My Name is Henry Bibb Read online

  “Pierre will take you. Tell Sarah to gather your things. I shall write a letter to your master.”

  As I was leaving, the judge called me back. In his outstretched hand was a two-dollar coin.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Walking on Water

  At David White’s plantation my brothers had grown taller but the manner in which they lived reflected the disruption of our family. My brothers lived by themselves in my mother’s cabin. When I returned to the farm, I took up residence with them. Lucy cooked for them and had become their stand-in mother. David White had sent my brothers back to Shadrach as apprentices, and the smith, who loved them as he would love his own children, became a father to them. My mother visited them on Sundays, bringing food and love.

  My brother George had a fine singing voice, the fact of which soon came to the attention of a White man named Samuels. He managed a singing and entertainment group of hired slaves that performed at balls, cotillions and other festive events. George soon found himself hired out to Samuel’s troupe. I told my brother to take note of the places he visited because one day he might have need of geographical knowledge.

  My youngest brother, Lewis, was now old enough to work with my mother at the Bedford Inn, and she surely needed help. Her face was haggard, and she was stick thin. She dragged herself around like an old person and sighed all the time. She would greet us in a distracted way, and her eyes held a faraway look.

  David White had bought more acreage and had increased both his hemp production and his slave population. His wife had given birth to twin boys, and he was looking for a husband for Harriet. Everyone had a place except me. Like many rural planters, my master felt that town life spoiled a country slave because when they returned to the country they didn’t adapt well. This was certainly true in my case. Life in Louisville had provided me with mental stimulation and increased my knowledge of the world. David White’s farm now seemed a place of utter ignorance, where the slave people were like brute beasts, resigned to their fate. No prospects for hire presented themselves, and I would not run away until I was sure I stood a chance of success. But I was sure of one thing: I could not stay at David White’s farm for long.

  My master seemed to know what was in my mind. Whenever I looked around, he or the captain seemed to be watching me, and I had the distinct feeling that he was going to sell me. He hadn’t said anything to that effect, but it was a common practice for slaveholders to sell their property without the slave having any prior knowledge of it. The poor slave would be doing his work, only to be suddenly seized by a slave dealer or his agent. Whenever White men came to see my master, I paid special attention, because if a slave dealer attempted to seize me I would fight to the bitter end. But that was not to be … at least for a while.

  One morning shortly after my return, David White called me out of my mother’s cabin. I was surprised to see that I was almost the same height as he. I saw the flicker of that recognition in his eyes, but they quickly went cold again.

  “You will be working in the tobacco field.”

  The other field slaves were happy to see me, but I felt a growing disdain for them. How could they live like this? My sullen attitude and superior air did not endear me to anyone. Worse, I did not know how to pick tobacco properly. I had been a house servant most of my life and had not developed the work skills of a field slave. But people kindly showed me how to do the work and in no time I became proficient. I then felt foolish and ashamed for thinking ill of the field workers.

  No slave would challenge White people unless he was prepared to die. Slaves who ran away took great risks. As soon as their absence was noticed, masters sent patrollers with their savage dogs to find them. Slave people could not even be outside at night without a written pass from their owners. Blaming the slaves for their misery had been my shameful way of reckoning with my own powerlessness.

  One morning in early summer, I awoke to the sounds of furious barking and angry voices: patrollers were combing the estate with their bloodhounds. The dogs bounded toward the creek, then stopped. They had lost the trail. This could only mean a slave had escaped. The runaway must have been from a neighboring estate and passed through David White’s land. The dogs and their handlers came back to the slave yards and the dogs sniffed us one by one. Captain Barker told the slave hunters to search our cabins, which they did, knocking over furniture and throwing our few possessions in every direction. The dogs sniffed everything but found nothing to satisfy them, so they took off again, this time in the direction of the river.

  Eventually the story reached us. There had been a scramble, a large party of slaves escaping. In this case fourteen had run from Franklin County and headed toward the Ohio River. Their destination was most likely Indiana, with the intention of going up to Ohio, and perhaps even farther north. All day we worked in quiet anticipation. We glanced at one another furtively. I knew that running away was fraught with dangers. Runaways could also be betrayed by Black Judases. Nature itself could be against the runaways. If they fled in winter, they would be at the mercy of frost, cold and occasionally snow. Sometimes they starved, or were attacked by wild animals. And patrollers with their bloodhounds, anticipating reward money, worked tenaciously to capture the escapees. Yet they escaped. One thought persisted in my mind: someone must have helped the escapees, but who?

  David White said he knew that someone on his estate had assisted the runaways. Not one of us said a word. He threatened us with beatings and being sent down river. He bellowed and foamed at the mouth. Captain Barker cracked his whip.

  Days passed with no news. Then, one evening at dusk I sat with some other slaves roasting corn when we heard the dreaded bloodhounds again. The palms of my hands suddenly turned cold. The snapping of the dogs came from the direction of a bluff that led down to the river. Moments later, two patrollers approached, pushing a man in front of them. The man’s left arm was missing from the elbow down and blood dripped from the stump. He looked almost dead. The dogs were frantic at the sight and smell of blood.

