The Underground Railroad (3 page)

The man tipped his hat to the professor and our Tuesday Translators crackled to life. “Yes, sir, I am. How may I help you?”

The professor reached out and shook the man's hand. “Mr. Douglass, I have waited a long time to meet you. My friends and I have come all the way from America to talk with you.”

Mr. Douglass looked us over carefully. He must have realized that we wouldn't cause him any harm. A big smile crossed his face. “Come in out of this miserable weather and join me for tea.”

The professor shook the rain off his umbrella and we entered the house. We hung our coats on wooden pegs that poked out of the walls in the entryway.

Mr. Douglass called out and the woman we had talked to earlier appeared. He introduced her as his housekeeper, Miss Kensington. She curtsied politely. Mr. Douglass then asked her for some tea for himself and the professor and milk for Tamika and me. The woman curtsied once again and left. We followed Mr. Douglass through a large doorway.

He led us to a beautiful room. Long drapes flowed from the tops of the windows to the floor. A colorful rug was placed at the center of the room. A fire in the fireplace at one end offered warmth and comfort. At one side of the room, a flowery, old-looking couch squatted against the wall. A low table stood in front of the couch and wooden chairs sat at each end.

Mr. Douglass gestured and spoke, “Please have a seat,” he said. “Our tea and refreshments will arrive soon.”

The professor joined Mr. Douglass on the couch as Tamika and I sat in the chairs. The wooden seats creaked slightly as we sat down.

“Thank you for taking the time to see us. My name is Professor Tuesday,” the professor began. “These are my friends Jesse and Tamika and we have come here to learn about you and your life.”

Mr. Douglass turned to Tamika and stared at her directly. His eyes were strong and seemed to look right through her. “Let me see your hands, child.”

Tamika turned to me with a shocked look on her face. Then she slowly raised her hands to Mr. Douglass.

“No,” Mr. Douglass said. “Please come here and show me your hands.”

Tamika stood up slowly and edged her way to Mr. Douglass. Then she held out her hands. Mr. Douglass gently took her hands. He held them close to his eyes and looked them over carefully. His rough, workhardened hands traced her palms and fingers. Then he took a long look at Tamika's face.

“Your hands aren't cut and calloused,” he said, “and your eyes don't show the sorrow or sadness of slavery.”

Tamika shook her head and spoke very softly. “I have never been a slave. But some of my relatives were.”

“So, would you like to learn about life as a slave?” Mr. Douglass asked. “I'd be happy to tell you about my experiences.”

Just then a tray of beverages and cookies were brought into the room by Miss Kensington. She placed the tray on the table in front of us. It had a teapot and two glasses of milk. Small cookies were piled high at the center. Mr. Douglass poured tea for himself and Professor Tuesday. Tamika and I picked up our milk. We were surprised to find that it was warm.

I turned to Mr. Douglass and tried to talk the way he would. “Where were you born, sir?”

Mr. Douglass smiled, “I was born in Talbot County, Maryland, although I don't have any idea of the actual day or year of my birth.”

“You don't know when you were born?” Tamika asked.

“Most slaves have no idea of their age. The fact that I don't even know the day I was born makes me very sad,” Mr. Douglass said. “My mother was named Harriet Bailey. When I was born it was common among slaves in Maryland and other states for slaveholders to separate babies from their mothers. My grandmother took care of me from the time I was a young child.”

“That would be terrible,” Tamika said. “Did you ever see your mother?”

Mr. Douglass had a pained look on his face as he answered. “I saw her no more than four or five times, and all those meetings took place at night. After I was born, she was sold off to Mr. Stewart, a man who lived some twelve miles away. She was a field hand. After her work was done for the day, she made those journeys on foot to see me. She would stay with me in the night and leave early in the morning. If she did not return to Mr. Stewart's fields by sunrise, she would receive a terrible whipping.”

“Tell us about what your life was like,” Tamika said softly.

“Well,” Mr. Douglass began, “my name at birth was Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey.”

“Wait,” I said, “I thought your name was Frederick Douglass?”

