Twelve Years a Slave by Solomon Northup (books to read to get smarter .txt) 📕

for the pleasure of hearing his own voice; as somewhat self-conceited, perhaps, contending against his faith and judgment, in order, simply, to exhibit his dexterity in argumentation.

He remained at Epps’ through the summer, visiting Marksville generally once a fortnight. The more I saw of him, the more I became convinced he was a man in whom I could confide. Nevertheless, my previous ill-fortune had taught me to be extremely cautious. It was not my place to speak to a white man except when spoken to, but I omitted no opportunity of throwing myself in his way, and endeavored constantly in every possible manner to attract his attention. In the early part of August he and myself were at work alone in the house, the other carpenters having left, and Epps being absent in the field. Now was the time, if ever, to broach the subject, and I resolved to do it, and submit to whatever consequences might ensue. We were busily at work in the afternoon, when I stopped suddenly and said⁠—

“Master Bass, I want to ask you what part of the country you came from?”

“Why, Platt, what put that into your head?” he answered. “You wouldn’t know if I should tell you.” After a moment or two he added⁠—“I was born in Canada; now guess where that is.”

“Oh, I know where Canada is,” said I, “I have been there myself.”

“Yes, I expect you are well acquainted all through that country,” he remarked, laughing incredulously.

“As sure as I live, Master Bass,” I replied, “I have been there. I have been in Montreal and Kingston, and Queenston, and a great many places in Canada, and I have been in York State, too⁠—in Buffalo, and Rochester, and Albany, and can tell you the names of the villages on the Erie Canal and the Champlain Canal.”

Bass turned round and gazed at me a long time without uttering a syllable.

“How came you here?” he inquired, at length. “Master Bass,” I answered, “if justice had been done, I never would have been here.”

“Well, how’s this?” said he. “Who are you? You have been in Canada sure enough; I know all the places you mention. How did you happen to get here? Come, tell me all about it.”

“I have no friends here,” was my reply, “that I can put confidence in. I am afraid to tell you, though I don’t believe you would tell Master Epps if I should.”

He assured me earnestly he would keep every word I might speak to him a profound secret, and his curiosity was evidently strongly excited. It was a long story, I informed him, and would take some time to relate it. Master Epps would be back soon, but if he would see me that night after all were asleep, I would repeat it to him. He consented readily to the arrangement, and directed me to come into the building where we were then at work, and I would find him there. About midnight, when all was still and quiet, I crept cautiously from my cabin, and silently entering the unfinished building, found him awaiting me.

After further assurances on his part that I should not be betrayed, I began a relation of the history of my life and misfortunes. He was deeply interested, asking numerous questions in reference to localities and events. Having ended my story I besought him to write to some of my friends at the North, acquainting them with my situation, and begging them to forward free papers, or take such steps as they might consider proper to secure my release. He promised to do so, but dwelt upon the danger of such an act in case of detection, and now impressed upon me the great necessity of strict silence and secrecy. Before we parted our plan of operation was arranged.

We agreed to meet the next night at a specified place among the high weeds on the bank of the bayou, some distance from master’s dwelling. There he was to write down on paper the names and address of several persons, old friends in the North, to whom he would direct letters during his next visit to Marksville. It was not deemed prudent to meet in the new house, inasmuch as the light it would be necessary to use might possibly be discovered. In the course of the day I managed to obtain a few matches and a piece of candle, unperceived, from the kitchen, during a temporary absence of Aunt Phebe. Bass had pencil and paper in his tool chest.

At the appointed hour we met on the bayou bank, and creeping among the high weeds, I lighted the candle, while he drew forth pencil and paper and prepared for business. I gave him the names of William Perry, Cephas Parker and Judge Marvin, all of Saratoga Springs, Saratoga County, New York. I had been employed by the latter in the United States Hotel, and had transacted business with the former to a considerable extent, and trusted that at least one of them would be still living at that place. He carefully wrote the names, and then remarked, thoughtfully⁠—

“It is so many years since you left Saratoga, all these men may be dead, or may have removed. You say you obtained papers at the custom house in New York. Probably there is a record of them there, and I think it would be well to write and ascertain.”

I agreed with him, and again repeated the circumstances related heretofore, connected with my visit to the custom house with Brown and Hamilton. We lingered on the bank of the bayou an hour or more, conversing upon the subject which now engrossed our thoughts. I could no longer doubt his fidelity, and freely spoke to him of the many sorrows I had borne in silence, and so long. I spoke of my wife and children, mentioning their names and ages, and dwelling upon the unspeakable happiness it would be to clasp them to my heart once more before I died.