  The patrollers pushed the injured slave in front of us and hollered, “Let this be a lesson to you all.”

  The sight of the slave man’s stump and blood made my stomach churn. I ran to relieve my stomach, and saw David White on his veranda with his wife and Harriet, dispassionately looking at the forbidding scene. Then, one of the patrollers clicked his tongue on his teeth, the other pushed the runaway along and the men and dogs moved off.

  Shadrach broke the silence. “They caught only one. That means thirteen escaped. Good.”

  I could no longer eat any of the corn, but sat beside the fire, my head bowed over my knees.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Malinda

  For two years I worked in the fields, each day crawling by like a tortoise. Every time I saw my master, I was certain I was to be sold. But that did not happen. I did my work and kept out of Captain Barker’s way. But my spirit ached. Despair consumed me.

  My life would have continued like this — a present without joy or satisfaction, and a future bereft of hope — had it not been for making the acquaintance of a young slave woman named Malinda. She eased the sadness in my heart and gave me hope to think that something other than slavery was possible. Here is how it happened.

  Young slave men visited neighboring plantations on Saturday evenings and on Sundays. Some obtained passes from their owners for the Saturday evening outings, but many simply absconded and hoped their masters would not find out. The purpose of the outings was to meet with fellow young people and make merry. My friends often encouraged me to join them in their frolic; but I refused, having no heart for it. They persisted until one Sunday, having done all my tasks, I went with them to their meeting place, a neighboring plantation in Oldham County owned by a Mr. Gatewood.

  In this manner I was introduced to the society of young women. And I must confess, it changed me. For the first time in my life, I came to be vain
about my appearance, taking great pains to appear well dressed. I had always kept my hair long, and when I began to be attracted to girls, I pulled it back and tied it with a ribbon. I loved the company of young women and would do anything to please them. I brought them cakes and other sweets, and sang for them. I became a favorite among them.

  It was during one such visit to the Gatewood Plantation that I met Malinda. Like me, she was a mulatto. She moved in the highest society of slaves and free Blacks. She was a businesswoman, selling her baked goods to both Black and White people. She was also what we called a “banker.” A group of people would enter into a financial partnership whereby they would pool their savings, which were held by a banker. Once every six weeks, a member of the group got a “draw” of the amount that had been saved up. Malinda had the reputation of being an honest banker. She would not take one cent, but would be rewarded with a gift of money from whomever received the draw.

  Malinda’s mother had a head for business, which her daughter no doubt inherited. The mother had managed to save enough money to purchase herself from Mr. Gatewood, but was not able to buy Malinda; so Malinda remained alone on Gatewood’s plantation, holding court among the young people.

  I had heard that Malinda was of immense beauty. And indeed she was. She had red cheeks, a dazzling smile and dark pools of water for eyes. I was shy at first because she was surrounded by admiring young men, most of whom were older than me. I also felt tongue-tied. What would I say to her?

  But fate intervened. One Saturday evening Malinda raised her voice in song — she had a beautiful singing voice. I knew the song and joined in. She turned to me and called me into her circle. Who was I, and what was my name? Where did I live, and how come she hadn’t seen me before?

  To my surprise, Malinda knew my mother very well. I had never heard my mother speak of her, but Malinda’s mother had come together with my mother from Virginia, and they had apparently remained friends. After we sang, Malinda and I sat and talked until it became quite dark and I was obliged to go back to my bondage. I could see that the other young men were jealous, looking at me with daggers in their eyes.

  After that evening I became a regular visitor to the Gatewood plantation. All day and night I thought of Malinda. I would look up in the sky and see her eyes in the clouds smiling down at me. When I bathed in the creek, it was her voice I heard singing in the water. At every possible moment I was at her side. After some time, I told Malinda of my love for her. To my great delight she told me that she felt the same about me. One evening, a few months after our romance began, we sat alone together, gazing in each other’s eyes. The tenderest feelings came over me, and I made Malinda an offer of marriage. She accepted. Never before had I known such happiness.

  However, an event was about to happen that would have an impact on my marriage proposal. Reverend William Smith was to hold a Revival in our area.

  William Smith was a slave from Lexington whose master gave him permission to preach around the state. He had come to the Lord when he was fourteen, and had been preaching ever since. His fame spread far and wide and he was known to have converted and baptized hundreds of people. He even baptized some White folks in the Kentucky River, which caused a big controversy. The masters, thinking that religion would be good for their slaves, gave them permission to attend his Revival. Most of us from David White’s farm walked the many miles to the meeting, which was held in a grassy field.

  The Revival began with the singing of spirited songs. People danced and praised the Lord. Mournful songs followed, and then the reverend started to preach in a loud voice. He told us that there was only one God, and that God was love. He said there was only one Lord and master, and that was God. (I didn’t think our masters would want to hear such a message.) Reverend Smith told us to turn away from our evil ways and prepare ourselves for heaven. “You can die any time,” he said. “Would you want to die in a state of sin? Prepare to meet thy God!”

