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

standing a few rods distant, he demanded⁠—“Do you know that man?”

I looked in the direction indicated, and as my eyes rested on his countenance, a world of images thronged my brain; a multitude of well-known faces⁠—Anne’s, and the dear children’s, and my old dead father’s; all the scenes and associations of childhood and youth; all the friends of other and happier days, appeared and disappeared, flitting and floating like dissolving shadows before the vision of my imagination, until at last the perfect memory of the man recurred to me, and throwing up my hands towards Heaven, I exclaimed, in a voice louder than I could utter in a less exciting moment⁠—

“Henry B. Northup! Thank God⁠—thank God!”

In an instant I comprehended the nature of his business, and felt that the hour of my deliverance was at hand. I started towards him, but the sheriff stepped before me.

“Stop a moment,” said he; “have you any other name than Platt?”

“Solomon Northup is my name, master,” I replied.

“Have you a family?” he inquired.

“I had a wife and three children.”

“What were your children’s names?”

“Elizabeth, Margaret and Alonzo.”

“And your wife’s name before her marriage?”

“Anne Hampton.”

“Who married you?”

“Timothy Eddy, of Fort Edward.”

“Where does that gentleman live?” again pointing to Northup, who remained standing in the same place where I had first recognized him.

“He lives in Sandy Hill, Washington County, New York,” was the reply.

He was proceeding to ask further questions, but I pushed past him, unable longer to restrain myself. I seized my old acquaintance by both hands. I could not speak. I could not refrain from tears.

“Sol,” he said at length, “I’m glad to see you.”

I essayed to make some answer, but emotion choked all utterance, and I was silent. The slaves, utterly confounded, stood gazing upon the scene, their open mouths and rolling eyes indicating the utmost wonder and astonishment. For ten years I had dwelt among them, in the field and in the cabin, borne the same hardships, partaken the same fare, mingled my griefs with theirs, participated in the same scanty joys; nevertheless, not until this hour, the last I was to remain among them, had the remotest suspicion of my true name, or the slightest knowledge of my real history, been entertained by any one of them.

Not a word was spoken for several minutes, during which time I clung fast to Northup, looking up into his face, fearful I should awake and find it all a dream.

“Throw down that sack,” Northup added, finally; “your cotton-picking days are over. Come with us to the man you live with.”

I obeyed him, and walking between him and the sheriff, we moved towards the great house. It was not until we had proceeded some distance that I had recovered my voice sufficiently to ask if my family were all living. He informed me he had seen Anne, Margaret and Elizabeth but a short time previously; that Alonzo was also living, and all were well. My mother, however, I could never see again. As I began to recover in some measure from the sudden and great excitement which so overwhelmed me, I grew faint and weak, insomuch it was with difficulty I could walk. The sheriff took hold of my arm and assisted me, or I think I should have fallen. As we entered the yard, Epps stood by the gate, conversing with the driver. That young man, faithful to his instructions, was entirely unable to give him the least information in answer to his repeated inquiries of what was going on. By the time we reached him he was almost as much amazed and puzzled as Bob or Uncle Abram.

Shaking hands with the sheriff, and receiving an introduction to Mr. Northup, he invited them into the house, ordering me, at the same time, to bring in some wood. It was some time before I succeeded in cutting an armful, having, somehow, unaccountably lost the power of wielding the axe with any manner of precision. When I entered with it at last, the table was strewn with papers, from one of which Northup was reading. I was probably longer than necessity required, in placing the sticks upon the fire, being particular as to the exact position of each individual one of them. I heard the words, “the said Solomon Northup,” and “the deponent further says,” and “free citizen of New York,” repeated frequently, and from these expressions understood that the secret I had so long retained from Master and Mistress Epps, was finally developing. I lingered as long as prudence permitted, and was about leaving the room, when Epps inquired,

“Platt, do you know this gentleman?”

“Yes, master,” I replied, “I have known him as long as I can remember.”

“Where does he live?”

“He lives in New York.”

“Did you ever live there?”

“Yes, master⁠—born and bred there.”

“You was free, then. Now you d⁠⸺⁠d nigger,” he exclaimed, “why did you not tell me that when I bought you?”

“Master Epps,” I answered, in a somewhat different tone than the one in which I had been accustomed to address him⁠—“Master Epps, you did not take the trouble to ask me; besides, I told one of my owners⁠—the man that kidnapped me⁠—that I was free, and was whipped almost to death for it.”

“It seems there has been a letter written for you by somebody. Now, who is it?” he demanded, authoritatively. I made no reply.

“I say, who wrote that letter?” he demanded again.

“Perhaps I wrote it myself,” I said.

“You haven’t been to Marksville post-office and back before light, I know.”

He insisted upon my informing him, and I insisted I would not. He made many vehement threats against the man, whoever he might be, and intimated the bloody and savage vengeance he would wreak upon him, when he found him out. His whole manner and language exhibited a feeling of anger towards the unknown person who had written for me, and of fretfulness at the idea of losing so much property. Addressing Mr. Northup, he swore if he had only had an hour’s notice of his coming,