“That is my name today,” Mr. Douglass said. “When I escaped slavery I changed my name so that it would be harder for slave catchers to find me.”

“Was it terrible being a slave?” Tamika asked.

“I would not wish the life of a slave on any man or woman. If slaves misbehave or do not work hard or fast enough, they are beaten with a cane or whip— many times until they bleed. It does not matter if the slave is a man, woman, or child. Sometimes they fall unconscious from the beating. Slaves even die at the hands of the overseers. If a slave is thought to be unmanageable, it is not uncommon for him or her to be shipped off and sold to owners who might be even more cruel.”

Mr. Douglass paused for a moment and turned to Tamika. “Our people are treated worse than common cattle. We are sold in open markets. Mothers are torn away from their children. Husbands, fathers, sons, and daughters are snatched away from their families without notice. Slaves are not allowed to learn how to read and write. Usually, they receive monthly allowances of food—maybe eight pounds of pork or fish and one bushel of corn meal. In many cases that is not enough to survive. When a slave's work is done for the day—male and female, young and old spend hours working to prepare their food and mending clothes. If their monthly allotment of food runs out, they often go hungry.”

He moved in his chair before continuing. “Once a year usually, slaves are given clothing. Adults are provided with two shirts made of coarse fiber, one pair of trousers, one jacket, a pair of trousers for winter, one pair of stockings, and one pair of shoes. Mind you, these clothing items are only provided once each year.”

“Is that all?” I asked. I couldn't help but think of all the clothes my mother buys for me before starting the school year.

“There is much more to be said about the horrors of slavery,” Mr. Douglass answered. “Children who are unable, or too young, to work in the fields are generally not given shoes, stockings, or trousers. Instead, they are provided with two shirts a year. When these rough shirts wear out, children may go naked until the following year, even in the cold of winter.”

“Slaves have shelters or homes, but they usually sleep on dirt, covering up against the cold in whatever rags they can find or make. In the sweltering heat and humidity of the summer months, their shelters are like ovens at night. Even though there are many times when slaves get very little sleep, they can only rest until they are called by the driver's horn.”

“What's a driver's horn?” I asked.

Mr. Douglass turned to me. “At first light, slave masters often blow a horn called a ‘driver's horn.' It is the signal to be at work in the fields. If a slave doesn't get up and go off to work immediately, he or she is usually punished harshly.” Mr. Douglass rubbed his beard as he thought. “I remember Mr. Severe, the overseer. He used to stand at the door of the slave quarters with a large hickory stick and a heavy whip in his hands, ready for anyone who did not get up fast enough.”

“Professor,” Tamika said, “this is too scary. I want to go back home now.”

Mr. Douglass reached across the table and gently patted the top of Tamika's hand. “Child, I know these things are difficult to hear. But it is important that you understand how terrible slavery really is—especially if your relatives are slaves.”

T
amika looked up at Mr. Douglass. “When you were a slave, were you ever beaten?” she asked shyly.

Mr. Douglass let out a sigh and leaned back on the couch. He shook his head slowly as he began to speak. “During my life as a slave I received too many beatings to give you an accurate count, my dear.” Mr. Douglass rose up in his seat and lifted his head high. “However, there came a time when I stood up for myself against the cruelty of a slaveholder. But before I tell you how I stood up, let me tell the story from the very beginning.”

He picked up his teacup and took a sip. “At the first of the year in 1833, my master, Mr. Thomas, sent me to a man named Mr. Covey for one year. Before that time, I spent most of my life as a slave working in my masters' homes. Mr. Thomas was punishing me by sending me to serve as a field hand at Mr. Covey's farm.

“On top of being a farmer, Mr. Covey was a professor of religion and a leader in his church. At the very same time, he was widely known as a slave breaker, somebody who treated slaves cruelly in order to get them to be more obedient to their masters. In my first week with Mr. Covey, he whipped me many times.”

We watched Mr. Douglass tell his story. Tamika's eyes were wide with fear, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

Mr. Douglass took another sip of tea. Then he leaned closely over the low table in front of the couch. “For six long months, Mr. Covey beat me regularly. I still carry the scars from those whippings. After terrible beatings that went on day after day, week after week, and month after month, I realized that death would be better than a life of slavery. So, I took action. I had nothing to lose.”