  As he preached, I began to see the error of my ways. All I wished for at that moment was God’s grace and forgiveness. When it was time to come forward to the altar for prayer, I was among those who made the walk. Tears fell down my face as I confessed my sins and promised to begin a new life. Reverend Smith prayed for us and asked if we wish to be baptized the following day. I said yes, and was among the slave people who were baptized in the local river.

  Reverend Smith’s Revival swept through the region, and it appeared that all the slave people had become believers. A great many of us, with the permission of our owners, began attending the local Methodist church. I had stopped going years earlier because of the hypocrisy of the Whites who attended. But in my condition of grace, I returned to the church with hope in my heart.

  My master, David White, was an elder in the church. The first few Sundays I attended I was still filled with the euphoria from the Revival; but the humiliation of sitting in the “nigger quarter” of the church and listening to the White pastor preach about servants obeying their masters and that a good servant was better than silver and gold made me angry. I did not want any of my master’s slaveholding religion, and I stopped going to church again. But some of the area’s slave people organized their own secret meetings in the woods, with guards to look out for patrollers. I attended these meetings after I finished my work, and we praised and communed with God.

  Though I loved Malinda with all my heart, my conversion gave me a new outlook on life. I felt I could not enter the state of marriage with someone who was not of a religious frame of mind. I told my fears to my sweetheart, who replied that for a long time she had been contemplating becoming a Christian and saw herself as a lover of God. I also told her that it was my wish to escape from slavery one day. To this Malinda also agreed, saying that she too wanted to flee. I could not have been happier to hear those words from Malinda’s lips. We were in agreement on the two things that mattered most to me.

  The following day, I rose earlier than usual and went to the Bedford Inn to see my mother. I told her about Malinda, and of my proposal of marriage. My mother objected, saying I was too young to enter into a serious relationship, much less get married. I told her that I would soon be eighteen, but she would not be dissuaded.

  “Look at me, Henry. Look at you, and look at your brothers. We are all slaves because of me. Malinda is a slave. Her children will be slaves, too.”

  Her words hit me like live coals. In my amorous state I had overlooked that one glaring fact.

  I left my mother more lost and miserable than I had ever felt before. That evening, when I was with my beloved, I told her that it would break my heart to father slaves. Though we would marry, we must try to escape. Malinda, too, had been thinking about the tragedy of bringing slaves into the world, and knowing that we were of one mind made me love her even more.

  My master was not happy about my visits to the Gatewood plantation. He knew of the object of my attention, but felt that the time I was spending at Malinda’s was taking time away from his work, although he knew I visited Malinda only after I had finished my duties. The evil man threatened to stop me from visiting my darling, fearing that I would take his chickens and foodstuffs to give to Malinda. But I took matters into my own hands before he could carry out his threat.

  One evening after work, I saw my master exercising his finest horse in the yard. I approached him and told him he was right — I was spending too much time at the Gatewood farm. I proposed a solution: sell me to William Gatewood. My master remained quiet for a while and then said he would consider my proposition.

  A week later, he told me he would act on my advice. For a farmhand, I knew too much, and I had a reputation as a runaway. I believed David White would be happy to be rid of me, but he wanted to make some money off my person. Even though I had been a gift to his daughter, I was worth a lot of money as a grown man, if the buyer didn’t know I had become “spoiled.”

  My master convinced William Gatewood that
I would be a good worker, because I would have a wife to keep me in good spirits. My wife, too, would be content, with a husband who would make her happy. (It was Malinda who told me all this. She was working in the house and eavesdropped on the masters’ conversation.)

  When I arrived at the Gatewood farm, everyone knew that Malinda and I were sweethearts. We approached the two oldest slaves on the estate and made our intentions known to them. As it was illegal for slaves to be married, we asked permission to jump the broom, a ceremony recognized by the married parties and the slave people who witnessed it. They gave us their blessings and approval.

  One Saturday evening, we gathered at a clearing with all the slave people on the plantation. Even my mother managed to come with my brother Lewis. A broom was laid out in front of Malinda and me and we made our vows to each other. Then we jumped the broom, to the great delight of those who watched. When we landed on the other side, everyone applauded. The slave people made a magnificent feast for us, and some of our friends played the fife and the fiddle. We ate, sang and danced all night. It was the best party I ever attended. Malinda and I were now married, in our eyes and in the eyes of the slave people, even if Gatewood, his wife and all the White people of Kentucky did not think so.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  My Brothers are Sold Away

  After Malinda and I were married, Gatewood stopped her from working in the house and sent her to work in the field alongside me. One afternoon, a slave whispered that my mother wished to see me. That evening after I finished work, I walked the five miles to the Bedford Inn. My mother told me that there had been another reason why David White had been so willing to sell me.

  Harriet White married shortly after I did. Her husband was one John Sibley, an upcoming planter from Oldham County. The wedding reception was a lavish one, held at a hall in Louisville for the cream of society. It was paid for by selling me.