on
the street a few hours after my landing a fugitive
slave whom I had once known well in slavery. The
information received from him alarmed me. The fugitive in question
was known in Baltimore as Allander's Jake, but in New
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York he wore the more respectable name of William Dixon.
Jake in law was the property of doctor Allender and
Tolly Allender, the son of the doctor, had once made
an effort to recapture m R. Dixon, but had failed
for want of evidence to support his claim. Jake told
me the circumstances of this attempt and how narrowly he
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escaped being sent back to slavery and torture. He told
me that New York was then full of Southerners returning
from the northern watering places. That the colored people of
New York were not to be trusted, That there were
hired men of my own color who would betray me
for a few dollars, That there were hired men ever
on the lookout for fugitives. That I must trust no
man with my secret, that I must not think of
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going either upon the wharves or into any colored boarding house,
for all such places were closely watched. That he was
himself unable to help me, and in fact, he seemed,
while speaking to me, to fear lest I myself might
be a spy and a betrayer under this apprehension, as
I suppose, he showed signs of wishing to be rid
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of me, and with whitewash brush in hand, in search
of work, he soon disappeared. This picture given by poor
Jake of New York was a damper to my enthusiasm.
My little store of money would soon be exhausted. And
since it would be unsafe for me to go on
the wharves for work, and I had no introductions elsewhere,
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the prospect for me was far from cheerful. I saw
the wisdom of keeping away from the shipyards, for if pursued,
as I felt certain I should be, mister Auld, my
master would naturally seek me there among the calkers. Every
door seemed closed against me. I was in the midst
of an ocean of my fellow men, and yet a
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perfect stranger to everyone. I was without home, without acquaintance,
without money, without credit, without work, and without any definite
knowledge as to what course to take or where to
look for succor. In such an extremity, a man had
something besides his new born freedom to think of. While
wandering about the streets of New York and lodging at
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least one night among the barrels on one of the wharves,
I was indeed free from slavery, but free from food
and shelter as well. I kept my secret to me
myself as long as I could, But I was compelled
at last to seek someone who would befriend me without
taking advantage of my destitution to betray me. Such a
person I found in a sailor named Stuart, a warm
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hearted and generous fellow, who, from his humble home on
Center Street, saw me standing on the opposite sidewalk near
the tomb's prison. As he approached me, I ventured a
remark to him which at once enlisted his interest in me.
He took me to his home to spend the night,
and in the morning went with me to mister David Ruggles,
the secretary of the New York Vigilance Committee, a co
(16:34):
worker with Isaac T. Hopper Lewis and Arthur Tappan, Theodore S. Wright,
Samuel Cornish, Thomas Downing, Philip A. Bell, and other true
men of their time. All these, save mister Bell, who
still lives, and his editor and publisher of a paper
called The Elevator in San Francisco, have finished their work
on earth. Once in the hands of these brave and
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wise men, I felt comparatively safe with mister Ruggles on
the corner of Lisbonid and Church Streets. I was hidden
several days, during which time my intended wife came on
from Baltimore at my call to share the burdens of
life with me. She was a free woman and came
at once on getting the good news of my safety.
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We were married by Reverend J. W. C. Pennington, then
a well known and respected Presbyterian minister. I had no
money with which to pay the marriage fee, but he
seemed well pleased with our thanks. Mister Ruggles was the
first officer on the underground railroad whom I met after
coming north, and was indeed the only one with whom
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I had anything to do till I became such an
officer myself, learning that my trade was that of a Calker.
He promptly decided that the best place for me was
in New Bedford, Massachusetts. He told me that many ships
for whaling voyages were fitted out there, and that I
might there find work at my trade and make a
good living. So on the day of the marriage ceremony,
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we took our little luggage to the steamer John W. Richmond,
which at that time was one of the line running
between New York and Newport. Forty three years ago. Colored
travelers were not permitted in the cabin, nor allowed to
baft the paddle wheels of a steam vessel. They were compelled,
whatever the weather might be, whether cold or hot, wet
or dry, to spend the night on deck. Unjust as
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this regulation was, it did not trouble us much. We
had fared much harder before. We arrived at Newport the
next morning, and soon after an old fashioned stagecoach with
New Bedford in large yellow letters on its sides came
down to the wharf. I had not money enough to
pay our fare, and stood hesitating what to do. Fortunately
(18:43):
for us, there were two Quaker gentlemen who were about
to take passage on the stage, friends William C. Taber
and Joseph Rickinson, who at once discerned our true situation, and,
in a peculiarly quiet way, addressing me, mister Taber said
the get in. I never obeyed order with more alacrity,
and we were soon on our way to our new home.
