Father Henson’s Story of His Own Life

I was born June 15th, 1789, in Charles County, Maryland, on a farm belonging to Mr. Francis Newman, about a mile from Port Tobacco. My mother was a slave of Dr. Josiah McPherson, but hired to the Mr. Newman to whom my father belonged. The only incident I can remember which occurred while my mother continued on Mr. Newman’s farm, was the appearance one day of my father with his head bloody and his back lacerated. He was beside himself with mingled rage and suffering. The explanation I picked up from the conversation of others only partially explained the matter to my mind; but as I grew older I understood it all. It seemed the overseer had sent my mother away from the other field hands to a retired place, and after trying persuasion in vain, had resorted to force to accomplish a brutal purpose. Her screams aroused my father at his distant work, and running up, he found his wife struggling with the man. Furious at the sight, he sprung upon him like a tiger. In a moment the overseer was down, and, mastered by rage, my father would have killed him but for the entreaties of my mother, and the overseer’s own promise that nothing should ever be said of the matter. The promise was kept⁠—like most promises of the cowardly and debased⁠—as long as the danger lasted.

The laws of slave states provide means and opportunities for revenge so ample, that miscreants like him never fail to improve them. “A nigger has struck a white man;” that is enough to set a whole county on fire; no question is asked about the provocation. The authorities were soon in pursuit of my father.

My brothers and sisters were bid off first, and one by one, while my mother, paralyzed by grief, held me by the hand. Her turn came, and she was bought by Isaac Riley of Montgomery County. Then I was offered to the assembled purchasers. My mother, half distracted with the thought of parting forever from all her children, pushed through the crowd, while the bidding for me was going on, to the spot where Riley was standing. She fell at his feet, and clung to his knees, entreating him in tones that a mother only could command, to buy her baby as well as herself, and spare to her one, at least, of her little ones. Will it, can it be believed that this man, thus appealed to, was capable not merely of turning a deaf ear to her supplication, but of disengaging himself from her with such violent blows and kicks, as to reduce her to the necessity of creeping out of his reach, and mingling the groan of bodily suffering with the sob of a breaking heart? As she crawled away from the brutal man I heard her sob out, “Oh, Lord Jesus, how long, how long shall I suffer this way!” I must have been then between five and six years old. I seem to see and hear my poor weeping mother now. This was one of my earliest observations of men; an experience which I only shared with thousands of my race, the bitterness of which to any individual who suffers it cannot be diminished by the frequency of its recurrence, while it is dark enough to overshadow the whole afterlife with something blacker than a funeral pall.

I was bought by a stranger named Robb, and truly a robber he was to me.

About a week afterwards I was sent by my master to a place a few miles distant, on horseback, with some letters. I took a shortcut through a lane, separated by gates from the high road, and bounded by a fence on each side. This lane passed through some of the farm owned by my master’s brother, and his overseer was in the adjoining field, with three negroes, when I went by. On my return, half an hour afterwards, the overseer was sitting on the fence; but I could see nothing of the black fellows. I rode on, utterly unsuspicious of any trouble; but as I approached he jumped off the fence, and at the same moment two of the negroes sprang up from under the bushes where they had been concealed, and stood with him immediately in front of me, while the third sprang over the fence just behind me. I was thus enclosed between what I could no longer doubt were hostile forces. The overseer seized my horse’s bridle, and ordered me to alight, in the usual elegant phraseology addressed by such men to slaves. I asked what I was to alight for. “To take the cursedest flogging you ever had in your life, you d⁠⸺⁠d black scoundrel.” “But what am I to be flogged for, Mr. L.?” I asked. “Not a word,” said he, “but ’light at once, and take off your jacket.” I saw there was nothing else to be done, and slipped off the horse on the opposite side from him.

One night in the month of January, long after I had fallen asleep, he came into my cabin and waked me up. I thought it strange, but for a time he said nothing and sat moodily warming himself at the fire. Then he began to groan and wring his hands. “Sick, massa?” said I. He made no reply but kept on moaning. “Can’t I help you any way, massa?” I spoke tenderly, for my heart was full of compassion at his wretched appearance. At last, collecting himself, he cried, “Oh, Sie! I’m ruined, ruined, ruined!” “How so, massa?” “They’ve got judgment against me, and in less than two weeks every nigger I’ve got will be put up and sold.” Then he burst into a storm of curses at his brother-in-law. I sat silent, powerless to utter a word. Pity for him and terror at the anticipation of my own family’s future fate filled my heart. “And now, Sie,” he continued, “there’s only one way I can save anything. You can do it; won’t you, won’t you?” In his distress he rose and actually threw his arms around me. Misery had levelled all distinctions. “If I can do it, massa, I will. What is it?” Without replying he went on, “won’t you, won’t you? I raised you, Sie; I made you overseer; I know I’ve abused you, Sie, but I didn’t mean it.” Still he avoided telling me what he wanted. “Promise me you’ll do it, boy.” He seemed resolutely bent on having my promise first, well knowing from past experience that what I agreed to do I spared no pains to accomplish. Solicited in this way, with urgency and tears, by the man whom I had so zealously served for over thirty years, and who now seemed absolutely dependent upon his slave⁠—impelled, too,

I resolved to kill my four companions, take what money there was in the boat, then to scuttle the craft, and escape to the North. It was a poor plan, maybe, and would very likely have failed; but it was as well contrived, under the circumstances, as the plans of murderers usually are; and blinded by passion, and stung to madness as I was, I could not see any difficulty about it. One dark, rainy night, within a few days’ sail of New Orleans, my hour seemed to have come. I was alone on the deck; Master Amos and the hands were all asleep below, and I crept down noiselessly, got hold of an axe, entered the cabin, and looking by the aid of the dim light there for my victims, my eye fell upon Master Amos, who was nearest to me; my hand slid along the axe-handle; I raised it to strike the fatal blow⁠—when suddenly the thought came to me, “What! commit murder! and you a Christian?” I had not called it murder before. It was self-defence⁠—it was preventing others from murdering me⁠—it was justifiable, it was even praiseworthy. But now, all at once, the truth burst upon me that it was a crime. I was going to kill a young man who had done nothing to injure me, but was only obeying commands which he could not resist; I was about to lose the fruit of all my efforts at self-improvement, the character I had acquired, and the peace of mind that had never deserted me.

One night more was passed in the woods, and in the course of the next forenoon we came out upon the wide plain, without trees, which lies south and west of Sandusky city. The houses of the village were in plain sight. About a mile from the lake I hid my wife and children in the bushes, and pushed forward. I was attracted by a house on the left, between which and a small coasting vessel a number of men were passing and repassing with great activity. Promptly deciding to approach them, I drew near, and scarcely had I come within hailing distance, when the captain of the schooner cried out, “Hollo there, man! you want to work?” “Yes, sir!” shouted I. “Come along, come along; I’ll give you a shilling an hour. Must get off with this wind.” As I came near, he said, “O, you can’t work; you’re crippled.” “Can’t I?” said I; and in a minute I had hold of a bag of corn, and followed the gang in emptying it into the hold. I took my place in the line of laborers next to a colored man, and soon got into conversation with him. “How far is it to Canada?” He gave me a peculiar look, and in a minute I saw he knew all. “Want to go to Canada? Come along with us, then. Our captain’s a fine fellow. We’re going to Buffalo.” “Buffalo; how far is that from Canada?” “Don’t you know, man? Just across the river.” I now opened my mind frankly to him, and told him about my wife and children. “I’ll speak to the captain,” said he.