“Wh-what did you do?” Tamika asked nervously.

“I refused to let Mr. Covey beat me like an animal,” Mr. Douglass said defiantly.

“Wasn't that dangerous?” Tamika asked.

“For many slaves there comes a breaking point,” our host said thoughtfully. “Mine came at the hands of Mr. Covey. After a particularly terrible beating, I traveled to the home of Mr. Thomas, the man who had given me to Mr. Covey. I begged my master to release me from Mr. Covey and give me a different job to do.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

Mr. Douglass sighed deeply. “It did not work out the way I thought it would. My master, Mr. Thomas, ordered me to return to Mr. Covey immediately. The moment I was told I had to go back, I realized that my life was in danger.”

“What did you do?” Tamika asked.

“I returned to the farm of Mr. Covey, just like I had been ordered. However, by the time I got there I had already made a life-changing decision. I preferred to die rather than allow another person to beat me. On the Monday after I returned, I arose before daylight and was told to feed and care for the horses. While I was working in the stable, Mr. Covey walked in carrying a rope. His plan was to tie me up and give me another beating.”

Mr. Douglass settled in his seat. “I realized immediately what Mr. Covey planned to do, and I went after him. Mr. Covey was surprised because he wasn't used to slaves fighting back. Mr. Covey and I pushed, punched and wrestled around inside that stable for a long time. Finally, Mr. Covey gave up. From that point forward, he never laid a hand on me. My battle against Mr. Covey inspired me to find a way to escape slavery once and for all.

“I was released from Mr. Covey on Christmas Day of 1833,” Mr. Douglass added. “After my time with Mr. Covey, I was sent to live with Mr. William Freeland.”

“Was he mean to you like Mr. Covey?” I asked.

Mr. Douglas raised his eyes. “Mr. Freeland was a much better master than Mr. Covey. Unlike many masters, Mr. Freeland provided enough food for us to eat. He also gave us enough time to eat our meals. While I worked hard for Mr. Freeland, he supplied us with good tools that made fieldwork easier. During my stay with him, I even found the time to teach some of my fellow slaves how to read and write.”

Professor Tuesday was about to take a sip of tea when he stopped. “Excuse me, Mr. Douglass, would you please tell my young friends how you learned to read and write?”

The professor's question surprised me. I turned to Mr. Douglass. “You said that slaves weren't allowed or even taught to read or write.”

Mr. Douglass laughed and slapped his knee. “Right you are, my child, I did say that slaves were not educated. However, when I was about twelve years old, I lived in Baltimore and worked in the household of Mr. and Mrs. Auld. My main job was to care for their son, Thomas. Soon after I came to live with them, Mrs. Auld started teaching her young son and me our ABCs. Once we mastered the alphabet, she began teaching us the spelling of simple three-and four-letter words.”

“So, Mrs. Auld taught you how to read,” I said.

“Not exactly,” answered Mr. Douglass. “My studies under Mrs. Auld were cut short by Mr. Auld. When he found out that his wife was actually teaching a slave to read and write, he got really upset. He thought it was wrong to teach slaves. He also informed his wife that it was unlawful to do so. Mr. Auld immediately put an end to my education.”

Mr. Douglass straightened his jacket and shifted in his seat before continuing. “Though my education under Mrs. Auld was incomplete, it was training that I soaked up. When Mrs. Auld caught me trying to read a newspaper, she would snatch it from me. Still, I tried to read everything I could get my hands on.”

He paused for a moment. He twisted his head and raised his eyes toward the ceiling, like he was trying to remember. “As I was saying, I started to learn how to read by gathering any form of printed material: newspapers, letters, magazines—even the school papers that young Master Thomas brought home. Reading helped me become more aware of my enslavement. I managed to get my hands on a book entitled
The Columbian Orator
. The book made bold statements about the evils of slavery. The writings in
The Columbian Orator
made me realize that I had to stop living the life of a slave and begin living the life of a free man.”