“Hush, chile, hush! you’ll break your ole mudder’s heart, ’cause it’s a’most done gone smashed afore, an’ now she knows you can neber, neber, get across the big river an’ de great lake. I tell yer, chile, you better stay wid ole mas’r if em do whip.”
“Mother, my mine is made up. Massa Jones hab whipped George Gray for de las time. I hate to leave you, mother, but then I’s agoin’. Some day de Massa’ll sell me as he did father an’ de res’ of us down South, an’ then you shall see George no moah, an’ I’d hab no blessed chance for ’scape, so now I’s goin’ for freedom or I’s goin’ to die. I say ole massa can’t whip me no moah.”
“De will ob de Lor’ be done, chile; but how is you agoin’ to do it?”
“I’ll tell you mother, ole Massa’ll neber s’pec’ you. He’ll neber look for George ’bout dis shanty. So I’s agoin’ down to de river an’ cross down in de skiff, den I goes to de swamp an’ comes carefully back an’ crawls under your bed. When Massa misses me, you can tell him I’s runned away, an’ he’ll start the horses an’ the men for de swamp, an’ for two or three days they’ll hunt for George there jus’ as they did for Uncle Pete; den Massa’ll put me in de papers as a runaway nigger, an’ then when all is ober heah I’s comin’ out an’ goin’ at de river an’ cross de mountins till I gits to Canidy.”
“De bressed Lor’, an’ doan yer s’pec’ ole Massa’ll hunt dis shanty frough an’ frough, chile?”
“Ole Massa’ll never s’pec’ you, mother; you’s been wid him too long. He never whipped you, an’ when he comes in de mornin’, for to inquire, you mus’ be prayin’; prayin’ for me that I may be cotched.”
“Bress de Lor’, he mus’ ’ov put all dis in de head of de chile as he put his son Moses in de bullrushes down dar in de lan’ of Canin. Chile, your black ole mudder’ll cover you wid her bed like as the ole black hen covers her chicks when de hawk comes to steal de little ones from dar mudder’s lub. Now, chile, jus’ you fix it all up an’ de Lor’ ob dat big feller, Sabot, yes dat was de man, be wid you, an’ it doan matter bout dis ole woman no moah.”
The above conversation took place many years ago in a cabin in the negro quarter of the plantation of Samuel Jones on the James river, in Virginia. Mr. Jones was a thriving planter and an extensive dealer in slaves. Though in some respects of the better class of slave-breeders, he inherited many of the legitimate characteristics of the peculiar institution. Towards the men slaves he was tyrannical in the extreme, whilst eyeing the fairer and younger among the women with an eye of lechery.
The plantation had come to him from his father, and with it the family of John Gray consisting of himself and wife, known for miles around as “Prayin’ Hanner,” and several children. The father and older children, all having a slight tinge of the Caucassian about them, Mr. Jones early sold to southern dealers, retaining only the mother and her infant George.
The mother, on account of her acknowledged piety and ability to labor, was assigned a special cabin and for years had done the family laundry work and baking and discharged other duties of a similar character. Resigned to her condition, she labored on year after year, ever singing and praying and with her loyalty all unquestioned. Not so with her growing boy, however. The white blood that was in him, though limited, constantly rebelled against his condition, and as his years advanced, brought on frequent conflicts between him and his master, which invariably ended in the boy’s being severely whipped. Though feeling for him, on such occasions, as only a mother can feel, still Hannah Gray exhorted him to be obedient and submissive. Whenever the master threatened to sell him south, then it was that her prayers that one of her kin might be left to her mightily prevailed. The natural adaptability of the youth secured for him many privileges, and he had been with his master several times to the national capital and other points and had picked up much general intelligence, and his mode of expression had, to some extent, risen above the plantation vernacular.