The shrewd son of African parents to whom I referred said to me, “Say, brudder, way you come from, and which side you goin day wid dat ar little don up buckra” (white man)?
I replied, “To Philadelphia.”
“What!” he exclaimed, with astonishment, “to Philumadelphy?”
“Yes,” I said.
“By squash! I wish I was going wid you! I hears um say dat dare’s no slaves way over in dem parts; is um so?”
I quietly said, “I have heard the same thing.”
“Well,” continued he, as he threw down the boot and brush, and, placing his hands in his pockets, strutted across the floor with an air of independence—“Gorra Mighty, dem is de parts for Pompey; and I hope when you get dare you will stay, and nebber follow dat buckra back to dis hot quarter no more, let him be eber so good.”
I thanked him; and just as I took the boots up and started off, he caught my hand between his two, and gave it a hearty shake, and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, said:—
“God bless you, broder, and may de Lord be wid you. When you gets de freedom, and sitin under your own wine and fig tree, don’t forget to pray for poor Pompey.”
I was afraid to say much to him, but I shall never forget his earnest request, nor fail to do what little I can to release the millions of unhappy bondmen, of whom he was one.
At the proper time my master had the poultices placed on, came down, and seated himself at a table in a very brilliant dining room, to have his dinner. I had to have something at the same time, in order to be ready for the boat; so they gave me my dinner in an old broken plate, with a rusty knife and fork, and said, “Here, boy, you go in the kitchen.” I took it and went out, but did not stay more than a few minutes, because I was in a great hurry to get back to see how the invalid was getting on. On arriving I found two or three servants waiting on him; but as he did not feel able to make a very hearty dinner, he soon finished, paid the bill, and gave the servants each a trifle, which caused one of them to say to me, “Your massa is a big bug”—meaning a gentleman of distinction—“he is the greatest gentleman dat has been dis way for dis six months.” I said, “Yes, he is some pumpkins,” meaning the same as “big bug.”
When we left Macon, it was our intention to take a steamer at Charleston through to Philadelphia; but on arriving there we found that the vessels did not run during the winter, and I have no doubt it was well for us they did not; for on the very last voyage the steamer made that we intended to go by, a fugitive was discovered secreted on board, and sent back to slavery. However, as we had also heard of the Overland Mail Route, we were all right. So I ordered a fly to the door, had the luggage placed on; we got in, and drove down to the Customhouse Office, which was near the wharf where we had to obtain tickets, to take a steamer for Wilmington, North Carolina. When we reached the building, I helped my master into the office, which was crowded with passengers. He asked for a ticket for himself and one for his slave to Philadelphia. This caused the principal officer—a very mean-looking, cheese-coloured fellow, who was sitting there—to look up at us very suspiciously, and in a fierce tone of voice he said to me, “Boy, do you belong to that gentleman?” I quickly replied, “Yes, sir” (which was quite correct). The tickets were handed out, and as my master was paying for them the chief man said to him, “I wish you to register your name here, sir, and also the name of your nigger, and pay a dollar duty on him.”
My master paid the dollar, and pointing to the hand that was in the poultice, requested the officer to register his name for him. This seemed to offend the “high-bred” South Carolinian. He jumped up, shaking his head; and, cramming his hands almost through the bottom of his trousers pockets, with a slave-bullying air, said, “I shan’t do it.”
This attracted the attention of all the passengers. Just then the young military officer with whom my master travelled and conversed on the steamer from Savannah stepped in, somewhat the worse for brandy; he shook hands with my master, and pretended to know all about him. He said, “I know his kin (friends) like a book;” and as the officer was known in Charleston, and was going to stop there with friends, the recognition was very much in my master’s favour.
The captain of the steamer, a good-looking, jovial fellow, seeing that the gentleman appeared to know my master, and perhaps not wishing to lose us as passengers, said in an offhand sailor-like manner, “I will register the gentleman’s name, and take the responsibility upon myself.” He asked my master’s name. He said, “William Johnson.” The names were put down, I think, “Mr. Johnson and slave.” The captain said, “It’s all right now, Mr. Johnson.” He thanked him kindly, and the young officer begged my master to go with him, and have
