Narrative of Henry Watson, a fugitive slave

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY BELA MARSH, 25 CORNHILL. 1848.
ABNER FORBES, PRINTER, 37 CORNHILL, BOSTON.
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Mr. Henry Holt: Dear Sir,—
Will you allow me, from feelings of sincere gratitude, to dedicate to you my little Narrative, which, had it not been for you, I never should have been able to have published; and let me assure you that I shall ever entertain the most devoted feelings of gratitude, for your kind and humane interference in my behalf, when I was a helpless slave.
I remain yours, most gratefully, H. WATSON.
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I was born in Virginia, about thirteen miles from Fredericksburg, as near as I can now recollect, in the year 1813. Mother was a slave, and belonged to a man by the name of Bibb, whose Christian name I cannot remember. My mother was called Letty. Slaves seldom have but one name; and I never heard her called by any other. I was at that time called Bill. I never had any brother or sister, that I know of. Like the most of my brothers in bondage, I have no correct account of my age. Slaves keep the birth of their children by the different seasons of the year. Children often ask their parents their age. The answer is, this planting corn time, you are six, eight, or ten, just as it may happen to be; but even this knowledge was I deprived of by my master, who was one of those proud Virginians, whose principal business was to raise slaves for the market; though I was permitted to remain with my mother on his plantation until I was about eight years of age. My mother was the cook at what slaves call the great house. I was allowed to remain with her at the house. The last time I saw her, she placed me on the bed, which was in a room adjoining the kitchen, and bid me go to sleep, saying that she would be back again in a few moments. I did so; and when I awoke in the morning I found myself in the great house, wrapped up in a blanket, before the fire. I could not account for this change that had been made with me through the night. I asked for my mother, but no one spoke. I went out into the kitchen, where she used to work. She was not there, and it was evident to me, that she was gone; where, I knew not. I returned to the house, and implored my mistress, with tears in my eyes, to tell me where my mother had gone. She refused, though a mother herself, to give me any satisfaction whatever. Every exertion was made on my part to find her, or hear some tidings of her; but all my efforts were unsuccessful; and from that day I have never seen or heard from her. This cruel separation brought on a fit of sickness, from which they did not expect I would recover. The old slave-woman who took care of me during my sickness, by way of consolation, gave me as much information as she could about my mother's being taken away. She told me that a slave-dealer drove to the door in a buggy, and my mother was sent for to come into the house; when, getting inside, she was knocked down, tied, and thrown into the buggy, and carried away. As the old woman related these things to me, I felt as if all hope was gone; that I was forsaken and alone in this world. More forcibly did I then feel the galling chains of slavery, the cruelty and barbarism arising from it, than I ever have since. I resolved, however, to bear with all patiently, till I became large enough to run away, and search for my mother.