Twelve Years a Slave Solomon Northup (android e book reader .txt) đ
- Author: Solomon Northup
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But whatever motive may have governed the cowardly and malignant tyrant, it is of no importance. There I still stood in the noontide sun, groaning with pain. From long before daylight I had not eaten a morsel. I was growing faint from pain, and thirst, and hunger. Once only, in the very hottest portion of the day, Rachel, half fearful she was acting contrary to the overseerâs wishes, ventured to me, and held a cup of water to my lips. The humble creature never knew, nor could she comprehend if she had heard them, the blessings I invoked upon her, for that balmy draught. She could only say, âOh, Platt, how I do pity you,â and then hastened back to her labors in the kitchen.
Never did the sun move so slowly through the heavensâ ânever did it shower down such fervent and fiery rays, as it did that day. At least, so it appeared to me. What my meditations wereâ âthe innumerable thoughts that thronged through my distracted brainâ âI will not attempt to give expression to. Suffice it to say, during the whole long day I came not to the conclusion, even once, that the southern slave, fed, clothed, whipped and protected by his master, is happier than the free colored citizen of the North. To that conclusion I have never since arrived. There are many, however, even in the northern states, benevolent and well-disposed men, who will pronounce my opinion erroneous, and gravely proceed to substantiate the assertion with an argument. Alas! they have never drunk, as I have, from the bitter cup of slavery. Just at sunset my heart leaped with unbounded joy, as Ford came riding into the yard, his horse covered with foam. Chapin met him at the door, and after conversing a short time, he walked directly to me.
âPoor Platt, you are in a bad state,â was the only expression that escaped his lips.
âThank God!â said I, âthank God, Master Ford, that you have come at last.â
Drawing a knife from his pocket, he indignantly cut the cord from my wrists, arms, and ankles, and slipped the noose from my neck. I attempted to walk, but staggered like a drunken man, and fell partially to the ground.
Ford returned immediately to the house, leaving me alone again. As he reached the piazza, Tibeats and his two friends rode up. A long dialogue followed. I could hear the sound of their voices, the mild tones of Ford mingling with the angry accents of Tibeats, but was unable to distinguish what was said. Finally the three departed again, apparently not well pleased.
I endeavored to raise the hammer, thinking to show Ford how willing I was to work, by proceeding with my labors on the weaving house, but it fell from my nerveless hand. At dark I crawled into the cabin, and laid down. I was in great miseryâ âall sore and swollenâ âthe slightest movement producing excruciating suffering. Soon the hands came in from the field. Rachel, when she went after Lawson, had told them what had happened. Eliza and Mary broiled me a piece of bacon, but my appetite was gone. Then they scorched some corn meal and made coffee. It was all that I could take. Eliza consoled me and was very kind. It was not long before the cabin was full of slaves. They gathered round me, asking many questions about the difficulty with Tibeats in the morningâ âand the particulars of all the occurrences of the day. Then Rachel came in, and in her simple language, repeated it over againâ âdwelling emphatically on the kick that sent Tibeats rolling over on the groundâ âwhereupon there was a general titter throughout the crowd. Then she described how Chapin walked out with his pistols and rescued me, and how Master Ford cut the ropes with his knife, just as if he was mad.
By this time Lawson had returned. He had to regale them with an account of his trip to the Pine Woodsâ âhow the brown mule bore him faster than a âstreak oâlightninââ âhow he astonished everybody as he flew alongâ âhow Master Ford started right awayâ âhow he said Platt was a good nigger, and they shouldnât kill him, concluding with pretty strong intimations that there was not another human being in the wide world, who could have created such a universal sensation on the road, or performed such a marvelous John Gilpin feat, as he had done that day on the brown mule.
The kind creatures loaded me with the expression of their sympathyâ âsaying, Tibeats was a hard, cruel man, and hoping âMassa Fordâ would get me
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