“I am not only a slave of Master Thomas,” he argued, “but I am also a slave of society at large. Society at large has bound itself in form and fact to assist Master Thomas in robbing me of my liberty and the just reward of my labor; therefore whatever rights I have against Master Thomas, I have equally against those confederated with him.” It is thus that Mr. Douglass, writing years afterward, construed the argument with which the boy solved the doubts and questions arising in his mind when he found himself following the custom, prevalent among the slaves, of persistent petty stealing.
Whatever one may think of this theory as a justification for the practice, it is interesting as showing in Douglass, even as a boy, the tendency to get clear ideas in regard to his own conduct and the conduct of those about him, and to make his actions conform to some fundamental rule. A boy who was disposed to think thus clearly and to apply the test of elementary principles to the lives and actions of those about him, was already a dangerous slave. And so the summer of 1833 found Douglass more determined than ever to run away.
Meanwhile he tells us that there were several incidents which served still further to shape in his mind the view of his master and the class his master represented. About this time there was a religious revival in the neighborhood of St. Michaels, where Douglass lived. Master Thomas became converted and was afterward a devoted member and class-leader in the Methodist church. Young Douglass attended the camp-meeting, and, from his position behind the preacher’s stand, where a space had been marked off for colored people, watched the process of conversion in his master with great interest and close attention.
Another episode tended to add to the perplexity in the young slave’s mind and still further undermine his faith in the moral superiority of the master-class, and in the religion which based its justification of slavery on the fact of that superiority. To add further to his confusion, he had read somewhere, in the Methodist discipline, that “the slave-holder shall not be eligible to an official station in the church.” When he saw Mr. Auld making open confession of his sins, and afterward given official position in the church, he felt sure that a great change must necessarily come over his disposition and character. But his master’s face, Douglass said, became more stern with increasing piety, and the discipline he enforced upon his slaves was even more rigid. This was a severe test of the religious convictions of the young slave-boy. He knew that religion had made him better, kinder, and more appreciative of all that was true and beautiful. It had also given him comfort during the period of his servitude. He had looked forward, with sincere faith in the power of religion, to some marked change in Master Thomas. The resulting experience left him disappointed and confused.
At the request of an earnest and sincerely pious white man, named Wilson, Douglass had joined in an attempt to conduct a Sunday-school for young colored people. During the second meeting of this innocent company, it was violently broken up by a mob, chief among whom was his master, Thomas Auld. The men were armed with sticks and other missiles and drove away both pupils and teachers, warning them never to meet again. The only explanation given for this violent interruption of what seemed a harmless and worthy occupation, was the rough remark of one member of the party, that Douglass wanted to be another Nat Turner. The fear inspired by his unfortunate slave insurrection was responsible for much of the hardship which Negroes in the South, free and slave, were at this period compelled to endure. The memory of it hardened the heart of many a master against his slaves and made him cruel and suspicious where he would naturally have been kind and confident.
But Thomas Auld seems not to have had even this excuse for some of his acts which still further embittered the young slave, already grown critical and suspicious of all that his master did. It was not long after his conversion, Douglass says, that he began to beat the boy’s crippled and unfortunate cousin, Henny, with unusual barbarity, finally setting her adrift to care for herself. All these incidents crowded quickly upon the young slave’s mind at a time when he had already begun to test and measure the actions of his master and those about him by the principles of universal right and justice, which his study of the Columbian Orator had furnished him, and which his reflections and comparisons were steadily making more clear and definite. The effect was to render him bold and rebellious to such an extent that he soon became a fit subject to be “broken in” by some overseer, who knew how to handle “impudent” slaves.
A man named Edward Covey, living at Bayside, at no great distance from the camp-ground where Thomas Auld was converted, had a wide reputation for “breaking in unruly niggers.” Covey was a “poor white” and a farm renter. To this man Douglass was hired out for a year. In the month of January, 1834, he started for his new master, with his little bundle of clothes. From what we have already seen of this sensitive, thoughtful young slave of seventeen years, it is not difficult to understand his state of mind. Up to this time he had had a comparatively easy life. He had seldom suffered hardships such as fell to the lot of many slaves whom he knew. To quote his own words: “I was now about to sound profounder depths in slave-life. Starvation made me glad to leave Thomas Auld’s, and the cruel lash made me dread to go to Covey’s.” Escape, however, was impossible. The picture of “the slave-driver,” painted in the lurid colors that Mr. Douglass’s indignant memories furnished him, shows the dark side of slavery in the South. During the first six weeks he was with Covey, he was whipped, either with sticks or cowhides, every week. With his body one continuous ache from his frequent floggings, he was kept at work in field or woods from the dawn of day until the darkness of night. He says: “Mr. Covey succeeded in breaking me in body, soul, and spirit. The overwork and the cruel chastisements, of which I was the victim, combined with the ever growing and soul-devouring thought, ‘I am a slave—a slave for life, a slave with no rational ground to hope for freedom,’ had done their worst.”
He confesses that at one time he was strongly tempted to take his own life and that of Covey. Finally, his sufferings of body and soul became so great that further endurance seemed impossible. While in this condition, he determined upon the daring step of returning to his master, Thomas Auld, in order to lay before him the story of abuse. He felt sure that, if for no other reason than the protection of property from serious impairment, his master would interfere in his behalf. He even expected sympathy and assurances of future protection. In all this he was grievously disappointed. Auld not only refused sympathy and protection, but would not even listen to his complaints, and immediately sent him back to his dreaded master to face the added penalty of running away. The poor lone boy was plunged into the depths of despair. A feeling that he had been deserted by both God and man took possession of him.
Covey was lying in wait for him, knowing full well that he must return as defenseless as he went away. As soon as Douglass came near the place where the white man was hiding, the latter made a leap at Fred for the purpose of tying him for a flogging. But Douglass escaped and took to the woods where he concealed himself for a day and a night. His condition was desperate. He felt that he could not endure another whipping, and yet there seemed to him no alternative. His first impulse was to pray, but he remembered that Covey also prayed. Convinced, at length, that there was no appeal but to his own courage, he resolved to go back and face whatever must come to him. It so happened that it was a Sunday morning and, much to his surprise, he met Covey who was on his way to church, and who, when he saw the runaway, greeted him with a pleasant smile. “His religion,” says Douglass, “prevented him from breaking the Sabbath, but not from breaking my bones on any other day in the week.”
On Monday morning, Douglass was up early, half hoping that he would be permitted to resume his work without punishment. Covey was astir betimes, too, and had laid aside his Sunday mildness of manner. His first business was to carry out his fixed purpose of whipping the young runaway. In the meantime Fred had likewise fully decided upon a course of action. He was ready to submit to any kind of work, however hard or unreasonable, but determined to defend himself against an attempt at another flogging. In the cold passion that took possession of him, the slave-boy became utterly reckless of consequences, reasoning to himself that the limit of suffering at the hands of this relentless slave-breaker had already been reached. He was resolved to fight and did fight. He began his morning work in peace, obeying promptly every order from his master, and while he was in the act of going up to the stable-loft for the purpose of pitching down some hay, he was caught and thrown by Covey, in an attempt to get a slip knot about his legs. Douglass flew at Covey’s throat recklessly, hurled his antagonist to the ground, and held him firmly. Blood followed the nails of the infuriated young slave. He scarcely knew how to account for his fighting strength, and his dare-devil spirit so dumbfounded the master, that he gaspingly said: “Are you going to resist me, you young scoundrel?” “Yes, sir,” was the quick reply.