“Too bad, mother! I tell you I’s agoin’ to run away. Ole Massa can’t whip dis chile no moah. I’d rather be shot or hab the dogs tear me to pieces.”
“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.