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When we reached stone Bridge, the passengers alighted for breakfast
and paid their fares to the driver. We took no breakfast,
and when asked for our fairs, I told the driver
I would make it right with him when we reached
New Bedford. I expected some objection to this on his part,
but he made none. When, however, we reached New Bedford,
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he took our baggage, including three music books, two of
them collections by Dyer and one by Shaw, and held
them until I was able to redeem them by paying
to him the amount due for our rides. This was
soon done for. Mister Nathan Johnson not only received me
kindly and hospitably, but on being informed about our baggage,
at once loaned me the two dollars with which to
(19:45):
square accounts with the stage driver. Mister and missus Nathan
Johnson reached a good old age, and now rest from
their labors. I am under many grateful obligations to them.
They not only took me in when a stranger and
fed me when hungry, but taught me how to make
an honest living. Thus, in a fortnight after my flight
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from Maryland, I was safe in New Bedford, a citizen
of the grand old Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Once initiated into
my new life of freedom, and assured by mister Johnson
that I need not fear recapture in that city, a
comparatively unimportant question arose as to the name by which
I should be known thereafter in my new relation as
a freeman. The name given me by my dear mother
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was no less pretentious and long than Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey.
I had, however, while living in Maryland, dispensed with the
Augustus Washington and retained only Frederick Bailey. Between Baltimore and
New Bedford, the better to conceal myself from the slave hunters.
I had parted with Bailey and called myself Johnson. But
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in New Bedford I found that the Johnson family was
already so numerous as to cause some confusion in distinguishing them.
Hence a change in this name seemed desirable. Nathan Johnson
mine host placed great emphasis upon this necessity, and wished
me to allow him to select a name for me.
I consented, and he called me by my present name,
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the one by which I have been known for three
and forty years, Frederick Douglas. Mister Johnson had just been
reading The Lady of the Lake, and so pleased was
he with its great character that he wished me to
bear his name. Since reading that charming poem myself, I
have often thought that, considering the noble hospitality and manly
character of Nathan Johnson, black Man, though he was, he
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far more than I illustrated the virtues of the Douglas
of Scotland. Sure am I that if any slave catcher
had entered his domicile with a view to my recapture,
Johnson would have shown himself like him of the stalwart hand.
The reader may be surprised at the impressions I had
in some way conceived of the social and material condition
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of the people at the North. I had no proper
idea of the wealth, refinement, enterprise, and high civilization of
this section of the country. My Columbian orator, almost my
only book, had done nothing to enlighten me concerning northern society.
I had been taught that slavery was the bottom fact
of all wealth. With this foundation idea, I came naturally
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to the conclusion that poverty must be the general condition
of the people of the Free States. In the country
from which I came, a white man holding no slaves
was usually an ignorant and poverty stricken man, and men
of this class were contemptuously called poor white trash. Hence,
I supposed that, since the non slaveholders at the South
were ignorant, poor, and degraded as a class, the non
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slaveholders at the North must be in a similar condition.
I could have landed in no part of the United
States where I should have found a more striking and
gratifying contrast, not only to life generally in the South,
but in the condition of the colored people there than
in New Bedford. I was amazed when mister Johnson told
me that there was nothing in the laws or constitution
(23:00):
of Massachusetts that would prevent a colored man from being
governor of the state if the people should see fit
to elect him. There too, the black man's children attended
the public schools with the white man's children, and, apparently
without objection from any quarter, to impress me with my
security from recapture and return to slavery. Mister Johnson assured
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me that no slaveholder could take a slave out of
New Bedford, that there were men there who would lay
down their lives to save me from such a fate.
The fifth day after my arrival, I put on the
clothes of a common laborer and went upon the wharves
in search of work. On my way down Union Street,
I saw a large pile of coal in front of
the house of Reverend Ephrium Peabody, the Unitarian minister. I
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went to the kitchen door and asked the privilege of
bringing in and putting away this coal? What will you charge?
Said the lady. I will leave that to you. Madam,
you may put it away, she said. I was not
long in accomplishing the job when the dear lady put
into my hand two silver half dollars. To understand the
emotion which swelled my heart as I clasped this money,
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realizing that I had no master who could take it
from me, that it was amenity, my hands were my own,
and could earn more of the precious coin, one must
have been, in some sense himself a slave. My next
job was stowing a sloop at Uncle Gid Howland's wharf
with a cargo of oil for New York. I was
not only a freeman, but a free workingman, and no
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master stood ready at the end of the week to
seize my hard earnings. The season was growing late and
work was plenty. Ships were being fitted out for whaling,
and much wood was used in storing them. The sawing
this wood was considered a good job. With the help
of old friend Johnson blessings on his memory, I got
(24:50):
a saw and buck and went at it. When I
went into a store to buy a cord with which
to brace up my saw in the frame, I asked
for a phipsworth of the man behind the counter looked
rather sharply at me and said, with equal sharpness, you
don't belong about here. I was alarmed and thought I
had betrayed myself. A fip in Maryland was six and
(25:13):
a quarter cents, called fourpence in Massachusetts. But no harm
came from the fivepenny bit blunder, and I confidently and
cheerfully went to work with my saw and buck. It
was new business to me, but I never did better work,
or more of it. In the same space of time
on the plantation for Covey, the Negro breaker, than I
did for myself in these earliest years of my freedom.
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Notwithstanding the just and humane sentiment of New Bedford three
and forty years ago, the place was not entirely free
from race and color prejudice. The good influence of the Roaches, Rodman's, Arnold's,
Grenelle's and Robesin's did not pervade all classes of its people.
The test of the real civilization of the community came
when I applied for work at my trade, and then
(25:59):
my repulse was was emphatic and decisive. It so happened
that mister Rodney French, a wealthy and enterprising citizen distinguished
as an anti slavery man, was fitting out a vessel
for a wailing voyage, upon which there was a heavy
job of calking and coppering to be done. I had
some skill in both branches, and applied to mister French
(26:19):
for work. He generous man that he was, told me
he would employ me and I might go at once
to the vessel. I obeyed him, but upon reaching the
float stage, where others cockers were at work, I was
told that every white man would leave the ship in
her unfinished condition, if I struck a blow at my
trade upon her. This uncivil, inhuman, and selfish treatment was
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not so shocking and scandalous in my eyes at the
time as it now appears to me. Slavery had inured
me to hardships that made ordinary trouble sit lightly upon me.
Could I have worked at my trade, I could have
earned two dollars a day, But as a common laborer
I received but one dollar. The difference was of great
importance to me. But if I could not get two dollars,
(27:04):
I was glad to get one, and so I went
to work for mister French as a common laborer. The
consciousness that I was free, no longer a slave, kept
me cheerful under this and many similar prescriptions which I
was destined to meet in New Bedford and elsewhere on
the free soil of Massachusetts. For instance, though colored children
attended the schools and were treated kindly by their teachers,
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the New Bedford Lyceum refused till several years after my
residence in that city to allow any colored person to
attend the lectures delivered in its hall. Not until such
men as Charles Sumner, Theodore Parker, Ralph Waldo Emerson and
Horace Mann refused to lecture in their course. While there
was such a restriction, was it abandoned. Becoming satisfied that
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I could not rely on my trade in New Bedford
to give me a living, I prepared myself to do
any kind of work that came to hand. I saw
it would shoveled coal, dug cellars, moved rubbish from backyards,
worked on the wharves, loaded and unloaded vessels, and scoured
their cabins. I afterward got steady work at the brass
(28:09):
foundry owned by mister Richmond. My duty here was to
blow the bellows, swing the crane, and empty the flasks
in which castings were made, and at times this was
hot and heavy work. The articles produced here were mostly
for shipwork, and in the busy season the foundry was
in operation night and day. I have often worked two
(28:29):
nights and every working day of the week. My foreman,
mister Cobb, was a good man and more than once
protected me from abuse that one or more of the
hands was disposed to throw upon me. While in this
situation I had little time for mental improvement. Hard work
night and day over a furnace hot enough to keep
the metal running like water was more favorable to action
(28:52):
than thought. Yet here I often nailed a newspaper to
the post near my bellows and read while I was
performing the up and down motion of the heavy beam
by which the bellows was inflated and discharged. It was
the pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, and I look back
to it now, after so many years, with some complacency
and a little wonder that I could have been so
(29:12):
earnest and persevering in any pursuit other than for my
daily bread. I certainly saw nothing in the conduct of
those around to inspire me with such interest. They were
all devoted exclusively to what their hands found to do.
I am glad to be able to say that during
my engagement in this foundry, no complaint was ever made
(29:33):
against me that I did not do my work and
do it well. The bellows, which I worked by main strength,
was after I left, moved by a steam engine.
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